The Black House had been gutted. Yaxley had brought in Death Eater after Death Eater to search the place for any hints of where Harry, Ron, and Hermione were headed or what their plans were. Kreacher had hid from them, knowing from the fact that the trio had not returned, that something had gone very wrong. The Death Eaters had sacked the place and taken what they wanted, and only Kreacher was there to witness the travesty.
This Christmas Eve was much like the ones from years past. Kreacher was the only one left in the lonely house that was now completely barren of all its former treasures. What Mundungus had begun after the death of Sirius, the Death Eaters had finished. He mourned the loss of yet another Master who had seemed to care for the house elf.
Kreacher sat in his little cupboard that was more clean than it had been since before the death of Mrs. Black. He had gone busily through his now-daily routine of dusting and cleaning the house, attempting to keep inhabitable just in case the three young wizards returned to the home at Grimmauld Place. Every surface that was remaining was polished, and every light had been dusted. This transformation of number 12 He had then sunken down like a defeated rag doll into the nest of blankets and rags to spend the rest of the joyous day alone.