Monochrome

ACT ONE - DISILLUSIONED

Chapter 7 - Aberration

It was covered in ice.

Harry felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as a bitter, arctic wind slapped against his face, bringing with it the sterile scent of winter. Everywhere he looked were cold, hateful stone peaks wreathed in mist and wrapped in ice and snow. The floor was blanketed by a thick sheet of old ice, with stalagmites rising up like coffins of the dead on an apocalyptic night. The air itself blew with a maddened howl, like a feral beast let loose on the world itself.

"Where… where am I?"

Instinctively, he reached for his wand, but found nothing. He was wearing a T-shirt and pants, but there was still an odd feeling that he was forgetting something. Something important.

"Beautiful, is it not?"

Surprised, Harry spun around and found himself facing a complete stranger. He would have mistaken the man for a wizened old grandfather, were he not entirely bereft of muscle. Instead, he looked like a wasted shell of a human, a charcoal sketch that had been smudged by an uncaring hand. Strange tattoos dotted his entire face, particularly his sunken eyelids, and his teeth were stained dark brown, turning his mouth into a living scrimshaw.

In fact, his entire body was adorned with either art or scars. A single robe hung over his shoulders to cover his form, and his emaciated limbs looked like they'd never have the strength to stand, let alone walk towards him.

But he could. And he did.

"I cannot die," the man genially replied, as if reading Harry's thoughts. "Even here, in the center of its power, it cannot impose death upon me. Every breath is agony, but death… death is beyond me."

Harry couldn't tell whether the man was happy about his apparent immortality or cursing with every painful breath. He also wondered if the man himself knew.

"Who are you?"

"A figment of the Time Before," the man softly answered. "And you have come to take my place."

Harry instinctively took a step back. "Take your place? I don't even know where we are."

The man only laughed in response. It was a grating sound, like nails on a chalkboard. "This place is a prison, child. Some call it Tartarus, while others fear it as Hel, the icy plains of nightmares. And you, I presume," he pointed a bony finger towards Harry, "are its newest custodian."

"I— I don't understand," Harry admitted, trying to parse through the strange old man's words. Did 'newest' mean there were others before him? "Custody of what?"

"Death," the man breathed, his voice filled with both hatred and reverence.

"What?" Harry frowned. "You mean like necromancy?"

The man's voice was colored with disgust as he slightly sneered. "What resides here has nothing to do with such parlor tricks, boy. This is the real thing. The End of all things. Knowledge. Power. Magic."

"That's… a nice opinion, I suppose," Harry hedged. The last thing he wanted was to get caught up in a discussion about the nature of power in a place he didn't recognize with a strange old man.

"More than that," the man coughed in that same grating tone. "It is a truth, one that reveals itself to those who seek it out?"

"A… truth?"

Something alien haunted the man's eerie gaze. "Shall I show you the start of the path?" His emaciated hands grabbed at Harry's wrist. It felt cold— he may as well have been touching a block of ice. "Death is a part of you, boy. It is a concept woven into the very fabric of your being. You are a collection of pieces, each of them succumbing to death and, in turn, being reborn."

Harry tried to snatch his hand away, but the stranger's vise-like grip would not budge. No matter how much he struggled, the man wouldn't let go. Instead, he continued to speak.

"Death adorns you even now. Your nails. Your hair. You tend and caress them like any other mortal. Your women decorate them, entice with them. Death is not a thing to be feared, boy. She is a lover who waits to take you into her loving arms. You can feel her if you know what her touch is like. Cold, slow, sweet."

A cold, tingling non-feeling glittered over his fingernails and his scalp. For a split second, Harry thought he felt pain, before realizing it was an icy shiver from where that cold energy brushed near the blood pulsing beneath his skin. It was the places they met that felt uncomfortable.

Without the blood, the cold would have been a pure, endless sweetness. Somehow, he could feel it.

"Take a little death inside you, boy. And it shall lead you to more." The man gave him a toothy grin. "Open your mouth."

Harry didn't know what was happening. One moment, he was frantically clawing at the stranger's hold, and in the very next, he was prone on the ground, numbness spreading all throughout him. It wasn't merely physical, there was a heartless void to it. An empty, starless, frozen quality that raked at him— not just his body, but him —with a mindless hunger. Harry could feel as it sent tendrils of icy energy into him, slowing his heartbeat.

What am I doing?

Truly, why was he resisting this? It would just be so much easier to stop breathing altogether. Then, he could finally enjoy that eternal sweetness that grazed the hairs of his skin. He could— he could just—

Harry gasped aloud, inhaling deeply. "What the hell is happening to—"

But it was too late. Something alien and pungent and cold poured into him, freezing his body altogether. Hoarfrost began to expand across him, feeding on his warmth and gobbling it down until nothing but cold winter remained. Icicles began to slowly form on his hands and feet and he opened his mouth to scream, but what came out was a strange, maddening, beastly, familiar howl and—

Darkness.

Sirius lightly tapped his finger against the oaken table.

Lucius and Narcissa were still softly whispering to one another, with the occasional hand gesture and sly glances towards him. It was surreal, seeing two people he'd despised for most of his life behaving like a real-life couple. In a way, it was almost like seeing—

James. Lily.

He rubbed his temples, taking a deep breath to calm himself. It was so easy to forget Death Eaters were still human too. Barely, but still.

"I hope you're ready to reach an agreement," Narcissa suddenly spoke up, startling him. "It'd be a shame if all of this," she swept her hand over the table, "was for nothing."

Sirius tipped his head. "I've collected my thoughts. I merely thought it was bad manners to speak at the table first."

Narcissa smiled. "Aunt Walburga would be proud."

"Please," he scoffed. "She'd sooner choke on her own blood than be proud of something I ever did." Quickly casting a tempus charm, he looked towards Lucius, meeting the man's pale eyes. It was an unsettling stare, but he and Lucius had already taken a measure of each other's souls. There was something to be said about people sitting on opposite sides of the fence, knowing one another better than people who claimed to have his best interests at heart.

Lucius was a predator.

So was he.

Sirius savored a bite of the homemade biscuit, soft moans of enjoyment escaping him as he chewed and swallowed. His old hag of a mother would have screamed herself hoarse for his open defiance of dining table etiquette. And judging by the slight frown skirting the edges of Narcissa's lips, she wasn't a fan either.

"Sirius," Lucius finally spoke up. "All this theater is aggravating, even for myself. Are you ready to hear our proposal?"

"Sure," Sirius shrugged, taking another bite of his savory treat.

Lucius clasped his hands together, elbows resting on the table. "To confirm, we would like you to release the Ancient House of Malfoy from the chains of Primacy that hold it vassal to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. In return, we help you ensure your godson is acquitted from any and all charges against him from that night."

"A vassalage is something rather… serious, don't you think?" Sirius couldn't help but smile at Narcissa's eye-roll and Lucius's thinned lips. "It seems a bit strange, escaping vassalage for such a small favor in return. It's not enough."

Lucius made to retort, but Narcissa's gentle hand on his shoulders stopped him in his tracks.

"What else would you ask of us, Sirius?" she softly asked.

He lightly hummed. "The aforementioned conditions, plus one more thing."

"And that is?"

"Draco willingly gives up any claim he has on the Black name."

The silence was pin-drop. Lucius's fiery glare and wintry smile were a dangerous dichotomy, but it was Narcissa's expression that made Sirius second-guess himself. Her eyes were completely blank, and her visage had a wooden expression. It was as if she were staring straight through him, dissecting him like he was vermin to be exterminated. The tension was palpable, and for a split second, he even thought about apologizing.

But as quickly as it came, the moment passed.

"That is not acceptable," Lucius said, squeezing Narcissa's hand, which seemed to jolt her back into reality as she smoothened out her expression. "I was hoping to keep this negotiation civil, Black, but it seems I must point out the reality of the situation to you. You are simply in no position to negotiate."

Sirius clenched his fists. "And what makes you say that?"

Lucius's expression was like that of a bloodthirsty shark. "Avada Kedavra," he whispered, sending Sirius stumbling back out of his chair and onto the floor.

"What—" he gasped. "What the fuck? You can't just say something like that, you moron!"

"Indeed," Narcissa said, hiding a smile behind her sleeve. "And that is precisely what gives you no power in your situation, cousin." She gestured to the knocked-over chair, and Sirius took a seat once more, this time keeping his wand clenched in his hand in case he needed it.

"So are you going to explain what that was all about?" Sirius gruffly asked.

"Let us assume, for the moment, that I was present at the… event that night," Lucius said. "If that were the case, then the last thing I would have heard Harry Potter say before I apparated away is that spell."

His eyes widened.

"Even a Crabbe can connect those dots," Lucius chuckled. "One moment, Harry Potter screams out the incantation to the killing curse, and in the very next, more than a dozen prominent purebloods in our society are found dead. And we both know the killing curse isn't a viable excuse for self-defense. The Wizengamot would have a field day trying your godson for multiple murders."

Sirius remained silent for a moment, absorbing it all. His first instinct was to accuse the Malfoy of lying, but it would've been all too simple to just go home and ask Harry about the gritty details of what had happened that night. And he knew Lucius knew he knew it too. If he were honest with himself, the man had no reason to lie to him now. And that only made things worse.

"Would your Death Eater friends even show the Wizengamot memory evidence?" he challenged. "A memory like that would also show the return of your master."

"Evidence submitted to make a case need only show the relevant portions," Lucius swiftly denied. "All the Wizengamot will see is your godson pointing his wand and shouting those accursed words. And that's all they will need to send him to Azkaban."

"Still a longshot, if you ask me," Sirius scoffed. "Don't forget, we have the support of Albus Dumbledore, Harry is still the Boy-Who-Lived, and I was recently acquitted of wrongful incarceration. Between the three of us, there is a lot of accrued reputation, goodwill, and guilt working in our favor."

"I suppose it's a simple question then," Narcissa shrugged. "Are you willing to take that chance with Harry's freedom? His future? His life?"

Sirius bit his lip. Should it come to a vote, they still had a pretty good shot of winning a case like this. There was no way to prove the killing curse was the cause of death for any of them, especially because of all the rotting and other unnatural side effects. Because of that alone, it was entirely possible to brush aside the whole event as accidental magic performed under duress. So long as they collected the necessary votes to acquit him in trial, of course.

But where Harry was concerned, he wasn't ready to take any chances.

Solemnly, he looked towards the Malfoys. "So that's why you believe the dissolution of the vassalage is an equal trade for getting my godson acquitted." He received two nods in return. "Alright, then your proposal from earlier stands. With one caveat."

"This again?"

"Instead of helping Harry become acquitted at trial, you ensure this case doesn't go to trial at all."

"Oh?" Narcissa raised an eyebrow.

"It's clear we're all on the same page," Sirius rolled his eyes. "If this went to trial, the memory evidence could possibly be enough to convict him. Harry's best chance is for this case to be dismissed, so you'll both have to nip this in the bud."

"And how do you propose we do that?"

He pursed his lips. "Again, let's hypothetically assume you were present at this event. How many… attendees do you think were present for Voldemort's return?" He ignored their collective flinch.

"Hypothetically, nineteen. Excluding Peter Pettigrew," Lucius snorted.

"And twelve people from this hypothetical group were hypothetically killed by my godson, plus Peter," Sirius murmured. "If my math is correct, that leaves seven others who managed to hypothetically survive, plus the Dark Lord. Six, if we exclude you from the count." He pinned Lucius down with a heavy stare. "Hypothetically, of course."

"You draw an interesting argument, though I fail to see where it's heading."

"Somehow I doubt that," Sirius snorted. "So this is my final proposal. The Ancient House of Malfoy shall do whatever it deems necessary to remove any and all first-hand evidence against Harry James Potter pertaining to the night of the Third Task that could incriminate him in the deaths of twelve purebloods. In exchange, I shall release House Malfoy from the bonds of Primacy to House Black."

"All first-hand evidence," Lucius tasted the phrase on his lips. "That includes witnesses."

"The Ancient House of Malfoy shall do whatever it deems necessary," Sirius repeated.

Lucius looked back at him with a deadpan stare. "You do realize the Dark Lord himself is a witness to the event, don't you?"

"Somehow, I doubt Voldemort is willing to testify against Harry in a full Wizengamot session," Sirius snorted. "So no, he doesn't count. Does that make your life easier?"

"You understand what you're asking me to do, don't you? You want me to silence six members of the Dark Lord's Inner Circle—"

"That could mean anything," Sirius cut in. "For all I know, you'll invite them to a good dinner, Narcissa will wink and smile coquettishly at them, and they'll become a believer of second chances."

The Malfoys both snorted, before sharing a long glance and an unspoken conversation.

Slowly, Lucius reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a sheet of parchment, signing the bottom with a flourish of his quill. He then handed it to Narcissa, who signed just below and handed it to Sirius.

"The contract," she clarified upon his stupefied look. "Everything we talked about."

Sirius smiled despite himself. Damn Malfoys. They clearly knew where the conversation would be headed before he even walked into the room. Not that he expected any less of them. Once again, he was reminded of why he despised politics growing up. He really wasn't cut out for this shit.

"I hope you realize this changes nothing between us personally, Black."

"I wouldn't dare hope for anything different," Sirius mockingly replied as he finished signing his name and handed the contract to Narcissa.

"Indeed," Lucius shook his head in a gesture of faint regret. "All this nasty business is bad news for us all. I hope to put it behind me as quickly as possible."

"Of course, I can totally see you all broken up over it. It's not like the death of Antonius Selwyn didn't open up new trade waters for you to navigate. I'm sure you'll be busy minting more money than you already are within the month."

Lucius stared at him with a hawk's gaze. "For someone who's spent twelve years in Azkaban, you are exceptionally well-informed."

"Come on Lucy," Sirius scoffed. "I wasn't born yesterday. Just understand one thing." He stood up and loomed forward, palms pressed against the table. "You are on my list. As soon as I'm done with all the other evils threatening my godson, you won't be the lesser of them anymore."

"I'm terrified," Lucius chuckled.

"You think it's funny?"

"I don't find myself unduly concerned by dead men, Black."

Sirius bristled. "Is that a threat?"

"Merely a fact. One day, likely soon, you will get yourself killed long before my name tops your list thanks to that irrational set of compulsions you call a conscience. I don't need to lift a finger." He shrugged. "Helping you with this arrangement is only going to accelerate that process, while also enhancing the freedom of my own House. Plus…" Lucius trailed off, sharing a gentle smile with his wife. "I believe I have no objection opposing something that victimizes children."

Sirius only glowered at him, partly because he was probably right and partly because once again, the Malfoy showed a flash of humanity that prevented him from being lumped together with every other evil, hungry, predatory scumbag lurking out there. Death Eater or not, Lucius Malfoy was a renowned philanthropist and funded several orphanages in Britain, though Sirius preferred to think of them as the man's way of trying to repent for his sins.

Extortion, smuggling, prostitution— there wasn't a single shady business in the country that the man hadn't dipped his fingers into, but children were off-limits. Rumor had it that he had made any employee who had ever crossed that line… disappear.

He'd know. He had studied the man's file thoroughly during his time as a Hit-Wizard.

"That's a rather large boast from someone who kowtows before a maniac gunning for my godson."

"And for a moment, I believed you to be clever," Lucius sighed. "The Dark Lord promised us a vision of a muggle-free world, Black. One where the sanctity of magic would be held supreme. One where the Old Ways would return. For a young, impressionable me, that appealed to me far more than Minister Leech and his pro-muggleborn stance."

He paused, heaving a world-weary sigh. "Since the Dark Lord's initial defeat, I have had fourteen years to consider my options. And so have a lot of other Houses. You'll find that many sympathizers are the way they are simply because there is no alternative. Dumbledore and his myth of the Boy-Who-Lived could have been a powerful force, but Harry Potter was yet to show anything spectacular for people to consider another perspective on the subject."

"Until now," Sirius muttered, understanding what the Malfoy patriarch was getting at. He didn't exactly sympathize with all the pureblood fanatics, but he did understand the pursuit of power and what it meant. Once you latched onto it, it was like grabbing onto the tail of a tiger. Let go, and it would turn around and eat you whole.

"Until now," Lucius agreed. "The night of the Third Task. But I'm afraid your godson is no paragon of Light because of it." He leveled a stare at Sirius. "Unlike what your precious Gryffindor pals would say, not all of us want our world to be thrown into the throes of war." His voice softened. "I have a son too, you know."

And therein lay the issue. With Voldemort back, a war was brimming on the horizon. It was only a matter of time before shit hit the proverbial fan, and he was no longer naive enough to assume Albus Dumbledore would always be able to save Harry. And yet—

"If that is all," Sirius offered, keeping his turbulent thoughts out of his voice, "I believe I'll take my leave."

Narcissa nodded with a smile, previous grievance forgotten. "Come visit, Siri. It was nice seeing you again."

Not bloody likely.

Nodding, Sirius turned towards the exit and clutched the knob in his hands. He took a single step out the door—

"Black."

—And stilled. Clutching his wand more tightly in his hand, he looked back over his shoulder.

"Yes?"

"A final question. You sacrificed the Primacy of House Black over House Malfoy to get rid of possible evidence against your godson. Call it idle curiosity, but do you know what truly happened that night?"

Sirius slowly turned around, feeling the man's words taunt him. It was true— he had no idea what had happened that night, since by Harry's own confession, he'd fallen unconscious before Dumbledore had found him in the center of some dome of magical energy. Back then, he had been more concerned about Harry's safety and getting him to stay with him. And then there was all the fuss about his impending trial, taking precedence over the how of the situation.

Well… he wasn't a Ravenclaw for a reason, he supposed.

Lucius placed his wand to the side of his head, extracting a thin, silvery strand. A memory. Conjuring a thin vial, he dropped the memory thread into it and a sealing charm later, he threw it towards Sirius, who caught it deftly with the swipe of a hand.

"Something to think about," Malfoy leaned back in his chair. "Perhaps this will give you some insight as to what that thing you call a godson is."

Thing?

"What the hell are you talking about?" Sirius demanded.

"All I'm saying is I like to hedge my bets, Black." The man's expression was now downright predatory. "Your godson seems like a good investment. And as you know, I always protect my investments."

Sirius stared at him for several seconds without speaking, before glancing towards Narcissa, who was staring at her own nails. Finally, he jerked his head in a facsimile of a nod, before leaving the room once and for all.

Kreacher lived to serve the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

Decades ago, when Lord Sirius Black II had purchased Kreacher into the family's service, he had been a bright-eyed willing aid. The Lord's wife, Hesper Gamp, was a priestess of the Temple of Morrighan, and between the two of them, Kreacher had been made into a believer of traditionalist pureblood dogma. To worship Magic as it was— a holy, powerful path to commune with the Greater Powers.

The generations that had come afterward twisted that dogma to suit their own interpretations.

As an elf loyal to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Kreacher slowly… altered himself to suit these changes. Once a resounding belief about the sanctity of Magic itself, Toujours Pur became a statement that reflected blood purity and conservative wizarding traditions.

Kreacher had seen Phineas Nigellus, brother to his Master, step up as Interim Head of the family until Master Arcturus rose as the next Lord of Black. The family blossomed like a wild tree, its branches spreading all throughout Magical Britain as it brought in new bloodlines and established relationships with other magical families— just as Mistress Hesper would have wanted.

Then, Sirius Black III was born.

A child named after Kreacher's first master.

A child Lord Arcturus named his Heir.

A child that bred True.

That was thirty-five years ago.

Today, the House of Black was in shambles. One by one, every member of the family had perished. Lord Arcturus passed in his sleep in the Ancestral Mansion in Bulgaria from Dragon Pox. Master Pollux, Mistress Casseiopia, Master Orion, the ladies of the house— everyone had followed, slowly falling one after the other. Mistress Narcissa survived, now one of the Malfoys. Mistress Blood-Traitor Andromeda was cut off. Mistress Bellatrix was now in that hellish prison, along with Master Sirius. Master Regulus had sacrificed himself in his own impertinence.

And only Mistress Walburga remained.

Even after committing suicide a year after Regulus's own demise.

In life, she had been denied Ladyship. In death, however, her specter remained, howling and writing and festering in her own darkness and hatred— her lingering desires now manifested through the House's ambient magic. The townhouse, once the seat of power of the Black family, had become a temple of horrors, attracting all sorts of cruel and malignant species answering to the call of Mistress Walburga's wraith.

And Kreacher, loyal to the Black family, could do nothing but serve his mistress's vile whims.

And so he did.

Until Master Sirius returned.

With one Harry James Potter in tow.

A filthy half-blood, as his demented mistress would say. The brat's blood was weak, impure, cursed with the taint of a mudblood witch. A half-blood, and yet the Master called him his godson. An heir.

A son of the House of Black.

Kreacher had lurked in the shadows, waiting for Master to leave. As soon as the brat had been left alone, he informed his mistress. He understood that Master Sirius loved and cared for the boy, but the Potter boy was not blood. Mistress Walburga was. And Kreacher loyally served the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

The result of Mistress Walburga's encounter with the boy had been… messy.

Kreacher hadn't attacked the boy himself— he couldn't, but he didn't have to save him either. So Kreacher waited and watched. He stayed in the shadows of the townhouse, watching on as Mistress Walburga played with the half-blood. He had relished in the boy's pain when he cried out in agony, and had cursed when he narrowly escaped the mistress's clutches and apparated to the room with the strange cloak. Moments before his assured death, he had seen the boy drape it over himself and fall to the ground.

Kreacher snorted. What a stupid half-blood.

As if mere cloth would prevent the Mistress from killing him. The doxies would easily rend it apart before feasting on his blood like the disgusting pests they were.

Appearing next to the fallen wizard, Kreacher knelt down and tugged on the cloak of invisibility.

It didn't come off.

Instead, the strangest of things happened.

An icy-cold sensation erupted out of nowhere. Fearing the brat had performed some sort of desperate spell, Kreacher instantly staggered back a few steps, hands raised.

There was nothing.

The cloak slowly appeared into focus, its invisibility wearing off momentarily. Black and supple and covering the boy completely, the edges of the cloth felt harder, sharper, more real— so real that everything else in the room seemed blurry in comparison. Like reality was nothing more than an incomplete figment of his imagination.

And Kreacher knew what he was looking at.

The cloak had Reality woven into it, dark and fluid and twisting. Kreacher could feel the ambient energies of the House resonate with its Power, letting out a strong—

THRUM!

The Mistress's wraith stilled, and so too did the doxies, temporarily stunned into incapacitation.

For one impossibly long second, silence reigned. A moment of serene stillness…

Before a long, vengeful howl gutted the world and shattered the fragile foundations of reality. A deathly aura, an all-consuming feeling of overwhelming destructive force as unyielding as a mountain, descended upon the building. It wasn't a matter of strength or speed or reserves— it was the primal sensation of fear coursing through the veins of prey when cornered by a ferocious predator.

It was this feeling that told Kreacher he would be ripped apart, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Thick skeletal limbs, exuding fumes as dark as the blackest night, grabbed at the edges of Existence and pulled.

The head came first. It was a misshapen construct, obscured by strange lumpy outgrowths of scales and fur. Beneath its ghastly, grey eyes was a mouth too wide to be real, filled to the brim with serrated teeth too sharp and yellow to be from this earth. The Aberration let out a weird laugh— monstrous, deep, resounding with bloodstained mirth.

The body came next, a skeleton roughly humanoid in size and shape. Shadows substituted for muscle and fur, cloaking the Aberration in a supernatural darkness. Kreacher felt like a blind elf laying eyes on something less than nothing.

Every single doxy immediately went quiet.

And Kreacher felt afraid for his mistress.

The sheer wrongness exuded by the Aberration was a physical thing. It slithered up his arched spine and danced spiteful shivers across the back of his neck. Simply looking at this creature felt like drowning in wrath so thick, so palpable, that it would obliterate every single thing that stood before it out of sheer principle.

This was Death.

And he couldn't escape it.

His physical body remained unaffected, but everything that made Kreacher Kreacher slowly began to fade. His loyalty to the House of Black, his instinctual need to serve, even the little warmth that welled up inside him when others suffered…

All that remained was a single, unshakeable certainty.

You.

Will.

Die.

Kreacher could feel those words echoing in every single cell of his body. Two hundred years of service to a family of witches and wizards steeped in darkness, and Kreacher felt stained just by being in its presence. As if there was some hideous imprint upon him that could never be scrubbed away.

The Aberration reared back, and from the inky blackness of its maw, it let out an ear-shattering howl.

Every window in the vicinity shattered from the sheer volume, its pieces ground into fine powder. Cracks appeared on the walls, and the ceiling split into falling chunks of plaster. The doxies nearest to it instantly exploded, painting the floor with hideous, gory shades of purple.

His eyes gazed upon Mistress Walburga. And for the first time, her wraith was no longer angry. Instead, a different emotion was etched deeply into the troubled lines of her gaunt face.

Fear, Kreacher recognized.

Fear of death. Fear of obliteration. Fear of seeing her vengeful desires being torn into nothingness.

It made no difference to him. Kreacher's sole purpose was to faithfully serve the House of Black. He would protect the mistress's wraith, even at the cost of his own life.

Shakily, he raised a finger against the Aberration.

Still cackling in a malevolent, twisted manner, it let out a third piercing howl, and a wave of something exploded within the building.

The last thing Kreacher heard was his mistress screaming, before he succumbed to darkness.

Sirius knew something was wrong.

A bitter chill sank into the depths of his bones the moment he apparated into the outer gardens of Grimmauld Place. It was the same eerie feeling he got the night he crossed the threshold of Godric's Hollow.

The night James and Lily died.

As the current Lord of House Black, the wards of 12 Grimmauld Place were solely his to command. He had control over whom the wards allowed entry, and who to strike back at with extreme prejudice.

But instead of the usual impression of wading through mud and filth, Sirius felt a wave of exhaustion hit him with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Had he been any weaker, he would have immediately collapsed from the backlash of such powerful wards. If he didn't know any better, he'd have assumed they were completely devoid of power, letting out a dying gasp as they left the property unprotected.

Luckily, he knew better. His connection to the wardstone painted a clearer image in his mind.

And it was a messy one.

"Harry?" he yelled, to no response. "HARRY?!"

Whatever took place within the bounds of the townhouse in his absence made the House itself react, and his limited knowledge of ancient manors told him it meant nothing good. A House was a family's seat of power, and for Noble Houses, that translated to the ambient magic transforming into a sentient being created for the sole purpose of protecting the edifice.

Genius loci, his grandfather called it. The Magic of the House, made manifest into a spiritual being.

Something had happened, and it had probably urged the genius loci of the townhouse to react.

Fearing the worst, Sirius whipped out his wand and blasted the front door straight off its hinges. Rushing inside, he was barely into the main atrium when a deafening crack startled him, followed by everything around him beginning to fall. Plaster, floorboards, furniture— everything in the outer hall began to tip over and crack and warp with an unearthly groan.

"KREACHER!" he tried. "COME HERE IMMEDIATELY YOU BLASTED ELF!"

Nothing.

Pointing his wand into the house, he tried a different tactic.

"Accio Harry Potter!"

Still nothing.

As a burgeoning fear settled into the center of his chest, Sirius crouched and leaped as he frantically made his way through the thoroughly decimated house, howling in impotent rage as he felt the lack of power in the wards gnawing into his own reserves. The townhouse was built on the intersection of three leylines, but it required the magic of the Lord to keep them from collapsing in an event of complete exhaustion.

But that still didn't explain where Harry was, or what happened to him.

Dammit dammit dammit!

Why had he left his godson all alone in this damn house? Who knew what kinds of horrors Harry had to deal with while he was all alone here? First Godric's Hollow, and now here again! What the fuck kind of godfather was he if all he was good at was leaving his godson when he needed him most?!

Panting heavily, Sirius sped up the rickety old staircase and crossed through the main archway. As he turned the corner, nearly on his last legs, he stopped in front of the hallway. Right where he had last left his godson before meeting with the Malfoys.

Hundreds of doxies lay just outside Harry's room. Dead.

He rushed into the room, praying beyond all hopes that his godson was injured.

But a stark emptiness greeted him.

And Sirius froze.

Images of a wounded Harry Potter flitted through his mind. Blood was dripping from the boy's lips, glassy eyes staring back at him with apprehension, betrayal, and judgment.

You weren't there, the cold eyes spoke. You weren't there when I needed you! You left me alone! You left me to die in your home—

Shutting his eyes, Sirius felt his knees go weak as he cupped his head in his hands. The urge to scream and rage in denial at what might have happened nearly tore through his throat, but he latched onto the feeling and coldly choked it to death. Harry didn't need him wasting away in shock and terror. His godson needed him to do something— to do something—

He whipped out his wand again. A bright, silvery grim appeared in the dim light.

"G-go to Dumbledore," babbled, trying and failing to keep his voice from shaking. "Tell him to come to Grimmauld P-Place immediately!"

The patronus bowed, before vanishing through the wall.

"What do I do," he muttered, pacing back and forth. "What do I do, what do I— Accio Harry Potter! Accio Harry Potter! ACCIO HARRY POTTER!"

But still, nothing happened.

"KREACHER!" he bellowed. His eyes brimmed with tears and his hands shook. His entire body screamed for him to do something— anything —but nothing came to mind. It was blank, utterly devoid of ideas. But he had to do something. Or else Harry— Harry would—

Sirius stumbled forward, falling head-first onto the wooden floor as his legs hit something. Rubbing his head, he reached towards an object that wasn't there and felt a cloth— something thick and soft and—

His eyes widened.

"HARRY!"

Climbing to his knees like a man possessed, Sirius whirled around and pulled the cloak off of him and—

Robotically, Harry Potter opened a single, bruised eye.

"Si-Sirius?"

"Harry!" he rushed forward, cradling his godson's wounded form in his arms. Flicking his wand again, he cast another Patronus. "Go to St. Mungo's! Bring them here, now!"

As the patronus sped away, Sirius turned his distraught gaze back towards him. "Harry! Can you hear me? I'm here now!" He tore off Harry's shirt and found his entire chest littered with cuts and bruises. There was so much blood pooling underneath him, and his skin was darkening with a shade of blue—

Doxy venom, he immediately deduced. His godson's body may have been burning with fever, but at least he was alive.

"Don't you worry, Harry," he cried, a lump stuck in his throat. "You'll— you'll be right as rain in no time—"

"You know," his godson croaked, "you were right." He coughed out a glob of blood. "The Ministry wouldn't know if there was a war in here."

Sirius didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Shut up you—" he barked out a wheezing, teary chuckle. "Just hold on, help is—"

The words died in his throat as he felt his godson go limp in his arms.

And Harry Potter moved no more.

A SPECIAL AN: As you might know, we have an original LitRPG webnovel up and running— Stranger Than Fiction. As the name suggests, the journey of the protagonist is filled with all kinds of mind-boggling events that even reality feels stranger than fantasy. While we would be extremely happy to have you read the story and enjoy it, and share your experiences with us— preferably on our dedicated Discord server, this AN is for a different reason.

Simply said, we wish for Stranger Than Fiction, freely available to read on Royal Road to hit TRENDING.

Now what is Trending and why is it important?

We'll tell you. Trending allows for the story to reach maximum audience and would immensely help in its growth and popularity. For STF to hit Trending, all we need is a good amount of Ratings. And that is where you, our dedicated audience, come in.

Should you spend a minute out of your life and give us a good rating (preferably 5 stars), and should we acquire around 200 of such new ratings before the end of this month, we just might hit Trending. Of course the more, the merrier and it would help us immensely.

Of course, we are not asking you to do it for free.

Should STF gain a minimum of 200 new ratings (preferably 5 stars for maximum benefit) coupled with FOLLOWS by the end of this month, we will be giving you a DOUBLE Monochrome Chapter Update for the next month. Of course, our dedicated readers would probably not require any motivation, but we would feel better to give something back for your generous support.

STEPS TO FOLLOW TO GIVE US A RATING—

Go to Royal Road (a website) and sign up for an account. It's FREE!

If you have signed up, or already have an account, search for STRANGER THAN FICTION. We are providing the link here just in case. Links are also available on our discord server. Please note— rate the STRANGER THAN FICTION story and not the DRAFT EDITION (which will be soon removed)

Link— royalroad (dotcom) /fiction/37283/stranger-than-fiction

Once that is done, feel free to read the story and if not, proceed with the REVIEW AND RATING section. Those of you who'd prefer to read the chapters, feel free to give us a comprehensive review and rating. Others, feel free to give a RATING. Then FOLLOW the story and that's it.

This bears repeating, but if we get at least 200 new ratings (preferably 5 stars) before the month is over, we have a very high chance to hit Trending. And when that happens, we would gladly provide you with a DOUBLE Monochrome Chapter Update.

Thank you all for your generosity!

The BlackStaff and NightMarE

Editor: Solo Starfish, the best goddamn starfish the world has ever seen.

We hope that you enjoyed the chapter. If so, please fav/follow us, and more importantly, do review. Feedback gives us the motivation to write.

If you have something to share with us, or just want to talk to us about our stories, join us at our Discord Server - discord .gg/hqWqhtW (Remove the space)

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Here you can vote for the story you want to see updated next and also support our original work - Stranger than Fiction, which can be read for free on royalroad . com

Thanks once again, and we hope you continue to enjoy our stories.

~The BlackStaff and NightMarE~