Omnia Mors Perimit

If he had the capacity of mind, Kreacher would perhaps question life's fairness in regard to himself. He doesn't, and it is up to you to decide whether this is due to his old age, his certainly deranged sanity, his single ambition for himself, his otherwise twisted views on the world, or a bit of everything. Make your pick.

Kreacher has served The Noble House of Black for all his life, and as far as he is concerned, he will stick to it. He is the last of his family, who have all done the same, serve The Noble Family as good and faithful as they could, and his ancestors watch out for him to follow their footsteps. This isn't just a phrase, they do look after him, one by one, his mother, his father, their mothers and fathers, his brother Kreamer, his uncles, they are all lined up in the staircase, he can feel their eyes on him, and he's most anxious to please them, even though they're all long gone. But this doesn't mean they wouldn't speak to him, Kreacher can hear their voices; he might not see them speak, but he listens attentively still. Just like he listens to his Mistress, Mylady who's dead for almost fifteen years, but Her portrait is very much alive, She commands Kreacher at Her will, and he is determined to obey Her until his last breath.

That is more difficult than he could have foreseen because there is a new master nowadays. He has come back, after not having set a foot in his fathers' house for more than twenty years, and rightfully so, if it comes to Kreacher's humble opinion. He has been a most ungrateful son, a filthy traitor of his own blood and heritage, he has broken his mother's heart and driven his father to an early death of shame. Rotten, wicked, friend of the foes, a murderer they call him, he has been sent to Azkaban for it, and although Kreacher doesn't care much about the wizard who has been killed, and not at all about the muggle-victims, he finds that 'murderer' is still a just title for that man he is now forced to answer to. He and his dirty common friends, the comrades of the mudbloods, and some of them even distanced - and despicably unworthy - relatives to The House of Black! Mudbloods have invaded Mylady's house, werewolves - he shudders when he thinks of it - and countless blood traitors! What will they bring next? A vampire? A troll? A filthy goblin? What?

'My godforsaken flesh', the Mistress calls Kreacher's undeserving new master, and very rightly so. Her 'godforsaken flesh' is even more unbearable than in his youth, self-righteous, insolent, ungrateful for his mother's sacrifices, ungrateful in general, for his noble birth, the claims of being a Black, a pureblood. Would there be a throne to English wizards, it would rightfully belong to the Blacks, oh well, yes, actually, it would belong to the Malfoys then, but the Blacks are clearly the second most important family, stewards so to say, or perhaps brothers to the king or so...

His Mistress disturbs his fantasies at that point by asking him to take care of Her tapestry in the upper drawing room, he shall guard it with his life, She instructs him, and solemnly, Kreacher gives his word to let nothing ever happen to the sacred tapestry. He gives Her his word every other night; in fact She's more afraid for Her family tree than for Her own portrait.

"I'm just a product of my family, Kreacher, one among many," She has explained to him, "but what truly counts is the dynasty!"

Yes, yes, the dynasty, Mylady is right - of course She is - the dynasty stands upon every other matter, only that Her leftover son seems to have no idea about that. He doesn't care for the old values of the family, the obligations of his blood - if he hadn't got the typical Black features, everybody must believe him being a cuckoo's egg, mixed up in Saint Mungo's at the day of his birth or something, so little resembles his temper the ones of his forefathers. No, not his temper, that's pretty much a true Black indeed, but how he's holding himself, his pride and self-esteem know no shame. He has got pride, but it's of the wrong sort, he has been sorted to Gryffindor then - how poor Mylady wept that night, She had wished to conceal this sad fact from others, but how could She have when a hundred excited students must have gleefully written home the very evening, 'Dear mom, guess who hasn't made it to Slytherin?!'

That were the exact words of young master Sirius, too, Kreacher secretly read his letter when he was told to burn it, and it confirmed everything he has ever thought about the boy. He lacked every quality, but made up the double in ill traits, he tormented Kreacher even as a little boy, so very unlike his younger brother Regulus. Yes, Master Regulus... The dear young master has died much too early; The Mistress so suffered from his premature death, She cried her eyes out, desperately wishing their places might be traded, with master Sirius dead, and Master Regulus strong and healthy as ever. Oh sweet Master Regulus, quem di diligunt, adulescens moritur, the good ones die first, isn't this what they say? Even master Sirius seemingly agrees, although for entirely opposite reasons, and one day, when passing his mother's portrait in the hall, Kreacher heard him spit, "The ones we hate last forever, eh, mother?"

"Indeed, master," Kreacher has whispered in return, eyeing him in utmost contempt. What does he know?! He isn't tied to a master so unworthy, he isn't bound to this house like Kreacher is, if he doesn't like it, why doesn't he simply leave and never come back?! Ah, right, because every Auror in the country is looking out for him, and if they could get a hold of him... Sweet dreams of vengeance rule Kreacher's dreams at night, the Aurors will rip him to pieces, and his white-bearded friend won't be able to help him out of that dilemma. The Aurors will catch him, and then, only then, Kreacher will be allowed to find peace.

Dark times it is, he can tell, all the old glory of The Name of Black is dimmed and diminished, and although he's left the house only a single time since his Mistress had passed away, he's well aware what's going on out there. There is a war out there coming, between pest and cholera, between the re-arisen Dark Lord, who his Mistress has not been too fond of in the last years of Her life, and the others, who follow the white-bearded wizard who commands the lot around Kreacher's new master. Dumbledore, the friend of the dirty bloods, whom his Mistress has despised even more. And these people have got hold of his home, too, by aid of his Mistress' left son, who somehow managed to escape Azkaban and return here. By the eyes of his father, Kreacher has prayed he wouldn't see him again, but his hopes have been disappointed too bitterly. The young master has come back, and poor Kreacher's duty is to serve him, bound by the ancient laws of the house-elves, and not even his beloved Mistress could now spare him from that dire. They have set up their 'Headquarters' in Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, and worse, they did things to the house, things that his mistress did not at all approve of, and he couldn't do anything about it, could he?

He has tried his best - he's seized the first possible chance to escape for a few hours, and turned to Mylady's niece, Miss Narcissa. Oh, Miss Narcissa! How he envies the elves working for her! Malfoy Manor is only secondary to Black House, and in Malfoy Manor, the old customs are still valid. It is heaven for a house-elf - some of the servants there are thrice removed cousins of Kreacher, because Miss Narcissa has taken her personal elf-in-waiting with her after getting married to Master Lucius. He's turned to Miss Narcissa, he's begged her for help, and she in her grace has told him she'd do for him what's possible, and even allowed poor, undeserving Kreacher to talk to her husband. He still trembles with the memory. Master Lucius - oh dear - Master Lucius is the purest, the utmost noble wizard in all England, there is no family older, purer, or more distinguished. Merlin, Kreacher would give his eyesight if he was allowed to serve in Malfoy Manor, too...

The Mistress hasn't been too fond of Miss Narcissa in life, She used to say that this one was cleverer than could be good for her, and proud, too proud considering her family's branch going down, with her eldest sister having married a mudblood. Kreacher has punished himself many times back then for the dreadful thought that Mylady shouldn't be too harsh with Miss Narcissa's pride, since Her own flesh and blood has left home at the age of sixteen to do whatever he pleased and is likely to bring just as much shame upon his family as Miss Andromeda had inflicted on hers.

Nowadays, his Mistress openly confesses that She has erred in Miss Narcissa, who is by now the only offspring of The House honouring the name. Now, The Mistress is ready to admit that Miss Narcissa is a true heiress to Their blood and title. She has a son of her own, Kreacher has overheard how some of the bastard children talked about him; they hate him and obviously, he hates them as well, which is more than enough to endear the boy to Kreacher, if it wasn't for his nobility in the first place. It's absolutely unintelligible to poor Kreacher how those very two, one the child of traitors and the other one of dirty blood with no magic roots of her own could ever dare to detest the latest heir of both the Blacks and the Malfoys, a boy wizard purer and nobler as his parents even, by crossing their two lines.

"Self-consciousness and envy," his Mistress answered promptly when he asked Her, "They know they aren't fit to wipe the dirt of his shoes, and they make up for it with spite!"

Every now and then, Master Lucius sends Iggy, one of his servants, to keep Kreacher informed about the present state of the affair, and each time, Kreacher hurls himself at the feet of his cousin and kisses them, imploring him to end his misery, but Izzy keeps on saying that it's not ready yet, the plan is on its way. Kreacher doesn't grasp what exactly the plan is about, but far be it from him to doubt Master Lucius.

So - Miss Narcissa and Master Lucius have given their gracious consent to help him if they can - bless them - but so far, nothing has happened, and the awful brat arrogating to be the last descendant of the Noble Lineage is continuing to desecrate the house in every way he can think of. Only to annoy Kreacher and mortify his ancestors, he's made a stable out of Mylady's bedroom - Kreacher cannot suspend the tears whenever he thinks of it. He's thrown out all the photos, all portraits that he could remove, the precious crystal cabinet in the grand parlour - Kreacher still remembers how proud Master Orion was purchasing it... There is no end to the litany of every sin the nasty, nasty man's committed.

There is but one luck - The Mistress has been so wise as to glue Her own portrait, and the tapestry of the Family tree, with permanent sticking charms to their places, so the wicked brats couldn't remove them. She won't desert Kreacher, they can't take Her from him, he will forever serve his Mistress until his days are gone by and the line of the Kreas has run out. It's good that it is like that, for nothing in the world, Kreacher would want to go on following the new master and his brood, that would mean betrayal of everything his ancestors have stood for. In the night, he sneaks up into the hall and cautiously pulls away the curtains covering Mylady, that those maledicted scoundrels have hung upon Her, and then, She whispers to him, and Kreacher answers to Her, feeling as happy as he could be. The Mistress is softer in death than in life, and by now, She talks to Kreacher like She has never done before, gentle and kind, finally realising that he was the only one She has left loyal to Her.

Habitually, he hits himself with the frying pan for this heretical thought - he has no right to demand The Mistress to be anything, let alone kind, to him, Her unworthy servant. The Mistress talks in a low voice, She tells Kreacher where the important things are hidden, and what he ought to do to protect them from the intruders. Nasty little buggers, only recently, they threw away the Family photographs, but Kreacher has saved them, and his Mistress has allowed him to take them to his place under the sink. They're all there, the old Master, Mylady, young master Regulus, and then, the more distanced relations, Miss Bellatrix, Miss Narcissa, lovely, gracious Miss Narcissa, their mother and father, and a fine miniature of their grandfather, master Severin, all of them now guarded over his hide-away by himself. Each night, he crawls into his den and sheds hot tears, swearing them that he'll make things right again. Mylady - Master Orion - Master Regulus - Miss Bellatrix - and also Miss Narcissa, lovely, gracious Miss Narcissa - he'll do whatever it takes to stand up to their expectations. He glimpses at her photo, quivers under her cool gaze, and his lips form a silent, 'Kreacher won't let his new Mistress down...'

"What are you doing there, Kreacher?" He hears his master's voice behind him, just when he's about to pick up one of his Mistress' scarves, that the blood traitor woman had used for cleaning the windows.

"Tidying up, master," he replies reluctantly, remaining in the stooped position, hoping that the master won't see his grimace.

"Help me figure this out, maggot. How can you say you were tidying up, when this house hasn't seen a cleaning cloth in fifteen years? What exactly do you understand by the term? We certainly have different ideas about cleaning up!"

Kreacher straightens and glowers at master Sirius, pressing out an answer through gritted teeth, "I dare say we have different ideas about a many a thing, master!"

"Hopefully!" that one returns with an ugly expression, and Kreacher narrows his eyes. A wicked worm the master is, his poor mother has cursed the day of his birth, and his father disowned him at the day he has come of age. Master Sirius grins maliciously and picks up the silky scarf, "This is what you wanted to throw away, right? Come, I'll spare you a way, I will throw it away for you. Ah, I'll burn it, look how dirty it is, Molly won't use it any longer!"

That scarf was a gift from Master Regulus for Mylady's 50^th birthday, made of Chinese Silk and embroidered with little silver dragons, and master Sirius knows full well how dear it has been to Her. Pure spite is gleaming in his eyes now, and Kreacher can hardly refrain from jumping at him to tear it from his hands and run, run and hide the precious, wherever the stinking vermin could not find it. He's shaking with anger; he can't take his eyes from the once shining, now stained fabric in his master's hands.

"Master shall not do a servant's job," he manages to utter with great effort, carefully reaching out, "Kreacher's only devotion is to serve the Noble House of Black!"

Master Sirius takes a closer look at the cloth in his hands, "What is it about you, Kreacher? My mother is dead, you know? She won't wear those no longer, and nobody else would. Besides, you don't think I was as silly as being tricked by you, do you?"

Tricked? If only he could be tricked, if only he had come in just a moment later, so Kreacher would have been able to put the precious out of sight, he could have cleaned it, he could have removed those ugly stains of dust and dirt and dead insects, and if it had taken him all night -

"You know very well that I can't give you clothes, I'd love to set you free, I really do, but I can't. Deal with it, so must I!"

That catches Kreacher a little off-hand; he hasn't even meant to achieve that - although of course it is most desirable. It'd break his heart to desert Mylady, but being made to witness the devastation of Her home, to serve Her coffin's nail, that's more than an old elf like him could take in the long run. And as master Sirius is still young, there's only little hope that Kreacher will live to see his death. Unless the Aurors tackle him, yes, a glimpse of hope's still sparkling, but Kreacher won't hang his hopes too high there. That girl that sometimes comes here now, she's an Auror, too, and much, much worse - she's a second cousin of the master, daughter of that awful Miss Andromeda and her mudblood husband. Nowadays, they accept half-bloods as Aurors, even the most respectful and noble trades of the wizarding world are finally polluted and overrun by those that are unworthy. She is especially unworthy, an epitome of the disgrace shed upon her family by her mother's betrayal.

The master has ordered Kreacher to obey that witch, but he consulted The Mistress about it, and she has confirmed his notion that he needn't follow her commands. Her branch of The Family has been officially denounced, and the laws of the house-elves oblige him only to serve The official Family. In this case, that means only the master, Miss Narcissa and her clan, Miss Bellatrix and that one's husband, to whom poor Kreacher's answerable; he also needn't hear to that red-haired fat slug, who is so far distantly related that it wouldn't really matter - otherwise, he'd be answerable to nearly every pureblooded wizard in the whole of England. He has laughed with relief and glee when telling this to the master's face in the next morning, whereas the girl in question only shrugged. "Never had a house-elf, Sirius, I reckon I don't need one anyway!"

Master's mood isn't improving, only when this friend of his appears now and then, he lightens up his gloomy features. Then, they usually sit together in the kitchen downstairs, which Kreacher finds particularly rude. The kitchen is, and has always been, his territory, the master has a whole house of three floors and the attic, why does he have to usurp the only place that belongs rightfully to the house-elf? And that werewolf half-breed, occupying the place as if he was welcome - well, badly enough, he is welcome, invited by the young master himself. Terrible! Odious! Kreacher crawls into his sink and tries to ignore the wizards outside as good as he could, still he can hear them speaking.

"'Tis madness, Moony, and you know it!" The abominable master says outside, in the kitchen.

"I know, but -"

"You're the only butt here, man! The girl's almost a child still!"

"Well, she is twenty-three, turning twenty-four next -"

"But that's not the point! Can't you see that? Moony, I know you for the better part of my life - literally, the better - and trust me, pal, you're not cut out for this! A relationship? Gee, you're the serious type, and she's but a teenager! You think it'll last? You really think so? You're going to end up heartbroken and sore, and I don't think you could take it!"

"Come on, Padfoot, I know all this, but - but... I cannot help myself! She's absolutely stunning, she -"

"She's my bloody cousin, and I've got eyes to see, buddy, but that isn't the point either!"

"She's the kindest person I ever met - with the possible exception of Lily, perhaps. She's everything a man could want in a girl!"

"Oh yes, she is kind. Taking after her mum, of course. Still - let me summarise the pros and cons, okay? Pro - Tonks is kind - she is charming - she is pretty - she is smart. That's four valid pros, right. Now for the contra. Where to start! I hate mentioning it, but you are a werewolf! If you accidentally bit her, she'd die! Females do not survive the transformation!"

"As if I didn't know that! I won't bite her, we're very careful!"

"And even if you're careful not to bite her, Remus... I bet Fenrir Greyback's parents had only the best intentions, and look where's he gone to!"

The half-breed moans. "That was low, Sirius!"

"But true! And she's an Auror, can you imagine what Scrimgeour does if he ever gets wind of your affair?!"

"Look, Sirius, we're having this conversation every time I come here, and I'm really, really sick of it. I love her. Accept that or not, but stop arguing with me about her, will you?"

Yeah... What else would the filthy half-blood girl but throw herself into the arms of a half-breed, Kreacher thinks dimly before finally falling asleep. He's got business to do tomorrow morning, because he's come up with an ingenious strategy in his ever-lasting guerrilla war with master Sirius. This one's hatching a dozen plants lately, 'to improve the atmosphere'. Ah... They'll see about that.

"KREACHER!!!"

He limps over to the parlour, comfortably, and with mock innocence, he eyes alternately the master, and the teeming thing in the corner. "What is it, young master?"

"What it is? WHAT IT IS?! You tell me, you little shitbag! What have you done to the Ficus?!"

"Kreacher wouldn't know what a Feekus is, master," he murmurs with wide eyes, secretly bursting with laughter, well perceiving the leagues of spiders and bugs that have finished their business with the dead plant and are now up for more food. Well, the bugs eat the leaves, and the spiders feed on the bugs, in fact he has only added them to the draught because he knew that the young master dislikes them passionately.

"You don't? Well, I will show you a Ficus, or rather say - I will show you what a Ficus was, and you know perfectly well what I'm talking about, stinker! Clean this mess up, NOW!"

Master points at the remains of his Ficus, and Keacher shuffles over, stiffly bowing down and picking up spider by spider, putting them in an open jar next to him, with excruciating slowness. He cannot but grin.

"Oh you useless git, go off there!" Master Sirius has taken out his wand and aims at the leafless tree, "Evanesco!"

He vanishes some more distraught insects, before turning to Kreacher again, "Don't think you can fool me, you dirty little midget! I know that this is your work, I wonder who taught you that -"

Oh, the good Mistress has; She has shown Kreacher the recipe when watering some flowers with it, that were to be sent to Miss Andromeda due to her wedding back then. How clever of Her! When he tells Her about his little scheme that night, She smiles broadly and praises him. "Well done, Kreacher, well done. I'm glad to see you stand up to your honour, and to the honour of my noble forefathers!"

The master has sneaked after Kreacher, now pointing his wand at Her portrait, shaking and spitting with rage.

"YOU ROTTEN FLESH OF MINE; HOW DARE YOU?!"

"BLOODY OLD HAG; WHAT ELSE HAVE YOU SHOWED THE PATHETIC BEAST?!"

Kreacher now yells too, "Master mustn't speak like that to Mylady!"

The Mistress nods fiercely, "Exactly! You miserable worm, even a house-elf knows more about what's right and wrong than you do, may you die in utmost agony, goddamned dog of a troll!"

"Oh shut up!" the master booms, waving around with his wand and aiming at Her, "I set you up in flames, I swear I do, I wonder why I haven't done much earlier!"

"Oh, go on, please!" She says, lurking. "Do us all a favour and try that!"

He lowers his wand most reluctantly and hisses, "You wish, mother! God, how I hate you!"

Later, he catches Kreacher in the kitchen and mutters malevolently, "My mother has made her final and well-aimed strike with inheriting the house to me, including you. She must have thought I deserved you!"

In mock modesty, he replies, "Master mustn't flatter poor Kreacher!"

"For the first time ever, there has been some life in these walls! I ought to have been aware that my mother is hostile against the whole principle of life in itself!"

Kreacher snorts indignantly, "Master likes his little joke!" Ungrateful, stinking, brat of an idiot, why couldn't he just rot away in Azkaban?!

The next thing he feels is the master's hand around his throat, "Azkaban? When I'm through with you, you'd wish you'd be there!"

Sometimes Kreacher thinks the master can do mind-reading. Master Sirius pulls him away with might, and when Kreacher refuses, he simply lifts him up and carries him out of the room. He takes him upstairs, into Master Regulus old room, and puts him on the bed.

"Listen, Kreacher. You're hysterical, you got to calm down, or you'll get a heart-attack. Don't think I wouldn't appreciate this, but you know how's Miss Granger like, she'd think I had murdered you."

"M-m-miss Granger?", Kreacher moans, totally at loss what the master's talking about.

"Ah, you know her by the name 'filthy little mudblood', I reckon, she's your only fan, I'm afraid. Anyway, you'll stay the night here - no protest necessary, you stay, I say."

Kreacher fights as good as he can, but the master is tall and strong, where Kreacher is old and frail. He struggles was in vain, and in the end, he's locked in Master Regulus' old room, the door sealed by magic that Kreacher couldn't overcome, and he cowers in the corner and weeps, like he long hasn't wept. Mylady has sworn that master Sirius was no son of Hers, and he couldn't be! So cruel, so wilful, how can he punish poor Kreacher like that? Make him spend the night in the sacred chamber, Kreacher isn't allowed to be in here, he isn't pure enough to stay longer than it needs to bring fresh flowers and remove the old and faded, to do some dusting and preserve the memory installed in here for the lost good son. The bed is still exactly in the state that it had at that most dreadful day when his corpse had been found in the cellar. There's still a pair of robes hanging on the wardrobe, that Mylady wanted him to wear the next day. Still the open book on the bedside table...

What does the young master know what he has done to his mother? He hasn't been there, hasn't even attended his brother's funeral, just like he has shunned his father's four weeks later. He doesn't know or care that this room, covered with black tendrils and wine-red roses, that this room is a sanctum, kept holy by The Mistress and Her faithful elf, and that locking Kreacher in here was the worst crime he could possibly commit, right after destroying his mother's portrait and the tapestry. Kreacher's mere presence desecrates the place's dignity, where should he place himself without causing too much harm, invisible to the eye, but all the more ailing poor Kreacher's soul. By no means he can lie on the bed, out of question, but neither can he lie on the same carpet where sweet Master Regulus used to sit and play, he can't sit in front of the fireplace where Master spent so many evenings, on the window sill he sat and read, and next to the bed, there's always been a pile of things for the laundry, ready for Kreacher to bring it away. Every tiny piece in this room is sacrosanct and mustn't be touched, and Kreacher gets more and more despaired, turning around faster and faster, searching for a way out of this dilemma, and in the end, he makes a compromise by crawling under the carpet and rest there, but his heart beats like hell, and he cannot find not a single minute of sleep that night. All the time, he mutters curses against the master, wailing in hurt and rage and self-pity, and The Mistress - oh, The Mistress will wait for him in vain this night, The Mistress will think him infidel!

When the master comes back in the morning and finds Kreacher under the carpet, he goggles at him and asks nonplussed, "For Merlin's sake - what are you doing there?! The bed's too soft for you, or what?!"

Kreacher gives him the filthiest look he could conjure, and snatches himself up, "Kreacher won't do a sacrilege like that, master!"

"Sacrilege?"

"This is Master Regulus' bed, should you have forgotten?"

The young master gives him a strange glance and shrugs, "In fact, I believed I was doing you a favour, silly rabbit, by leaving you here. But I got to see, there's nothing one could do for you."

Kreacher stalks out of the room without further comment and goes down to apologise to The Mistress for leaving Her wait that night; but before that, he jams his hands in a door three times. Bad Kreacher! The Mistress is beyond exasperation, murmuring, "If only my line was extinguished! What a disgrace this wizard is, and I brought him into this world!"

"If you had knitted a bamboo basket and set me on the river Thames after birth, I couldn't have done worse!" Master Sirius' voice sounds from behind, "Rather the opposite!"

"Ungrateful prat, gypsies must have taken my real son and left you for it!" His mother snaps back, Kreacher nods emphatically, and master Sirius growls that gypsies would have made better parents than he has had. At this point, Kreacher bites him, he couldn't say himself how or why just in this moment, but he jumps at the master and bites into his hand with all his might. That one gives a loud yell of surprise rather than pain, and shakes Kreacher off, and this one hits his head.

"Are you insane, you nutty imbecile?!"

No. Kreacher is the only one in this house who's got his wits together, and tonight... Yes, tonight he'll finally be rewarded for his perseverance. Izzy's come and told him what he ought to do.

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Nullus locus... There's no place like home!

Quem di... He whom the gods love, dies young.