Chapter Text
Sirius’ shift had been too long. He had come back to his empty house too late for company, so he helped himself to a bottle of Ogden’s and retreated to his empty room. The wuffling coos of his owl snoring in the corner did not count as company.
There had been an all-hands call at Mungo’s. Not a Death Eater attack for once. Some potions lab had exploded. The burns were horrific. Sirius’ hands smelled like the pumpkin salve he could brew in his sleep. He could still feel the way charred flesh fell off of bones as he tried to bandage what was left of an arm. (Could still hear the way Bellatrix screamed in the Malfoy’s cursed fireplace.)
Sirius drank the entire bottle and curled up in his bed. His Healer robes were thrown over a chair, but he didn’t bother changing into pyjamas. Too much work. He had to be back at Mungo’s at eight. He dragged his pillows under the layers of blankets, burrowing into a little nest of darkness and warmth. Winter was the worst. He could never be warm enough. It didn’t matter if he had long sleeves or not. He could never be warm enough.
The nightmares came. They always did. Alcohol helped numb them, kept them from fully waking him up (most of the time). It was better than a Dreamless Sleep potion, at least, which usually had him burying his head in a toilet within fifteen minutes and passing out on the bathroom floor until he woke up shivering and stiff with his own vomit threatening to choke him.
Tonight’s nightmare was the same as every other night’s this week. Running, just running, the snow stinging his face, his ankle throbbing with every hit against the ground. The treeline was just out of reach, no matter how hard Sirius pushed himself. He couldn’t risk turning into Padfoot here, in view of the windows, so he had to run and run even though a house elf was grabbing at the hem of his robes and hissing “We need to talk!”
Sirius turned in his dream, snarling at those bulbous, hate-filled eyes hovering over him in the dark of his cold room, his blankets thrown back and “Bloody fucking hell!”
His eyes were open. His eyes were open and he was staring up at a house elf and he didn’t have a house elf! Not since he’d given Bete to Mrs Pettigrew nearly two years ago, and “Godric’s yellow pissstain, what the fuck!?”
Sirius shoved himself away from the wretched creature, the wretched Kreacher, he realized, desperately reaching for his wand, his brain pounding against his skull, heart pounding against his ribs.
...it was Kreacher. Sirius closed his fingers around his wand and took a breath, letting his head drop and his eyes close. Kreacher belonged to Regulus. Sure, he was officially a Black Family house elf bound to obey any of them, but Sirius knew for a fact that Kreacher had belonged to Regulus from the very moment he first laid eyes on the miserable little baby Regulus had been born as.
If there was one Death Eater Sirius could trust to not attempt to murder him in his bed, it was Regulus. Regulus believed in fair play and Rules, after all. If he had sent Kreacher here, it wasn’t to butcher Sirius.
Granted, that didn’t mean Kreacher wasn’t here to butcher Sirius of his own volition, except that such an act would probably make Regulus frown, as that would also break the Rules. Not that Sirius actually knew what the Rules were. Regulus was the only one who played by them, but he judged everyone who didn’t with the harshest of tight lips and narrowed eyes.
How Kreacher had gotten in was another story. Sirius looked down at his left arm, which had a full three inches of corded bracelets that he never took off. These had begun as a fashion choice, but Sirius had ended up tying each of his household wards and protections to the bracelets so he could always tell if his house was under attack. Not a single one of them had gone off. Somehow, Kreacher had managed to bypass all of them.
House elves. Yet another threat they were all overlooking. Most Death Eaters had house elves.
Sirius lit his wand and looked back at Kreacher. Even in the dim, golden glow, it was clear Kreacher was unwell. The little elf was skeletal, his bones protruding against the greyish skin, eyes sunken deep in his skull. His visible ribs were heaving from the effort of getting into Sirius’ house, a narrow glare burning with dislike as Kreacher sized Sirius up.
“Kreacher must speak to the traitor,” the elf spat, letting go of the blankets he’d ripped away from Sirius and hopping off the bed. He shook out his hand, like Sirius’ bedding had somehow contaminated him (Sirius had just washed them last week. They weren’t that bad!). “Kreacher hates to crawl to blood traitor scum, but he must. Get up. Kreacher doesn’t have much time.”
Those hateful eyes never left Sirius’ own, long fingers that featured prominently in many of Sirius’ nightmares flexing and twitching here in person. “What the actual fuck…?” Sirius whispered, more to himself than anything else. He shoved his hand through his hair and massaged his temples, trying to will his headache away. “Don’t worry, elf. This traitor definitely doesn’t want you crawling to him either. Go away.”
Kreacher’s bony arms crossed over his heaving chest, his large ears fanning in agitation. “Kreacher cannot go away, Sirius. Master Regulus will be furious with him. Master Regulus must be furious with Kreacher for a reason.”
For a moment, just a moment, the disgust on Kreacher’s face was chased away by worry. Kreacher’s voice rose higher, his fingers still clenching on open air. “Master Regulus needs help. Kreacher cannot help him. He tried, oh, he tried, anything but come to the whelp. But Kreacher will do what he must. He will not let the young master die.”
Sirius gave Kreacher his own baleful look, trying to process Kreacher’s mutterings through his own hangover and adrenaline from being ripped from an already-uneasy sleep. “Is there,” he began, less than hopeful, “any chance of your leaving me alone without needing to force you?”
Kreacher had barely even blinked this entire time he was staring at Sirius, his eyes fixed with a singular intensity. He shook his head firmly, little jaw set. “Kreacher will stay until Master Regulus wakes and calls him. Kreacher will stay longer, if he must.” Again, for just a moment, worry creased Kreacher’s face and softened his eyes. “He must,” the elf repeated, even more fervently.
Sirius closed his eyes and groaned. Unwanted house elves were a pest to deal with even in the best of times. At least the little gremlin didn’t seem to be here to kill him.
Hungover and shaky was not the best way to force a house elf from your home. Sirius heaved himself out of bed and stormed away from Kreacher, stomping across his house to the kitchen. Kreacher trailed behind him, an unwanted, limping little shadow. Sirius set his kettle to heating with a flick of his wand and pulled open the refrigerator. Past-Sirius had been very considerate of future-Sirius and made a full batch of hangover cures the last time he was brewing up some extra-strength burn salve for Remus to take to his werewolf buddies. He took a vial out of the rack and pulled the stopper out with his teeth before spitting it at Kreacher and chugging the thick, bright red concoction.
The relief really wasn’t much better than the hangover. Kreacher was still there. Any worry on his face was replaced with a deep disgust and impatience as Sirius made himself a mug of coffee. Sirius could tell the elf was just barely holding back from criticizing everything from how cluttered his kitchen was to the way he brewed his drink.
Sirius glanced around the kitchen and huffed, retreating with his mug. Kreacher followed behind still, a hard, uncomfortable silence stretching between them. Sirius pushed his way into the library and huddled into the corner of a long, cream-colored couch. He glared at the house elf, cradling his mug between his hands. “Fine. What the fuck did Regulus send you here for?”
Kreacher had until Sirius finished his coffee before he would resort to just blasting the house elf out the door.
To Sirius’ surprise, Kreacher actually physically flinched, looking away from him for the first time. He wasn’t just worried, Sirius realized. There was shame flooding every line of Kreacher’s body, from the way his ears drooped to the slump of his shoulders, the twist of his long fingers.
“Master Regulus…” Kreacher finally began, with an audible swallow. He looked around as if afraid he might be overheard, checking the walls for paintings and the fireplace for green flames. Finding nothing, he whispered, “Kreacher wasn’t sent. Kreacher will be in terrible trouble when he returns.”
Sirius paused with his mug halfway to his lips, suddenly wide awake despite not having any caffeine. “I’m sorry, come again?” Kreacher wasn’t sent by Regulus? Regulus wouldn’t send Kreacher to kill Sirius in his own house, but Sirius didn’t entirely trust any of the rest of his ex-family to behave themselves. Was this all some elaborate trap? Bellatrix? Sirius wondered. Technically, she was a Black, even though she had married out of the Family. Did Kreacher still obey her?
Fuck. He should have called James. Peter. Anyone, so he wasn’t alone in his too-big house with a possible homicidal house elf in front of him.
It was too late for that. Kreacher wasn’t sent. Maybe no one had sent him? Sirius finished lifting his mug and took a swallow. Baiting Kreacher might be the quickest way to get to the truth. “You are telling me that you are here… because you want to be? That you are defying Regulus, your god-child, for little ol’ me?”
Kreacher’s disgust returned, full-force, as the house elf recoiled from the accusation. Sirius felt better about that. Disgust wasn’t homicidal.
“Kreacher did not want to be here!” he protested, his inhumanly long fingers curling into fists. “Kreacher is not here for some filthy, ungrateful, blasted-off blood-traitor! Kreacher is here for Master Regulus!”
The surge of fury ebbed as soon as it had washed over the house elf, and once again, Kreacher looked sidelong around the room, fidgeting where he stood, his ears drooping and face falling. “It’s just that Master Regulus… may not know Kreacher is here for him.”
“Then, again, what the fuck are you doing here?” Sirius shifted on the couch with a frown, studying Kreacher again over his mug. Kreacher really didn’t look healthy. And his worry was nearly infectious. He wasn’t that old, for a house elf, but he looked like he was suffering from the wasting effects of the Family Curse. As far as Sirius knew, it was impossible for the Curse to be passed around like a disease, and no house elf had ever caught it.
“Wait.” Sirius was a Healer, and Kreacher wasn’t healthy. “...you said something about Regulus dying?”
Regulus could contract the Family Curse. He was far too young, but the last generation of Blacks had been the youngest yet to die from it. Was it starting earlier and earlier? Regulus had asthma, and the Curse started with a cough and lung issues. Was Regulus just susceptible to it? Did Regulus have the Curse, and Kreacher was somehow using his house elf magic to leech the effects away, trying to preserve Regulus’ health? Was that why Kreacher was here, desperate, in the home of the only Healer who even had an inkling of what the Curse was and its effects on a Black?
Kreacher’s whole body fidgeted. He shifted from foot to foot, working his jaw from side to side, closing his eyes as he groped for the words. “Master Regulus is planning something s-” He cut himself off, clearly trying to force a word out that just wasn’t coming. “...self-destructive,” he eventually finished, clearly a different choice than his original word, his voice thick and taut.
Suddenly, Kreacher slapped himself across the face, his huge eyes tearing up through the closed lids. “Kreacher shouldn’t tell filthy traitors this! Kreacher shouldn’t tell anyone! Mustn’t! Mustn’t! But…” He grabbed at the thin hair of his scalp, clawing at his head. His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “Master Regulus is setting his affairs in order. Master Regulus told Kreacher it wasn’t so, but he won’t come back”
Not the Curse, then. Sirius sat back in his chair, watching impassively as Kreacher beat himself. It was almost comforting, really, to know that Kreacher was genuinely disobeying an order to be here, another point in the Not a trap column.
“Regulus,” Sirius began carefully, trying to think of a way to phrase this without triggering an explosion of vitriol from the house elf. Sold his soul to the devil was out, as was has gone batshit loonybins. “Is a Death Eater,” Sirius finally decided. That much, at least, the Order had confirmed.
Well. Strongly suspected. If Regulus was not an official Death Eater, he was at least aiding and abetting them, spotted in their company more often than not.
“Death Eaters do stupid, risky things in the name of their ‘great lord,’” Sirius continued. “I’m not surprised he’s getting his affairs in order. There’s a war on, Kreacher, and Regulus always acts fifty moves in advance.”
Kreacher’s face contorted, his expression saying more than words ever could. The little house elf was clearly torn between continuing to claw at his own face or to lunge at Sirius to claw at his instead. That hatred, that burning, furious hatred of Sirius and everything he stood for and believed in, was back in Kreacher’s face, but it was… different, somehow. A little more immediate.
“Master Regulus,” he said after a few seconds, his voice shaking with fury and emotion, “will die.” Kreacher was being very deliberate with his words, speaking slowly, placing one word in front of the other with dangerous, taut caution. “Tomorrow night. Alone. So help him.”
This new tone was what held Sirius’ attention, the unmistakable plea. There were echoes of those heavy words in a memory Sirius had never been able to shake, clutching his father’s hand as he watched Regulus sleeping in his crib.
This is what is important, Sirius. This. Him...It will be your job, your duty, to protect...him. That is your duty, Sirius. That, above everything else, is your sacred responsibility.
Sirius grit his teeth and shoved his father’s voice aside, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his mug. “Regulus,” he finally said, once he trusted he had his own voice under control, “has never once let me help him, even before I was a filthy blood-traitor. Why the fuck do you think I’d be able to save him now?”
Tomorrow night. Kreacher’s words throbbed inside his head. Regulus will die tomorrow night.
Sirius definitely wasn’t going to be getting any sleep at all this week.
Kreacher’s spindly fingers clenched into fists and loosened, twisting together, looking painful in their tension. His eyes were bloodshot and watery as he took a deep breath, thin nostrils flaring. “Because.” He swallowed hard. Sirius could hear him grinding his teeth. “Nobody else can. Kreacher can’t. The mistress can’t. The grandfathers can’t. Master Regulus won’t. Sirius has to be able to. Because… because he has to!”
Sirius took another swallow of his coffee. It was probably for the best that he hadn’t called James. For all that James loved and supported him, James never understood Sirius’ devotion to his idiotic little brother. Hell, Sirius didn’t understand it, but at least he knew what it felt like and how it compelled him.
Regulus will die.
Sirius was a Healer in a war they were not winning, untrusted by those commanding their armies, surrounded on all slides by allies he himself did not trust. Helping a known Death Eater was the last thing he should be doing.
But Sirius knew one more thing. The loathsome little beetle dropping in front of him loved Regulus. Loved Regulus with perhaps the same level of ferocity and tenacity that Sirius himself loved his little brother. And while there was no world in which he and Kreacher would ever be friendly again… they did have that one tenuous connection.
And that connection brought Kreacher semi-groveling into Sirius’ bedroom in the middle of the night, punching through powerful wards and begging for help.
Regulus will die tomorrow.
“What did you think I’d be able to do?”
Kreacher swallowed, some of his anger abating at Sirius’ willingness to at least listen. He folded his arms around himself, still looking miserable. “Talk to him,” he said at last. “Listen to him. Master Regulus won’t talk to anyone but Kreacher, and Kreacher can’t help, Kreacher can’t stop him, Kreacher still has to do as he’s told.” He looked horribly ashamed at the words coming out of his mouth, disgusted now as much by himself as by Sirius, clearly torn between forcing out what had to be said and swallowing back the bitterness of it. “And… and Sirius could go with Master Regulus, if Master Regulus won’t stop. Two wizards…”
The house elf trailed off, hugging himself tighter. He looked up at Sirius, meeting his eyes. “Talk to him.” Kreacher was openly pleading now, not even trying to hide it behind his anger and disgust. “Kreacher will take care of the wards, make sure Mistress never knows. Kreacher will take Sirius to the house and away again, and nobody will know, nobody has to know, only someone must talk to Master Regulus!”
Sirius was quiet for a long time. Both hands were wrapped around the mug now, trying to leech the remaining heat from the ceramic. To the house. Grimmauld Place, the prison Sirius had grown up in, the backdrop for so many of his nightmares. The evil of that house poisoned everything, down to the very air between its walls. Sirius had sworn to himself that if he ever returned to Grimmauld Place, it would be to burn it to the ground.
Regulus will die tomorrow.
“What,” Sirius asked quietly, trying to swallow his own quiet panic just at the thought of stepping inside Grimmauld Place again, “what is going to kill him?”
Two wizards. Kreacher thought it could be overcome if Regulus had help. Sirius knew there was nothing he and James couldn’t overcome when they were in sync. He was rustier when it came to Regulus, but they were still brothers, no matter how fervently Regulus tried to deny it.
Kreacher opened his mouth, then closed it again. Opened it and immediately slapped his hand over it to muffle any sound that might come out. The panic rose in his face as Kreacher struggled against an obvious order from his beloved master. He little out a little whimper as he started to shiver, genuine, personal terror rising in those bulbous eyes.
Sirius recognized his own nightmares in that expression.
Kreacher abruptly twisted his hand against his mouth and bit down hard enough to draw blood, jerking and blinking. He looked up at Sirius, his breathing a hoarse rasp, his own blood now on his teeth as he let his hand drop back to his side. “He is,” Kreacher finally mumbled, fingers flexing against the injury.
“Kreacher,” Sirius growled, pressing his hand against his temple. Kreacher’s fears be damned, this wasn’t helping. “Look… fuck. You think it’s going to kill him. You know Regulus isn’t going to listen to a word I say—shut up, you know he won’t—and you think it’s going to kill him. That means the only option we have is that I go along and help, but I can’t bloody well help if I don’t know what the threat is! There’s a big difference between facing down a Chinese Fireball and infiltrating Gringotts!”
Sirius huffed a bit like Padfoot, glowering at Kreacher. He knew why Kreacher wasn’t being helpful. “You were ordered not to talk about it,” he said flatly. “I don’t suppose my command would mean shit to you.” It hadn’t escaped his notice that Kreacher wasn’t addressing him as any form of ‘master’ anymore. Sirius probably couldn’t use his lingering Black blood to force the elf to break his order and confess.
Kreacher sagged, staring down at his feet, jaw working against the words he couldn’t say. Tears were running down his hollow cheeks now. “Kreacher can’t,” he said. There was no vitriol left in his voice, just a horrible, defeated desperation. “He can’t. But if Sirius talks to Master Regulus, if Master Regulus tells him…”
He was considering it. Godric, he was bloody considering it, no, he was beyond considering it, and sometimes, sometimes, Sirius really hated how easily he could be manipulated by people who knew his buttons. He stared at his coffee, finding no comfort in the dark dregs, then looked up at Kreacher with resignation on his face. “You want me to do this, you need to do two things for me. First, you will answer this question completely honestly. If you lie to me, Kreacher, I will kill Regulus myself. Will helping Regulus be aiding Voldemort’s cause?”
He couldn’t help Voldemort. He couldn’t, not even to save Regulus. His standing in the Order was risky enough as it was. If he actually helped the Dark Lord, if he couldn’t honestly say he had never once even considered switching sides…
“No.” Kreacher’s answer was immediate, though there was a trace of that old hostility in his watery eyes as he met Sirius’ gaze. Hostility was fine. Lying wasn’t. Sirius studied Kreacher’s face, trying to decide if he could trust the house elf. He wasn’t entirely convinced, but… Kreacher was Regulus’ elf. Regulus didn’t lie. That was against the Rules. Kreacher probably wouldn’t lie either. Sirius gave a nod. He would accept that answer.
“Secondly, when Regulus inevitably goes for his wand upon seeing me, you make sure he doesn’t get to blast me.” Sirius tossed back the rest of his coffee and shoved his mug aside, pushing himself to his feet. “You wanted this, so you’re responsible for keeping me in one piece. At least until I draw my wand on him.” Because for all that he loved Regulus, Sirius doubted they could have a civil conversation without an eventual breakdown of civility. “Agreed?”
“Yes.” There was no hesitation again, no doubt, despite Kreacher’s still-simmering resentment. As Sirius suspected, Kreacher knew that he needed Sirius in one piece to have a chance at saving his beloved master. He would protect Sirius. For once.
Sirius fixed Kreacher with another long, hard stare, trying to talk himself out of what he had already decided on doing. He folded his arms, looming over Kreacher, then gave another tight nod. “Fine. Wait here. I’ll be back.”
He could feel Kreacher watching him as he left, but the house elf remained in the library. Sirius went upstairs to his room and grabbed a quill and parchment, then went into his room to write a quick letter to James and take a piss. After washing his hands, he opened a window and then shoved half of his medicine cabinet into a bag, just in case.
Returning to his bedroom, Sirius was half-surprised that Kreacher hadn’t followed him. He woke his owl, a little brown barn owl named Lyrissa, with a kiss to the top of her head, apologizing for the disturbance. “Wait… an hour,” he murmured, stroking her feathers, “and then take this to James Potter if I’m not back.” He tied the note to her leg. “Bathroom window’s open.” He gave her soft head another kiss, smiling as she butted up against his chin, then turned to his wardrobe for his favorite leather jacket and thick, dragonskin boots. He shouldered his bag and went in search of the house elf.
Kreacher had not left the library, but he hadn’t stayed still. Sirius blinked, looking around at the dust-free room. All of the throw blankets Sirius had accumulated were folded neatly over the backs of the couches, completely devoid of dog fur (how the hell…?). His coffee mug was spotlessly clean and sitting on the side table closest to the kitchen.
Sirius bit his tongue and shook his head. “Let’s get this over with.”
Kreacher reluctantly moved closer to Sirius and extended his hand. Sirius stared down at those long, familiar fingers, his chest itching. He could remember those same fingers pointing out errors in his bloody tracing of the Black Family crest, remember how they would snap windows closed in his face or flick his wand away. He curled his own hands into fists, not wanting to reach out, not wanting to touch the stuff of his nightmares.
Regulus will die tomorrow.
With his own disgust on his face, barely resisting the urge to close his eyes, Sirius thrust out his left hand.
