Chapter 276 — Not Used to Happiness
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While Alexander and Sirius stood awkwardly in the living room, a thought suddenly struck Alexander.
"Will Dumbledore come to the birthday party today?" he asked curiously.
Sirius blinked. "What—Remus told you?"
Alexander nodded, half-smiling. "That's right. It's my birthday, isn't it? He should've said something."
Sirius raised his brows in mock surprise, then sighed. "No, you overheard us. You were eavesdropping."
"I didn't mean to," Alexander said quickly. "You two were just talking too loudly."
Sirius gave a helpless laugh. "Fine, fine. You win." But as he calmed down, Alexander's curiosity returned.
"What exactly is a Horcrux?"
"That's not something you should know at your age," Sirius replied gravely.
Alexander didn't back down. His inquisitive Ravenclaw eyes made Sirius groan. "Alright, alright—don't give me that look. You and James were the same. I could never refuse that face."
He sighed and lowered his voice. "Listen. This is only my guess. A Horcrux is an evil kind of magic… twisted, crude, not sophisticated at all."
"Not sophisticated?" Alexander frowned. "But if it can really prolong life—or even prevent death—doesn't that make it powerful?"
Sirius shook his head. "To make a Horcrux, you have to kill. That act tears the soul apart. And ghosts already prove the afterlife exists. The people we love—your parents, Remus's friends—they're all waiting for us in that world. Only Voldemort fears death enough to defy it."
He continued, his voice somber. "A Horcrux is made by splitting your soul and hiding part of it inside an object. Even if your body dies, that fragment anchors you to the living world. But the price is unbearable—your soul becomes incomplete. No sane person dares attempt it."
Alexander's expression hardened. "That sounds like… Lockette's magic experiments."
Sirius gave a grim nod. "Exactly. It's very similar to a Horcrux. And of course, the most infamous Parseltongue of our age was Voldemort himself."
Alexander's brow furrowed. "But why can I speak Parseltongue too? The Potter family never had that ability."
He'd researched his ancestry thoroughly—one of the benefits of being a Ravenclaw. His mind also flashed back to what he'd once discussed with Sirius about the Deathly Hallows.
Sirius folded his arms thoughtfully. "The Potters are purebloods, and most pureblood lines interconnect. That includes the Gaunt family—the last descendants of Slytherin."
"So you think when Voldemort attacked me…"
"He might've awakened a latent part of your magic," Sirius said gently. "The same kind of talent he carried. Parseltongue."
Alexander went quiet. His mood darkened. He remembered reading that both the Gaunts and the Potters descended from the Peverell line. That meant Parseltongue could have been buried deep in his blood all along.
He'd once believed it was a curse unique to Slytherin's descendants. But perhaps it wasn't so simple.
"Harry—Alexander," Sirius corrected himself with a faint smile, "this is your talent too. Don't fight it. One day it might save you. I made the mistake of rejecting my own knowledge once—of turning away from what I could have learned. If I hadn't, maybe Dumbledore wouldn't have had to examine Regulus's body."
Alexander hesitated, then slowly nodded. "It might actually help," he murmured, remembering the Gaunt family's heirloom—the Resurrection Stone. It was said to hold enchantments only a Parseltongue could unlock.
Sirius smiled faintly. "Good lad."
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By nine o'clock, Sirius had already gone out with a mysterious grin, refusing to tell anyone where he was going.
Remus yawned over breakfast, the scent of butter and toast filling the kitchen. Kreacher served the meal with stiff dignity, and soon Ron and Draco shuffled in, bleary-eyed and half-awake.
Though still drowsy, both of them looked around in surprise. The Black residence had been completely transformed overnight—bright flowers, polished furniture, and sunlight streaming through curtains that hadn't been opened in years.
"I was wondering why Sirius went to bed so early yesterday," Remus muttered, sniffing one of the vine-wrapped flowers on the table. "So this is what he was planning."
"Aha! Gilderoy Lockhart's been exposed!" Ron's voice suddenly rang out. His sleepiness vanished the instant he spotted the Daily Prophet headline about Lockhart's arrest.
"Serves him right," he declared triumphantly. "My dad always said he was a fraud."
Draco leaned over curiously. "But… the things in his books were true, weren't they? I thought he just exaggerated them."
"They were true," Ron said darkly. "But he didn't do them. He stole them—from the real wizards who did!"
Draco frowned. "Unbelievable. And he even erased their memories himself? That takes power. Maybe Ravenclaws aren't as harmless as they look."
"Exactly," Ron said, a sly grin forming. "Look at Lockhart—he manipulated all those powerful wizards. Or Rita Skeeter—able to sneak into Hogwarts and photograph anything she wants. Even Professor Flitwick, who looks so cheerful, was a dueling champion in his youth."
"So, Draco," he added in mock menace, "you'd better watch yourself. Keep mocking me every day, and you'll end up like Lockhart's victims."
Draco smirked. "Please. Voldemort was a Slytherin. I'm not scared of a Weasley."
"Come on, you two," Remus interrupted tiredly, sipping his tea.
Alexander didn't join in. He'd long learned to let their bickering play out like background noise. His thoughts drifted back to last night's talk with Sirius—and to the idea of Horcruxes.
He glanced at the family tapestry hanging nearby, tracing the golden threads that marked the Black lineage. Somewhere on it was Regulus Black's name—faded but still visible.
"Kreacher," Alexander asked suddenly, "isn't Master Regulus joining us for breakfast?"
The old elf froze, then croaked, "Master Alexander, Master Regulus prefers the darkness. He sleeps through the mornings. Poor Kreacher has no choice but to leave him be and tend to the housework instead."
"I see," Alexander said softly.
He was curious about Regulus—about what exactly Sirius meant when he'd mentioned his brother's body. But another thought soon filled his mind: his birthday party.
He'd attended Dudley's birthdays countless times at the Dursleys', but this would be the first one that was truly his.
Would he have to make a speech?
Would his messy hair ruin his new robe?
What if Dumbledore actually came—what should he say then?
What kind of gift would the Headmaster bring?
His mind swirled with nervous excitement.
For the first time in his life, Alexander Smith felt something utterly unfamiliar—
He wasn't used to being happy.
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(End of Chapter 276)
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