Chapter Text
The office was a cage of whirring trinkets and sleeping portraits, a place Dumbledore had curated to feel wise and safe. To Harry, it felt like an Azkaban prison cell. The air, thick with the scent of old parchment and lemon drops, was suffocating. Every silver instrument on the Headmaster’s desk seemed to mock him with its silent, spinning dance, a universe of motion in a room where Harry felt utterly, completely still. Trapped.
Sirius was gone. The prophecy, a coil of venomous words, squeezed the air from his lungs, poisoning him from the inside out. And now, this.
“You’re sure to be safe at the Dursleys’,” Dumbledore was saying, his voice a gentle, infuriating balm. “The blood wards I placed upon your aunt’s home are the most powerful protection magic can offer you. You must trust me on this, my boy. Voldemort cannot touch you there.”
Harry’s head snapped up, the frantic, buzzing energy of his grief sharpening into a single, white-hot point of rage. “No,” he said. The word was quiet, but it cut through the Headmaster’s placid tone like glass. “No. I’m not going back there. You can’t make me.”
Dumbledore’s blue eyes, usually so full of twinkling warmth, were now veiled with a weary sympathy that Harry found more insulting than any open display of pity. “Harry, I understand your pain. But you must be reasonable. Your grief is clouding your judgment. To have you stay at Privet Drive… it’s for the best.”
“The best?” The laugh that escaped Harry’s throat was a harsh, broken thing. “The best for who? For you? So you can tuck me away in a damn cupboard and forget about me until the next part of your grand plan is ready? No,” he shook his head in wordless fury, cutting himself off. “I won’t. I won’t stay with the Dursleys again.”
He pushed himself to his feet, the muscles in his legs screaming in protest after hours of running and fighting and dodging. He felt lightheaded, hollowed out, but the anger was a fuel, a potent and volatile substance burning in his veins. “I’ll– I’ll go to Sirius’s house. Grimmauld Place. If it was safe enough for me last summer, it should be safe enough for me now. It’s the headquarters of the Order. I can go there this summer.”
“That is not advisable,” Dumbledore began, his voice losing some of its gentleness, a hint of steel beneath the velvet. “The house is currently empty, and with the Order’s movements being what they are, it is not–”
“I don’t care,” Harry snarled, cutting him off. He didn’t want to hear about strategy or movements or anything else. He wanted to be left alone. He wanted to be somewhere that still smelled faintly of Sirius, of his godfather’s reckless, hopeful presence. “It’s—was—my godfather’s house. I– I have a right to it. I’m going.”
He didn’t wait for a dismissal. He didn’t wait for another argument. He turned on his heel and strode toward the door, his hand already reaching for the handle.
“Harry, please, you must listen to me–” Dumbledore’s voice called after him, pleading in a way that usually would have made him hesitate.
Not this time. This time, Harry kept walking. He wrenched the door open and stepped out into the circular staircase, the stone steps beginning to move and carry him downward before he’d even fully found his footing. He didn’t look back. He refused to give Dumbledore the satisfaction of seeing his face, of seeing the raw, animalistic fury that was clawing its way up his throat.
The castle was a nightmare. As he descended the moving staircase and stepped onto the grand marble staircase of the entrance hall, the usual summer quiet was shattered by the sounds of students preparing to leave. They were laughing, chattering, their voices echoing in the vast space, a backdrop of normalcy that did nothing but twist the knife lodged deep into Harry’s heart.
He felt their eyes like a physical touch, like insects crawling over his skin. He saw them whispering to each other, and he knew what they were saying. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. The Failure. The Psycho.
The suffocating weight of it all pressed down on him, and suddenly, it was all too much. He broke into a run, his trainers slapping against the stone floor. He ignored the calls of his name, the concerned shouts of professors who emerged from their offices. He was a blur of black robes and wild hair, a comet of grief streaking through the heart of the castle.
Harry made his way to Gryffindor Tower as quickly as he could. He burst into his dormitory, stuffed his wand in his pocket, and threw open his trunk. He packed blindly, stuffing random pairs of jeans, a few shirts, his Invisibility Cloak, a half-eaten box of Chocolate Frogs into the case. More carefully, he picked up his photo album, the one Hagrid had given him, and nestled it deep inside.
Harry stood, levitating his trunk alongside him. He’d made up his mind.
He needed to leave, and he needed to leave now.
He didn’t even say goodbye to Ron and Hermione. He couldn’t. He couldn't face their questions, their well-meaning comfort, their attempts to pull him back into the light. He was already being dragged down, and he didn't want to take them with them.
He ran from the Gryffindor common rooms, the old stones of the Hogwarts hallways blurring beneath his feet as he followed the all-too-familiar path to his destination.
He skidded to a halt outside the recognizable, sickeningly pink door of Dolores Umbridge’s office. The corridor was deserted, the last of the students having fled to their common rooms.
For a moment, he hesitated, his hand hovering over the doorknob. The memory of the quill, of his own blood carving words into his skin, made the scar on his hand throb in sympathy. But the need to escape was a physical pain, a clawing beast in his chest that overrode all else. This was the way back. This was the key.
He tried the handle. It was locked. Of course it was. Harry made a noise of frustration, angrily combing his hand through his hair. He didn't have time for this. He didn't have the patience for Alohomora. He raised his wand, his grief and frustration coalescing into a single, destructive impulse.
“Bombarda!”
The door exploded inwards, splinters of wood and fragments of pink plaster flying across the room. The force of the blast sent a shockwave of air past him, carrying the cloying scent of perfume and singed kittens. Absently, Harry wrinkled his nose. It was not a scent he’d missed.
He stepped through the wreckage into the suffocating nightmare of Umbridge's office. The frilly doilies, the plates adorned with frolicking cats, the walls covered in sickeningly sweet floral patterns—it was all a grotesque mockery of comfort, a lie painted over a chamber of horrors. His eyes fell on the ornate, marble fireplace on the far wall, the Floo Network his only salvation.
He crossed the room in three long strides, his boots crunching on the debris. He grabbed the ceramic pot of Floo powder from the mantelpiece, not caring that he was smudging the pristine surface with his soot-covered fingers. He didn't hesitate. He threw a handful of the colorful powder into the flames and they roared up instantly, turning a brilliant, emerald green.
He stepped into the fire, the heat licking at his robes, and spoke the words with a raw, desperate certainty. “Number twelve, Grimmauld Place!”
The world dissolved into a dizzying vortex of colour and sound. He was spinning, a kaleidoscope of grime and flame, the soot and ash of a hundred forgotten hearths choking his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on the image of the grim, dark house, the one place that felt like a sanctuary and a tomb all at once.
Then, just as suddenly, the lurching stopped. He was spat out onto the hearth of a cold, dark fireplace, stumbling forward and crashing to his knees on the grimy, threadbare rug. He coughed violently, his body convulsing as he tried to expel the ash and the suffocating feeling of the journey. His throat was raw, his eyes watering, but he was here.
Gasping for air, he pushed himself up, his hands braced on the cold stone of the hearth. He looked up. The familiar, oppressive darkness of the entrance hall of Grimmauld Place enveloped him. It was silent, cold, and utterly still. A tomb, but it was Sirius’s tomb. And right now, that was all that mattered.
The house was cold. That was the first thing Harry noticed as he steadied himself. The air was stale, thick with the dust of disuse and the faint, lingering scent of decay. The silence was absolute, a heavy blanket that muffled the outside world. Here, there were no whispers, no pitying glances. There was only the frantic hammering of his own heart and the suffocating weight of his grief.
It made him feel both better and worse at the same time.
He felt a strange sense of belonging here, in this house where Sirius had once lived. This was a place of pain and darkness, of shrieking portraits and blood prejudice, but it was also the last place on earth that truly belonged to Sirius. In its oppressive silence, Harry felt closer to his godfather than he had anywhere else.
Harry set his trunk down, grateful that no other members of the Order seemed to be at Grimmauld at the time.
As soon as he did, soft pop echoed from the shadows near the foot of the stairs, and Kreacher appeared. The house-elf was as filthy and miserable as ever, his bulging, pale eyes fixed on Harry.
“The blood traitor’s whelp returns to desecrate the home of his betters,” Kreacher croaked, his voice a raspy whisper that seemed to carry in the dead air. “And Master Sirius is gone. Dead.”
Harry’s grief, still a raw and open wound, was instantly cauterized by a surge of white-hot fury. He took a step forward, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Shut up, Kreacher,” he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. “Just shut your mouth.”
He was tired. He was so incredibly tired of being fought, of being challenged at every turn. He didn’t have the energy for a battle of wills with a house-elf. Right now, he needed to be in control.
“You will do what I say,” Harry continued, his voice trembling with a barely restrained violence that felt alien and powerful. “You will not look for loopholes. You will not question my commands. You will serve the House of Black, and you will serve me. This is my house now. Do you understand?”
The phrasing was instinctual, a desperate grasp for authority in a world where he had none.
Thank Merlin, Kreacher’s muttering ceased. His entire body went rigid, his bony frame snapping to attention as if an electric current had passed through it. The mutinous glint in his eyes vanished, replaced by a wide, unnerving reverence. He sank into a low, deep bow, his forehead nearly touching the floorboards, his trembling hands clasped together.
Harry watched wearily, put off by Kreacher’s sudden obedience. He hadn’t actually expected his command to work.
“Kreacher understands,” the elf whispered, his voice now stripped of all its malice, leaving only a hollow, echoing obedience. “Kreacher will serve the Master of the House. Kreacher lives to serve the blood of Black.”
Harry frowned slightly at the wording, at the strange weight of it, but he didn’t question it. He didn’t have the energy to untangle whatever old, pureblood nonsense governed house-elves. All Harry wanted to do was to lock himself in his room and be alone. As long as Kreacher listened, that was enough.
“Good,” Harry said, his voice rough. “Now stay out of my way.”
He turned and mounted the stairs, his hand trailing along the grimy banister. He didn’t need to think about where he was going. His feet knew the path. He bypassed the first floor, with its drawing room and its oppressive curtains, and climbed higher, towards the rooms that had been Sirius’s.
He pushed open the door to the second bedroom on the left. The room was a time capsule. Clearly, Sirius had left it completely untouched, despite him living and sleeping in the room.
Posters of bikini-clad Muggle girls were still tacked to the walls, their bright smiles a garish mockery of the room's current atmosphere. Gryffindor pennants were draped haphazardly over the wardrobe. A stack of old spellbooks sat on a desk next to an empty, dusty bottle of Firewhisky. It was a room frozen in a moment of rebellious youth, and now it felt like a shrine.
A grave.
Harry stepped inside, the floorboards groaning under his weight. He closed the door behind him, the click of the latch sounding unnaturally loud in the silence. He levitated his trunk onto the dusty floorboards and walked over to the bed, perching reverently on the edge. He rested his hands on his knees and stared at the wall. At the smiling, laughing faces of the women on the posters. They were ghosts, just like Sirius.
He didn't know how long he sat there. Time lost all meaning. The pitch black sky above slowly broke into the bluish glow of predawn began to bleed across the horizon. Even still, he didn't move.
Harry sat there, a white knuckled grip on his knees, and let the grief wash over him in waves. Each one pulled him deeper into a cold, dark undertow. He replayed the fight in the Department of Mysteries again and again, the flash of red light, the look of shock on Sirius’s face, the archway with its tattered, whispering veil.
Your fault, the voice at the back of Harry’s mind whispered insidiously. All your fault. Stupid Harry Potter, leads his Godfather into an ambush.
Despite the spiral in his head, Harry’s eyes stayed dry, staring out ahead at nothing.
A soft pop brought him back to himself for a moment. A tray appeared on the bedside table, bearing a bowl of thin, watery soup and a hunk of bread. He didn't touch it, ignoring it until it vanished, replaced a few hours later by another tray, this one with a sandwich. The food appeared and disappeared like clockwork, a silent, ghostly service performed by the elf he had commanded.
He became aware of sounds outside his door. Muffled voices. A knock, firm and persistent.
“Harry? Harry, are you in there? It’s Remus. Please, open the door.” Lupin’s voice, laced with the familiar, weary concern that Harry now found intolerable.
He didn't answer. Instead, he fell backwards onto the bed, his joints groaning in protest. Harry kicked his shoes off and climbed under the covers, burrowing deep and burying his head beneath the pillow in an attempt to block out the noise.
Eventually, the knocking stopped, and the voices faded away.
A few hours later, or maybe it was a different day entirely, there was a different knock. This one was accompanied by a soft, authoritative spell that made the doorknob rattle. “Harry,” came Dumbledore’s voice, calm and steady as ever. “I know you are in there. We need to talk, my boy.”
Harry’s eyes snapped open (had he been asleep?) and a fresh wave of anger cut through his stupor. Again, Harry stayed quiet, glaring at the door and pouring all of his weary rage, all of his pain, all of his defiance into that single point of wood and metal. For a moment, the doorknob rattled more violently. Then, with a final, decisive clink, it fell still. The magic held.
The house, it seemed, was choosing to obey its new master over its old one.
Harry didn't know how many days had passed in that self-imposed prison. The world outside ceased to exist, and Harry was only reminded of it by the daily knocks on his door, the daily pleas of Harry, please come out, we need to talk to you. There was only the room, the dust, the ghost of Sirius, and the slow, festering poison of his grief. It curdled into resentment, a hard, bitter lump in his chest.
Resentment for Dumbledore and his unattention, for the Order and their secrets, for himself.
The stagnation was so complete, so absolute, that the sudden, sharp jolt that seized him was physically violent. Out of nowhere, a cold electric current shot through his veins, chilling him to the bone. It was a violation, a wrongness that vibrated in his very blood. It cut through the thick fog of his depression with the precision of a shard of ice.
Harry was on his feet before he knew it, his body moving with an instinctive urgency he hadn't felt in days, not since that disastrous night at the Ministry. He didn't know what it was or where it was coming from, but he knew he had to follow it.
He wrenched open the door to his room, the first time he had opened it since he’d locked it, and stepped out into the darkened hall.
The feeling was a compass needle in his soul, pulling him upwards, away from Sirius’s room and the upper floors, towards the attic. He moved through the silent house like a phantom, his bare feet making no sound on the dusty floorboards. The thrumming in his blood grew stronger as he climbed the narrow, rickety stairs to the top floor, leading him unerringly towards Kreacher’s den.
He pushed open the door to the attic, heart beating frantically in his chest.
Kreacher, his usually stooped frame contorted with a ferocious rage, was latched onto Mundungus Fletcher’s leg. The house-elf was a whirlwind of gnashing teeth and flailing limbs, his long, bony fingers clawing at the wizard’s trousers.
Mundungus, his face flushed and sweating, was trying to kick the elf off while simultaneously shoving objects—a tarnished silver goblet, a set of cursed rings—into a sack slung over his shoulder.
“Get off, you filthy little pest!” Mundungus grunted, aiming a kick that Kreacher dodged with unnatural speed.
Harry didn’t hesitate. He didn’t think. The sight of this greasy, opportunistic thief ransacking Sirius’s home, pawing through his things like a vulture picking at a corpse, ignited a fury in him so pure and all-consuming it eclipsed even his grief.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Harry’s voice was a low, guttural growl that filled the small space, freezing both combatants in place.
Mundungus’s head whipped around, his eyes widening in shock and fear. Kreacher immediately released his leg and scrambled back, dropping into a low, subservient bow, but his eyes were fixed on Harry with a fanatical gleam.
“H-Harry! Mate! I was just… just helping the old elf clear some things out,” Mundungus stammered, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “For the Order, you know. Making sure nothing… valuable… falls into the wrong hands.”
“Valuable?” Harry repeated, his voice dangerously quiet. He took a step forward, his magic crackling around him like static electricity, making the hairs on his arms stand on end. “You mean things that belonged to Sirius? Things that belong to this house?”
Kreacher’s voice rose from the floor, a venomous hiss. “The thief is stealing from the House of Black! He is defiling the Master’s things! Kreacher was defending the Master’s property!”
Harry’s gaze locked onto Mundungus’s sack, and his vision tunneled. The world narrowed to that bag, to the grubby hand clutching its drawstring. “You were going to sell them,” Harry stated. It wasn’t a question. “You were going to sell off my godfather’s life for a few sickles.”
“It’s not like that, Harry, it’s just–”
“Stupefy!” Harry cut him off, uncaring for his excuses. A jet of red light, brighter and more powerful than any he had ever conjured in class, shot from the tip of his wand and slammed into Mundungus's chest.
The thief was thrown backward, crashing into a pile of dusty boxes with a resounding crash. He lay there, frozen, his eyes wide with terror, his body rigid.
Harry stood over him, his chest heaving, his knuckles white where his hand was clenched around his wand. The magic thrumming through him was intoxicating, a heady rush of power that was both terrifying and deeply satisfying. He felt… in control. For the first time in months.
His eyes fell upon Mundungus’s frozen hand, still clutched around something inside the sack. Harry’s gaze narrowed, and he strode forward, bursting with purpose. With a sharp, angry tug, Harry pried the object from his grip.
It was a locket.
A heavy, ornate locket made of silver, intricately carved with serpentine patterns. It was cold to the touch, but as his fingers closed around it, a strange warmth spread through his palm, up his arm, and settled deep in his chest. Belonging, almost. The emeralds set into its surface, forming a serpentine 'S', seemed to glow with an inner light, pulsing in time with the sudden, steady beat of his own heart. His soul seemed to hum in harmony with it.
He held it up, the silver catching the dim light filtering through the grimy attic window. “What is this?” he demanded, the fire of his anger flickering back to life as he turned back to Mundungus.
Mundungus, still frozen, could only stare with wide, unblinking eyes.
Harry cursed in irritation. “Finite Incantatem!” he cast, pointing his wand at the thief.
The spell broke, and Mundungus collapsed, gasping and sputtering, his eyes darting wildly between Harry’s face and the locket in his hand.
“What is it?” Harry repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.
“It’s… it’s nothing, Harry! Just a bit of jewelry,” Mundungus wheezed, scrambling backward on his hands and feet.
“Don’t lie to me,” Harry said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. Absently, the scar on the back of his hand pulsed, a permanent reminder.
He took another step forward, and Mundungus flinched violently.
“Alright! Alright!” the thief cried, throwing his hands up in surrender. “It’s Slytherin’s locket! Salazar Slytherin’s own locket! I just found it here, tucked away with a bunch of other junk. It’s worth a fortune, Harry! A king’s ransom! I was just going to sell it, split the proceeds with the Order, of course…”
He trailed off, seeing the look on Harry’s face. The rage in Harry’s gut turned to ice. Slytherin’s locket. A priceless artifact, a piece of wizarding history, and this piece of filth was going to pawn it for pocket money.
“You were planning to sell off Sirius’s stuff?” Harry’s voice was dangerously calm now, the storm having passed, leaving behind a cold, deadly stillness. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Get out.” Harry shook his head, half-disbelieving, “Get. Out.”
He pointed his wand at the door. Mundungus didn’t need to be told a third time. He scrambled to his feet, his face a mask of terror, and bolted for the stairs.
“Wait,” Harry called out.
Mundungus froze, his hand on the doorknob.
Harry’s gaze swept over the attic, over the piles of junk, over the defiled legacy of the House of Black. This was what happened when he had the Order crawling around Grimmauld place like rats, defiling Sirius’s home, his belongings.
Harry looked down at his house-elf, his shoulders dropping as he made up his mind. “Kreacher,” he said, his voice clear and firm. “Is it possible for you to change the wards? To make it so no one can get in? No one but me?”
A slow, wicked grin spread across the house-elf’s wrinkled face, a terrifying sight that exposed his yellowed teeth and made him look positively ghoulish. “Oh yes, Master. The Master of the House can command the wards. Kreacher can make it so that only the blood of Black may pass. Only the Master may enter. No one else. Not Dumbledore. Not the werewolf. No one.”
“Do it,” Harry commanded. “Now.”
Kreacher’s grin widened. He snapped his fingers, and the very air in the house seemed to shift. A low, resonant hum vibrated through the floorboards, a sound of ancient magic being roused and reshaped. The house itself seemed to sigh, settling into a new state of being.
Harry turned his attention back to the trembling thief by the door. “Mundungus,” he said, his voice flat and cold. “You’re going to deliver a message for me. You’re going to tell the rest of the Order that they are not welcome here anymore. This is not their headquarters. This is my house now. And they are never setting foot in it again.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “Now get out.”
With another snap of Kreacher’s fingers, Mundungus Fletcher vanished with a loud crack. Throughout the house, Harry could hear a series of other pops as Kreacher, with Harry’s permission, vanished the remainder of the unwanted guests.
The silence that followed was profound.
Harry stood in the center of the attic, the heavy locket clutched in his hand, and felt a sense of peace settle over him for the first time since he had watched Sirius fall through the veil.
No more incessant knocking at his door, no more pleas of desperation buzzing in his ear like mosquitos. Alone. Harry was finally, blissfully alone.
In the days that followed, the house became his sanctuary. No longer cooped up in his — Sirius’ — room, Harry was able to explore Grimmauld Place at his leisure. The locket, which he wore strung around his neck on a simple leather cord, was a constant, reassuring thrum against his chest. It warmed his blood and soothed his grief, granting Harry the strength he needed.
Soon, the issues with Grimmauld Place became glaringly obvious. It was no wonder Sirius hated the old house as much as he did; it was drenched in blood purity. The stupid Troll’s leg that tripped every Halfblood or Muggle born who walked through the door (why hadn’t the Order gotten rid of that earlier?), the cups that would poison the tea of "undesirables", the horrific entryway lined with the decapitated heads of old House Elves.
They were all horrible, and Harry wanted them gone.
That being said, it was certainly something easier said than done. Even with Kreacher’s begrudging assistance (Harry still didn’t trust the house-elf. Multiple times following Mundungus’s banishment, Harry had awoken to Kreacher standing at the foot of Harry’s bed, watching,) the dismantlement of the murderous entryway decor took a full day, not to mention the lingering creature infestations they had to tackle.
The worst obstacle of all, however, was the portrait of Walburga Black. Her shrieks still echoed through the house whenever anyone passed, a constant, piercing reminder of the hatred that had poisoned this family.
Harry stood before the covered curtains, his wand at the ready.
“Revelio!” he cast, pulling the curtains aside with a flick of his wrist. The screaming face of Sirius’s mother appeared, her mouth open in a silent, furious howl.
“FOUL! FILTH! DISGRACE! BLOOD TRAITOR!”
“Silencio!” Harry cast immediately, but the spell only dissolved against the canvas, the magic binding the portrait too strong for a simple silencing charm.
Well, it was worth a shot, he thought ruefully, reading his wand for a different approach. He tried a slashing curse, a blasting hex, but they all fizzled out against the ancient, complex enchantments woven into the paint and canvas.
He stood there, frustrated and angry, his wand held uselessly at his side. He felt the locket grow warm against his skin, a gentle, pulsing heat that seemed to seep into his very bones. He closed his eyes, focusing on that warmth, trying to draw on its strange, familiar power.
'Attacking it won’t do a thing, Potter,' a voice said, sudden and clear.
Harry’s eyes flew open. He spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. The hall was empty. “Who’s there?” he demanded, his voice echoing in the silence.
There was no answer. He was alone. He must have imagined it. The stress, the isolation… he was finally losing it. He turned back to the portrait, raising his wand again.
'The spell requires a password to undo,' the voice said again, closer this time, right beside his ear. 'You can’t just brute-force it. Surely you’ve figured that out by now.'
Harry froze, his wand arm snapping in front of him. He whirled around again, his eyes scanning every shadow, every corner of the hall. Nothing. There was no one.
The voice was unmistakably internal, a thought that was not his own. It was as clear and distinct as his own, but with a different texture, a different cadence.
'Boo,' the voice said, its dry amusement palpable. 'Did I scare you?'
Harry’s breath hitched. He pressed a hand to his temple, his mind racing. This was it. This was the final break. The visions of Voldemort, the nightmares, the constant pressure… it had finally fractured him completely. He was hearing voices.
“Who are you?” he whispered aloud, his voice rough with anxiety. “Where are you?”
There was a soft, mental sigh, a sound of profound exasperation. 'I’m in your mind, Harry Potter. Do try to keep up.'
Harry’s blood ran cold. Voldemort. It had to be Voldemort. The connection between them was stronger than ever, a bridge the Dark Lord was now crossing at will. He felt a surge of terror, followed by a hot wave of defiance. He wouldn't let him in. He wouldn't let him use him again.
“Get out of my head,” he snarled, his hand clenching around his wand. “Get out!”
The voice made a sound that was startlingly like a huff of laughter. 'Relax, would you? If I were the Dark Lord, you’d be on the floor writhing in agony by now, not having a pleasant little chat in a haunted hallway. And thank fucking Merlin for that.'
Harry frowned, completely and utterly lost. It certainly didn’t sound like Voldemort…
“Then who the hell are you?” Harry demanded, his fear now warring with profound confusion. He lowered his wand slightly, his mind frantically trying to place the voice. It was young, male, and carried an air of aristocratic weariness that was strangely familiar.
The voice was quiet for a long moment. Harry could feel a presence considering him, weighing him, as if deciding whether or not to answer. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken history.
Then, the voice spoke again, though its answer did nothing to alleviate Harry’s confusion.
'Regulus. Regulus Black.'