Silence.
'Could Sirius have created it?' The thought flickered in Harry's mind, but he quickly dismissed it. 'That's absurd. Sirius would never.'
Despite his inner reassurance, Harry kept himself poised to draw his wand at a moment's notice if needed.
Meanwhile, Sirius' jaw hung open comically. He tried closing it a few times before finally succeeding, and if the man's suddenly solemn expression was anything to go by, he was now occluding his mind.
"How do you know about Horcruxes, Harry?" Sirius almost demanded, his tone all business.
Harry met Sirius' gaze unflinchingly. "That's a long story, and I'm sure it can wait," he replied, his eyes narrowing. "The better question is why you have one here."
He loved the man, but something about this situation felt off—and a Horcrux was never something to be taken lightly.
The fact that Sirius seemed to know exactly what he was talking about only made Harry more wary.
Sirius visibly relaxed at Harry's answer and sighed. "I'm sorry for snapping at you, pup. It's just that… you shouldn't know about Horcruxes. Hell, I shouldn't know about them, yet try telling that to Mother Dearest. She couldn't abide an uneducated heir," he continued with a grimace. "The Black family libraries are filled with books on the darkest of magics. Mother made sure I knew all about the serious stuff, even if I wanted nothing to do with it."
Harry frowned, his fingers twitching by his side, ready to summon his wand at the slightest provocation. "That doesn't explain why there's one here, Sirius."
Sirius must have sensed his tension because he raised his hands in a calming gesture. "All I can say is that if there's a Horcrux in this house, I didn't know about it. When I moved here, there was a trove of magical items already in place—and I brought over everything from Grimmauld Place as well. I don't know if anyone in my family was mad enough to create one, but given the Blacks' history… well, let's just say I wouldn't be shocked."
Harry nodded grimly, his hand hovering near his wand. "All right, but stay here. I can sense it somewhere in the house," he said, pausing a moment.
He closed his eyes briefly, letting his magic ripple out through the old house on the windswept cliffs of Skye.
The entire building bristled with enchantments—dark wards and relics of dubious origin. Yet amid all that swirling malignancy, one particular object throbbed with a heartbeat of darkness, beckoning him upstairs.
When he opened his eyes, Harry saw Sirius watching him warily from the other side of the drawing room. In the doorway, Kreacher hovered, his lips pulled down in a perpetual frown.
Harry inhaled slowly and inclined his head upwards, towards the second floor.
"It's there," he said softly. "Upstairs."
Sirius pursed his lips. "Lead on, then."
Harry sighed and didn't bother to stop his godfather from following him.
They climbed the creaking staircase, past shrouded paintings whose occupants whispered behind the dusty cloth. Harry sensed myriad cursed trinkets and dangerous objects scattered about, but none compared to the foul presence emanating from above.
They finally stopped before an old door with peeling paint, and a chill snaked down Harry's spine.
"This is it," he murmured.
Sirius moved beside him, grey eyes flicking to the door. "I can't say I'm surprised it's in here. This used to be my grandfather's old study—though he cleared off years before I was born. Nobody's touched it in decades."
Before Harry could respond, Kreacher let out a soft hiss from behind them, his ears trembling. The elf's entire posture seemed to droop in alarm, yet there was a fierce determination in his stance.
Harry ignored the elf for the moment and tested the doorknob. He detected only a simple ward, which he unravelled with a precise flick of his wand. Harry could have done so wandlessly but chose not to reveal that ability to Sirius just yet.
The door swung inwards on creaking hinges, revealing a cramped, dust-laden room. Rows of sagging shelves lined the walls, crammed with ancient tomes. Above a battered wooden desk hung a single crooked cupboard.
Harry's magical senses spiked sharply.
"There," he said, indicating the cupboard with his wand.
Sirius peered closer, wand drawn. "It looks innocent enough," he remarked grimly, "but there's something foul here."
Harry took a cautious step forward, stirring small clouds of dust. Then he stopped short as Kreacher scuttled past, planting himself between Harry and the cupboard, arms outstretched as though to shield the rickety furniture.
"You will not touch it!" Kreacher rasped, his voice trembling yet resolute. "Young Master Regulus commanded Kreacher to destroy the locket—Kreacher must obey!"
Harry blinked. "Regulus?" He exchanged a startled look with Sirius.
Sirius' features twisted with confusion and a trace of regret. "My brother," he said curtly, a distant look crossing his face. "He died during the first war. I never learned exactly how or why—he just… vanished."
The house-elf pressed both hands against the cupboard door, as though holding himself steady. "Young Master was kind… told Kreacher to destroy it!" There was raw anguish in his voice. "Kreacher does not want to hurt you, but Kreacher must obey!"
Harry was taken aback by the sudden development, but he took a measured step forward.
"Kreacher," he said softly, "this locket you speak of—it's dangerous. A magic darker than you know."
"No!" Kreacher wailed, tears brimming in his bulbous eyes. "Kreacher promised. Kreacher will destroy it!"
"Kreacher," Sirius chimed in, voice gentler than usual. "I know you loved Regulus. I did too… in my own way. We want to finish what he started. Let us do this. Please."
The elf trembled violently, torn by inner conflict. For a moment, he seemed ready to stand down—only to let out a despairing cry and yank the cupboard open.
Inside lay a tarnished silver locket on a fine chain. A dull crystal glinted at its centre.
With a quavering hiss, Kreacher snatched it up, clutching the chain so the pendant dangled. "Kreacher will—!"
The moment his fingertips brushed the crystal, a cold explosion of magic whipped through the room. Harry felt it smash against his senses, like a sudden gale of icy wind, while sinister whispers scratched at the edge of his mind.
Kreacher staggered backwards, still gripping the locket. His eyes rolled back, whites showing, as sparks of raw energy crackled around him.
"Kreacher!" Harry shouted, lunging forward.
He didn't get far. A pulse of dark power radiated outwards, knocking Harry and Sirius back a step. The temperature in the tiny study plummeted, and Harry's heart pounded as he sensed something else.
More than one presence, inside that thing?
He narrowed his eyes, extending his heightened perceptions. Within the roiling aura twisting around the locket, he heard two voices—both hissing in serpentine tones.
One was unmistakable: Voldemort. Harry recognised that rasping hiss, seeping under his skin, from countless nightmares and visions.
But the other… older, deeper, steeped in cunning and power.
'SAL!'
Harry's pulse hammered in his throat as comprehension struck.
Kreacher stood transfixed, the chain wrapped around his shaking fists. The swirling power thickened, making the air fizz with malice. Any moment now, the Horcrux—or whatever abomination it had become—would seize the elf's will.
"Bloody Merlin," Harry whispered. "Stupefy!"
A blast of red light streamed from Harry's wand, hitting Kreacher squarely. The elf collapsed in a heap, the locket tumbling from his grasp with a dull rattle.
Instantly, the dark magic around them shifted in tone, like a storm preparing to break. Harry felt it roil above them, seeking a new vessel.
Sirius staggered forward but Harry thrust out an arm to halt him. "Don't touch it!"
Sirius froze, horror dawning. "That thing… it just tried to take control of me!"
Harry didn't respond, his gaze locked on the locket. The crystal at its centre gleamed with a sickly luminescence, minute cracks branching across its surface, as if something within were trying to escape.
Voldemort's voice, a distant echo, curled through Harry's mind. "You dare meddle… you dare…"
Overlapping it came a second snarl, low and arrogant. "Fool. You put a piece of your soul in my locket?"
"Sal? Is that you?" Harry hissed in Parseltongue, voice barely audible.
The older presence sounded startled. "Who are you?" it demanded.
"Never mind," Harry murmured back sadly.
He forced himself to ignore both presences, though his wand hand shook faintly. He knew what had to be done, however much it pained him.
Snatching up a metal quill from the dusty desk, he knelt on the floorboards and started scratching a shape into the wood—a large triangle, bisected by a vertical line, enclosing a rough circle.
The Deathly Hallows.
Sirius stared, goggle-eyed, but said nothing.
Harry had no idea if this ritual would suffice for whatever the locket had become. It was the simplest soul-banishing rite he knew, and he clung to it as his best hope.
Sirius shifted uneasily behind him. "Harry… not to rush you, but please hurry."
Harry didn't look up. "Keep your wand at the ready. If that thing tries anything, shield me."
He worked quickly, carving the lines as accurately as he could manage with trembling hands. The air bristled with energy, making his hair stand on end.
At last, the makeshift symbol was complete. Harry flicked his wand, and to Sirius' disbelief, he sliced a shallow cut in his palm. A few drops of blood spattered onto the carving.
He circled it once, murmuring a soft incantation. Sirius hovered beside him with his wand trained on the locket, occasionally casting bemused glances in Harry's direction. The locket lay still, but its rancid aura stirred the dust into shifting, ghostly swirls.
Harry took a steadying breath and raised his wand, allowing his magic to surge through him unhindered. Sirius felt momentarily faint as raw power poured off the young wizard in rolling waves.
Then the words came, resonating with authority in the cramped room:
"Death… Sovereign of shadows, reaper of souls. I invoke thy presence as my lineage allows. Heed my call, oh timeless one, and claim thy due. What was borrowed must now be returned anew," Harry chanted the same words, just as he had months ago in the Chamber of Secrets, and the two parselmouths went still.
A familiar iciness coursed down his spine, but this time he was ready.
The surrounding air went impossibly still and cold.
Reality itself seemed to warp, the corners of the room stretching into swirling gloom. The silence became a thing alive, throbbing in his ears with maddening intensity.
Then Harry felt it: a shudder in the fabric of existence as a presence—bleak, ancient, implacable—descended upon the spot where he knelt. The suffocating aura pressed against his senses, deeper and more horrifying than any Dementor's chill.
There was a dull thud behind Harry—he would later realise that was Sirius fainting.
He forced himself to stand.
Out of the swirling shadows, a towering figure emerged—taller than any human, draped in a tattered cloak of black that devoured what faint light still lingered. A hood concealed its face in impenetrable darkness, and in one skeletal hand, it clutched a scythe so old and pitiless it seemed forged from the night itself.
The temperature plunged further. Every instinct screamed at Harry to flee, but he stayed rooted to the spot, fighting off a wave of primordial dread. The reek of decaying magic bled into the air, and the boards beneath him groaned as if they, too, felt Death's crushing weight.
At last, the entity's attention shifted to the locket lying between them. In the hush that followed, Harry felt his heart clatter in his chest—he knew, with absolute certainty, that this was Death in a way no mortal being could ever truly comprehend.
And It had arrived to claim its due.
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Chapter 84: Changed magic
Chapter 85: Adorable and Presentable
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Chapter 92: One Step Away