Memories of the Heart || Harry Potter x Reader

Y7 ~ Magic is Might

The dim candlelight flickered against the aged stone walls of 12 Grimmauld Place's kitchen, casting elongated shadows that wavered like restless specters. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment, burning wax, and something faintly metallic, a lingering reminder of the house's grim history. Around the scratched wooden table, a heavy silence hung between them, weighted by the urgency of their task.

Stacks of yellowed Daily Prophet issues lay abandoned, their ink-smudged headlines serving as ghostly echoes of past warnings. At the table's center, a locket rested, its tarnished surface glinting coldly in the dim light. The object, so small and unassuming, felt as if it pulsed with the gravity of what it represented. Harry ran his fingers absently along the frayed edges of a crumpled note—words they had memorized but needed to confront once more.

Y/N sat beside him, her presence solid and unwavering. She leaned in slightly, her sharp gaze flicking over the note in his hands, reading along as he unfolded it. Her breath was steady, but there was tension in her shoulders, a quiet storm of thoughts churning behind her eyes.

Harry's voice, measured and almost detached, broke the silence as he read aloud. "To the Dark Lord... I know I will be dead long before you read this... I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it..."

Ron exhaled through his nose, arms crossed as he leaned back in his chair. "R.A.B. was Sirius' brother," he stated, though there was little satisfaction in confirming something they had long suspected. His fingers drummed absently against the armrest.

Hermione, ever meticulous, tucked a loose curl behind her ear, her brows knitting together in thought. "The real question is..." She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "Did he succeed? Did Regulus manage to destroy the real Horcrux?"

Y/N pressed her lips together, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. "If he didn't..." Her voice was quiet, heavy with the implications. "Then we're back to square one."

The statement settled like a lead weight in the air. Harry let the note slip from his hands onto the table, his green eyes dark with contemplation. His fingers twitched toward the locket, but he didn't touch it.

Then, something shifted.

A flicker of movement—barely perceptible—danced along the far wall. A shadow, thin and trembling, stretching across the doorway.

Harry's entire body tensed. His chair scraped back abruptly as he shot to his feet, wand already drawn.

"Stop! I order you!" His voice cut through the thick silence, sharp as a blade.

Y/N was up in an instant, her pulse hammering as she reached for her wand, heart pounding against her ribs. A figure darted back, but Harry moved fast. Within seconds, he reappeared, dragging a squirming Kreacher by the ear.

The house-elf's gnarled face twisted into an expression of loathing, his wrinkled skin drawn tight as he muttered unintelligible curses under his breath. His bulging eyes darted between them, flickering with something between malice and reluctant obedience.

"Kreacher..." Ron muttered, his voice laced with disdain.

Harry's grip on the elf was firm. "Been spying on us, have you?" His voice was edged with barely restrained anger, his knuckles white where they clenched Kreacher's bony arm.

Kreacher writhed, his sneer deepening. "Kreacher listens. Kreacher watches. Always watching." His voice was a rasp, filled with ancient resentment.

Y/N stepped closer, her gaze unwavering as she searched Kreacher's face. There was something else there—beneath the layers of bitterness and servitude, a glint of something unreadable.