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Chapter 8

Kreacher the House Elf came from Grimmauld Place, a house which was owned by Grandfather Cygnus' older brother, Sirius Black. Walburga hated Kreacher, and, by default, Walburga also despised Grimmauld Place. Kreacher could not cook as well as Lossy had, in her opinion. Though both Pollux and Irma seemed perfectly satisfied with the new House Elf's cooking, Walburga had been so used to Lossy preparing the food that Kreacher's work, though good, was not quite suitable for her tastes. It just wasn't the same.

Kreacher also had a seemingly endless amount of energy that old Lossy hadn't. When Irma commanded him to keep an eye on Walburga, no amount of running about on her part could shake the House Elf off. It was really quite infuriating. There wasn't anything she really did that she didn't want him to witness; it was the mere fact that he was always there.

The many times she tried to order him away, standing as tall as she could, chest puffed out and head held high, giving her best Black glare and using her most imperious voice (the fact that she was seven years old rather lessened the effect) to tell the House Elf that she was also his mistress and that he had to listen to her, Kreacher merely bowed and groveled, apologizing over and over and yet refusing to obey her, stating that he was under "orders from Mistress Irma to watch out for Young Mistress Walburga."

No amount of yelling or commanding could change the House Elf's mind. Even when she resorted to threats she had heard her father use, Kreacher refused to budge (the one time Irma had heard the things she said, Walburga got a severe scolding and told that "little girls should not say such things". Walburga didn't understand her mother's alarm, as she didn't quite understand the meaning of what she had said, but she decided to stick to simply trying to order Kreacher away in the near future).

She supposed that it all just meant that he was a loyal House Elf, but weren't they all? They were really just disgusting creatures that lived to serve their Masters, and wizards put up with their disgustingness in return for the House Elf's service.

It made sense.

Tiny little thin things, which huge ears and eyes, pinkish skin, squeaky voices, rags for clothes... the contrast between her family and the House Elves was jarring, and she couldn't help but wonder how they could live with themselves.

She hadn't had much exposure to others beyond her family, but the few times that she had accompanied her mother to Diagon Alley, she found that she was quick to judge others. It really wasn't something she meant to do, but she could always see it in her family's eyes, and so the habit stuck. She always left feeling very proud of her shiny black hair, striking grey eyes and aristocratic features.

There was also always a lingering sense of guilt, once the pride had receded. Weren't they all the same? Didn't they all think the same? Feel the same? But in the end, she reasoned herself out of it.

Nobody was the same. There were Purebloods and Half-Bloods and Mudbloods, and within the Purebloods there were blood-traitors and old pureblood families. There were witches and wizards and Squibs and Muggles and House Elves and other creatures, and in the end, none of them were the same.

How could they? She was just privileged; her name, her family, her wealth, her looks, her talent. First, she pitied those that were different. But then she thought of Marius, of Lossy, of Kreacher, of some of those people she saw at Diagon Alley, and disgust overcame her.

Was there even a reason for them? House Elves served witches and wizards, but those others creatures -Mudbloods, Muggles, Centaurs- had no use.

Of course, she hadn't ever seen them, but she had heard stories from Grandfather Cygnus of how they sought to destroy all the values that the old Pureblood families held dear. Of how they wanted to take over, how they were already seeping into the system and corrupting the government and the schools.

All in all Walburga didn't understand how that was allowed to happen; the House Elves were under control, eager to serve, groveling at their Master's feet; why weren't the others doing the same?

It was around her eighth birthday one year that she asked that question at the dinner table.

Silence.

Pollux had a small smirk on his face that showed that he was pleased; however, his silence proved that it was something he refused to speak of, at least not in front of his young daughter who could easily say the wrong thing to the wrong person without knowing.

Irma'a face turned white, yet her voice was strong when she spoke. "Not for now. Don't worry yourself over it, Walburga." She hesitated, and her voice shook slightly when she spoke again. "You never know what might happen one day. Toujours Pur."

Walburga nodded and dutifully went back to eating. Five-year-old Alphard hadn't looked too interested in the exchange to start with; though he had heard of it all, he never quite had the intense interest in such matters that Walburga did.

While she was captivated by Cygnus or Pollux's speeches, he preferred to stare out the window at the birds and the trees and the sky. While she held everyone she saw at Diagon Alley with a critical eye, he stared at it all with innocently wide, non-judging eyes.

To Walburga, it was of no matter. He had already showed plenty of signs of magic, and she chalked up his disinterest in blood supremacy to his young age. She had forgotten that she had already been irreversibly drawn to it by the time she had been his age.

Pollux didn't say a word in that entire conversation, but after dinner when Irma wasn't looking, he offered his young daughter one of his rare, small smiles. It filled her chest with warmth, and she felt more connected to him that night than she did to her mother, who had not been able to swallow another bite and sat there tensely, trying to control her breathing.

Walburga hadn't seen Irma like that in a while, and so it caught her by surprise when she heard her parents arguing later that night.

"She's barely eight!" She heard her mother snap. "When I was her age I was barely aware of this all, not making proclamations that the Mudbloods should be serving us!"

"Well, you were not a Black," her father responds, calm as ever. "And Walburga is smart; she knows her place in society."

"I don't care that you just called me an idiot, Pollux. I just care about what my daughter is turning into."

"Irma, she is our daughter. She is a Black!"

"She's not anymore a Black than she is mine," Irma spat. "You are turning her into a monster. You and your father both."

"And I do not care that you just called me a monster," Pollux said in a mockery of Irma's earlier statement, "but I do care about the lack of respect you show to Toujours Pur. You would do good to remember what it means."

"I know full well what it means," Irma said quietly. "Did you not hear me today at the table? Or that one night in the bed? I have done everything that you and your family have asked me to do, and yet this is what I get in return."

"Return? In return? There is no return, Irma. We believe in it because it is the truth, and-"

"I am not speaking of blood purity anymore! I am speaking of my -of our daughter. I am speaking of what you are turning her into! She is beyond a simple understanding of the matter. It is outright lunacy. And I hate it."

And I hate it.

That's what Irma had said.

And I hate it.

Her mother. Her own mother hated her.

Walburga didn't want to hear anymore. She whipped around, tears already gathering. She let them fall. What did it matter?

Her father never smiled at her. The one time he did was also the night that her mother proclaimed that she hated her.

Walburga thought back to something she had seen in Diagon Alley. A girl, looking to be about a year younger than herself. She had been with a man and a woman. Her parents.

A family.

The girl had been ugly as anything, and at the time, Walburga had thought scathingly of her. But now, it wasn't the girl's appearance that was at the forefront of her mind. It was the image of her father handing some candy to her, the image of her face lighting up in pure joy, the image of her jumping into his arms and hugging him, the image of him holding her tight and petting her hair, the image of the mother watching the scene in front of her laughing, the image of her looking adoringly at both her husband and daughter.

And for the first time ever, Walburga wished that she was that girl.

She was about to run, away from the door she had been listening through, away from her father who never smiled, away from her mother who hated her, when a croaky voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Young Mistress Walburga should be in bed at such a late hour."

It was Kreacher.

She had no energy to order him away; she merely dashed to the end of the hallway before collapsing at the corner, sobbing violently. She tried to keep quiet -she really did- but choked whimpers still escaped her lips, and her shoulders shook with the effort.

She looked up to see the House Elf standing in front of her -he had silently followed her- with more emotion on his face than she had ever seen. He looked slightly scared of her, and apologetic, but, at the same time, sad and pitying.

At any other time, she would have snapped at him to go away, snapped at anybody for pitying her, claiming that she was among the lucky. But now, she accepted it, even welcomed it. Walburga let Kreacher pet her shoulder, not even bothering to shudder as their skin made contact. She let him hush her and calm her, until she could stand, until she could make it back to her room. She let him escort her, let him tuck her into bed.

Despite all the malice that Walburga had shown him, it appeared that Kreacher really was the only one that truly cared about her.