Chapter 262: The Locket
"What are these?"
"All gold!"
"Why is there even a pair of old trousers?" Ron asked sharply, his eyes caught by several sparkling trinkets and coins glittering in a dusty corner.
"There's a picture of my mother," Draco said, pointing to a silver frame. The black-and-white photo showed a young woman with cold, aristocratic features who stared out as though she didn't recognize her own son.
Draco frowned. "When this photo was taken, she probably didn't even know my father, let alone me."
"The one with the darker skin and wide chin?" Ron blurted out, confused as usual.
Harry gaped at him. "You forgot? You've met Malfoy's mum!"
A few weeks ago, they had indeed met Narcissa Malfoy—pale skin, golden hair, refined features. Ron's description was way off.
Still, Harry found himself noticing something else: unlike the Weasleys, Potters, or Malfoys, the Black family had no obvious physical pattern. Some of the faces in the old photos were dark, some fair, some delicate, others coarse. Even through the black-and-white tones, differences in hair texture and style were clear.
As Harry pondered this, Draco suddenly realized what Ron had said a moment earlier.
"Ron Weasley!" Draco tackled Ron, grabbing him by the collar. "You've seen my mother?"
"This is clearly Bellatrix Lestrange," Draco said coldly, glaring at the photograph. "My aunt—a notorious Death Eater."
Although he'd never met her in person, his parents always spoke of Bellatrix like she was completely insane. Her "accomplishments" were infamous—most notably, torturing Neville Longbottom's parents into madness with the Cruciatus Curse.
"She looks awful," Ron muttered, half-apologetic, half-disgusted.
Even without having seen her before, just hearing Bellatrix's name was enough to make his stomach churn.
Then something gleamed in the corner of his eye.
"What's that?" Ron asked, pointing toward a golden locket on the floor.
The locket shone richly, inlaid with bright green emeralds forming an elegant serpent-shaped "S."
"This is the one Sirius tried to throw away," Harry said quietly, recognition flashing in his eyes. "Kreacher must have picked it up."
He glanced at it—and then froze.
A sudden chill surged from the scar on his forehead, followed by a strange warmth pulsing in his chest. His body tensed.
It was that feeling again—the same one he felt whenever Voldemort was near.
"Wait—this…" Draco's eyes widened. "This is Slytherin's Locket!"
"Slytherin?" Harry's voice came out hoarse. His mind raced. Could this strange sensation really be connected to Voldemort… or to Slytherin himself?
After all, there was something he hadn't told anyone—not even Ron or Alexander: he could speak Parseltongue.
And, thanks to a quiet conversation he'd once had with Alexander Smith, he'd also learned that the Potters were distant relatives of the Gaunt family—Slytherin's last descendants.
Crack!
With a sharp pop, Kreacher appeared.
The house-elf looked even thinner than before, his wrinkled skin hanging loose over his small frame. Wisps of white hair sprouted from his bat-like ears, and his filthy rags clung to him like a second skin.
But his expression—this time—was different.
"Stay away from it!" Kreacher barked hoarsely. His tone was completely unlike the subservient, muttering elf they had known.
He didn't refer to himself in the third person. He didn't sneer "blood traitor" at Ron. He looked… terrified.
"Kreacher?" Ron said, startled. "You—what are you talking about?"
"Stay away from what?"
Draco's eyes darted to the locket. "It's that thing. Come on, let's go."
Ron nodded slowly. This was, after all, Kreacher's territory. Maybe they shouldn't have come here uninvited.
"Harry?" Ron turned back—but Harry hadn't moved. His feet were rooted to the floor.
Even Kreacher looked torn, his wrinkled face twisting in pain. It was as if two wills were battling within him.
Finally, he rasped, "Harry Potter may stay. Old Kreacher… must obey Master Regulus's command."
His voice broke. "Can Harry Potter destroy it? Just like he destroyed that man?"
Harry stared at him, startled.
"Harry, we should leave," Draco urged, grabbing Harry's wrist—then gasped and let go. "You're burning hot!"
Indeed, Harry's skin was feverishly warm. His heartbeat thundered in his chest as he stepped forward.
Kreacher's gaze filled with both hope and dread. Ron and Draco exchanged a frightened look. Alexander, watching silently from behind, could feel the air vibrate with dark energy.
Then Harry spoke, his voice low and sibilant—
> "Open."
The word slithered out in Parseltongue.
"Harry—you're a Parseltongue!" Draco stammered.
But Harry didn't respond. He was locked in a trance, eyes fixed on the locket.
The golden clasp clicked open with a faint snap.
Behind each tiny glass window was a blinking eye—alive, intelligent, and filled with malice.
A voice hissed from within:
> "I can sense your desires…"
It spoke in Parseltongue, yet somehow, everyone could understand.
> "Ron Weasley… you long to be as great as your father. To become a prefect. To be noticed."
"Draco Malfoy… you fear your parents will betray the Dark Lord."
"Kreacher… you wish to destroy me, yet I can give you what you crave—Regulus's return."
"All of you… I can make your wishes come true. You need only stop Harry Potter."
The locket's eyes rolled wildly, its hissing voice vibrating through their minds, seeping into their thoughts.
Ron and Draco's hands trembled as they raised their wands, caught in its spell.
Kreacher's lips quivered, tears streaming down his wrinkled face.
And Harry—his scar burning, his breath shallow—stood alone, facing the whispering darkness.
(End of Chapter 262)
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