A/N: Second chapter! I'm not entirely satisfied with this chapter, but I couldn't quite fix it, because I wasn't quite sure what seemed off. Also, this one felt a little sort, but that might just be me. Either way, I hope you enjoy!

Oh, and I found out from the Harry Potter Lexicon that Walburga's maiden name was "Black," so apparently that's why she referred to Grimmauld Place as "house of my fathers." (Or so says the HP Lexicon.)

Walburga Black née Black

House of My Fathers

The room stank of death, although the woman within it had yet to pass from this life to the next. Her only companion was a small, wrinkly creature that relentlessly paced the room, never speaking, just watching, waiting. It would regard its mistress with wide, doleful eyes, beseeching her to say something, anything, though the woman refused its silent pleas. It wrung its hands, and clawed its face, but upheld the sacred silence it was forced to keep. Every few hours, the creature would leave, and bring her food or water. To the casual observer, it might be bitter, doing these ineffective things for the dying woman, but it was much more than a simple death watch.

This vigil, held around-the-clock since the Healers had declared her a lost case, was for her will. The house, her money, the heirlooms—everything was, as of the 25th of August, in the year of 1985, left to the mistress's dead son—a young man who had passed on six years before in a tragic accident. Kreacher had assumed that, since Mistress's eldest boy had long since been disowned, and was now serving a life sentence in Azkaban prison, Mistress would change her will—perhaps giving Kreacher and the rest of it to those lovely girls, Misses Bella and Cissy. If Kreacher could no longer serve Mistress, he must stay in the Black family and serve another worthy member of the Noble and Most Ancient House.

It was only right. Kreacher had served Mistress faithfully; he loved her, and would die rather than see her in the pain she was now experiencing. For generations, Kreacher was devoted to the Black family. He was a good house-elf. He longed to do his duty.

But it was not to be. Kreacher had known, the instant Mistress became ill, that she would not leave her precious items to her brother's girls. In truth, Kreacher knew even before that there was no chance of him going to any other Black than Mistress's own children.

And the house itself—for years, considered the stronghold of the entire Black family—that, above all, must be kept safe. Fortified by the Mistress' dead husband, it was essential to the revival of a family twice divided—by Mistress' niece, and then by her own son.

Kreacher shivered as the portrait of Mistress shrieked. The last time Mistress had regained consciousness, she had made that portrait. It said what she would; and it also haunted the house, screaming at the members of the Black family as they passed. But only the unworthy ones. Only the filth.

The Mistress had whispered to Kreacher, after the screams had driven her family away, that he was to mantain her image. He must never let it die, for it would purge the halls of her house, keeping it clean of any and all worthless ones. Kreacher swore to do as she said, but that night he cried himself to sleep. How would he survive without his Mistress? How would he bear to watch her fade from memory, as so many other Black women had?

And so, there he was, a lone house-elf, waiting for his Mistress to tell him who would be his new master. He waited in self-taught silence, nervously twisting his hands in his dirty pillowcase.

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed the hour. Kreacher whimpered softly.

It struck thrice more before Kreacher realized the time. Midnight. The time of magic.

"Mistress?" he ventured softly, his large bat-like ears quivering with fear and distress. "Mistress?"

"Begone from the house of my fathers!" screamed Walburga, "Half-blood filth! My son has no right!"

Kreacher cringed away from her fury. Mistress had been reliving her worst moments for days, and it ate her her mind, seeing her failures: one son dead, another a blood traitor and criminal. Her keening echoed throughout the house, bouncing off the walls. The noise could be deafening. It had been a month since any family member had seen her. Her remaining loyal brother had died the year of her son and her husband. The distant relatives who waited anxiously for her will were not close the the Mistress; rather, they were of the Black family, and so they kept their own small watch. They did not care if Mistress died; they cared for the will. As it had always been, Kreacher knew, in the Black family: the next leader, the next matriarch. The new power.

"Mistress, I is needing to reminding you," Kreacher mumbled, "Your will, Mistress. You's needs to change it, Mistress."

"How—dare—you!" Walburga cried. "How—dare—you,—you—rat! This house—my house—by rights belongs to my sons! Sirius, my dear, dear, darling Sirius, my eldest, my child, my boy, my son! He is your Master, and don't you for—" Walburga gasped, and her eyes widened, and Kreacher was sure in that moment she would die, and he would be left to her son's mercy—

And he remembered Sirius Black—may his muggle-loving, blood traitor soul rot in Hell—Kreacher remembered that he was rotting away already, in Azkaban. Kreacher would never serve Mistress's eldest son.

"Perhaps—" came the sudden whisper, softly now, more gentle; quite a contrast from the Mistress in life. With her illness, the Mistress' moods changed rapidly and frequently, but during her prime years, she was consistent and a solid figure in the family. It was devastating to watch this change in Kreacher's beloved Mistress.

"Mistress can't!" The words were out of his mouth before Kreacher could stop them. Pain pierced his heart—Kreacher loved Mistress, and under normal circumstances, he would never have the audacity to tell her what she could and could not do.

"I can! Sirius will have this house!" A wand waved, and the will beside her bed changed. Kreacher saw Regulus' name vanish, and in its place a new name appeared, in the spidery writing that Mistress was know for, and Kreacher's fate was sealed—

Sirius Black

And now review!