Let's shift our focus for a moment, away from Malfoy Manor and back to the old Black House.
Let's see what's been happening since Hermione Granger returned from France and started brewing this month's batch of Wolfsbane Potion.
For Hermione, nothing at the Black house seemed to have changed much.
The portrait of the acid-tongued Mrs. Black remained a constant headache for Sirius. She still popped out unexpectedly from behind the newly hung velvet curtains, "welcoming" every guest who dared to enter the Black mansion with a screeching tirade.
Kreacher still refused to so much as glance at her. He always served her delicate dishes with the olives carefully picked out, or fresh fruit arranged like little works of art, his face stern throughout. He was the only one in the house who loved the lady of the house, and whenever he wasn't busy with his chores, he would stand before her portrait and listen to her rail against everything in the world that failed to meet her standards of nobility.
Crookshanks remained as proud and mischievous as ever. Every so often the cat would slip into Harry's room on patrol, much to the annoyance of Ron and his owl, Pig; then he would slink down from the third floor, settle sullenly in front of Sirius in the second-floor living room, and watch him drink with an air of pure disdain.
Still, some subtle changes hadn't escaped Hermione's notice.
The potion-making workshop, for one, now held an even greater abundance of rare ingredients.
"Hermione, you really have to hear about your boyfriend's ridiculous house-elf!" Ginny sat on a high stool, swinging her legs, watching with great interest as Hermione worked on a batch of Forgetfulness Potion.
"Dobby?" Hermione asked, surprised.
"That's the one!" Ginny said, delighted.
"One day Dobby just knocked on the door of the Black family mansion, and it scared Ron half to death — he said he'd never seen a house-elf that looked so much like a Christmas tree!"
Hermione, picking through the mistletoe berries, said, "Dobby's fashion sense is certainly... unique."
"He was so excited — said he'd just gotten back from a trip to Africa and brought me a whole pile of souvenirs. Then he pulled an enormous heap of potion ingredients out of that tiny bag of his — I'd bet anything it has an Undetectable Extension Charm on it — and just about buried the room in them," Ginny said. "He also gave Harry two mismatched socks, one yellow and one blue, and Harry just stood there stunned."
Hermione held a berry up to the sunlight streaming through the window, studying its color.
"That's probably Dobby's favorite thing to give," she said lightly. "He adores odd socks."
"Really? I'll have to tell Harry that," Ginny said. "He thought the elf was playing a joke on him."
At that, Hermione went suddenly still.
"Ginny, I've just realized something." She beamed at her. "You're not avoiding Harry anymore — you actually talk to him now!"
"Yes, and your advice really did help. I tried it, and it worked out well," Ginny said proudly. "Our conversations aren't awkward at all. Sometimes they're even nice."
"Wonderful! I knew you could do it," Hermione said happily. "In that case, I won't keep it from you any longer either. When I was in Paris—"
A few minutes later, a wail rang out from the potion-making room.
"Hermione, I can't believe it!"
In the next room, Ron jumped so hard he nearly sent his chess piece the wrong way.
The black-clad knight sniffed at him disdainfully. "You very nearly made a grave mistake, sir."
"That wasn't my fault!" Ron said hotly to the knight. "My sister scared me half out of my skin!"
Harry glanced toward the potions room with interest. "I doubt she meant to."
If Ginny had heard that, she'd have agreed wholeheartedly — Harry was right.
Startling Ron with a loud outburst had never been Ginny Weasley's goal — it was simply the fallout of "expressing her outrage at Hermione."
In the potions room, eyes wide, Ginny had jumped off her stool and was staring at Hermione in disbelief. "You went and had afternoon tea with Cho Chang behind my back — all the way in Paris?"
"Oh, Ginny, don't make such a fuss," Hermione said, unbothered. "I didn't go there specifically to have tea with her. It just happened."
She set down the mistletoe berries and turned instead to the brass scales, weighing out the valerian.
"She's lovely, actually. Quite different from what I expected—"
"No, I refuse to accept this!" Ginny surged forward, seized Hermione's hand, and said, thoroughly wounded, "You had afternoon tea with another girl before you ever had it with me — that's the most normal girl thing in the world, and we've never once done it together!"
"Ginny, we live in the same house! We eat every meal together!" Hermione said, startled. "What, would you like to have tea with me?"
She nodded toward the two mugs sitting on the table by the stool.
"Clink your cup against mine any time you like. The black tea in there is rather good," she said with a smile.
Ginny ignored the offer entirely, unwilling to accept the substitute.
She simply stared at Hermione, a mixture of grief and indignation on her face, tears welling in her eyes.
"It's not the same! I'd bet your afternoon tea was terribly proper—"
"It was a bit formal, yes. But why does that bother you so much?" Hermione asked, baffled. "Does Cho Chang have some sort of grudge against you?"
Ginny's face darkened. "Hermione, please, don't pretend you don't know why!"
"Ginny, honestly, her relationship with Cedric is quite solid — you have nothing to worry about there," Hermione said. "And didn't you just say you and Harry get along well now?"
"Of course we do!" Ginny beamed, let go of Hermione's hand, and crossed her arms proudly.
Hermione breathed a sigh of relief and glanced back at the color of the liquid in her cauldron, satisfied.
A few seconds later, realization dawned on Ginny all over again.
"Don't you dare change the subject, Hermione Granger. Turn around, you sly thing! And that's not the only reason!" she snapped. "I'm your best friend, aren't I?"
"Of course you are — you always will be," Hermione agreed, before catching herself.
She opened her eyes wide and stared at the flushed, indignant girl in front of her.
"Ginny Weasley, don't tell me you're jealous of me!"
"Of course I'm jealous of you! Completely jealous!" Ginny exclaimed, tugging at a strand of her wavy orange-red hair. "Look at this — it's all frizzed up with jealousy!"
"Forgive my bluntness, but that's just how you slept on it — it'll be fine after a wash," Hermione said, without mercy.
"You heartless girl!" Ginny let her hair drop, looking wounded. "I've realized something — best-friendship is a one-way street sometimes! My best friend can't just be taken from me!"
"Oh, you silly thing." Hermione added water from the River of Oblivion to the cauldron, equal parts amused and exasperated. "I'm honored to remind you that I'm always on your one-way street of best friends, and I have no intention of wandering off onto anyone else's."
She considered a moment, then added, "But surely we don't mind making other friends? You were happy enough when Fleur came for tea at the Black house last time, weren't you?"
"That's true." Ginny pouted. "So — if she and someone else invited you to tea on the same day, who would you choose? Would you choose me first? Do I have absolute priority among your friends?"
"Do you place that much value on priority?" Hermione asked.
"I value it enormously!" Ginny said stubbornly, her voice still a touch childlike. "As long as you promise I'm your best friend, I can accept you having other friends too."
"Ginny, I've noticed you're a bit possessive," Hermione said, coaxing the flame beneath the cauldron with her wand. "Aside from me, do you have any other close friends your own age, in your year?"
"Honestly? Not really," Ginny said quietly. "First year, I spent most of my time with that diary — terrified someone would find out about it — and never had much chance to make friends."
"Oh, poor Ginny—" Hermione crossed to her side and hugged her gently.
Ginny hugged her back, subdued. "By second year, everyone had already found their best friend."
Hermione fell silent, stroking Ginny's orange-red hair the way she might stroke Crookshanks' fur.
"My classmates and roommates are all lovely, of course, and we get on well." Ginny tried to sound brighter. "But every girl has a 'best friend,' don't they? The one-of-a-kind sort you whisper secrets to in bed."
After a moment, Hermione said softly, "Ginny, haven't we been whispering to each other this whole time? Aren't we already that, my best friend?"
"That's true!" Ginny laughed, her disappointment melting away.
She added, a little embarrassed, "Was I being silly, getting jealous like that?"
"Not at all. I think my best friend is adorable, and I treasure this friendship." Hermione patted her head. "But we shouldn't stop making new friends just because we already have a 'best friend,' should we?"
Just then Ron pushed open the door to the potion-making room.
"Ginny, Hermione, Harry wants to know if you'd like to come down to the kitchen for tea—"
The next second his eyes went wide at the sight of the two girls curled up together in the fading light.
"I've gone blind — what are you two even doing?" He looked at them, baffled and faintly disgusted, unable to make sense of the display. "Honestly, girls!"
"Shut up, Ron! All talk and no action, you wouldn't understand!" Ginny said, flushing. "All you know how to do is sneak owls out at night, don't you?"
"Ginny, leave me out of this!" Ron threw up his hands in surrender. "Hermione, are you two coming or not?"
"On our way! Ginny, Ron, you two go ahead." Hermione, hands behind her back, discreetly pointed her wand at the crucible in the corner where the Wolfsbane Potion simmered, quietly snuffed the flame beneath it, then said, "Look, there are only a few steps left on the Forgetfulness Potion — I'll join you the moment it's done."
That Hermione brewed Wolfsbane for Lupin was a secret kept at the old Black house.
On the surface, she was simply obsessed with researching and replicating all manner of strange and wonderful potions — otherwise, how could she explain any of it to Harry and the others?
They didn't even know who the majority shareholder of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was.
At that very moment, said shareholder was sending her a message through the ring: Any news today?
"Ginny's decided she has priority among my friendships," Hermione said, laughing.
"Should that worry me?" he asked, skeptical.
"Not remotely," she said cheerfully. "What are you up to?"
"A tedious gathering of friends and acquaintances," he said, resigned.
"My deepest sympathies," she said, smiling.
"Is that a hint of schadenfreude I detect?" he asked, feigning offense.
She smiled and changed the subject.
"Anyway," she said proudly, "I've just finished the Wolfsbane Potion."
"Good — at least," Draco murmured, half to the ring, "one of us is doing something worthwhile."
Hermione stared at the ring, a sudden worry stirring in her chest.
There was a hint of weariness in his words — he must have had an exhausting day.
"I need to go," he said, hurried.
"Try to find something you enjoy doing," she suggested quickly.
"I will. You too, all right?" he said.
Hermione nodded solemnly at the ring and smiled a little.
She bottled the finished Wolfsbane Potion, cast a warming charm over it, tucked it into her beaded bag, and finally made her way down to the kitchen.
Sirius Black sat at the kitchen table, as eccentric as ever, cheerfully encouraging Harry and Ron to transfigure the row of gleaming, sharp cleavers bearing the Black family crest into paper airplanes.
"I don't know," Ron said uneasily, a fistful of jelly slugs in hand. "Mum always says underage wizards can't do magic during the holidays — not even in a wizarding house."
"Ron's a good boy about that." Ginny stood beside Hermione, holding a plate of chocolate balls, and rolled her eyes. "At home he doesn't even dare charm a knife to peel potatoes. Has to do it by hand like Mum says. Completely hopeless."
Listening to Ginny, Hermione couldn't help but remember her own summer at the Burrow.
Mrs. Weasley had always been fairly strict about whether the children were allowed to use magic.
She held the younger ones to the Ministry's rules and forbade any spellcasting in a house that was, ironically, filled to the brim with magical objects — an impossible standard to actually enforce.
Ginny had always been outwardly obedient and inwardly anything but.
On the surface she agreed readily to whatever Mrs. Weasley asked; behind closed doors, she'd levitate things with her wand the second her mother's back was turned, or drag Hermione up to her room to practice spells.
And if Mrs. Weasley heard a strange noise and came knocking to ask about it, Ginny would shamelessly pass the blame along.
"Oh, Mum, you must have misheard," she'd say, sickly sweet. "That's just Fred and George, next door."
At which point Hermione, prompted by a look from Ginny, would smile earnestly at Mrs. Weasley, the very picture of honest innocence.
Mrs. Weasley usually believed the nonsense, though she'd frown and go knock, suspicious, on the door marked "F & G."
It was usually George who answered.
He'd glance at them lazily, sometimes toss them a wink, then tell his mother, helpless and self-righteous all at once, "Yeah, that was us, Mum. Didn't mean to."
Mrs. Weasley would grumble at them for a good while, but they always talked her round to smiling in the end.
You might say that across that entire summer at the Burrow, some strange, unspoken "scapegoat service" run by the Weasley twins let the girls slip past every one of Mrs. Weasley's attempts to catch them at illicit magic.
(GEORGE & FRED: "Do you think we're doing this voluntarily?" — Cut to some time earlier — the young master leaning back leisurely behind his desk, arms crossed, addressing the two startled Weasley brothers in the tone of a man negotiating a contract: "As majority shareholder of Wheezes, I'm entitled to ask my two partners to provide a certain someone with appropriate cover, protection, or, if needed, a scapegoat. Any objections? No? Good. Naturally, Hermione doesn't need to know any of this.")
At the Black house, though, everything was rather different.
Hermione had found that they no longer needed to hide at all, because Sirius couldn't care less whether underage wizards used their wands under his roof.
"Those Ministry incompetents will never sort it out," said one of the Black family's greatest rebels, waving a hand at Ron with lofty arrogance. "As long as there's a grown wizard in the house, they can't tell who cast what. And this house has enchantments that scramble their detection anyway — use your wands however you like."
He glanced smugly at his godson, who beamed back at him, thoroughly pleased.
"Isn't that convenient, Harry? You should invite that Muggle aunt of yours over for dinner and give her a proper talking-to."
"Sirius, she's an unarmed Muggle!" Hermione couldn't help interjecting. "There's no need to exaggerate what she's capable of!"
"Hermione, if you'd heard the way she talks, you might feel differently," Harry said, entirely without remorse, and set to enthusiastically polishing the row of gleaming cleavers as Sirius had suggested.
"That's the spirit!" Sirius grinned and laughed. "James always said—"
Hermione shot him a sharp look.
In the quiet that followed, Sirius seemed to pause, aware of what he'd nearly said. But to everyone's surprise, this time he didn't fall silent.
He cleared his throat and finished the thought anyway.
"James always said, if you want to take an interest in Transfiguration, you've got to learn to play with it first."
"I think my dad's exactly right!" Harry said loudly, grinning ear to ear.
"That's right, I want to play too!" Ginny abruptly deposited the plate of chocolate balls in Hermione's startled hands, stepped forward, and drew her wand to join the paper-airplane offensive.
Harry turned and smiled at her, his own wand suddenly moving with a great deal more enthusiasm.
"Ginny, Mum won't like this—" Ron said from the sidelines, mouth full of pumpkin pasty, trying weakly to stop her.
"Watch it!" Ginny shot him a look. "Or I'll read out loud, right here, whatever Pig delivered to you today—"
Harry burst out laughing.
"Fine!" Ron muttered, giving up the fight, unwrapping a chocolate frog instead. "I only wanted to ask — d'you all want to play Quidditch in the backyard later?"
"Of course we're playing," Ginny said, delighted, "just as soon as we've turned that last knife into a paper airplane!"
Hermione shook her head, watched them, and smiled too.
While Harry and the others ran off to the backyard for Quidditch, Kreacher bustled into the kitchen to start on that night's feast — herb-roasted pork ribs — only to freeze at the sight of paper airplanes scattered across the floor.
Where had the knives gone? He looked up at the bare wall, lips twitching, an entire uncut rack of Iberian black pork ribs balanced on one arm, thoroughly at a loss.
At that moment there were only two people in the kitchen: the mistress's most despised son, and the Mudblood girl Kreacher had to grit his teeth and serve dutifully.
"Why don't you go play Quidditch in the backyard?" Sirius asked Hermione.
"I suspect I'm not the sort of gifted Quidditch witch people seem to think," Hermione said lightly, drawing the last dose of that month's Wolfsbane Potion from her beaded bag and setting it in front of Sirius.
Sirius shrugged, tucked the warm crystal bottle away quickly, then glanced at Kreacher, still frozen in the doorway.
"Kreacher, what are you standing there for?" he asked, impatient.
Hermione turned and found Kreacher staring down, baffled, at a paper airplane lying at his feet.
"Sorry, Kreacher, it's a bit of a mess in here — we were practicing Transfiguration," she said. "Shall I conjure you a knife for now?"
Kreacher remained expressionless and rooted in place, refusing to so much as acknowledge her.
Hermione was used to being ignored by now. She began waving her wand, silently setting the room to rights and restoring the row of knives to the wall.
Sirius held his glass, considering, then gave an approving nod.
"Hermione, James would be impressed with you — that spell was very smoothly cast."
Hermione looked pleased despite herself, though she made a show of modesty.
"You should see Draco's Transfiguration — he always makes it look effortless. Oh—" She stopped, surprised. "Who did this? A spoon got caught in the crossfire."
She waved her wand and silently set the large soup ladle, once a paper airplane, onto the shelf beside the knives.
Kreacher was trembling with fury.
"The young master does love his little jokes," Kreacher muttered, glaring at the newly restored cleavers with his bloodshot, tennis-ball eyes — never once looking at Hermione — and hissed to himself in his bullfrog-like voice, "Oh, poor mistress... what would she say, if she knew what's become of her prized kitchen knives?"
"Kreacher, turning that airplane back into a knife shouldn't take you long," Sirius said lazily, pouring himself a Firewhisky.
Kreacher startled as if jolted awake and bowed hastily and deeply to Sirius.
For him, that posture was clearly agony.
Even mid-bow he had to keep the rack of ribs held high in one thin arm — a comical, pitiful sight — as though terrified of dropping it.
"Stand up," Sirius said, impatient. "Tell me — did you hang the new curtains over the portrait in the hallway?"
The little elf straightened, hoisted the ribs back onto his shoulder, and muttered furiously under his breath, clearly certain no one could hear him.
"Oh, those curtains — the mistress wept and refused to let them be changed, and Kreacher had to talk her round for ages. The mistress hates the young master. The young master broke his mother's heart, threatened her with a sword, said he'd slash her portrait's face. Oh, how it grieved her."
"My mother doesn't have a heart, Kreacher. She runs entirely on spite," Sirius said irritably. "And she started it, by the way."
"Whatever the young master says," Kreacher muttered on, lowering his voice, "oh, my poor mistress, what would she say if she saw who'd been let into her house? She cried to Kreacher for half an hour this morning... Mudbloods, blood traitors, unruly children, and the occasional werewolf — is there no peace left in this house at all?"
"Keep it up and I can't promise this family won't produce a murderer after all," Sirius said, glaring at him.
"Sirius, I think sometimes he doesn't realize we can hear him," Hermione said, uneasy. "He might just be talking to himself."
"I expect so. He's been alone in this house too long, and he's picked up some nasty habits from the Dark artifacts that used to be lying around," Sirius said, meaningfully.
Hermione nodded. That vile Horcrux, hidden in the Slytherin locket, had almost certainly warped Kreacher's mind over the years, and its effects weren't likely to fade quickly.
"And more than that — for over a decade he's lived alongside my mother's portrait, taking her increasingly deranged orders day and night. That kind of influence doesn't just wash out," Sirius said.
"What if you set him free?" Hermione said hopefully. "Maybe—"
"You really don't give up, do you, Hermione?" Sirius gave her a half-smile.
He turned to the still-muttering elf. "Kreacher — Miss Hermione Granger here thinks I should give you some clothes. Would you like that?"
The rib rack slipped from Kreacher's shoulder and hit the floor with a thud.
He let out a scream that could curdle blood.
Then he lunged toward the fireplace — or rather, the poker resting beside it.
Hermione's cry of "No!" and Kreacher's shriek mingled together; but neither was as loud as Sirius's roar: "Stop! Kreacher, I order you not to move!"
Before he could reach the poker, Kreacher stopped short, his legs buckled, and he crumpled to the floor in a disheveled heap.
Hermione rushed to check on him and found him lying stiff on the cold stone, tears streaming from his sunken eyes.
"Kreacher, why? Why would you hurt yourself?" she asked, distressed. Kreacher lay by the dusty hearth, sobbing and wailing, still ignoring her entirely.
So she turned to Sirius instead. "Sirius, help him up."
"So he can go finish the job with the fireplace, or the poker?" Sirius said dryly.
"We can't just leave him on the floor," Hermione said softly.
Sirius shook his head, took a sip of his drink, and decided to humor her.
"Kreacher. Stand up. Don't kill yourself."
Kreacher shakily got to his feet, bracing his aching back, and finally looked Hermione properly in the eye — with an expression of utter loathing.
Hermione had always hoped to face Kreacher directly one day instead of forever being avoided.
But now that she finally could, she found herself uncertain.
She believed she'd never done Kreacher any harm, had always been kind to him — so why did he look at her with such deep, bitter hatred, purely because she was one of the "Mudbloods" he despised?
"Kreacher, it seems you don't approve of Hermione's idea, and you don't want the clothes I offered. Is that right?" Sirius said, half-smiling. "Tell her what you think."
"Mudbloods insulted Kreacher — and now the Mudblood wants Kreacher gone?" His hoarse, froggy voice climbed into something sharp and shrill, his glare at Hermione dripping with venom.
"Kreacher served the noble House of Black his whole life! Kreacher hates Mudbloods — she wants Kreacher dead — Kreacher loathes her!"
Hermione's face went bloodless.
"Kreacher, that's not what I meant at all," she said quickly. "I don't want you dead. I want you to have your freedom."
"Freedom?" Kreacher said bitterly, then shuddered. He shook his ugly, misshapen head and spat, "You filthy Mudblood—"
Hermione dropped her gaze, unwilling to meet that resentful stare a moment longer, feeling lost, wounded, heartsick.
"Kreacher, don't you dare insult her!" Sirius snapped, disgusted. "Mind your tongue — don't say that word again."
Kreacher, seemingly too afraid to defy a direct order, clamped his mouth shut.
He took a breath, rounded on Sirius instead, and said furiously, "Kreacher's had enough! The young master keeps taking her side, uses her to insult Kreacher, and now makes Kreacher wait on a filthy Mudblood! She's been defiling this noble house, and now she wants the young master to throw Kreacher out!"
Sirius laughed shortly.
"Noble house?" he said, as if he'd just heard something absurd.
Kreacher glared at him, grinding his loose gray teeth as he muttered on.
"Kreacher always knew the young master would never let him go, because Kreacher always knows what he's about! Oh yes — that spendthrift, ungrateful wretch, breaking his mother's heart, not fit to shine his great mother's shoes! The mistress hates him! Keeping company with blood traitors and scum, betraying everything the family stands for, fighting the Dark Lord—"
At that, Sirius's careless, easy expression hardened.
"Oh? Feeling talkative today, are we? Planning to sit the Ministry exams?" he said, his voice turning nasty. "Fighting the Dark Lord? I thought that was something your precious young master Regulus went and risked his neck for—"
Kreacher went abruptly silent — but Sirius didn't stop.
He stared hard at Kreacher and pressed on, slow and cutting. "I thought that was exactly what your dear Regulus asked you to do. Go on — tell me. Wasn't it?"
Kreacher made a broken, choking sound in his throat, like a man drawing his last breath.
At that, Hermione finally looked up at him properly, wanting to know if he was all right, wondering where that terrible sound had come from.
Kreacher's face had gone deathly white, as though struck by lightning.
Beneath the same deep hatred Mrs. Black wore in her portrait, something else had surfaced in his eyes as he looked at Sirius: shock, disbelief, panic, grief.
"K— Kreacher—" The old elf's mouth hung open as if lightning had actually struck him, and his whole body began to shake.
His gaze went distant, fixed on some empty point far away. Tears streamed down his long nose like a waterfall.
"Yes. Yes." He sniffled, his voice hoarse and barely there. "The young master ordered — Kreacher to leave — pay him no mind. Told Kreacher — to go home — not to tell the mistress — what he'd done — but to destroy — the first locket. Then he drank — drank the potion — Kreacher swapped the locket — and watched, helpless... Master Regulus... dragged under the water — the mistress asked, again and again, where the young master had gone — Kreacher never said — and then — the mistress went mad with grief!"
"Enough, Kreacher — that's enough!" Sirius snapped.
The elf fell silent, though his sobs still echoed through the quiet kitchen.
Hermione stared at him, suddenly understanding what he'd been describing — Regulus Black's rebellion against the Dark Lord. His death.
"Oh, Kreacher!" Hermione said, no longer afraid of his bitter words, and moved to embrace him where he crouched, crying, dust-streaked; but he wiped his nose and shrank away, his face full of open disgust, as though she were the filthiest thing in the room.
"Kreacher won't let the Mudblood touch him — the mistress hates Mudbloods! What would she say if she saw this?"
"I told you not to call her that!" Sirius said angrily.
But Kreacher was already punishing himself, throwing himself to the floor and beating his head against it.
"Stop him — stop him!" Hermione cried, her own grief forgotten. "Can't you see how cruel this is? He can't help himself — he has to obey!"
Sirius raked a hand through his hair. "Kreacher — stop!"
Kreacher lay panting and trembling on the floor, green mucus glistening at his nose, a large bruise swelling on his pale forehead, his eyes red and bloodshot and brimming with tears.
Hermione had never seen anything so pitiful.
She realized, looking at him, that she was crying too.
But she didn't dare touch him again — she'd already seen exactly how badly he reacted to that.
Sirius sighed heavily and sank into his chair. "Kreacher — let's go. Leave the kitchen."
The elf trembled, hauled himself up, and rubbed his eyes with his fists like a small child.
Under Hermione's stricken, sorrowful gaze, Kreacher staggered out of the kitchen, face twisted with pain, muttering bitterly the whole way: "Master Regulus... Kreacher always obeyed him... Kreacher did everything he asked... Kreacher must obey Master Regulus... Kreacher must never tell the poor mistress what happened..."
Only once the elf's bitter voice had faded into the depths of the house did Sirius break the silence in the kitchen.
"Hermione, you've seen it for yourself now. This is what you're up against, trying to talk Kreacher into 'wanting his freedom.' The very idea nearly destroyed him. Do you honestly think he can accept it?"
Hermione wiped her tears with the back of her hand and said nothing.
She missed Draco terribly just then. At a moment like this, he would have comforted her — at the very least, offered a handkerchief.
Without him there, she had no choice but to keep crying alone, her mind too blank to answer Sirius right away.
Sirius shook his head slowly, covered his face with both hands, and answered his own question, weary.
"Kreacher can't accept 'freedom.' He's not Dobby — Dobby could still be saved. Kreacher's been poisoned by my mother's ideas far too deep — poisoned to the bone. I don't think anyone alive can save him."
Sirius Black's assessment seemed to be correct.
Kreacher clearly did not accept the concept of "freedom."
The idea, and the fallout it brought, seemed to have shaken him so badly that he was afraid to even leave his room.