I'm still going! Haven't forgotten this! I have, however, been very sick this year and my mind is impossible to wrangle. Please bear with me if this reads more like unfiltered word vomit than usual.
When Harry returned home – and yes, he could have a proper one now, and wasn't that the strangest thought – to Grimmauld Place, Kreacher was already waiting for him right behind the front door. In fact, it seemed the whole Black House had been waiting to welcome him.
The scent of home that greeted Harry was of fresh woodsmoke, beeswax, a faint lemon something, and the delicious smell of recent baking. The hallway itself gleamed: the floors were polished, and the wallpaper bright and cheerful in the sunlight that streamed down from the upper floors. The troll-leg umbrella stand was looking oddly polished, its nails filed back and buffed to a clear shine, and the temporary drapes that had once been desperately tacked up to cover the portrait of Walburga Black had been replaced with a rich and luxurious silver velvet curtain that was properly hung on a gleaming bronze curtain rod.
As Harry's eyes wandered, he saw the familiar rug of dark greens and browns underfoot had not only been cleaned again, but also…fixed, somehow? Harry squinted at what used to be threadbare fabric and wondered how Kreacher had managed to rejuvenate the old threads. Kreacher wasn't a weaver, or….or a textiles worker, right? Or was he?
It was then, with the slowness of a wizard without a guilty conscience, that Harry's eyes finally drifted back to Kreacher's face, and promptly realised that he was missing something important.
Judging from the crossed arms, the single raised eyebrow, and the dead-eye stare that was levelled at Harry from the unmoving house elf, Kreacher was not impressed.
"I'm back?" Harry tried hopefully, but the cheerful conversation about his travels was not to be.
"So the Young Master is realising that it is being about time."
Kreacher's lecture started promptly as Harry stepped over the threshold. It continued as Harry was allowed into the house to be looked over with a pair of critical eyes, and, when Harry interrupted the grizzled elf, "Sorry Kreacher, but can we do this while I sit down somewhere comfy? I've been on my feet all day – oh no, not the sitting room, please? You know my favourite place in this house is your kitchen, I know you know that…," the lecture finally made its way downstairs where Harry collapsed into his usual seat at the breakfast table.
Warm, firm hands had physically guided Harry down the stairs and into the wooden chair, luggage somehow being whisked out of his hands, and the kettle was already whistling cheerfully on the stovetop before Kreacher turned to clatter efficient through cupboards, pulling out plates from here, some shortbread from there, and soon a steaming cup and its saucer were pressed into his hands with as much solicitation as insistence.
The house elf turned for a moment to face the orange kneazle that had padded down the stairs after them: Crookshanks was warmly welcomed, no scolding for him, and something alarming alive and struggling was shoved into his mouth, which Crookshanks promptly left with. His tail swished back around the kitchen doorframe and out of sight a little like abandonment though, because as soon as the great cat was gone, Harry had been transfixed by a weighty stare.
All Harry could do was accept the judgement silently and let the words wash over him.
"As if facing the Naughty Dark Lord Half-blood was not being bad enough…" Kreacher's voice picked up intensity as he turned to pace.
"Ah." Harry remembered. Oh yes, other beings would think that that was a recent and still alarming occasion. He'd quite forgotten the difference between what he was used to and how other beings saw that. At least he remembered to hide his grimace.
As his telling-off continued, it became rapidly apparent to Harry, slumped over his tea in the midmorning light of the Black House kitchen, that Kreacher had been working on this speech for a matter of weeks. He felt his guilt grow like a deep-rooted weed now that the reason was – he was corrected, the many reasons for Kreacher's displeasure – were being made apparent. He had to flinch away from a particularly disappointed look when Kreacher explained what appropriate supervision should be looking like, and Harry was driven to an impressively close examination of his teacup – a beautiful white bone-china thing with delicate gold edging and a slow-cycling enchantment that had a yellow aconite blossom budding and blooming, again and again – because making eye contact with the house elf was getting hard to keep up with.
The comparatively small house elf looked surprisingly impressive as he stood in front of Harry's chair, one knobby, gnarled finger extended and gesturing firmly to emphasise his every point.
"Kreacher is expecting better of the Young Master than this," the house elf bemoaned.
Harry's guilty flinch took his face a bit closer to the tea cup. The lecture continued.
According to Kreacher, planning – and then worse – going to the confrontation with the Dark Lord had been bad enough, Harry learned. Kreacher had coped with the catastrophe because Harry had had a plan, and he had had allies, and they had all been told what to expect and how they could help. Kreacher had been helping. It was supposed to have been all over.
The house elf's voice rose further, Kreacher's pacing grinding to a halt when sheer movement failed to express the true scale of his displeasure.
"…and then Kreacher is learning – Oh! He is having to find out from the papers! – that the Young Master is having a, a magical baptism! Overseas! Away from his homeland! And Kreacher is not even being with him in his time of need!"
The flowers blooming on his teacup were really quite artistically painted. Harry found himself unwilling to look away from them. Harry wondered abruptly how much tighter he could grip the cup without the thing shattering and was forced to release his grip.
"It was nothing as major as all that!" Harry attempted, valiantly hoping the words might help somewhat. "Just a small disruption in my magic. My healer said it's mostly just like two rivers meeting: since each have their own current, when they meet things get a bit choppy for a while. It's perfectly norm—er, natural, so please don't feel you need to worry about the whole thing too much."
"Choppy," Kreacher repeated shortly. The tiny twitch of his shoulder was all that Harry needed to realise that it had been a bit soon to treat the subject with such flippancy, and that Kreacher was not amused. "Choppy?! If it is being a river or two, then Kreacher is thinking that 'choppy' is alright. But Young Master Harry feeling 'choppy'? Young Master Harry's magic being choppy?!"
"I'm sorry," Harry tried. "I shouldn't have implied it was a small thi—"
"And then the young Master mentions two rivers." The house elf continued bitingly, with gradually rising volume. The firelight behind him flickered and grew emphatically. "Two rivers!? As if Master Harry is only having the conflict of two magics happening inside him!"
"Well, it was the metaphor my heale—"
"Master Harry is needing to be mentioning four rivers, at least!" Kreacher growled out, restraining his index finger from poking Harry's forehead through apparently superhuman self-control. "And Master Harry's 'rivers' is not being only 'choppy', either. He should be saying 'stormy chaos'. Perhaps 'wild crashing', or 'violent surging'."
"That is a good point," Harry nodded obediently. He had four family magics now, that was true. Or was it Family Magics?
"But then his stormy four rivers is crashing together," Kreacher intoned unstoppably, finger once more gesticulating more wildly still, "even though just weeks before he is suffering from a huge, horribly evil thievey sinkhole that is wanting to steal his magic and luck and kill him and his magic all dead!"
"Er…"
"And so the river is breaking its riverbanks and waves is splashing everywhere and he is," – here, Kreacher's voice took on a curious, high-pitched whine in addition to his usual voice; it had Harry half out of his seat in – "He is leaving his Kreacher behind and is travelling overseas with nobody to look after him! OH!"
Kreacher grabbed his ears and rocked, rocking backwards and forward in a paroxysm of confusion and pain. Out of Harry's sight but most likely crockery-related, something cracked.
"The poor, foolish Young Master is all alone! His water is splashing! The poor, foolish Young Master is needing many healers! And they is not even knowing him first!"
"Um. My magic is…right…er. Look, I, em…"
"And there is being no good British wizards and no house elfs but even worse – no Kreacher to be tending to him in his time of need."
"I—"
"And then," Kreacher took a huge, shuddering deep breath that had Harry flush with embarrassment and shame even before he knew what Kreacher was going to accuse him of. Harry reached again for his barely touched cup of tea before realising that not even that would help now.
"And then the foolish Young Master is leaving…" The rocking house elf paused in his heaving breath and rocking just long enough to swallow loudly. "He is leaving his camp to go swanning around France instead of coming home where his Kreacher is waiting for him!"
Heat rushed into his face as Harry realised what he was guilty of; a swearword escaped his lips unnoticed.
"Ohhh, Merlin. Oh, crap! Sorry, Kreacher!" Harry managed, finally realising exactly how badly he'd screwed these things up.
He let his fingers slide free of his tea cup, but could only flap his hands uselessly around in the air.
"Goddammit. I'm sorry. I was so excited to be holidaying with Sirius, and so upset that the last week of my Quidditch Camp had been ruined, and then Dumbledore and the healers came up with a solution that seemed so convenient for me…I totally forgot, Kreacher. I don't even know why. I'm so, so sorry. I can't even imagine how you must have felt all the way ov—I don't—I can't—I don't know why I didn't think! Sirius and Remus were so glad to see me okay after all, I don't know why I just assumed you'd be…fine. I should absoutely have come to see you! I'm so sorry. Really. So sorry, Kreacher. You hear me? Are you okay, there?"
Kreacher rocked, his heavy gasps filling the usually warm, calm kitchen.
Harry creased his brows and moved out of his chair properly now, closer to the little distressed figure that was still keening and rocking and pulling in a most distressing suffering. "Kreacher? Is there something I can do to make this right? I really am sorry, yeah? I'll know better next t—There won't be a next time, I promise."
Over his attempts at comfort, Kreacher's voice whined wordlessly. It would have been a groan, but the noise from his throat was high pitched and had Harry's ears wanting to pop with the pressure.
"After Voldemort, I thought everything else would just fall into place okay," Harry offered tentatively. "I was expecting to…be free of all the troubles. You know, I thought I'd…fixed everything?"
Harry licked dry lips and could only keep on going.
"I have missed you awfully, Kreacher, you're right. I was so lonely without you over there."
Helplessly, Harry glanced around the kitchen to look for help, but the wizened house elf wobbling where he stood two feet away was the only noticeable thing in the room.
It was Harry's turn now to swallow loudly. "I'm terribly sorry I left you alone. What can I do for you? Kreacher? Is there something that would help?"
Harry's eyes darted faster.
"Ah...would a cup of hot tea help, maybe? Kreacher?"
When no answer was forthcoming, Harry slid off his seat carefully to make his way to where the still-warm kettle had been placed just off from the heat. It was a matter of moments before Kreacher had teacup that matched Harry's own; delicate pink Belladonna flowers rustled and fluttered as the steaming, milkless brew warmed the cup and roused the enchantment to begin its gentle cycle: the rhythmic expansion and contraction of the blossoms in Walburga Black's most favourite teacup.
Over a few long minutes, Kreacher's distressed rocking lessened under Harry's dutiful enquires of, "Do you take milk, Kreacher? Cream? Any sugar, perhaps?" and the occasional outburst of, "Merlin, I can't believe I don't know how you take your tea!" until at last Kreacher's hands reached out to grasp the offered cup and he settled ever-so-gradually into calm, the quietness broken only by the occasional sound of his distracted slurping and the appreciative swallows.
"Achh," Kreacher finally waved Harry's concerned hovering away, pushing his half-empty teacup into the middle of the kitchen table. "It is not the Young Master Harry's fault. He is being raised by animals and is not used to being wanted."
"Er…"
Then, having barely seated himself, Harry was fixed by a gimlet stare. "But the Young Master is fixing up his attitude and is not doing this again."
Harry nodded.
"Yessir," he agreed immediately. "I mean, I will definitely look after myself better, and absolutely not let myself get kidnapped again even if I have a good plan, and I will always make sure that you can come and find me at any moment of your convenience."
Kreacher's unblinking stare was a tad unfair, Harry thought.
"And I'll make sure to always watch my health and my magic better and if I ever get sick, I'll tell you straight away."
Kreacher thought about that for a moment while Harry waited with bated breath. "Good enough to be going with for now," Kreacher eventually nodded, and the air rushed back into Harry's lungs. "But the Foolish Young Master is certainly needing a lot of quiet healing time to fix what is being wrong. Quiet time is good time. Home time. Perhaps Master Harry is needing to send his apologies and not go to this witch-friend's wedding after all."
Bollocks. Harry would have to work hard to earn that privilege back, and any immediate chance to prove that he was on the mend was promptly ruined; Harry's shadow on the kitchen tiles, in darker relief than it should be because of the kitchen fire that was still burning too brightly, chose that exact moment to detach itself from his feet and began to moonwalk its way out of the room.
Harry hadn't known that house elf eyes could get that big.
"Wha—" the house elf gaped, and Harry was forced to tear his eyes away from Kreacher's astounded face to glance down at whatever his seated body was doing.
Instead of the straight, clean lines of his summer-weight robe and his skin tanned from hours of quidditch playing, all that Harry's eyes could see was a chaotic blazing of rainbow magelight erupting violently from within his body.
Like a forest fire's glow or a star's halo, too many colours to name radiated straight out from Harry's literal skin, muscles, bones, in a corona of stormy surging. Then leaping outward from the bright aura like sparks from a bonfire, brighter specks of magic jumped in the air, some of the colours burning out like dying fireworks: blues, pinks, golds and more.
Other sparks of Harry's magic, however, burnt long enough or hot enough to change in their path, making themselves visible even to those without Harry's vision: a bright purple speck mutated into an orange dahlia even as Harry's wide eyes stared, before it plummeted to the ground and sprouted roots that tried to reach into the grout between the hard kitchen tiles. Simultaneously, a tiny green spark transformed near Harry's right shoulder into a grey sparrow, wings already beating as it took flight towards to closest window. A silver gleam expanded into an ethereal mist even as it faded in intensity, finally taking the smoky shape of a muggle carousel; Harry's ears could just hear faint strains of circus music as the silver light spun, its winged horses and unicorns rising and falling in the circle.
While Kreacher watched and Harry could only stare in resignation, a bunch of lush green grass and bright blue pansies sprouted from the floor at Harry's feet. Tiny white daisies pushed through the ever-thickening grass, and the slow-blossoming pink of luscious, scented roses that Aunt Petunia would have killed for stretched above the others' heights and began winding their thorny vines up the table legs and around Harry's bare calves.
"Um."
The soft leather sandals that Harry had worn to come home in changed colour twice as he watched, from brown through blue to purple, before Harry's glance was drawn away from the magical chaos that surrounded him and fixed upon the impressive presence that was Kreacher the Black Family House Elf.
"So," Harry said towards the only spot in the room that suddenly radiated a deafeningly quiet. "About that."
"…Go on?" There was no inflection in Kreacher's voice, just a controlled, moderated tone and polite enquiry.
"I was travelling this morning, from France. Right?" Harry offered hopefully.
Kreacher's eyebrow might have twitched in response.
"I was in public," Harry hurried on. "Hiding my identity. Keeping an eye out for any lingering Death Eaters or fans who might have spotted me when I was sneaking into England. Staying safe. You know?"
Kreacher still didn't bother saying anything.
"And Professor Dumbledore and my healers have given me a temporary solution to my magical problem – my 'waves', or 'splashes' or whatever it was that you used in your metaphor before, but…I can't use that in public, right? But underage magic, even if my wands aren't registered would draw far too much attention, and I haven't got far on the wandless stuff yet. And not while I'm moving." He shrugged. "Obviously, I mean."
The single blink that Kreacher allowed himself was almost audible to Harry, that crick of skin folding and eye muscles twitching in sudden movement, and he had to stifle a guilty flinch. "So…while I have a perfectly good coping strategy, and on most days – I mean, 'nowadays' of course, haha – nowadays my magic is fine, I guess my magic was building up today? Again? Because of the travel?" He shrugged a single shoulder this time, in case that worked better. "Sometimes this happens. That's not a huge problem though, is it? Right?"
From the direction of the kitchen stove, a riot of dark, verdant green popped into view as a dense cluster of ivy thrust its way out of the oven, bursting the heavy oven door open with a tremendous crash before its growth began curling up the walls. From within the open door, a flock of flamingos in top hats streamed out in single-file while crooning an acapella version of Celestina Warbeck's "My Crystal Ball Shows Me You" in a surprisingly tight, four-part harmony.
"Ooh, er…"
Upon that further piece of ridiculousness, Harry had to give up on the words. Instead, he let his mouth drop open in surprise, irresistibly drawn to watch their long, pink figures writhe in an impossibly synchronised conga line that circled tightly around Kreacher's frozen figure at the kitchen table before turning to wind their fabulous way out of the kitchen door.
Harry's mouth went dry. He shrugged winningly in Kreacher's general direction.
"Kreacher sees we have a lot to be working on," the old house-elf mumbled as the last of the flamingos jauntily twisted its way through the doorway and thankfully out of sight. "Kreacher is sure he can be thinking of…something?"
Because Dudley had once gone through a phase of shooting Harry with rubber bands, Harry knew unusually well that the further they were stretched, the harder they recoiled to restore themselves to the most comfortable state.
Being back in London felt a bit like that, Harry reflected. After being stretched beyond comfort for far too long, Kreacher had snapped back to Harry's side as soon and as hard as he possibly could.
And, as Harry discovered that first night back on home soil, Kreacher would be keeping keeping Harry safe in his breast pocket, if he had one.
After Harry had whipped out his wand to tidy up all the chaos he'd caused with his leaking magic, he and Kreacher had taken to idle chatter, recovering from the emotional outbursts of earlier and also catching each other up on everything they'd missed while they were apart.
Then, knowing that he needed to do some serious grovelling, Harry had chosen to work through a French Runes book at the table to keep Kreacher company while he cooked the evening meal. The food had certainly been delightful, a proper welcome home now that all the emotions were thankfully out of the way.
Just the two of them sat at the old wooden kitchen table, nice and informally, but Kreacher's menu was exquisite: potatoes au gratin, roast vegetables, and a sirloin steak that Kreacher must have gone to great lengths to find, all finished up with a raspberry trifle with cream, handmade ice cream and custard and, finally, a drink of rich hot chocolate so thick that Harry's spoon could stand up in it if he balanced it right. He ate it all slowly and appreciatively, and if Kreacher's eyes were caught fixedly staring at each mouthful Harry took, well, that was only to be expected after everything.
He thought Kreacher was also a bit shellshocked by all the emotions when, after dinner, Kreacher escorted him silently to and from the upstairs bathroom door, waiting on the other side of the door while Harry made use of the space. Following that, Kreacher also accompanied Harry to the library and, when Harry settled down to read his runes book in one of the comfortable, cushioned divans there, Kreacher settled down opposite him to fix up some embroidery that was old and worn in the creases, all the while leaving the dishes undone in the kitchen.
Even more astonishingly, when Harry announced his need to visit Diagon Alley the next morning after breakfast had been cleaned up, Kreacher volunteered to accompany him.
Having been climbing up to the ground floor from the kitchen basement, Harry stubbed his shoe on the next step and spent a moment fumbling for balance before he remembered to chase after Kreacher's progressing figure.
"But you don't like leaving the house," Harry blurted out, his surprise making the words sound sharp enough to be rude.
"Kreacher is visiting Hogwarts before," he was reminded.
"But," Harry thought back to those early days when Sirius was potioned into unconsciousness and hidden in the Room of Requirement, "yeah, but…That was under protest, right? Because we needed to keep Sirius safe, and he was trying to break out of here and get himself killed, wasn't it?"
Kreacher reached the top of the stairs then, and turned around so Harry could read his face. Despite the sincerity in his expression, Kreacher's one-shoulder shrug looked awkward and slightly embarrassed as Harry finished the last few steps to join him on the entrance rug. "At that time, the naughty Black master and the Foolish Young Master is needing all the help they can get."
"But you always said that good house elfs are staying in the…"
"Kreacher is being taught that good house elfs is staying in the house and tending to the family," Kreacher interrupted, nodding wisely. "But Kreacher is never tending to a family that is not in the house before. Kreacher is raising a young house elf or two in his time, but is never needing to teach a Young Master how to be wizard before."
From the glance that Harry managed to steal at Kreacher's expression, the enormity of his task was both glorious and overwhelming.
Kreacher continued. "Kreacher is being slow to notice how he can best be serving the Ancient and Noble House of Black, but the truth is coming to him. Although Kreacher is never doing this before, the Foolish Young Master is needing all the help, all the time. Since Kreacher is a good house elf, Kreacher is doing what is needed. Even when the new things is being hard to learn at first." He shot a hard glance sideways at Harry that had the teenager cock his head and pause in confusion. "Where is the Young Master's wandless magic this morning, hrm?"
Harry swore.
There, in the pale grey morning light of the entrance hall, the shadows of the house still deep and dark, Harry patted himself down under Kreacher's critical supervision. It took him a few minutes to find his smallest Quidditch rock, Guijarro, and then to coax his magic to seep through his fingertips and make the large pebble float a few inches above his palm.
Slowly, so slowly that Harry thought he might be imagining the warm tingle that moved with the light of it, Harry's magic moved through him and out from him. With reluctant speed and an unwilling wobble, Guijarro's weight lifted from his hand and rose an inch, two inches, three inches into the air.
Harry stared at the snitch-sized stone for a couple of moments until its gradual tumble in place slowed to a stop and it simply hovered steadily in the air. The faintest of pressure within him, that Harry could barely notice even now, eased as the flow of his spellwork drained the build up of his power.
"Damn, I forgot! I can't believe I almost went out like that, after yesterday, even! The healers say for a bit I should be doing this wandless thing constantly, so I've really gotta practice. Thanks, Kreacher."
It took him a moment to run through his checklist – mokeskin pouch, yes: wand holster, yes; pocket contents, okay, and he let his embarrassed heat fade from his face as he did so.
It was a matter of a few seconds to step past the umbrella stand and out of the front door onto that familiar top step, the very border of the wardline from which Harry had been taught to Apparate away, and go.
Instead though, Harry turned back to Kreacher with a moment of hesitation. Because Kreacher had also stepped out onto the very boundary of the same wardline.
"Ah, fortunately you caught that. Um…but since you have, I suppose that's all your 'help' was referring to? So, I'll head off now, and see you..?"
"How long is the Young Master keeping that up while he's busy?" Kreacher asked, and Harry's eyes were caught by the sight of the house elf's teatowel toga rustling in the morning breeze.
"What?"
"While you is finding all your school books from the bookshops, and the tailor is taking your new measurements and telling you to turn around and raise your arms, and if a witchy fan is noticing you in the Alley and is screaming your name," the elf clarified. "And while you is waiting for the Owl Post people to sort all your held post, and at the same time explaining to your young mudblood witch that you is unable to come to her wedding after all."
"Oh, but I still think that at least wedd—Wait. You know how I feel about that word, Kreacher."
"The Young Master is knowing how Kreacher is feeling about the Young Master going out alone," Kreacher countered.
Which, Harry had to admit, was beginning to make an impression.
"I've never even seen a house elf in Diagon Alley," Harry deflected instead. "Is that…a thing they do? Be seen in wizard spaces? Well, I mean, not 'wizard spaces', per se, but places where witches and wizards dominate and, er, monopolise?"
"House elfs is rarely being seen there," Kreacher croaked out. "So rarely that Kreacher is at first not knowing. But they is going slightly, somewhat."
"Huh?"
"They is mostly just not being seen."
"Oh." Harry paused. "So you are actually wanting to come with me to Diagon Alley this morning, you mean."
"Kreacher is not wanting to go at all, but Kreacher is thinking that he should," the voice floated up at him from the height of Harry's shoulder. "Once the Young Master is learning more to think and also how to better be a wizard, then perhaps Kreacher is not being needed."
"Huh." Harry looked out at the muggle streets that were beginning to stir with the sound of commuter traffic, and the clear sky of what was going to shape up to be a rather pleasant, sunny day. "Because you think I'll need reminding about the wandless magic thing when I'm concentrating on other stuff."
"And you is currently being the most sought after wizard in the British Isles," Kreacher reminded him.
Oh yeah. Harry's breath escaped him in a long, slow hiss. "I suppose there is the celebrity thing too. Alright, how shall we do this?"
The displeasure of yesterday was still fresh in his mind and Harry was happy to play nice for a while.
"Do you want to use your own magic…techniques…?" – his amorphous hand gesture expressed the vague understanding Harry had of house elf magic – "or, hrm, would you like to borrow my Invisibility Cloak? As – shall we describe it – as a way of keeping both myself and, um, my most treasured… 'item of inheritance' safe from the intrusive and overbearing public?"
After a quick breath he rushed on.
"My Dad's old Cloak doesn't mean anything like clothes to me, I mean…It's more like…a treasure, and a tool, and, how do I say… a Family Secret? Yeah, a Family Secret that's materialised in an item." Harry let himself glance at Kreacher out of the corner of his eye, and relaxed when he saw that despite the tense posture, there were no signs of offense or displeasure at his words. "More or less. I might be a bit more complex than that, but still."
The sounds of London seemed to grow a little louder, the wind ever so slightly warmer, as Kreacher absorbed Harry's comment in silent contemplation.
"I'd be honoured if you would come, however you'd like," Harry added solicitously. "I thought I could help…you in your mission? If you want my help at all, of course. By no means do I think you need my help, but this is me trying to show you that I have changed and am definitely trying to be more responsible in keeping you in the loop so I tho—"
"Kreacher is protecting the Young Master by using his father's Secret Treasure," his house elf intoned.
After everything, it would have been uncharitable for Harry to even think, 'Will wonders never cease?' so he didn't.
A minute later, any passing muggles might have heard a loud crack, but as neither Harry nor Kreacher had ever set foot on the stairs beyond the wardline, there had never been anything for them to see.