― CHAPTER SEVEN ―
R. A. B.
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Though Harry had reconciled himself to the notion that Ron and Hermione would indeed be fully involved in the Horcrux hunt –one directly at his side, the other indirectly at Hogwarts –there remained one thing that he wanted to do completely alone. Not out of anxiety for his friends' security, but because this was something so deeply personal, he wanted it to be a sacredly private moment between only himself … and his family.
Wet leaves squelched under his trainers and Harry drew his Invisibility Cloak closer around him against the misty drizzle, shivering and cursing the Daily Prophet's Meteor-Diviner for promising a 'cool, clear last August night' which, excepting the date, had turned out anything but. However, nothing short of getting struck by lightning would have stopped Harry from continuing to navigate his way through eerie shadows that were tombstones in the dark grassy cemetery, following the directions Lupin had given him, to visit for the first time …
He stopped and felt his heartbeat sharply double in speed. This must be it, yes: there was the huge oak tree, and beneath it two twin stones … approaching cautiously, letting the cloak drop, not caring that the rain was coming down harder, Harry kneeled down and traced the graying marble with his fingers over the names:
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Lily Evans Potter
James Griffin Potter
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His tears came unbidden and mixed with the rainfall streaming on his face. Here was the cold, stony legacy that Voldemort had left him with –worse than any scar, any nightmares, worse than any prophetical destiny. It was the arbitrary rawness of stripping two people from their right to live with just a few syllables, without minding in the least that their presences could never, ever be replaced, their faces seen and their voices heard, in the life of the most significant creation their love had brought into existence … all because Voldemort was rash enough to select that creation –a mere infant –as his Moses-like future fatality. How ludicrous, really, that someone who fashioned himself a name "wizards everywhere would fear to speak," should choose vol de mort: 'flight from death' … proclaiming him the biggest coward of all! Cowardly enough to tear his soul six times to ensure immortality, yet still hunt down a one-year-old baby boy for fear of a power he knows not: Love, the very antithesis to Fear itself!
Gazing, transfixed, at his parents' graves, Harry whispered, "Mum … Dad … you … you made us invincible, because your love and my love, that's what's immortal, infinite … what he craved, what he killed for." He sighed deeply, remembering Dumbledore's words there are things worth than death, Tom … "What he'll become nothing for."
He sat there for a long time, then touched the stones once again, and got up, reaching for his Cloak. He frowned.
It wasn't there.
Harry forced himself to stay calm and methodically search every inch around the tree. No cloak. This time his chilled shiver had nothing to do with the weather.
Whipping out his wand, Harry began to edge through the graveyard, his eyes straining through the dark mist stretching sightlessly around him. "Lumos," automatically; but the faint blue wandlight didn't penetrate much … a sudden motion on his peripheral vision had Harry's Quidditch reflexes leaping toward the source. He clashed with something heavy and went sprawling, grasping at invisible mid-air and feeling silken material bunch in his fist. As the cloak came away, the figure under it Disapparated deafeningly and Harry was left panting on the soaked ground clutching silvery folds of cloth.
"Dammit!" he cried in frustration, sitting up and patting the grass to find his glasses which had fallen off. Bespectacled again, he looked around to see where he was and found himself face-to-face with something which made him gasp almost as loudly as the stranger had vanished.
It was a tall, oblong black headstone with ornate carvings that read:
Regalus Alphard Black
1957 – 1989
Enfant pur-sang de la maison ancienne et noble des Noirs
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Sirius telling him, 'Well,don't just hand in your resignation to Voldemort. It's a lifetime of service or death ...'
And ... 'I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more' ...signed, R. A. B.
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The mysterious wizard who hadleft the note in thefake Horcruxwas none other than the youngest Black son, prodigal brother of Sirius … and Kreacher had said something, about not taking what belonged to … with an excited yell Harry sprang up and deliberately determined the Burrow as his destination.
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"Hmmpf?"
The sleepy orange head rolled and disappeared under a pillow.
"RON! Wake up!" Harry practically pounded his friend's wall-turned, blanket-covered shoulder. "Wake. UP!"
"Whaa … Harr?"
"That's right, Harry. Potter. Mate. Who Lived … please get up Ron, we have to wake Hermione and …"
"'kay, alright, I'm up," grumbled Ron. "What time 'sit?"
"Witching Hour," said Harry, grinning as Ron pried himself out of his sheets and pulled his robe around him. "Come on!"
A drenched Harry and pyjama-clad Ron were not what Hermione expected in her bedroom in the small hours of the night. "Who? What!" she exclaimed, wide awake after hearing her name urgently hissed once.
"We have to go to my place, now," said Harry. "I'll explain when we get there. Hurry!"
It took Hermione under thirty seconds to magic her nightgown into traveling robes, cast a drying spell and Reparo on Harry and his glasses, and say breathlessly, "I'll see you there" before Pop!ing out of sight. The boys, no longer impressed by her habitual record-speed feats, casually followed suit.
"What in the name of Merlin is going on?" demanded Ron when they had regrouped in the hallway at number twelve, tapping a foot shod in a tiger-head slipper.
"R.A.B.," said Harry. "I know who he is!"
"What! Who?" asked Hermione, sounding like a reverse déjà vu.
"Regalus Black, Sirius' brother," said Harry, talking fast now. "I went to the cemetery tonight to visit my parents and accidentally came across his grave when I –but that's another story –and his middle name is Alphard, after their uncle!"
Ron and Hermione had both gone chalk-white.
"You went without protection –"
"Never mind that now, what matters is that … KREACHER!" The air snapped and the house-elf materialized before them in a scowling bow.
"Master called Kreacher?" Spite-laced croak.
"Kreacher," said Harry. "Bring me the Dark objects that belonged to Regalus Black that you hid away when we were cleaning out the drawing room cabinets two years ago." Seeing the bat-eared elf making no effort to move, he added, "Now!"
"You mean …" said Ron, the contagious excitement crawling onto his face. "The real one, it's been here all along?"
Harry half-nodded, half-shook his head. "Dunno yet for sure."
"What will you do if it is?" whispered Hermione. "Did Dumbledore tell you how to destroy it?"
"No," admitted Harry. "I have no idea … we'll just have to figure it out."
"Wait," Hermione said and from her tone Harry could hear the wheels whirring in her head. "Didn't R.A.B.'s note say he would destroy it himself?"
"Intended to," corrected Harry, who had it memorized word for word.
Kreacher startled them with a howling reappearance. "Master will do as he pleases, oh, but Kreacher hates giving up the Black family treasures, to a blood traitor, half-blood, and Mudblood, Mistress would kill Kreacher …"
The house-elf had brought a dirty rucksack tied as a bundle, which Harry took and, unknotting with clumsily trembling fingers, spread open to reveal an odd assortment of objects, amid which lay a heavy, dully gleaming gold locket –monogrammed with a serpentine S.S.
Harry sucked in his breath. He felt as if he'd been slammed in the stomach with an iron fist. Here it was, the Horcrux, Salazar Slytherin's locket: the object for whose sake Dumbledore had drunken that deadly phosphorescent-green potion, had suffered and been sapped of strength … his sacrifice in vain when the locket in the cave had turned out a worthless replica. And all this time it was here, right under our noses, Harry fumed. At Phoenix Headquarters, no less! Could it get more cruelly ironic?
His fingers were about to close over the Horcrux when Harry drew his hand back, suddenly wary. It contained strong Dark magic, after all, and shouldn't be handled heedlessly. He swallowed as he met Hermione's equally nervous eyes.
"I can't believe that's a seventh of You-Know-Who in there," said Ron, looking both fascinated and horror-stricken.
"I can't believe Dumbledore died because of something hidden in a dirty old rag," said Harry tonelessly. "That's the second murder that wretched Kreacher's negotiated … wait til I get my hands on him." He closed his eyes for a moment and then spoke with vicious calm. "I'm going to order him to jump off the roof."
"Harry," Hermione said reproachfully. "The only person who knew there was a fake was R.A.B. … and you would've never known unless you went to the cave, so the trip did have an important result: information. Besides, good thing Kreacher salvaged the Black valuables that day, or we would've thrown this out and lost it forever!"
"Are you saying I should thank Kreacher?"
"No," Hermione said hastily. "Just don't, erm, blame him."
"Can we get on to the destroying bit?" piped up Ron, his face quite green. "I'd rather eat spiders than have that (he toed at the Horcrux) on the loose."
Harry peered at the sinister-looking locket.
"The basilisk fang pierced the diary paper," he reasoned out loud slowly. "So, what will … melt down, I reckon … gold?"
"Blast it with Incendio!" Ron suggested.
"Precious metals' melting points are much higher than wood, Ron," Hermione said, pursing her lips. "You need more than fire. Muggle goldsmiths torch gold using gas …"
"Maybe … transfigure it into wood?"
"I doubt a wizard as expert as Him would overlook anti-transfiguation protection on something this valuable. No, I'm certain there's …" A light Harry knew well (and loved to see because it meant that he and Ron were about to be enlightened) dawned in Hermione's eyes. "Goblins! They can melt this down at Gringotts!"
Harry grinned in appreciation of such clean problem-solving. "We'll go to Diagon Alley first thing tomorrow, then."
"You boys will," said Hermione. "I'll be at Kings Cross station … tomorrow is the first of September, remember?"
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Later that night, after retying the locket in its bundle and enclosing it in a box he locked securely and chained to his bedpost, Harry thought of the strange cemetery cloak-snatcher, and wondered why he hadn't heard him approaching. More importantly, why hadn't he attacked Harry right then? I was an easy target … could've been kidnapped, or lost my dad's cloak … But soon these thoughts distorted and faded as he drifted off, and though lying next to a piece of Voldemort's soul, Harry slept deeply and dreamlessly.