Chapter X: A Tale's End

The evening rolled in and the fireplace in Dumbledore's was dormant for the first time in years. The logs sat waiting, the coal bucket full, but there was no fire to feed them to. It was a strange thing to notice, but the little fire did so much to illuminate the space, especially in the evenings. Harry could still hear the subtle cracks and pop of the logs breaking down, still feel the currents of air that were neither too hot nor too cold, still picture the light flickering against the many trinkets on Dumbledore's desk. Now, however, the fireplace was just a hole in the wall, darkened by soot and shadow, and - much like the rest of Dumbledore's office - missing the warmth that once inhabited it.

Looking at the room now felt like looking at a skeleton. The same morbid fascination, the evidence of something once teeming with life, stripped away. Harry knew that he was the only person in the room, but he hardly felt alone. The portraits of departed headmasters hung high on the walls, overlooking him, but it wasn't their eyes that Harry felt on his back. It was strange to compare the shadows of the past that lingered in every corner to ghosts, considered Harry personally knew a couple, but it was certainly the word that came most readily to him. More specifically of Dumbledore. His every step, every object he ever touched.

His final words.

Even with the telltale ache in his legs that came from standing for too long, Harry refused to sit in Dumbledore's chair. Even the notion revolted him. Just like how it felt touching his wand, his desk, the key to the secret compartment that Harry had yet to open. The possessions of a dead man that Harry himself had inadvertently put in the grave.

No, he reminded himself. Stop it.

He remembered Hermione's words after the funeral after he'd finally had enough of commiserating and reminiscing with the rest of the Gryffindor common room. Her soft voice still rang in his ear, his arms still tingled from the way she had gripped him by the arms.

"It was Dumbledore who got himself cursed," she said. "It was Draco who forced Snape to kill him. The only thing you did was try to save someone who didn't want your help. It's not your fault, Harry."

Harry had wondered for so long why her voice held more power in his head than his own. Hermione could effortlessly undo him from the knot he'd tie himself into. Her presence alone was enough to put him at ease. Harry worried that, after realising his true feelings for Hermione, the comfort he once gleamed from her might be tainted, but it wasn't. Realising what he felt for Hermione was more than just friendship only amplified it.

That dull itch that he felt in her absence now clawed at his insides and finding any other balm than her was fruitless.

Harry's fingers found the key to the desk drawer, tucked in between a couple of books leaning on the headmaster's desk. It was a small, inconspicuous little thing, not like the grand brass keys he associated with Hogwarts. It was appropriate, Harry noted, glancing at the lock tucked away under the lip of the desk, out of sight from anyone other than those who knew its existence. Harry slid the key into the keyhole and turned. The lock clicked, and the drawer slid open.

Slytherin's Locket gleamed up at him, even amidst the evening darkness. Harry bristled. He felt like it was taunting him somehow, enticing him to do who knows what. He could feel a certain pull, an idea of lifting the chain and placing it around his neck. How it would shine against his chest with all the millennia it had lived.

The teenager turned, striding over to the mantlepiece. Just above it, still in its display, where it had sat since Harry's second year, lay the Sword of Gryffindor. This weapon - one of the few that could kill a Horcrux, according to Dumbledore - would be the tool of the Locket's demise. He grabbed the hilt, careful not to touch the blade with his open palm. Harry had been told several times about the potency of the Basilisk venom that had been absorbed into the metal and how he should never under any circumstance allow himself to be wounded by it.

He still remembered how quickly the venom had sapped at his life, down in the chamber. How he felt his limbs give out, the light fading away, the pain numbing. How calm it all was. If it were to happen here, without Fawkes to save him with his tears, it would truly mean the end for him. At least it would be a peaceful death.

Staring at the silver blade, the sharpened that not even age could dull, Harry wondered if maybe he ought to prick his finger and be done with it. He could end it all, on his own terms. It would be so easy. Even a paper cut would be enough to allow the venom into his bloodstream. Barely a minute later and he would be gone…

Harry blinked.

Shaking his head, his eyes found the locket again and glared. Dumbledore had explained that Horcruxes had the ability to influence those in their presence to do things they would never normally do.

Such as these notions of ending his own life, the temptation to just put an end to the whole ordeal… it could only have the Horcrux whispering to him, taunting him. That must be it. It had to be.

It had to be.

Gripping the metal hilt in his palm, Harry marched past the desk and grabbed the chain of the locket. He hauled it into the open space of the office floor, letting it hit the stone surface, hoping that it hurt. It rattled heavily against the wooden desk, akin to a dry, hoarse cackle.

Harry let the tip of blade rest ever so slightly on the face of the locket, lining it up for one powerful swing. Raising the sword above his head, Harry let his voice slip into Parseltongue and spoke.

"Open."

He waited for the lid to spring apart, revealing some devilish thing inside. He waited for an apparition of unspeakable evil to come rushing at him. He waited for the glinting red of Voldemort's eyes. He waited. And waited.

Something was wrong.

Harry lowered the sword, confused. He fingered the locket cautiously, finding and prying the stiff latch open. He immediately jumped back, only growing more confused as nothing chased him. His heart thundering in his chest, Harry crept forward, staring into the open locket and seeing nothing but a piece of folded paper.

Carefully, he picked up the locket as his once iron-clad resolve sank in his stomach. He spied open the paper and began to read, and with every word his spirits plummeted further:

To the Dark Lord

I know I will be dead long before you read this but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match you will be mortal once more.

R.A.B.

Shock turned to horror. Horror turned to despair. And beneath it all, anger. A seething, bitter frustration burning his insides.

Harry crushed the note between his fingers. He tried breathing, counting to ten, thinking of better times, of Hermione's words, but it couldn't distract him for long. No matter what his mind conjured, it all came back to this.

This was what Dumbledore had suffered for, what Harry himself had nearly died for. Their supposed big breakthrough, the only thing that could have had made their horrific loss somewhat worth it in the end.

A fake locket, and no Horcrux.

Harry let loose a furious cry, throwing the locket with all his might. It hit a far wall and the impact shattered the faux relic in two. His jaw had clenched so hard he might have shattered his teeth. His nails dug into his palm, too far gone to care about the pain. Eventually, though, the rage dulled, like any great inferno tended to do. Harry was left a flustered, tired mess. The Sword of Gryffindor lay by his feet, and Harry felt like it was staring at him, judging him. The weight of a millennium of great wizards rested on his shoulders and Harry felt like he had humiliated them all.

He remembered back to but minutes ago, when he held the sword in his hand, the blade just a hair's breadth from his skin. That voice, that temptation, the longing to let go…

Harry cursed loudly, grabbing his face in his hands.

"Young man, do you know what time it is?"

Harry jumped, his head swivelling in the direction of the voice. There on the wall, sitting in one of the numerous picture frames lining the headmaster's office, was Phineas Back, former headmaster of Hogwarts - although any reverence that title may have mustered was slightly tempered by his dressing gown and sleeping cap.

Suddenly struck by a moment of inspiration - or desperation, he couldn't tell - Harry stormed over to the painting.

"R.A.B," Harry announced. "How many of you know someone with the initials R.A.B.?"

The painting of Phineas Black merely stared at him disapprovingly, his eyes still beady from sleep.

"I'm sorry?"

"R.A.B.!" Harry shouted, rousing the rest of the gallery from their naps. "Someone in Voldemort's inner circle, close enough to learn his darkest secrets! Who in Voldemort's most trusted was a R.A.B.?"

None of the paintings spoke, both too confused to offer an answer to such a specific question, and flummoxed at the audacity of a student calling upon them in a such a disrespectful manner. Harry even heard a few of them scoff from their frames, which only served to ignite his rage further. Soon, Harry's patience wore out.

"ANYONE?!" he roared at the doddering portraits. "Come on! Reginald? Romulus? Ronald? Remus? Robert? Richard? Give me something!"

He was met with a wall of silence. Harry was about to try again, when a lone voice replied, "There is one."

Harry turned and his eyes locked once again with Phineas Black's portrait.

"Who?" he asked. "Tell me, now!"

The painting ruffled, gazing upon him with derision, but obliged.

"Regulus Arcturus Black. My great, great Grandchild. Son of Orion and Walburga Black."

"Regulus," Harry gasped, suddenly remembering the Black family tree Sirius had shown him over a year ago. "He had a brother, didn't he? Sirius Black?"

"Indeed," Phineas Black squinted inquisitively. "Though, might I ask why the sudden curiosity in my family line?"

"No," Harry quickly replied. There it was. The last piece of the puzzle. how the hell he was supposed to figure that out on his own, he had no idea, but now he wouldn't have to. That narrowed down the location of the real locket considerably. Now he had a place to start looking. "I need to leave."

Without another word, Harry picked up the sword of Gryffindor and made his way back to the stone staircase leading out of Dumbledore's office.

He was about to pass through the doorway when his mind returned to the broken locket in the corner of the room. For a moment he considered leaving it there before something in his head told him otherwise. It would be good, he reasoned, to bring it along, if only so that he knew what to look for.

He picked up the two pieces of the fake locket, placing them into his pocket, before taking off out of the door, hoping to make it to Madam Rosmerta's before dark.


The sun was just dipping below the mountains as Harry landed in Hogsmeade, draped under his invisibility cloak and sat astride his Firebolt - it was the quickest method he had of breaching Hogwart's wards without being seen. From here he would make the rest of the journey on foot. Apparating mid-air was by all accounts not a good idea, especially with his destination in mind.

He set himself down in the middle of the town, careful to not make himself known. To his right he spotted the Three Broomsticks, sitting dormant. He quietly dismounted his Firebolt, walking slowly up to one of the windows and peering inside, glancing around the empty pub. Just like Dumbledore's office, it held the ghosts of evenings past. Chairs sat abandoned, tables barely furnished, gathering dust. It was a shell of a once warm and cosy abode, its bones laid bare for Harry to see.

Ever since the fire attack on the school, and the sudden evacuation of the students, the Three Broomsticks had sat almost empty for many weeks. Not that there was anyone in a fit state to run it, not with Madam Rosmerta still recovering from her time under the Imperius. Now its only visitor was a Hogsmeade resident, a friend of Rosmerta's who volunteered to keep the tavern clean in her absence - an elderly lady called Mrs Pippin if Harry remembered right.

Just another casualty of Malfoy's efforts to become the Dark Lord's favourite pawn.

As he made his way up Hogsmeade's cobbled streets, Harry noticed that the Three Broomsticks wasn't the only building more subdued than usual. The town's once merry homeliness had been constricted with fear. The attack on Hogwarts, the revelation of Rosmerta's condition, the rise of extremism from every corner, had choked the life out of the area. Now each house sat like tombstones, curtains drawn, doors closed. The streets were deathly quiet, with only the occasionally owl's call invading the silence.

Walking through Hogsmeade was a sombre affair, but in many ways, it only strengthened harry's cause. The sooner Voldemort wad dead, the sooner life could return to normal for everyone in Britain.

Reaching the outskirts of the town, Harry shrunk his Firebolt, pocketing it for safekeeping. He reached for his wand, picturing an old, gloomy manor house in the middle of a London borough, and disappeared with a quiet pop.


Harry landed on the doorstep of 12 Grimmauld Place a second later. Glancing up, checking that he was indeed at the right house, Harry surged forward, readying his wand to unlock the door. He gripped the doorknob, only for the door to give way at his touch. Confused, Harry pushed, and his eyes widened as the door swung open, unlocked. He supposed for a moment that maybe, since the house was technically his, that it merely allowed him in, but that theory went down the flames when he heard the sound of footsteps from inside.

Someone was already here. Someone who shouldn't be here.

Anyone who would have had reason to be inside the house was at Dumbledore's funeral, and none of them had any plans to visit. There was to be no meeting of the Order today, and besides those rare occasions, no one stepped foot inside this house anymore.

Harry readied his wand, assuming the worst, and crept inside.

A strong stench of alcohol and tobacco met him first as he quietly advanced through the entrance hall. Echoing through from across the way was the sound of hollow metal clinking and clanging together. Training his ears, Harry heard it originating from the living room, turning left at the staircase. Sure enough, the living room door was open ajar. Harry entered the room, and immediately spied the source of the noise. A figure, rummaging around in a lumpy sac, grabbing objects off of the chandelier and throwing them inside the bag with little care. He was short, with bandy legs and long, thin ginger hair. He was old, or perhaps his vices had aged him for his face looked weathered with time, and crumpled with duplicity.

Harry recognised the man immediately as the one member of the Order who wasn't at the funeral.

"You."

The stranger glanced up, his eyes falling on Harry as he shed his invisibility cloak, and he froze. Mundungus Fletcher, his hands clasped around an ornate candlestick, stood stock still like prize statue.

Before the man could even reach for his wand, Harry had already cast his non-verbal spell.

Expelliarmus.

Mundungus' wand flew from its holster, into a far corner of the room. Realising a fight would be futile, Fletcher raised his shaking hands.

"Okay, now, Harry, I know what this looks like-"

"Oh, yeah, do I? DO I?" Harry rounded on the smaller man, who cowered at the sight of him. "What the hell are you doing in my house?"

"Your house?" Fletcher rebuked, straightening up as if he had been personally offended. "Far as I was told, this didn't belong to no Potter."

Harry's attention soon returned to the sack at Mundungus' feet

"What the hell have you got in here?" he growled, pushing the other man away before he got the chance to close it again. He ripped open the bag, the glint of silver and gold shone back at him, exposed to the dim light. Trinkets and antiques he recognised as the ones he and Ron were tasked with cleaning last summer. Ancient black family heirlooms, unceremoniously lumped together into a small pile. Harry glared back at a guilty-as-sin-looking Mundungus. "Kreacher!"

A small pop and a grumble announced the arrival of the ancient House-Elf.

"Filthy half-blood master calls Kreacher."

Choosing to ignore the insult, Harry ploughed on, presenting the bag to the aged House-Elf.

"How long has this been going on?"

"Now hang on, what are you implying-?" Fletcher tried to protest, to which Harry snarled.

"SHUT UP!" He turned back to Kreacher, who was still gazing forlornly at the objects in Mundungus' bag. "Kreacher, answer me!"

Kreacher eventually reared his head up at Harry, his lips curling into a grimace. "Since the wretched traitor boy died."

"Sirius?" Harry surmised. Kreacher nodded, his leathery ears flapping lazily. Ever since last summer, then. For a whole year, he was being robbed from right under his nose, all because he never bothered to check.

"He's lyin'," he heard Mundungus stutter. Harry glared up at him. "He's a House-Elf, he'll say what he wants."

"He's my House-Elf," Harry growled back. "He can't lie to me."

"Since when?"

"Since Sirius gave his title to me, in his will and testament," Harry explained, standing up and pacing towards the man. "You're robbing from me, Mundungus, so give me one good reason why I shouldn't throw you out."

Mundungus scoffed, adjusting his collar.

"This is ridiculous-"

Harry suddenly reached forward and grabbed him by the lapels, hoisting Fletcher up and glaring holes into the man.

"Today is not the day to gamble on my patience," he snarled, the anger in his voice so corrosive that it almost burned his tongue.

Any resistance that Mundungus once had, any sense of indignation, faded away in an instant as he realised just what he was up against. This was a person that could not- would not be bargained with.

"I-I'm part of the Order!" He reminded Harry. "I'm on your side, you crazy bastard!"

"And yet you're robbing my house," Harry pointed out icily.

"Y-You can have it back! All of it!"

"And stuff that you've sold?"

"I'll get that back too! I swear!"

Harry continued to stare down at the man for a few moments before he reached into his pocket and presented the broken locket to him.

"Tell me, have you sold something like this before?"

Mundungus' eyes widened, visibly flinching away from the object in front of him.

"That? No… not that."

"But you've seen it."

"Yeah…" Mundungus nodded faintly. "It's… It's on the third floor."

"Why didn't you take it?" Harry asked.

"That thing?" Mundungus replied as if Harry had just asked him to chop off his own arm. "It's bloody evil it is. Just looking at it I could tell. Felt like my skin was moulting."

"So, it's not in your pocket? Or hidden anywhere else on you?"

"If you want that locket you can bloody have it. No idea why you would, though."

"Keep it that way," Harry interjected. "If you're lying to me-"

"I swear, I ain't," Fletcher insisted, shaking his head. "Cross my heart, on my magic…"

Harry couldn't help but roll his eyes. As if he really thought Harry was gullible enough to take him on his word, the man who but minutes ago was robbing the room they were standing in. And now he wanted Harry to trust him. Harry would rather turn his back on the devil himself than put his trust on the man in front of him.

So, instead, he called upon someone who could only give him the truth.

"Kreacher," Harry spoke to the House-Elf, who was still skulking at his feet, "is the locket where he says it is?"

"Yes," Kreacher replied as if he despised the word.

So he wasn't a complete liar, Harry surmised. Still, it didn't exactly count for much. Looking over at Mundungus once again, seeing him cower at his gaze, Harry felt his rage dampen, filled with something akin to pity. How piteous this excuse of a man was, stealing from a dead man's house, refusing to honour the man who let hi join the Order. What Dumbledore saw in him, Harry would never…

The sudden reminder of Dumbledore choked what little anger was left in Harry's mind. The rage that had once filled him to the brim shrivelled away in an instant, and Harry was left holding Fletcher by the lapels, seeing himself clearly once again.

Dumbledore wouldn't want him to be this. Hermione wouldn't want him to be this person. They'd both want him to be better than this. Mundungus was a poor excuse of a man, but he was a man nonetheless, and an ally. There was no point in creating divisions now, and it was certainly not the time to abandon mercy.

Harry let go of Fletcher's coat and backed away from the man.

"You've got a week," he announced. "If anything is still missing the next time I check, I will find you, and I'll make sure everyone in the Order knows exactly why you never turned up to Dumbledore's funeral. Now GET. OUT. "

Okay, maybe that last bit was a little over-the-top, but by the terrified expression for Fletcher's face and the way he all but sprinted out of the room once Harry released him from his grasp, it seemed to work. Once the sound of the front door slamming shut met his ears, Harry glanced once again at the bag of valuables on the floor. He'd have to start coming here more regularly if only to stop things like this from happening. It wasn't enough to trust Order to keep the house safe, to do his job for him. Sirius left this place to him. It was about time he treated it with respect.

He closed the bag, turning around to see Kreacher eyeing him with a glint of curiosity.

"What?" Harry asked tiredly.

"Half-blood seeks the locket?" The ancient House-Elf croaked. "Master Regulus' locket!"

"Yes, Kreacher, I do."

Kreacher gnawed on his finger, grabbing his ear and pulling as if in deep thought.

"Why would Half-Blood want Master Regulus' locket?" he murmured to himself. "Does he want to steal it? Sell it?"

"To destroy it," Harry replied earnestly.

"Destroy…" Kreacher paused as if he had only just heard the word. Kreacher's mutterings and fidgetings stopped. He turned and looked up at Harry. His scowl dropped from his face, a curious hope taking its place. "You… You would do Master Regulus' final work? You'd kill it?"

"That's the plan," Harry shrugged. The House-Elf's eyes widened to the size of tennis balls, and Harry couldn't help but note a resemblance to a certain other House-Elf he knew.

"Kreacher can take you to it," Kreacher nodded. "If he may?"

Harry couldn't see why not. It would certainly save time.

"Go on, then."

Kreacher reached up, taking Harry's fingers in his bony hand, and in an instant, they were in a dark, dusty room. Harry could only assume that this was the third floor that Mundungus had mentioned. He swivelled on the spot, taking in his surroundings. It was barely a room. The wallpaper had given in to mould. The floor was more dust than wood. Every object in the room was covered in a thick white sheet into which hole had been chewed by insects and time, the darkness underneath sticking out like lesions.

Funnily enough, Harry couldn't remember ever seeing this room before, not when he and Ron had been put to work cleaning the house last year. Harry wondered if this was the place where Mrs Weasley had encountered the Boggart, but then Mad-Eye had searched the room top to bottom to expel it, and he hadn't found a Horcrux anywhere. Perhaps it was the paradox of this room that had Harry so edge. Then again, maybe it was Horcrux itself, its evil seeping into the very walls, infecting the shadows, somewhere from within the room.

Kreacher tentatively trod towards a podium in the corner of the space, grabbing the corner of a sheet and pulled. The fabric fell away, revealing a wooden box, surrounded by broken chains - Fletcher's doing, he assumed.

Harry stepped forward, lifting the latch on the ornate chest, and opened it. Inside was a perfect lookalike of the locket he had found in the cave, except this one looked brand new in a way that the copy didn't. This locket appeared as if it hadn't been barely touched at all, not even a smudge or a scratch littered its form, and yet as Harry felt its metallic surface, tracing the bejewelled 'S', he felt dirty. If the copy had the uncanny feeling of almost watching him, this one was leering at him, sizing him up like a snake would a fat mouse.

"This is the real one, then?" Harry asked, but he already knew. He could feel the evil coursing through it, like blood through a vein. No wonder Mundungus had been so reluctant to take it.

"Yes, sir. Kreacher kept it hidden all this time." Despite having led him here, Kreacher refused to look at the locket, only just peeking at it from the corner of his eye. "Couldn't destroy it, sir, no matter what he tried. Too strong, sir. Too much."

"I'm not surprised," Harry murmured, putting aside the question of when exactly Kreacher had started calling him 'sir'. "But I have a way to kill it now. And that's exactly what I'm going to do."

Kreacher stared at him, squinting suspiciously before Harry presented the Sword of Gryffindor, somehow bright and shining like a torch even in the darkness. The gleam of the blade twinkled in Kreacher's eyes.

"Stand back," Harry instructed. "I have a feeling it's going to put up a fight."

Kreacher obediently did so, and Harry returned his attention to the locket. It was still there, still glinting eerily him. Harry wondered if it knew what was about to that, that today was to be its last day. He was going destroy it right now, and from then on Voldemort would be but one step closer to death.

This was happening now, he thought resolutely until a sliver doubt pierced his resolve.

Perhaps… perhaps he should keep it alive. He knew where it was, and killing it now might clue Riddle in on what he was doing far earlier than he needed. Killing all of the Horcruxes at once would surely be smarter. But Kreacher, who had lived with dark objects all his life, was scared of it. Even Mundungus Fletcher, a man who probably had a home in Knockturn Alley, refused to go near it. Even a man like him could sense the stench of evil from that thing.

It would be safer. Voldemort could find out. Did he dare risk exposing his plan so soon? Or was it worth keeping a dark object on him for however long it may take to find the others? He could keep it alive. It was a powerful object. It may help him. Keep it alive…. Keep me alive…

Harry's eye widened as he realised the voice in his head was no longer his. He blinked, shaking slightly to dispel the trance. This time, he knew it was the Horcrux, it could be nothing else. It was instinctive, the difference between his own thoughts and the echoes of something decrepit seeping into his head. A deep feeling of revulsion settled in Harry's very core.

That settled it. Perhaps more sure than he ever been of anything, Harry lined up, raising the sword above his head. He glared at the locket, cursing its very existence, trying to contain the glee in knowing that its time was up.

Making sure that Kreacher was standing well away from him, he squared up and spoke in his best Parseltongue.

"Open."

The latch flew open. The locket erupted in a cloud green smoke, the screams of what could only be the dead filled the air. It came so suddenly, that Harry hadn't the time to swing the sword, suddenly thrown off-balance by the force of the gale.

Harry was thrown to the floor and before he could register what had happened, his head burst into a fiery agony. His scar was hurting more than it had ever hurt before. It felt something was burrowing out of his forehead and Harry screamed against the pain, trying not to pass out.

The smoke was rapidly gaining shape, morphing into some demented mockery of a figure.

Harry Potter, a voice sneered, echoing from both furthest corners of the room and the deepest crevices of his head. I see into your heart. I see that which you love.

Fighting against the blinding pain in his mind, Harry opened his eyes once again and immediately wished that he hadn't.

The smoke founds its form, the image that had been plucked from Harry's nightmare. it was Hermione, lying beaten and broken in a pool of blood, a profound terror permanently etched onto her face. Standing above her wasn't Malfoy or Riddle, but himself, glaring through her body into his own eyes.

A darkness lies within you, a corruption.

The voice boomed throughout his mind, forcing Harry to shut his eyes once again, crying out in protest, as if trying to drown out with his own screams. It didn't work.

It will kill you and everything you hold dear.

Harry blindly reached out for the sword, scrambling across the weathered oak floorboard for the hilt.

You cannot fight it. You cannot run from it.

The pain was becoming too much. His head felt like it was ripping itself apart. The back of his eyes was on fire, his eardrums ringing like alarm bells. Every nerve in his head was lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Harry… please…"

Harry's heart stopped. His blood ran cold. For a moment he forgot his own pain, he forgot that this was all an illusion. Harry knew Hermione's voice like it was his own. He knew what that sound meant. She was in pain, crying, begging, whimpering like a wounded animal.

"Please… please don't hurt me…"

She was afraid. Afraid of him, of what he had done to her. only added to the torture, both his head and his heart being wrung and dissected with no mercy.

Just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, everything stopped. The pain, the screams, it all fell away. Harry blinked, disorientated at suddenly being able to think again. Frantically he glanced around and found the source of his relief.

Kreacher was rocking back and forth in the corner of the room, the Locket clutched shut against his chest. His wide eyes were wet and streaming tears, his whole body was shaking like a flag in a thunderstorm. The elf looked at him once again, and to the sword, and Harry saw a wave of disappointment and despair fall across him.

"It is being too powerful," Kreacher whimpered, shaking his head. "It can't be killed."

"It can." Harry stood, shaking off the after-effects. Kreacher needed him to be strong now. He needed to get this done. Carefully, on unsteady legs, Harry made his made way over to Kreacher's side, approaching him as one would a spooked doe. "You have to let me try again."

"No!" Kreacher screamed, flinching away from him. "It will kill you too. Evil, it is. Eats all it touches, screams in the night. Turned this house rotten."

Harry was forced to wonder if Kreacher knew the pain that he had just been put through. Whether, perhaps, this wasn't the first time he had seen the locket destroy a person so thoroughly.

"Please," Harry asked, leaning down to the comfort the ancient elf, "let me try again. I was caught off guard, but I'm ready this time."

Despite his best attempt at a soothing voice, Kreacher still refused to budge. Trying once more, Harry grabbed Kreacher's shoulders and fixed him with his most earnest stare.

"I will kill it," he promised. "It will die today."

For a moment, so transfixed was Kreacher by the teen's resolve, the elf seemingly forgot about the locket in his hands. Harry must have done soothing right, because slowly, hesitantly, Kreacher surrendered the Horcrux with shaking hands. Gently wrapping his fingers around it before the elf could change his mind, Harry took the locket and placed it in the middle of the room, far away from a still shaking Kreacher.

Glancing around, harry's eyes found a glint of silver and the blade it belonged to. The sword, of course, was still intact. There was barely a scratch on it or even a stain. It still shone with an unearthly light. Harry was glad of that fact at least, something he could rely on.

This time, it had to go differently. Remembering how strong the force from inside the locket was, Harry realised that he needed as much leverage as he could get. Grabbing the hilt, Harry planed himself beside the locket, looking down upon it. One hand on the top of the hilt, the other holding the grip, Harry aimed the blade straight down at the Horcrux. From this position, he could easily put his entire body weight into a plunging attack.

He only hoped it would be enough.

As for the pain… well, Harry was no stranger to pain. He'd just have to do what he usually did when up against adversity: just carry on and bear it.

It was time. Harry tensed, getting ready to pull his all into one conclusively strike. He just hoped that Dumbledore was right, that the sword would be enough to kill a Horcrux.

"Open," Harry repeated in Parseltongue, preparing himself for a second dose of Hell.

The second the latch burst open, Harry pushed down. The stream of smoke and screams rushed forth like a rapid. The Horcrux in his head pushed against his skull, its assault as painful as it had been last time. The experience of having his head torn open began anew, but Harry was expecting it this time. All he knew, in the maelstrom of torturous existence, was to keep pushing down as hard as he could.

Bit by bit, Harry could feel himself sinking into the darkness. He was gaining on the Horcrux, he knew it. He only had to hold out for a bit longer. Knowing that it had no hope to persuade him, the Horcrux was throwing everything it had at him, expelling his body and seizing his head in a fiery grip of pure agony.

It wouldn't be enough.

Like pushing through the world's strongest current, Harry barely felt the progress, but he struggled on. Bracing himself on last time, he gipped the hilt tighter than he had very gripped anything, so hard that he thought he might bend the metal, gave it his all. He summoned every last bit of strength he had, forcing the tip of the blade downwards as far as his body could make it. Realising it was now or never, Harry gave the sword one last forceful plunge.

CRACK!

And the world fell silent.

Harry collapsed against the floorboards, thoroughly exhausted. Leaning against the sword, buried in something hard and solid, standing like an obelisk, he wilted. Stars erupted behind his eyes. He took his time breathing in and out, forcing himself to stay conscious.

Eventually, he was able to open his eyes, adjusting to the darkness of the room. He rolled the blade down to the floorboards, where he noticed the dead Horcurx speared on the tip. The sword had managed to pierce all the way through the locket, embedding itself into the wood beneath. Harry couldn't help but sigh in relief as he registered the sight in front of him.

It was dead. The third Horcrux out of seven was dead and Voldemort was all the weaker for it. That at least was worth the pain.

He waited for Dumbledore's congratulations, his kind, reassuring words that would make him feel all the better. Only to suddenly remember why he was here. The ache in his heart throbbed again in earnest and despite his momentary victory, he felt strangely empty for it.

Harry took hold of the hilt and lifted the sword from the floorboards, allowing the locket to slip unceremoniously from the blade and onto the floor. Unable to resits, Harry raised his foot and stomped on the remains, grinding its broken pieces into the floor with his heel. One last expression of his utter disdain for the object. It felt good. Petty, but good.

"It's alright, Kreacher," he announced. "It's dead. Can't hurt anyone else."

From behind a sheet, Kreacher stepped forward, peering at the glinting shards that lay on the floorboards. His shaking had ceased, but the tears in his eyes had not, and now seeing the object of his torment smashed and powerless before him, they flooded his eyes once more.

Allowing Kreacher his moment to grieve, celebrate or whatever he was doing, Harry reached into his robes and held the fake locket up for inspection. This was perhaps his final connection to Dumbledore, or at least that night in particular. This is what Dumbledore had died for, in the end. Throwing it away now seemed disrespectful, especially since the original was now nothing but broken glass and metal.

However, he still didn't have a clue what to do with it. He could take it back to Hogwarts, offer it as an artefact of school history, like the sword of Gryffindor. But then people would ask how he came across it, what he had been doing with it and why. People would become suspicious. Voldemort would get word that someone had been looking for his Horcruxes. No, he needed to keep it secret for now.

"May I, sir?" he heard Kreacher's voice pipe up from beside him. Harry looked down and found Kreacher staring up at him, pointing at the fake locket.

"You want this?" Harry asked, causing Kreacher to nod in a faint imitation of Dobby. "Here, let me." Harry found his wand and pointed it at the locket. He silently cast a simple 'Reparo' and the two pieces bound together once again, reforming into its original shape. He could hardly tell that it had been ripped apart. Leaning down, he offered it to Kreacher. "It's yours. I've no use for it now."

The ancient House-Elf accepted the locket giddily.

"Thank you. Thank you!"

He lifted the locket over his head, muttering something under his breath. The locket fell over Kreacher's head, settling over the pillowcase that he wore for clothes, and his eyes shone with genuine happiness for the first time ever.

"Kreacher," Harry eventually asked, "how did you know about the locket? Why keep it for this long?"

Kreacher glanced up at him, his hands returning to the locket, rubbing it nervously between his bony fingers.

And so, the ancient House-Elf began his tale. He told of how Voldemort one day required a House-Elf from one of his followers, and how he was offered willingly by his master Regulus Black. Harry sat and listened as Kreacher told him of the cave, fury ignited with it him as he heard how Voldemort forced him to drink the potion - emptying the basin for he locket - and then left him to die to the Inferi.

It was then when Harry asked, "But, how did you escape? You can't apparate into the cave, Dumbledore said so, and no one was around to help you. How did you get out?"

Kreacher had fixed him a sullen but mischievous look.

"Difficult for wizards not so for House-Elves, sir," he explained. "We is going places wizards can't. Make magics that wizards dream of."

Harry hadn't thought of that. That must have been how Dobby got into Privet Drive so easily, passing the supposed blood wards on the house and the numerous other protections, complete undetected. He could even pop in and out of Hogwarts like it was nothing. He could simply go to-and-fro without a trace if he wanted.

He placed that train of thought aside for the moment as Kreacher then told of his escape, how he relayed everything he saw to his master, Regulus, who by that point had begun to reject Riddle's cause. Regulus had a fake locket made and travelled with Kreacher back to the cave, where - to Harry's surprise and admiration - Regulus himself drank the potion and told Kreacher to escape with the real locket. And despite what a rude, miserable House-Elf Harry knew Kreacher to be, he couldn't help but feel heartbroken at his tears, remembering his master being dragged beneath the surface of the water by the Inferi.

From then on, as Harry could gather from Kreacher's wailing, the House-Elf had returned alone, and spent the next few decades living with the truth, unable to destroy the locket. That is, until today. Living with that pain, that feeling of powerlessness, for that long, with no one else to give you even a modicum of support or kindness… Harry understood Kreacher for who he really was. A victim of Tom Riddle, just like so many others.

"Kreacher," Harry asked, eventually summoning up the resolve, "how would you like to work for me?"

It wasn't much, but it was a start. Kreacher an old elf, someone who probably didn't want a friend. A kind master, therefore, one who kept his best interests at heart and understood his pain, would have to do.

"I is already loyal to the Black family," Kreacher replied. "Now I is loyal to half-blood sir."

"You don't have to call me sir, Kreacher," Harry dismissed. This was apparently the wrong thing to say as Kreacher crossed his arms.

"I is doing so anyway, sir," Kreacher spat defiantly. "Is tradition for the Black family."

"I'm not a Black."

"Oh, but you is, sir. Yous grandmother was a Black. Traitor boy-"

"Sirius," Harry interjected before he trained himself and continue calmly. "Please just call him Sirius. I know he didn't treat you well but to me he's family. I'm sorry."

Kreacher seemed taken aback at a genuine apology. Unable to decide what to do in response, he simply decided to carry on speaking.

"Sirius boy made you his heir," Kreacher explained. "Yous being a Black now, so I is loyal to you."

"I'm sorry I never came back," Harry apologised once again, in spite of Kreacher's inability to accept it. "I couldn't handle it. Not after... You lied to me Kreacher. You told me he wasn't in the house, why did you do that?"

"For lady Bella. I's wanting her back, a true Black, in the family again."

"A pureblood," Harry surmised tiredly. He could help but smirk. "Well, now I'm afraid you have me."

"You is destroying Master Regulus' locket, sir. And you is coming back. Bella never come back, ever. No one is. You is better than nothing, sir."

That was almost a compliment. If there was ever any evidence that Kreacher was getting better, that was it.

"We can only hope," Harry shrugged. "If you're going to work for me though, I don't want you ever calling my friends blood-traitors or mudbloods ever again. I won't tolerate it. You don't have to be friendly, but you don't call them that. That stops now. Clear?"

Perhaps it was the fact that he had received a direct order, but Kreacher's demeanour morphed in front of his eyes. The awkward apprehension changed into an instinctive discipline, and he stood slightly straight, nodded dutifully to his new master.

"Yes, sir. I is trying, sir."

And with that, Harry left him to his own devices - namely cleaning, which considering the state of the house would be more than enough for the old House-Elf for now.

This house would need a lot of work before it would ever be home, but at least Harry had somewhere. One more gift from a dearly beloved godfather. The thought made Harry consider his own will, what he would need to pass down and to who. He knew he'd want to give something Hermione, Ron, Lupin, Hagrid, the Weasleys as a whole, but beyond that…

A sudden realisation popped into Harry's head, something that Kreacher had mentioned in his story. House-Elves could apparently go where wizards couldn't apparate (for lack of a better term) through wards built to keep wizards out. And, apparently, they could bring people with them. How? How had this never been considered before? Were wizards seriously that short-sighted by blood that they never considered House-Elves for their abilities?

According to Dumbledore's plan, in a couple of months, he and the Order of the Phoenix were supposed to escape Privet Drive with nothing but broomsticks and some Polyjuice potion. What with anti-apparition wards, a lack of Floo network connection and presumably a blockade around the house preventing them from escaping any other way. But what if there suddenly was another way? What if there was an angle they hadn't considered yet? Dumbledore in their extensive talks on the subject never mentioned House-Elves. Perhaps, he simply didn't know. Who did? Harry seriously doubted that anyone in Voldemort's circle would ever talk to their House-Elves, nor would their hubris ever allow them to see them as anything other than lower beings. They would never rely on a being as simple as a House-Elf.

Harry, suddenly overcome with inspiration, almost gasped out loud. And as he and Kreacher teleported straight back to the Headmaster's office, past the ancient and supposedly unbreakable wards, Harry's confidence improved tenfold. Now he had a new plan, one he was sure no one, not even the Order themselves, would expect. One that, he hoped, Dumbledore himself would have been proud of.