CHAPTER – 16 UNFORESEEN OBSTACLES

"Demon."

It was an eerie yet fitting moniker for the nightmarish entity that haunted Harry's dreams. Despite his best efforts, his recollections were always a disjointed collage of grotesque shadows intertwined with raw, skeletal remnants and an indescribable, formless maw. And the alien sensation that accompanied these nightmares—the insatiable hunger, the overwhelming compulsion to kill, and the unsettling certainty that the world existed solely to be devoured—left him shuddering and drenched in cold sweat.

He pushed aside those terrifying thoughts, reminding himself that introspection could wait.

"Why do you call me that?" Harry inquired, his voice remarkably composed.

Kreacher—or more convenient to think of him as Kreacher rather than the abomination born of the inky abyss—tilted his head slightly, his expression remaining inscrutable and far from welcoming.

"You can't possibly be that obtuse."

Harry crossed his arms. "I've been having dreams about it. I don't understand any of it, but given everything that's been happening to me recently, that's hardly surprising. But if you genuinely are the embodiment of the House," he narrowed his eyes, "then you must possess some knowledge about the specter that attacked me."

Kreacher maintained his silence.

"Sirius informed me that I'm considered part of the family," he continued, his determination unwavering. "That's why the Mind Fog around the House doesn't affect me. So why did the apparition target me? What is it? Who is it?"

The elf's floppy ears wavered back and forth as he shook his head.

Harry clenched his jaw. "I am a member of the House of Black. This is the Black Manor. It's my right to know if there's something in my own home that poses a threat to me."

"Oh?" Kreacher's smile broadened, and the surrounding darkness seemed to intensify. "I desire to harm you, Harry Potter."

He suppressed the involuntary shiver that threatened to escape. "Because you find me annoying?"

"Because I would derive satisfaction from it," Kreacher replied, pausing as though deep in thought. "And because you vex me."

"It's one of my many talents," Harry retorted dryly. "Posing vexing questions is another. Apart from you, are there any other beings or entities within this house that harbor ill intentions toward me?"

"I safeguard numerous secrets, some of which are beyond my ability to discern and disclose."

An evasive response. How exasperating.

"And you keep these secrets locked away?"

The elf's eyes glittered. "As the Lar of House Black, I am the walls. The floor. The wards. I am ORDER."

"…Right. And are these secrets you protect inherently perilous?"

"Secrets are invariably treacherous, Harry Potter. However, their potential for harm is minimized when I am vigilant."

Harry swallowed nervously. That was likely as close to an answer as he would get from the Lar. "Very well," he conceded, growing increasingly frustrated with the entire situation. "Tell me about the apparition."

"Mistress Walburga." The name was spoken in a hushed whisper, yet it resonated clearly in Harry's ears. The tone in Kreacher's voice was eerily peculiar, as if it held both reverence and abhorrence simultaneously.

Harry recognized the name instantly.

"Sirius's mother?"

Kreacher emitted a low, rumbling chuckle. "The Mistress was the last fervent adherent of Toujours Pur. Following the downfall of the Dark Lord, her paranoia and anxiety grew exponentially. She was consumed by fear that mudbloods and sympathizers of Muggles would defile the sanctity of her pure House of Black. In her state of paranoia, she cast a curse upon this House, fueled by her own self-sacrifice, to ensure it would forever repel blood traitors, mudbloods, creatures, and those of similar ilk. Even your acknowledgment as the godson of Master Sirius Black could not nullify the lingering curse upon the Manor's wardstone."

It didn't require a brilliant mind to piece together the puzzle. "So, Walburga Black remained a wraith to prevent people like me from entering her home. She and the doxies—" Harry quickly scanned his surroundings, half-expecting another attack. "But what happened to her in the end?"

Kreacher inclined his head once more. "Are you pretending, Demon?"

"Stop calling me that," Harry snapped, his patience wearing thin. "And no, I genuinely don't know."

The guardian-deity of House Black emitted a soft, rumbling chuckle, an unsettling sound that grated on Harry's nerves. "You erased her."

Harry stared, flabbergasted. "I... what?"

"You. Erased. Her," Kreacher repeated methodically, as if addressing a particularly slow-witted child. "The curse bound to her sacrifice has been nullified. With Lord Black assuming control of the wardstone, all residual traces of the enchantment have been purged."

A sigh of relief escaped Harry's lips, a release of tension he hadn't been aware of carrying. This was indeed positive news. Yet...

"Why didn't anything attack me when Sirius was present?"

Kreacher's eyes gleamed with an enigmatic light.

"No, never mind. Sirius is the Lord, and any assault upon me in his presence would entail his involvement. Walburga Black seems more the type to target teenagers when they're alone and vulnerable."

The elf cackled with malevolence. "One might wonder how it's possible to be both vague and precise at the same time."

A faint grin tugged at Harry's lips. If someone had told him just three months ago that he'd be exchanging banter with an ancient, malevolent manifestation of a House possessing an elf, he would have assumed they were inhaling fumes from a particularly potent potion.

"I have another question," Harry continued.

Kreacher shook his head in a manner suggesting reluctant annoyance. "As anticipated of vexing, intrusive half-bloods. Proceed."

"What do you know about House Peverell?"

The elf regarded Harry with incomprehension.

"What," Harry reiterated, "do you know about the Peverells?"

A faint furrow appeared on the elf's aged brow. "Apparently, nothing. Does it pertain to House Black?" He looked at Harry inquisitively. "Enlighten me."

"Ah," Harry sighed, realizing the dilemma. He was conversing with the House itself, which was exclusively concerned with its members, secrets, laws, and customs. Anything beyond that—political factions, other Houses, the price of tea in China—held no significance.

With a groan, Harry pushed himself up. He had a Wizengamot trial looming in less than three weeks, where he'd face judgment from a tainted, corrupt Ministry for a crime he had no recollection of committing. He'd lost his trusty wand, and his magic remained erratic, with OWLs approaching in the upcoming year. He seemed to transform into a bestial entity that even a homicidal, House-possessed elf deemed fit to label a Demon. He hailed from a family that had the typically unflappable goblins intrigued for reasons he had yet to discover.

And, above all else, Voldemort had returned from the abyss and was closing in on him.

Splendid.

"The truly unsettling aspect," he muttered to himself, making his way toward the stairs and wrapping up his exchange with the house-elf, "is that this all feels rather normal now. How twisted is that?"

Kreacher let out a low growl but said nothing more.

"Some things never change," Harry mused darkly under his breath as he left the room. The heavy door swung shut behind him, and Sirius's eyes meticulously surveyed every aspect of the chamber.

His grandfather's study appeared exactly as he had last seen it.

A roaring fire crackled in the hearth to his right. The top-right corner of the room housed a broad cherry desk, and along the right wall ran a matching table, adorned with an aged pensieve as its central piece. To his left stood a towering cherry cabinet that occupied half of the wall, no doubt containing invaluable intelligence, secrets, and compromising material on numerous individuals and families. The remaining walls were lined with bookshelves brimming with a wide array of texts.

Stepping inside, Sirius closed the door behind him and proceeded toward the desk. Surprisingly, it was immaculate, devoid of dust or detritus, thanks to the diligent care of status charms. Positioned above the desk, mounted on the wall, was a dormant portrait of his grandfather.

Arcturus Sirius Black.

Summoning his Gryffindor courage and harnessing his will as Lord Black, Sirius gently tapped the frame with his wand.

"Awaken," he whispered.

A ripple coursed over the painting's surface, and Arcturus Black, who had been peacefully resting on an elegant painted couch, stirred awake. His eyes blinked rapidly, and he rose to his feet, adjusting his robes with an air of regal grace as he reclined once more.

"Do I appear satisfactory?" he inquired, extending his arms with an air of self-importance.

Sirius rolled his eyes. Despite the man's grave demeanor, he possessed a penchant for melodrama and vanity at the most inconvenient moments. He couldn't help but recall the times he'd observed his grandfather preening in front of a mirror during visits to their château in Normandy.

"Vanity, your name is Arcturus Black."

"Sirius," the elderly man rumbled, his stormy grey eyes meeting Sirius's gaze. "I would say it's a surprise, but that would be a lie."

"You anticipated my return someday?"

"Of course. You are my Heir, after all."

Sirius wasn't sure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult, considering Arcturus Black's infamous reputation in the wizarding world.

"What year is it?" the portrait suddenly inquired.

"1995."

Arcturus stroked his chin. "I see. The last update I received was in 1981, in Normandy. I succumbed to dragon-pox after that."

Sirius nodded. The château in Normandy had been a key location in his grandfather's contingency plans in case the war took a turn for the worse.

"I heard you were imprisoned and sent to Azkaban. I had no desire to witness Narcissa's offspring ascend to my position," Arcturus continued, his eyes gleaming. "But now, you come as Lord Black, to claim the mantle from me. Just as I once stood before my father's portrait nearly a century ago."

"Sirius Arcturus Black. Yes."

"When you were born, I detected the spark in you—the same spark that existed in both myself and my father. The blessings and curses of Tezcatlipoca." He paused. "Tell me, Lord Black, how did you come to be the Lord of the very House you renounced all those years ago?"

Sirius felt his grandfather's eyes scanning his face, the uncanny sensation of being mind-read persisting even though he was conversing with a mere painting. The real Arcturus had been a proficient legilimens, and this portrait, despite being a replica, evoked the same eerie feeling.

That alone spoke volumes about Arcturus Sirius Black.

"I didn't return to the family for the name, power, or authority it bestows," Sirius declared, choosing his words meticulously. "I came back for one reason—because my godson needs me, and House Black offers him the best protection I can provide."

"Ah, yes," Arcturus remarked. "Harry Potter. The half-blood."

Sirius narrowed his eyes dangerously. "Half-blood or not, he is my godson."

"More than that, I presume," the portrait sneered. "Nevertheless, the boy has succeeded in restoring my Heir to his rightful position. For that alone, he has my approval. As a son of the House of Black, he will find new doors open to him."

Sirius scoffed. "The so-called half-blood brat, as you refer to him, already has countless opportunities. He played a pivotal role in ending the Dark Lord's reign."

"Poppycock, grandson," Arcturus chuckled. "We both know that the imposter did nothing to earn such a title. He is a deviant, a usurper who wields magics he has no claim to. A deceiver who preys on the ambitions and desires of those with pure blood, manipulating their yearnings and raw ambitions."

The description eerily matched Voldemort. Nevertheless, Sirius remained resolute.

"He is also the heir of the Potter family and nearly claimed the Von Hohenheim name through his maternal lineage. Most importantly," Sirius smirked, "he is a confirmed and recognized descendant of the Peverells."

The portrait froze.

"What?" Arcturus exclaimed.

"He is a legitimate Peverell descendant, directly from Ignotus Peverell on his father's side," Sirius reiterated.

"A true Peverell…" Arcturus muttered, a hint of awe creeping into his voice. "Does he... is he aware of his inheritance, his lineage?"

"It hasn't been brought up yet," Sirius admitted. "We only discovered it this morning, and I've never seen the goblins so enthusiastic."

"They would be," his grandfather snorted. "You've formally recognized him as a member of House Black, I presume. A wise choice. One might speculate whether you were aware of the family connection from the beginning."

"What's your take on it?"

Arcturus sighed. "Of course, you weren't aware," he muttered before knitting his brows together again. "Tell me, Sirius. Unless I've altered the Black Family Charter since my last update—an action I would find most irritating—how did you go about adopting the boy into our family?"

Sirius grinned. This was going to be a lengthy discussion, but he relished every moment of it.

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