Chapter 199: We Came for the Funeral
Wade turned around and saw Sirius Black—almost certain he’d mistaken the man for someone else. He looked exactly like he’d just escaped Azkaban: unshaven, with a ragged beard, long hair matted into clumps, and eyes sunk deep like wells in a dark ravine—dull, lifeless, devoid of any light. He seemed less like a man and more like a ghost.
Behind him loomed an ancient building. The door, once finely carved, was now ragged and battered, scarred with deep scratches. The walls were filthy and crumbling, stone veiled in moss and creeping vines. In the courtyard, weeds sprouted in wild patches, only a narrow, barely passable path cleared through the mess. A garden gnome, wearing a pointed hat, peered cautiously from behind the grass, its small eyes scanning the strangers with wary curiosity.
"Hi, Sirius Black," Remus Lupin said casually. "How are the kids doing?"
"Fine," Sirius replied flatly. He nodded politely at the two of them, then shifted the coffin inside through the broken doorway.
"Is he always like this?" Wade whispered once Sirius was out of sight.
"Yeah," Remus sighed. "I just hope he’ll come back to himself after the funeral."
They climbed the crumbling stone staircase. Behind them, the clumsy gnome suddenly lifted off the ground, spun wildly in the air for a dozen rotations, then shot away with a whoosh.
Remus noticed Wade glancing back. "Once you spin a gnome around enough, it can’t find its hole. That’s the only way to get rid of them. They love destroying plant roots—they always leave gardens in ruins."
"I know," Wade said, eyeing Remus with mild disbelief. "I read about garden gnomes in books. But… Remus, what kind of image do you have of me? Are you seriously worried I’d pity a gnome?"
Remus paused, then let out a soft, bemused laugh. "Sorry. I guess my own mind’s been a bit scattered lately."
They stepped over the threshold and entered.
Black Family Manor bore an eerie resemblance to the Slytherin Common Room. The entire house felt like a dim, suffocating cave—small, grimy windows, thick with cobwebs, blocking out all sunlight. The interior remained perpetually dark, even in daylight, with old gas lamps always burning on the walls, as if to compensate for the absence of light.
Wade assumed Remus must have kept them lit—Sirius Black looked like he’d rather bury himself alive than care about lighting.
Once, the house had been grand. Beautiful wallpaper had once adorned the walls, luxurious patterns still faintly visible on the carpet, and chandeliers twisted like serpents, faintly glowing with golden light. Now, the wallpaper hung in peeling strips, the carpet was stained and torn, cobwebs draped the chandeliers, and the whole place exhaled the thick, cloying stench of decay.
Sirius carried the coffin upstairs, heading toward the bedroom Regulus had once used. The moment they heard the noise, Michael and the others—already preparing downstairs—froze in shock, eyes wide, pressing themselves against the wall in silence.
Ginny Weasley, walking behind, nearly screamed when she saw the coffin. "Ah—sorry!" Sirius Black suddenly seemed to realize his appearance was unsettling. He offered a polite, stiff smile. "Don’t worry. He can’t bite."
But as he spoke, two long velvet curtains on either side of the hall were violently yanked apart—ripped open as if by invisible hands. Then, from within the room, a chorus of blood-curdling screams erupted:
"Monster! Spendthrift! A disgrace to the family! My cursed spawn! How dare you return? Why haven’t you died? Get out! Bastard! Werewolf! Mudblood! Whore! Get out of my house!"
In a life-sized portrait, an old woman in a black hat, her skin waxy and yellow, shrieked with furious venom.
Immediately after, every portrait in the Great Hall awoke. Their voices joined in a deafening, terrifying roar. The young wizards flinched as if their souls might flee their bodies, frantically covering their ears.
But Sirius Black acted as if he hadn’t heard a thing. He gave a stiff, unnatural smile and asked Ginny Weasley, "Could you please move aside, Miss Weasley?"
Ginny stood frozen. Ron had to pull her back by the arm.
"Thank you," Sirius nodded, then continued up the stairs with the coffin.
Regulus’s bedroom was on the fifth floor.
Back downstairs, Remus struggled to pull the curtains closed again, then cast Stun Spells on the other portraits one by one. Only then did Harry and the others finally lower their hands, slowly descending from the upper floor.
"Wade, you’re finally here," Michael called out, his face smudged with grime, voice hollow. "You should’ve seen what we’ve been doing all morning."
Remus shook his head. "As I said—this place isn’t fit for living."
A few of the young wizards exchanged guilty glances. They’d been so eager to prove themselves earlier, but now, too embarrassed to admit they’d overpromised, they couldn’t bring themselves to say, "You were right. Let’s just go to your house instead."
"I thought it was just a matter of casting Scourgify Spell a few times," Michael muttered. "We’re good at it."
"But the house resists our magic," Hermione said hesitantly. "It’s like it doesn’t want to be cleaned. The Scourgify Spell barely works—we’ve had to use ordinary cleaning methods."
"Because there’s a really annoying house-elf living here," George added. "I’ve learned firsthand how much trouble they can cause when they’re not cooperating."
"Why doesn’t Black just free him?" Percy asked, genuinely puzzled. "A house-elf like that is worse than useless."
"Sirius said… Regulus used to like Kreacher," Harry said, hesitating. "That’s why he didn’t let him go."
At that moment, the subject of their conversation appeared.
A house-elf, ancient and shriveled, stood before them—skin wrinkled, ears thick with white hair, bones thin beneath a filthy rag wrapped around his waist. His pale, dull eyes looked weary, almost lifeless.
"That… Wade, this is Kreacher," Harry said, choosing his words carefully, uncertain whether to introduce him at all.
"Another young one… stirring up Mistress’s anger," Kreacher muttered in a dry, rasping voice. "Disgusting scum, trampling through Mistress’s home like a gnome."
"Shut up, Kreacher!" Harry snapped.
Kreacher paused. Then, with a stiff bow: "Yes, Young Master. Kreacher greets you."
He mumbled on, barely audible: "The Spendthrift brought back another young one… said he defeated the Dark Lord. But Kreacher didn’t sense any real power in him…"
Harry looked awkward. He quickly waved to the others. "He’s just old and confused. Sirius said to let him be—he won’t live much longer anyway."
"Hello, Kreacher," Wade said, crouching down to meet the creature’s eyes. "Hasn’t anyone told you why we’re all here?"
Kreacher didn’t respond. He either didn’t hear or refused to acknowledge. He kept muttering to himself: "Kreacher served the Noble Black Family faithfully… but Kreacher won’t serve the Spendthrift… Mistress hated him so much. Everything he did… it only disappointed her."
Wade didn’t bother responding. He simply said, "We’re here for Regulus Black’s funeral."
(End of Chapter)
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