HP: Monochrome

Demon.

It was an apt epithet for the thing Harry found himself becoming in his nightmares. Despite all attempts, he could never remember anything aside from a grizzly mass of shadows lining in and around raw bones with something that couldn't be considered a mouth in any form. And that alien feeling— the hunger, the urge to kill, the absolute knowledge that the world itself was his to swallow—

He shook his head. He'd have more time for reflection later.

"Why do you call me that?"

Kreacher— yes, thinking of it as Kreacher rather than the Lar was infinitely easier and more palatable than the molten darkness that he'd seen it arise from — merely tilted his head, his expression enigmatic and not at all friendly.

"You cannot possibly be that stupid."

Harry folded his arms. "I have dreams about it. I don't understand even a bit of what it means, but given everything that's been happening to me recently, that's not too surprising. But if you're actually the House," he narrowed his eyes, "then you must know something about the wraith that attacked me."

Kreacher remained silent.

"Sirius told me I was family," he pressed on. "That's why the Mind Fog around the House doesn't affect me. So then why did the wraith attack me? What is it? Who is it?"

The elf's ears flopped from one side to the other as he shook his head.

Harry growled. "I'm a son of the House of Black. This is the Black Manor. It's my right to know if there's something in my own home that wants to kill me."

"Oh?" As Kreacher smiled, the darkness behind him deepened. "I want to kill you, Harry Potter."

He withheld the flinch that was about to escape him. "Because you think I'm annoying?"

"Because I would enjoy it." Kreacher paused for a moment, seemingly in thought. "But also because you annoy me."

"It's one of my many gifts," Harry snarked back. "Asking annoying questions is another. Besides you, is there anyone, or anything, in this house that wants to kill me?"

"I house many secrets, several of which are beyond my ability to discern and reveal."

A non-answer. How wonderful.

"And you keep these secrets contained?"

The elf's eyes brightened. "As the Lar of House Black, I am the walls. The floor. The wards. I am ORDER."

"…Right. And these secrets you keep, are they going to be dangerous?"

"Secrets are always dangerous, Harry Potter. But they have the least opportunity to express it when I am awake."

Harry nervously swallowed. That was probably the closest thing he would get to an answer from the Lar. "Fine then," he scoffed, growing annoyed with this whole ordeal. "Tell me about the wraith."

…

"Mistress Walburga." The name was uttered no louder than a whisper, yet Harry heard it clear as day. The tone behind Kreacher's words was haunting and odd, as if he was referencing the name with both reverence and hatred at the same time.

And he recognized it instantly, too.

"Sirius's mom?"

Kreacher let out a rumbling laugh. "The Mistress was the last of the believers of Toujours Pur. After the demise of the Dark Lord, she grew restless and worried. Traumatised that mudbloods and muggle-lovers alike would come for her, to ruin her pure House of Black. In her paranoia, she cast a curse upon this House, powered by self-sacrifice, to keep it forever unwelcome to blood-traitors, mudbloods, beasts, and the like. Even being called a godson of Master Sirius Black was not enough to negate the curse layered upon the wardstone of the Manor."

It didn't take a genius to connect the dots. "So Walburga Black remained a wraith to keep people like me from coming into her home. She and the doxies—" he quickly glanced around, wondering if he was going to be attacked again. "What became of her anyway?"

Kreacher tilted his head again. "Are you feigning ignorance, Demon?"

"Quit calling me that," Harry snapped back. "And no, I don't know anything about it."

The guardian-deity of House Black let out a soft, rumbling chuckle. The noise grated against Harry's ears. "You erased her."

He stared. "I… what?"

"You. Erased. Her," Kreacher slowly repeated, as if speaking to a small, dull child. "The curse layered upon her sacrifice is now neutered. With Lord Black taking ownership of the wardstone, all lingering traces of the enchantment will be voided."

Harry let out a breath he didn't even know he was holding. This was all good news. But—

"How come nothing attacked me while Sirius was here?"

Kreacher's eyes gleamed.

"No, wait. Nevermind. Sirius is the Lord, and attacking me in his presence would involve him. Walburga Black does seem like the type to sneak up on teenagers when they're alone and vulnerable."

The elf cackled. "One wonders how it is possible to be so vague yet accurate all at once."

A small grin slipped onto Harry's face. Had someone told him three months ago that he'd be trading quips with an ancient, cruel, murderous manifestation of a House that possessed an elf, he'd have asked them if they spent too long breathing in fumes from Potions class.

"I have another question."

Kreacher shook his head. "As expected of annoying, meddlesome half-bloods. Speak."

"What do you know about House Peverell?"

Kreacher looked at him with incomprehension.

"What," Harry repeated, "do you know about the Peverells?"

A small frown appeared on the elf's ancient face. "Apparently, nothing. Has it anything to do with House Black?" he looked at Harry curiously. "Enlighten me."

"Ah," Harry mused, quickly realising the problem. This was the House he was talking to, and the House only cared about its members, secrets, laws, and customs. It didn't care one whit about things outside of that— political factions, other Houses, the price of tea in China, and so on.

Groaning, Harry looked up. He had a Wizengamot trial in less than three weeks, where he'd be judged by a compromised, corrupt Ministry for a crime he didn't even remember committing. He'd lost his faithful wand, and his magic was still fluctuating, and he had OWLs the upcoming year. He apparently transformed into something bestial that even a murder-happy House-possessed elf saw fit to call a Demon. He was the descendant of a family that got even the bloodthirsty goblin race excited for some reason he did not yet know.

And above all else, Voldemort had returned from the dead and was coming after him.

Great.

"The sad part is," he tiredly sighed, "this all actually feels normal. How bent is that?"

Kreacher growled softly, but said nothing.

"Same old, same old," Harry darkly muttered under his breath as he headed for the stairs, cutting his conversation with the house-elf short. "Still, it's nice to see that some things never change."

The heavy door swung open, and Sirius's eyes roved over every last detail of the room.

His grandfather's study looked exactly like the last time he'd entered.

There was a roaring fire in the hearth to his right. A wide cherry desk sat in the top-right corner of the room; a matching table ran the length of the right wall and had an old pensieve as the central ornament. A tall cherry cabinet filled half the wallspace, floor to ceiling, to his left, no doubt containing intelligence, secrets, and blackmail material on a number of individuals and families. The rest of the walls were covered in bookshelves stacked tightly with all sorts of texts.

Stepping across the threshold, Sirius closed the door behind him and made his way over to the desk. Surprisingly, it was clean, devoid of dust and debris— just like Regulus's room, this one was kept under the care of status charms. And right above the desk, perched upon the wall, was a sleeping portrait of his grandfather.

Arcturus Sirius Black.

Summoning his Gryffindor courage and harnessing his Will as Lord Black, he touched the frame with his wand.

"Wake up," he whispered.

A ripple passed over the surface of the painting, and Arcturus Black, who was peacefully sleeping on a painted couch, stirred awake. His eyes blinked rapidly, before he stood up, straightening his robes. The man's face slowly twisted into a haughty, regal look as he gracefully took a seat on the reclining couch once more.

"Do I look fine?" he asked, extending his arms out.

Sirius rolled his eyes. Despite the man's grave demeanour, he was prone to melodrama and vanity at the most inopportune moments. Hell, half the time he'd seen the man on his visits to their château in Normandy, he'd found his grandfather preening in front of a mirror.

"Vanity, thy name is Arcturus Black."

"Sirius," the old man rumbled, his stormy grey eyes meeting Sirius's own. "I would say it's a surprise, but then I would be lying."

"You knew I'd come back someday?"

"Of course. After all, you are my Heir."

Sirius didn't know whether to feel complimented or insulted by that statement. Arcturus Black was, after all, a stone-cold, vindictive bastard as far as the wizarding world was concerned.

"What year is it?" the man in the portrait suddenly asked.

"1995."

Arcturus cupped his chin. "I see. The last time I was updated was in 1981. In Normandy, I believe. The dragon-pox took me after that, I'm afraid."

Sirius nodded. The château in Normandy was one of the prime locations his grandfather had in mind, should the war turn south and he be forced to settle for an escape plan.

"I heard you were incarcerated and sent to prison. I did not wish to see Narcissa's spawn grow up and usurp my mantle." His eyes glowed brighter. "But now you have come as Lord Black, to take the mantle from me. You stand as I once stood in front of my father's portrait nearly a century ago."

"Sirius Arcturus Black. I know."

"When you were born, I recognized the spark in you. The very same spark that existed in both myself and my father— the blessings and curses of Tezcatlipoca." He paused. "Tell me, Lord Black, how did you become the Lord of the same House you had forsaken all those years ago?"

Sirius felt his grandfather's eyes rove over his face, feeling the familiar eeriness of having his mind read despite it being a portrait. The real deal had been an accomplished legilimens, and yet a mere facsimile could make him feel the same.

That in itself said a lot about Arcturus Sirius Black.

"I didn't return to the family for the name or power or authority it grants me," he proclaimed, gathering his thoughts carefully before speaking. "I returned for one reason, and one only. Because my godson needs me, and House Black offers him the best protection I can provide."

"Ah, yes," Arcturus's lips slightly twisted. "Harry Potter. The half-blood."

Sirius dangerously narrowed his eyes. "Half-blood or not, he is still my godson."

"More than that, I'd imagine," the portrait sneered. "Still, the brat has managed to bring back my Heir to his rightful place. For that alone, he has my blessings. As a son to the House of Black, several new doors will be opened to him."

Sirius scoffed. "The half-blood brat, as you call him, already has many doors open to him. He did bring about the end of the Dark Lord, after all."

"Tosh, grandson," Arcturus chuckled. "We both know that the pretender did nothing to earn such a title. He is a deviant, a leech who feeds upon magics he has no right to wield. A swindler who preys upon the ambitions and expectations of those with pure blood in their veins, upon their desires and naked ambitions."

That… actually described Voldemort to a tee. But still, Sirius didn't back down.

"He is also the Potter of the Potter family. He almost claimed the Von Hohenheim name through his mother's side. And most importantly," Sirius smirked, "he's an affirmed and acknowledged descendant of the Peverells."

The portrait froze.

"What?"

"He's a true descendant of Peverell. Ignotus Peverell, from his father's side."

"A true Peverell…" Arcturus croaked, with something akin to awe. "Does he… does he know about his inheritance? About his history?"

"It hasn't come up yet," Sirius said. "We found out about it earlier this morning. I've never seen the goblins that excited before."

"They would be," his grandfather snorted. "You have made him a son of House Black, you say. A good decision. One might wonder if you knew about the family connection from the onset."

"What do you think?"

"Of course you didn't," Arcturus sighed, before frowning again. "Tell me this, Sirius. Unless I altered the Black Charter after updating my portrait— a behaviour I would find most vexing —how did you manage to adopt the boy into our family?"

Sirius smirked again. This was going to be a long discussion. But he was going to enjoy it.