A shrill voice cracked through the hallway.
"Kreacher! Who has entered my house?!"
"Kreacher!" she screeched again. "Answer me! Who dares—?"
Kreacher dropped into a deep bow at once.
"Mistress," he croaked, shaking slightly. "It is young Master—son of Mistress Narcissa. Black blood, Mistress."
The portrait's fury paused.
"Narcissa's son?" she demanded sharply.
"Bring him here," she ordered.
Kreacher jerked his head toward the staircase. "Master is to follow."
Victor walked with measured steps until he stood directly before the large, dust-framed portrait hanging in the hall.
Walburga Black peered down at him from beneath her tall black cap, thin lips pressed tight. Her painted eyes moved slowly from his shoes to his face.
"You have your father's hair," she said coldly. "And Narcissa's eyes."
Victor inclined his head once in acknowledgment.
Walburga studied him a moment longer, her expression no longer explosive—merely assessing.
"Black blood," she muttered, as though confirming it to herself.
They truly worship this nonsense, Victor thought. Pure-blood pride as if it were sacred law.
Still—if it served his purpose, he would play along.
"Yes," Victor said evenly. "It is regrettable that the great House of Black stands as it does now. No heir of this generation. No direct successor to carry the name."
The words were measured, not mocking.
The portrait's sharp eyes narrowed.
"The House of Black has not fallen," Walburga Black said coldly.
Victor did not flinch.
"I am merely saying there is no need for anger, Great-Aunt," he replied evenly.
The title was deliberate.
Walburga's sharp gaze lingered on him.
"Hmph," she muttered. "Narcissa has raised a proper child."
Her painted lips tightened.
"Even at thirteen you speak like a grown wizard."
For a fleeting moment, something flickered in her expression—pride tangled with bitterness.
"I was not so fortunate with my own sons," she said icily. "One was a disgrace. The other… lost."
Her painted eyes narrowed again.
"Why have you come here, then?" Walburga demanded sharply.
Victor did not hesitate.
"I've come for a locket," he said calmly. "One that was entrusted to Kreacher by your son—Regulus Arcturus Black. He ordered it destroyed."
Kreacher's head snapped up.
Walburga's expression hardened instantly.
"Regulus," she repeated, her voice tightening. "My brave, loyal son."
Victor held her gaze.
"He gave Kreacher a locket and commanded him to destroy it," Victor continued evenly. "Kreacher could not fulfill that order."
Kreacher began trembling.
"M-Master Regulus ordered Kreacher to destroy it," the elf croaked. "Kreacher tried—Kreacher did—but he could not—"
"Silence, Kreacher!" Walburga Black shrieked.
The portrait's painted eyes burned down at Victor.
"Why do you want it?" she demanded sharply. "Why should a Malfoy meddle in my son's affairs?"
Victor stood straight.
"Why else?" he said evenly. "I came to finish what Regulus Arcturus Black began."
The name landed heavily in the hall.
Walburga's expression changed—not softer, but sharper.
"My son was loyal," she said fiercely. "He served properly."
"And he chose to act," Victor replied. "He gave Kreacher that order for a reason."
Kreacher trembled beside them.
Victor did not lower his voice.
"If he commanded it destroyed, then it should be destroyed. I intend to honor that."
Silence stretched.
Walburga's thin lips pressed together.
"If it was Regulus's final command," she said sharply, "then it will be carried out."
Kreacher bowed so low his nose nearly brushed the carpet.
"Mistress commands it… Kreacher obeys…"
He shuffled quickly. "Young Master is to follow."
Victor walked behind him through the dim corridor. Kreacher stopped near a cabinet and carefully withdrew a small, heavy locket on a chain. The serpent mark was unmistakable.
Kreacher's hands trembled.
"Master Regulus ordered Kreacher to destroy it," the elf croaked. "Kreacher tried everything. Fire… crushing… magic… but nothing worked. Nothing."
His pale eyes lifted toward Victor, desperate and ashamed.
"Kreacher failed Master Regulus."
Victor looked at the locket calmly.
"You didn't fail," he said quietly. "You just didn't have the right method."
He reached for it.
"This time," he added, steady, "it ends."
The moment his fingers brushed the cold metal, a whisper slid into his mind.
Soft.
Persuasive.
You don't have to destroy me…
The voice coiled like smoke, promising power, offering understanding, suggesting that it could give him exactly what he wanted.
Victor's expression did not change.
Another murmur followed, darker and closer.
You can have more. Influence. Control. Protection for your family…
Kreacher stiffened suddenly.
"Careful, Master," the elf croaked urgently. "It speaks. It tries to bewitch people."
The locket grew slightly warm in Victor's hand.
The whisper pressed harder.
You are different. You are worthy—
Victor tightened his grip around the locket.
"Your promises lack imagination," he said coldly, his voice steady despite the whisper pressing against his thoughts.
"Kreacher," Victor said evenly, keeping his gaze on the serpent-etched surface, "can you Apparate us to a nearby wood? Destroying this inside the house would be unwise."
He remembered the violent backlash when he had destroyed the diadem—the surge of dark magic, the scream that was not a sound but a force. A Horcrux did not break quietly.
"It may react," he continued. "And I would rather not risk Grimmauld Place."
Kreacher nodded at once.
"As Master commands."
The elf grasped Victor's arm. With a sharp crack, the forest replaced the house. Damp earth lay beneath their feet, trees thick around them, the air still.
Victor released a slow breath and drew the locket out fully. The whisper returned immediately, softer now, coaxing.
"This ends here."
*****
A/N : 🔥 On Patreon, the story has already been updated up to Chapter 69🔥
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