To Bet On Losing Dogs {Fred Weasley, ACT II}

Chapter Two

July 23rd, 1996, 8:45 PM

In her heart of hearts, Eleanor knew she would never get used to the feeling that accompanied her every time she stepped through the door of Grimmauld Place. To the silence that meant something different than it had before. Silence that had once been explained away by Sirius' loneliness now represented his absence.

Eleanor had closed off just about every room in that Merlin forsaken place. Drapes were drawn tight. Doors slammed shut. The darkness that encased the house felt as though it were alive. It was just her and the darkness with all the ghosts that taunted her from within its endless night.

There were two places Eleanor refused to visit. The basement and the landing that led to Sirius and Regulus' rooms. Too many memories still plagued the landing alone. Just peering up the staircase to the doors at the very top made her stomach squeeze.

The house had fallen into a state of disarray, of which Eleanor had not expected. It seemed that Kreacher had been of more use than she'd previously believed. In the weeks since he'd been sent to work at Hogwarts, sent away mainly to keep Eleanor from disintegrating the elf for his complicity in Sirius' death, the house had fallen in on itself.

Of course, that could have more to do with Eleanor rage burning half of it to shreds, but she liked to place the blame on Kreacher instead. It was easier that way.

If Sirius were still here, she believed he would smile at her renovations. The portrait of Walburga Black was nothing more than smoke and ash, a giant scorch mark the only indicator that anything had ever resided on the wall at all. Kreacher had cried upon seeing what she'd done to his mistress. How she had destroyed the last piece of his true family. An eye for an eye, she'd crooned as she laughed at his tears, laughed and laughed until tears of her own caressed her cheeks.

And she hadn't stopped there. She'd allowed the flames to spread up the staircase, around and around, weeding out all the evil that corrupted the house. With little direction, the fire infested the drawing room, ripping into the wallpaper that depicted the Black family tree. Vaguely, Eleanor remembered watching Kreacher run throughout the room, snapping his fingers to conjure jets of water which splashed the tapestry. But water was no use on wildfire.

Eleanor had sat in the middle of the room, legs crossed outward, hands placed firmly in her lap, and watched. Watched Walburga's name splinter to ash. Watched Bellatrix's dissipate. Narcissa. Regulus. Every last dirty Death Eater.

One day, she'd watch them burn. Watch as Bellatrix's skin melted from her face, eyes popping from her skull. And for such a thing to happen, Eleanor would need to be patient. Bid her time and let things play out.

The time for listening to Dumbledore was through. The time for being good, whatever that even meant, was through.

Remus had found her there, smiling to herself, just as the ceiling began to cave in. He'd shaken her from her trance, screaming at her in desperation as she fought to control the fire. Or at least pretended to fight. Eventually, she caved into his pleas, extinguishing every flame that roared around them.

The first floor was little more than piles of ash and exposed wood paneling. The drawing room, having taken the brunt of the damage, had a large gaping hole in the foundation. The master bedroom, Walburga's room, had also taken a savage beating. Nothing remained of her clothes nor her vanity. The bed frame was cracked right down the middle, collapsing in on itself. Her mirror lay shattered upon the floor, lined with soot.

But the library had been preserved. Along with the boys' rooms. The fire hadn't so much as licked the doorframes.

Kreacher had been beside himself, sick in his grief. Eleanor had found it fitting, although Dumbledore found her pleasure in the house elf's pain "sickening."