Albert soared high above the towers of Azkaban. The prison's roof, never fully sealed, had made his escape shockingly easy. In the form of a great owl, he cut through the sky with ease, leaving the cursed fortress behind.
Two Days Later
The wind rushed through Albert's feathers as he flew, savoring the crisp air and the breathtaking scenery below—the deep green forests and jagged mountains painting a serene portrait of the world. His keen eyes caught sight of something familiar.
There, nestled in the heart of the woods, stood a grand black mansion. The same mansion he and his uncle, Regulus, had once fled.
Without hesitation, he descended. As he neared the ground, he shifted mid-air, his owl form dissolving into flesh and bone until his human feet touched the earth. He stepped onto the stone stairs and ascended toward the main door.
"Alohomora," he whispered, unlocking the door with ease.
Yet the moment his left foot crossed the threshold, a gravelly voice—thick with sorrow—echoed from inside.
"Welcome home, young master."
Albert's instincts flared. He raised a finger, ready to cast Petrificus Totalus, the Full Body-Bind Curse, toward the source of the voice. But then he saw the speaker.
It was only a house-elf.
And not just any elf—this was Kreacher, the ancient servant of the Black family. A flicker of recognition sparked in Albert's mind. Of course—Kreacher had served House Black for centuries, since the fourteenth century, if the family records were to be believed.
"Hello, Kreacher," Albert said softly. "How have you been?"
Kreacher scowled. "Where is that filthy Sirius? Is he dead too?"
Albert's face darkened. Insulting his father was a mistake. He pointed at Kreacher and uttered a sharp, firm command:
"Levicorpus."
A brilliant white light erupted from his fingertip, wrapping around Kreacher and lifting him into the air—ankles up, head down. What stunned the old elf more than the spell itself was how Albert had cast it—with no wand.
Kreacher suddenly broke into sobs, his bony limbs trembling.
"Waaaaah! Master Regulus was right! Waaah!"
Albert blinked in confusion. "Regulus was… right? What do you mean?" He released Kreacher from the spell, letting him fall gently to the floor.
Still sniffling, Kreacher answered, "I speak of Master Regulus..."
Albert's eyes widened. His father had written in a letter, instructing him to find out whether Regulus was alive. He knelt beside the elf, desperate.
"Tell me! Is my uncle… is he still alive?!"
Kreacher's lip quivered. "Master Regulus… is gone, young master. Waaah…"
The house-elf collapsed in tears, mourning the only member of the Black family who had ever treated him kindly.
Albert felt a sharp pang in his chest. He had only known his uncle for three short months, years ago. Yet the loss hit him hard.
"Who killed him?" Albert asked. "Please… tell me everything."
Kreacher nodded slowly, wiping his nose on his arm. "It was eleven years ago… after Master Regulus escaped from Azkaban to send you to your father…"
Kreacher explained how Voldemort's voice had appeared in his mind, ordering him to travel to Lake Florus. Years prior, when Regulus had still been a Death Eater, he'd instructed Kreacher to obey any mission Voldemort assigned him—no questions asked.
Kreacher hadn't known then that Regulus had already betrayed the Dark Lord, nor that Voldemort was actively hunting him. The Dark Lord needed Kreacher for one final errand before disposing of him.
He couldn't reach the Potter residence through standard wizard Apparition—only a house-elf could bypass its protections.
So Voldemort sent Kreacher on a twisted mission.
Upon arriving at the lake, Kreacher witnessed something disturbing—Voldemort wading through the water, smearing blood across his skin, chanting in a dark ritual. When he saw Kreacher, he gave a simple command:
"Take me to the house… deep in the Forbidden Forest. The region of Cyclaus."
Kreacher obeyed. He grasped Voldemort's hand and prepared to Apparate, though it would take a full ten seconds to complete the magical transport.
In those seconds, Regulus emerged from hiding.
The necklace—the locket—was in his hand, covered in enchanted chicken blood. He had used it to poison the ritual.
The moment Voldemort laid eyes on the locket, his body convulsed. A shriek of pain echoed through the woods.
"AAAAAAAAAARGH!"
Unbeknownst to the Dark Lord, chicken blood—deadly to serpents—was affecting his spirit. Voldemort's soul was tied to a serpent: the deadly cobra.
But his body, reborn through dark magic, was no longer the original. It protected him—slightly—but not completely.
As Voldemort writhed in agony, Kreacher broke free and ran to his master.
"Master! What are you doing here?!"
"There's no time," Regulus said urgently. "Take this locket. It holds a fragment of Voldemort's soul. You must protect it at all costs. Don't let it fall into his hands."
"Let's run together!" Kreacher begged.
"No! This is my end. But I believe… my nephew will one day save the world. Be his friend, Kreacher. Tell him… I wish him nothing but love and good fortune—"
Before he could finish, a green flash struck Regulus in the chest.
Avada Kedavra.
Regulus Black fell silently into the lake, lifeless.
The spell completed. Voldemort vanished, leaving behind death and grief.
Present Day
Albert stood in stunned silence. The original tale of Regulus's death had been different. He now knew—for certain—that his very presence in this timeline had changed the events.
"Where's the locket, Kreacher?" he asked softly.
The elf's eyes flared with fury.
"Curse that wretched locket! It took my master from me!"
Albert quickly cast Petrificus Totalus before Kreacher could spiral into a violent rage. The elf froze, still trembling.
"What happened to you?" Albert whispered.
"It's the locket!" Kreacher cried. "It carries darkness! Evil!"
"Please… calm yourself. I need it. I must see it."
Kreacher slowly relaxed, bound by oath to follow Albert's will. He nodded.
"Follow me."
They descended into a hidden room—empty, save for a bare stone wall.
Kreacher whispered a single word:
"Surgito."
The enchantments faded. A concealed cabinet shimmered into existence, revealing itself from the wall. Only the one who had cast the hiding spell—or one authorized by them—could break the enchantment.
Inside lay the locket, hanging by a silver chain encrusted with crystals. Its gemstone glowed an ominous green.
Albert reached out and took it.
The moment he touched the locket, he felt his pulse race. A dizziness overcame him. Whispers filled his mind—ghastly, cold whispers.
"Albert…" the voice crooned. "Your mother died… because of you. Let me in. Give me your will… and I'll give you power. The power to kill Voldemort. To avenge her. Just say yes…"
Before the voice could finish, Kreacher snatched the locket from Albert's hand and threw it back into the cabinet, slamming it shut.
Albert collapsed to the floor, gasping.
"Huff… Huff… What the hell was that?!"
His eyes widened in horror.
"If that locket had fallen into someone else's hands… they would have lost themselves completely."
Albert understood now—Horcruxes were far more dangerous than he'd imagined. Even after Voldemort's fall, they remained deadly. Just like how Ginny Weasley had nearly died in the or
iginal tale, ensnared by the cursed diary…
This was only the beginning.