In Sirius's mind, Regulus had always been a firm believer in the Black family's pure-blood ideals from a young age. He'd even joined the Death Eaters, and Sirius had assumed his younger brother died in some skirmish with rebels. Never in a million years would he have guessed that Regulus had secretly defied Voldemort, even trying to destroy a Horcrux.
"I can't be completely sure," Dylan said, blinking and shaking his head. "The note only said he stole the real Horcrux and planned to destroy it, but Horcruxes are incredibly hard to destroy. We don't know if he succeeded."
He paused, then looked at Sirius. "So, can you take me to your brother Regulus's room? Maybe we'll find some clues."
Sirius, still reeling from the shock, nodded absentmindedly and started walking toward the second-floor hallway. Dylan followed, and soon they stood in front of a door draped with a dark wooden curtain.
But just as they reached to open it, a small figure darted out, blocking their path. It was Kreacher, the house-elf.
Wearing a patched gray rag that barely passed as clothing, with a strip of old fabric wrapped around his ears and a face full of wrinkles, Kreacher glared at Dylan and Sirius. Spitting on the floor, he shrieked, "You filthy Mudblood! And you, you traitorous little brat! Neither of you is setting one foot in Master Regulus's room! It's the purest place in the Black family home, and Kreacher won't let you defile it!"
"Ignore him," Sirius said, his voice dripping with disgust. His cheek twitched, and his eyes darkened as he stared at Kreacher, his foot already half-raised, clearly ready to kick the elf out of the way.
But just as he was about to move, Dylan grabbed his wrist and gently pulled his leg back. "Hold on," Dylan said calmly.
Letting go of Sirius, Dylan turned to Kreacher, whose body was tense with defiance. Looking him straight in the eyes, Dylan asked slowly, "Tell me, Kreacher. Did your master Regulus ever ask you to destroy something? A gold locket, maybe? And you couldn't destroy it, could you?"
Sirius whipped his head toward Dylan, eyes wide with shock. He hadn't expected Dylan to ask something so specific, let alone hint at a secret he didn't know about.
At the mention of the "gold locket," Kreacher froze, as if struck by lightning. His mouth fell open, and he stood rooted to the spot, unable to process that this stranger—this Mudblood—knew a secret he'd buried for years.
Seconds later, Kreacher's body began to tremble violently. His back hunched, and his hands clutched the edges of his rag tightly. When he finally looked up, his cloudy eyes were filled with panic and guilt.
"Y-Yes… yes, it was the locket… Master Regulus's locket…" His voice shook as he stammered, "Kreacher failed… Kreacher made a terrible mistake… couldn't destroy it… Kreacher deserves to die! Kreacher deserves to die!"
Before anyone could react, Kreacher went berserk. He spun around, grabbed a blackened fire poker leaning against the wall, and started beating himself with it. The rough wood smacked against his arms and legs, leaving red welts instantly.
Then, dropping the poker, he clutched his head and began slamming his forehead against the stone wall. The dull thuds echoed painfully, and soon blood trickled from his forehead, dripping down his wrinkled face and pooling in small, dark red stains on the floor.
Kreacher didn't seem to feel the pain. He kept bashing his head, muttering, "Kreacher's useless… Kreacher failed Master Regulus… deserves punishment… deserves punishment…"
He curled into a tight ball, his bony frame trembling as he buried his tear-streaked, dirt-covered face in his knees. His shoulders shook with sobs, and his gray hair stuck messily to his wrinkled face, making him look utterly pitiful.
When he finally spoke, his voice was muffled, low, and distant, as if coming from far away. "Master Sirius ran away long ago… good riddance. He was always a bad boy, hanging out with Mudbloods and werewolves, doing shameful things. Mistress's heart broke watching him. She cried every day in front of the ancestors' portraits, saying she didn't raise a proper son."
At the mention of "Mistress," Kreacher's shaking slowed, and his tone grew reverent. "But Master Regulus was different. He had pride. He knew what the Black name meant, knew how precious his pure blood was. For years, he'd talk to me in the kitchen about the Dark Lord—how he'd lead wizards out of the shadows, no more hiding from Muggles, how we'd rule over those filthy Muggles and their kind…"
Kreacher lifted his head, a flicker of longing in his cloudy eyes, as if recalling a glorious memory. "When Master Regulus was sixteen, he joined the Dark Lord's ranks. That day, he came to the kitchen in a brand-new black robe, the Dark Lord's mark pinned to his chest. He showed it to me, grinning with pride, saying he could finally serve the Dark Lord. He was so proud, so happy, like it was the greatest honor."
Dylan blinked. What is this, a flashback cutscene?
"One afternoon a year later, I was polishing silver, and the kitchen smelled of fresh-baked cookies," Kreacher continued, his voice softening as he sank deeper into the memory. "Master Regulus came to see me. He always liked me, not like Master Sirius, who only ever kicked or cursed me. That day, Master Regulus stood by the stove and said… he said…"
"What did he say?!" Sirius snapped, unable to hold back. He grabbed Kreacher's shoulders, shaking him hard, his eyes blazing with urgency, his voice trembling. "Tell me! What did Regulus say to you that day?!"
Kreacher, already frail and ancient, wheezed under Sirius's grip. His face paled, and he coughed violently, his breathing ragged, lips turning purple.
Dylan, watching closely, noticed Kreacher clutching his chest. He stepped forward, placing a hand on Sirius's arm. "Stop shaking him, Sirius. He can't breathe."
Kreacher's coughing eased, and he glanced at Dylan, a faint flicker of gratitude in his eyes. But it vanished quickly, replaced by disgust. "Hmph, just a little Mudblood," he muttered under his breath.
Sirius's temper flared again, and he raised his hand to strike. Kreacher flinched, covering his face and curling tighter, his voice trembling with fear as he rushed to speak. "I'll tell you! I'll tell you! He said… the Dark Lord needed a house-elf. Master Regulus offered me up."
Kreacher's voice was heavy with pain, his body shaking harder. "He said it was an honor, for both of us, and that I had to do everything the Dark Lord asked and then come home."
His shaking intensified, his breaths turning into sobs. "Then I was taken to the Dark Lord. He didn't explain anything, just brought me to a cave by the sea. It was huge, pitch-black inside, with a big dark lake in the middle. The water looked freezing…"
Kreacher's voice grew hoarse, as if chilled by the memory. "There was a boat by the lake…"
Dylan glanced at Sirius and quickly recounted his own experience on the lake's island, describing the ghostly green boat, enchanted to carry only one person and a "sacrifice." It matched Kreacher's description perfectly.
Sirius's face darkened. He realized Voldemort had used a worthless house-elf's life to test the Horcrux's protections.
"There was a stone basin on the island, filled with potion," Kreacher said, his voice breaking. "The Dark Lord forced me to drink it…"
Sirius, despite his dislike for Kreacher, trembled—not with fear, but with rage at Voldemort's cruelty. "Keep going!" he growled. "What happened next?"
"I drank it… and saw horrible visions. I saw myself cast out by the Black family, Mistress whipping me… but it wasn't real," Kreacher said, shaking as if reliving the pain. "The potion burned my insides like fire. I screamed for Master Regulus, for Mistress, but the Dark Lord just laughed. He made me drink every drop, then tossed a locket into the empty basin, refilled it with potion, and left me alone on the island."
Kreacher broke down, sobbing as he continued. "Later, Master Regulus found me. He pulled another locket from his pocket, identical to the Dark Lord's. He told me to take it, and when he drank the potion dry, to swap the lockets."
His sobs grew louder, harder to understand. "He ordered me to leave immediately, not to help him, and never to tell Mistress. But I had to destroy the locket we took from the Dark Lord. Then he drank the potion, gulp by gulp… I swapped the lockets as he commanded, and watched… watched as Master Regulus collapsed, and the Inferi from the lake dragged him into the water… and I never saw him again…"
Sirius's rage exploded. He kicked a nearby chair, sending it crashing to the floor. "And then what?!" he roared at Kreacher. "Why didn't you save him?! You were right there! Why did you just watch him get dragged away?!"
"Master Regulus told me to go!" Kreacher wailed, curling tighter on the floor, clutching his hair. "He told me to leave and destroy the locket, but I couldn't… Kreacher's an absolute fool! I failed!"
Dylan couldn't listen anymore. Frowning, he pushed open Regulus's door.
In his mind, Kreacher had a chance to save his master. If he'd fought back even a little, delayed even a moment, he might have saved Regulus. But he'd just watched him die.
Sirius, already despising Kreacher, was now livid, his eyes burning with murderous intent. As Dylan closed the door, he heard Kreacher's pained yelp—Sirius had clearly lashed out.
Dylan didn't care about Kreacher's fate. His focus was on the room. It was simple: a single bed, a desk, and a wardrobe with drawers. Having encountered Voldemort's Horcruxes before, Dylan was sensitive to their dark aura.
He checked the desk drawers first, finding only old textbooks and notes. Then, in the wardrobe, at the bottom of a wooden box, he felt a cold metal object.
It was a gold locket.
Outside, Kreacher's cries faded, followed by a heavy thud—likely Sirius kicking him again. Then came Sirius's furious shout: "Get lost, you idiot! Don't let me see you again!"