(Gilderoy Lockhart)
We buried Regulus Black beneath a sky the color of muted silver.
It was not a grand funeral. No choir of mourning witches in veils. No speeches carved from rehearsed grief. Just the four of us, a quiet patch of earth, and the sort of stillness that only follows when something long unfinished has finally been allowed to rest.
Sirius said nothing while we worked.
He stood with his hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, watching as Dumbledore and I sealed the grave with careful, wordless magic. The soil folded gently over the body, settling like a blanket rather than a burden. I added a preservation charm, subtle and respectful. Dumbledore layered protective wards over the site so no dark creature or curious scavenger would ever disturb it.
When it was done, Sirius crouched and brushed a bit of dirt from the top of the mound with slow fingers.
"Goodbye, Reg," he said quietly.
No theatrics or dramatics.
Even I, a man renowned for impeccable timing and radiant presence, understood that this was not a moment for commentary. So I simply inclined my head and allowed silence to perform its rare and noble duty.
After a minute, Sirius stood.
His eyes were a little red. He would deny it under Veritaserum, but I am a trained observer of human expression and I know what grief looks like when it has been given permission to breathe.
We did not linger.
There are farewells meant to be long, and farewells meant to be gentle. This had been the latter.
…
We relocated to a secluded stretch of barren coastline to deal with the locket.
The wind there was sharp and restless, snapping at our cloaks like an impatient tailor. Waves hurled themselves against the rocks below with dramatic enthusiasm, which I appreciated. One must admire scenery that understands performance.
Dumbledore held the locket out in his palm.
Up close, its presence was even more unpleasant. The metal seemed to pulse faintly, as though something inside it resented the world for existing. The engraved serpent curled across its surface with smug elegance, the emerald inlay glinting with a watchful, malicious light.
"Yes," I murmured. "Definitely cursed to hell and back. One can always tell. Dark artifacts have dreadful manners."
Kreacher stood several paces back, hands clasped so tightly they trembled. His eyes never left the locket. Anticipation and fear wrestled visibly across his narrow face.
Dumbledore examined the object for a moment, brows faintly knit.
"Remarkable craftsmanship," he said. "Very old enchantments. Some of these protections may predate modern wandlore refinements."
"I suspected as much," I replied. "It would explain why it feels so stubborn."
Sirius folded his arms. "Can it be destroyed?"
I smiled.
"My dear Sirius," I said, "there are very few things in this world that cannot be destroyed if one is sufficiently motivated and moderately brilliant."
He snorted. "So we're doomed unless you're both."
"Fortunately," I said, lifting my chin, "I am."
I stepped forward and the locket twitched.
Not visibly or physically. But I felt it, the way one feels a spider shift on a thread just before it drops. The fragment of soul inside sensed danger. It recoiled, coiled, and braced.
Protective enchantments flared.
Thin green lines of magic spiderwebbed across the metal surface, ancient runes surfacing like scars rising through skin. The air around it tightened. Pressure built, subtle but insistent, pushing against my magic like a door barred from the inside.
"Well," Dumbledore touched his beard and said thoughtfully, "how nostalgic. Founder-era defensive layering. Haven't seen that since an unfortunate incident with the cursed reliquary in Prague."
I rolled my shoulders, lifted my staff, and focused.
Fire answered.
Not wild at first. Not yet. A controlled bloom of crimson light spiraled from the tip, heat gathering, condensing, sharpening. The wind faltered. The sea seemed to hush. Even the clouds above slowed their wandering, as though curious.
The locket shrieked.
Not aloud. The sound happened inside the mind, a thin metallic scream of fury and terror. The runes across its surface blazed brighter, resisting, reinforcing, deflecting. Layers of protection awakened one after another, each older and nastier than the last.
"Persistent little trinket," I murmured.
I fed more power into the flame.
Crimson deepened toward scarlet, scarlet toward white-hot gold. The air rippled. The ground at my feet blackened in a widening circle. The wards snapped one by one with sharp invisible cracks, like glass fracturing in another dimension.
The locket writhed.
Then it broke.
Fiendfyre surged forward in a controlled arc, coiling around the object in a tightening spiral. Shapes flickered inside the blaze, serpents, jaws, wings, claws, each form devouring the next in an endless chain of elegant destruction.
The scream stopped.
The locket collapsed inward, metal folding like paper tossed into a furnace. For one suspended instant the emerald S glowed brilliantly.
Then it shattered.
Ash fell.
Silence followed.
I exhaled slowly and lowered my staff. A bead of sweat traced a dignified path down my temple, which I wiped away with appropriate composure.
"Well," I said lightly, "that was invigorating."
Behind us came a choked sound.
Kreacher.
I turned and saw that the old elf was crying.
Not the dramatic wailing sort he had displayed earlier. These were quiet tears, slipping steadily down the deep creases of his face. His shoulders shook. His lips trembled. But his eyes shone with something brighter than grief.
Relief.
For the first time since we had met him, the bitterness had loosened its grip on his expression.
"Good Master Regulus…" he whispered.
Sirius looked away quickly, clearing his throat.
Dumbledore inclined his head to the elf. "You have honored him faithfully."
Kreacher bowed so deeply his forehead nearly touched the ground.
…
With the task complete, Dumbledore brushed a speck of ash from his sleeve.
"I must return to the castle," he said. "There are important matters requiring my attention."
I watched him over steepled fingers.
Of course there were.
There were always "matters." Curiously, these matters almost never involved paperwork, disciplinary hearings, or scheduling logistics. Those, I happened to know, possessed an uncanny tendency to migrate toward Professor McGonagall's desk instead.
The old man met my gaze and his eyes twinkled.
I smiled back.
No words were exchanged. None were necessary. Mutual understanding is such a convenient language.
With a soft crack of Apparition, he vanished.
The wind rushed in to fill the space he left behind.
I glanced at the empty air, then at Sirius.
"Well," I said, dusting my hands, "I should also be off. I have a class to teach, and young minds cannot be expected to dazzle themselves."
Sirius gave a tired half-smile. The strain of the morning had settled into his bones, visible now that purpose no longer held him upright.
"Yeah," he said. "I think I'm going to lie down for a week."
"A wise strategy. Consciousness is terribly overrated."
He huffed faint amusement.
"Thanks," he added after a pause. "For… all of it."
I inclined my head graciously. "Think nothing of it. Heroism is practically a reflex at this point."
Kreacher looked up at me with something close to reverence.
Ah.
I straightened slightly. One must never squander an appreciative audience.
With that, I stepped back, gathered my magic, and prepared to depart, leaving behind the sea, the ashes, and one more dark secret that would trouble the world no longer.
And really, I reflected as the air folded around me, it had been a remarkably productive morning.
…