Chapter Text
Kreacher was a very old elf who had watched many generations of Blacks be born, grow up, and die within the walls of Grimmauld Place. It was first built in 1820 by a Muggle shipping merchant, and “purchased” by Procyon Black in 1827 for a penny after it had been made clear to the Muggle it would be in his best interest to vacate the property. The Black family had remained enshrined within its walls ever since.
Kreacher had been young at the time, hardly more than a child, but already he was serving as Procyon's valet. He had been a good master. He had his… proclivities, but so did all the members of the Black family. Or, almost all. Orion liked to shove needles underneath the fingernails of his sons when they misbehaved. It was one of the reasons why Sirius had started painting his nails. Walburga enjoyed taxidermy and began the tradition of beheading the heads of her house-elves and mounting them to the wall. Bellatrix used to catch the neighborhood cats and curse them until they died, Sirius was obsessed with some mudblood from school, and Regulus – his Regulus, the baby that Kreacher had practically raised – was irrationally jealous of anything his brother had, whether that be their mother's attention, his title as heir, or that little mudblood he was always chasing.
Walburga had spent most of her time and effort training Sirius to be a proper Wizarding lord. Regulus had been left to cry in his crib. Kreacher had taken care of the baby, had fed him and changed him and played with him. He obeyed Walburga, loved her even, but Regulus belonged to him just as much as he belonged to Regulus. When the Dark Lord had asked for Kreacher, made him drink that vile potion and left him to die, it had been Regulus he had turned to and Regulus who had nursed him back to health.
And then he left, left to marry a mudblood.
Kreacher had eventually grown fond of Severus, but when they first met the two had hated one another. He remembered when Severus stepped inside Grimmauld that first time after Walburga's funeral, his eyes darting to the screaming portrait of Walburga and then up to where the heads of Kreacher's relatives were mounted, and had sneered, “Your mother wasn't one for decorating, was she?”
Severus Snape was not the proper Pureblood wife he had envisioned for Regulus when he had held him in his arms as a baby. Severus, despite his inferior position, was the one who barked orders and Regulus the one who obeyed; Regulus let him, he enjoyed it even. There were other flaws as well: Severus was confident in his own magical and intellectual abilities, too confident at times, too stubborn, too independent– he hadn't let Kreacher hold Lyra at all when she was born, insisting on doing everything himself, and had only allowed the old house-elf to change Rigel's nappies when Regulus had explained he was breaking Kreacher's poor heart.
But Severus had his good qualities. He was loyal, dedicated, self-sacrificing. He would do whatever it took to preserve the family, like Kreacher. So when Severus sought Kreacher's eyes in the darkness, he knew what his master wanted.
Sirius was gripping two wands in one blood-stained hand hastily wrapped in a tea towel, and in the other he had a firm grip on Rigel's arm as he half-dragged the boy out of the master bedroom. Severus ran after them, crying out, “Sirius, wait!”
“Thought you'd lot been spared,” Sirius was muttering to himself, still more than a little drunk. “Thought all that Muggle in you would keep the darkness out, but you're just like Bella, aren't you? Just like dear old Mother. She liked her knives too. Gonna have to start over again from scratch. S'alright, Sev's still young enough.”
When he reached the nursery he opened the door and tossed Rigel in. “Start packing,” he barked out. “You're going straight to St. Mungo's in the morning.”
Severus tried to throw himself past Sirius to reach his son, but the other man was bigger, taller and pushed him back. He slammed the door closed and locked it with a spell, ignoring Rigel's screams as he pounded against the wood.
“You can't do this! He did nothing wrong!” Severus yelled, once more trying for the door.
Sirius again pushed him away, hard enough to send Severus crashing into the wall. “Nothing wrong?!” Sirius spat and, taking the wands in his non-dominant hand, he ripped the tea towel away to show the hole Rigel had left in the center of his palm. “Look what he did to me! What do you call that!?”
“He was trying to protect me!” Severus said as he climbed back up to his feet, closing the distance between them until their noses were almost touching. “What were you even doing in my room?!”
“Nothing! I just– I wanted to see you.”
Severus scoffed. “See me? Your hand was close enough for Rigel to stab.”
“I just wanted to touch your hair, feel it. It looks soft–” And Sirius lifted his hand, as if he was going to run his fingers through the black strands.
Severus jerked his head away, taking a half-step back and Sirius let his hand drop. “My family didn't get Bella the help she needed and now she's rotting away in Azkaban,” Sirius said. His tone sounded so reasonable, so even. “I'm not going to make the same mistake. Rigel will go to St. Mungo's where he'll be evaluated. He'll stay there until he's no longer a danger to others.”
“You can't do that. I don't care if you are Lord Black now, you are not his parent. I am.”
“It's out of your hands. After doing something like this–” again, Sirius held up the gaping hole for Severus to see. “–and my family history, the authorities will make you comply. No one wants another Bellatrix running around.”
Severus was breathing hard, glancing between Sirius and the door, calculating his odds of making it past him.
“Severus,” Sirius cajolled, his voice turning soft and gentle as he edged closer. “This isn't the end of the world. You can have other sons.”
Severus's eyes drifted away from the door to stare into the shadows that surrounded them in the darkened hall. Severus could not see Kreacher, but he knew he was there, made invisible with a magic only house-elves knew. Severus looked for only a second longer, trying to force his thoughts into Kreacher's head.
Then he turned back to Sirius and lunged for the wands.
“Damn it, Snivellus!” Sirius screamed with one arm wrapped around Severus's waist, still holding the wands high above their heads. Severus tried to wiggle free of Sirius's grip and kicked out with his feet, hitting the wall and knocking a hole in the plaster. “Stop fighting!”
Severus dug his fingernails into the arm gripping his waist and raked downward. Beads of blood bubbled up.
Sirius hefted Severus back up the stairs, toward the master bedroom, shouting curses all the while. “I'm going to lock you in there for a week! Maybe then you'll cool down!”
But when Sirius reached the bedroom and opened the door, Severus suddenly twisted in his grip. He leaned forward and Sirius was sure that Severus going to bite his throat open; instead a pair of thin lips crashed into his and Sirius stumbled back a half-step from the force of the kiss.
Severus bit down on his bottom lip, hard enough to bleed, before pulling away to glare up at Sirius with a mixture of rage and lust burning in his dark eyes. They were both breathing heavily as they stared at one another.
“Don't even think of going for the wands,” Sirius growled, taking only a moment to tuck them away, and then he was reaching up and sinking his hand into that black hair, tugging on it as he pulled Severus into another kiss.
Kreacher emerged from the shadows when he heard the master bedroom door slam shut. He snapped his fingers and the nursery door opened just as Rigel slammed against it with the full force of his body. He landed face-first on the rug; tears were starting to well in his eyes but he didn't stop to cry. He sat up, looked around, and demanded, “Where's Papa?”
“Distracting Sirius,” Kreacher answered, and said nothing more.
There came a shout from upstairs and Rigel scrambled to his feet as he bounded for the staircase, in the direction of his mother's voice. But before he could take another step, a bony hand grabbed onto his wrist. Rigel only had a moment to ask, “What–?” before he felt himself being pulled through space, navel-first.
A mixture of grass and sand appeared beneath his hands as Rigel struggled to reorient himself. He could hear waves crashing, and the smell of the sea. High above him the stars twinkled. As he staggered to his feet, he saw a villa perched precariously on a cliff.
“Kreacher?”
Rigel froze in shock at the sound of Father's voice. He turned around slowly, and saw Father emerge from a copse of trees, wearing a dirty cloak, his face obscured by the full beard that had appeared on his face. As his eyes drifted downward, Rigel noticed a funny thing about his father– he was lopsided. Where one arm ended in a hand, rough and cracked and bleeding, the other stopped at the elbow.
Rigel could no longer keep the tears at bay and broke down with a sob.
He felt an arm wrap around him but it was wrong, wrong. There was only one arm when there should have been two; how could Father keep them safe now? How could he protect them? He couldn't even hug properly.
“Kreacher! Kreacher!” Regulus shouted.
“Kreacher is here, sir. Kreacher has the potions Master Severus was brewing,” the house-elf said as he stepped forward.
“Where is Severus? He was supposed to be here, where–”
Kreacher didn't answer and Regulus bit off this last question, choking it back, and pulled his son closer to him.