"Most of the books are in the library, but there are odd things tucked into other corners too. I once pulled a handwritten notebook on Dark magic out of an ancestor's storage room."
Sirius pushed open the front door of number twelve as he spoke, and they stepped inside.
The smell hit first. Damp, old, something underneath it that had been rotting for longer than either of them had been alive. Tom almost felt like he was back in the Slytherin common room. The entrance hall stretched ahead, branching off in multiple directions, long corridors leading into further darkness, the whole layout less like a house and more like something designed to lose people in.
"No wonder you don't want to live here," Tom said.
Sirius gave a resigned shrug and led the way. As they walked, wall sconces ignited on their own, throwing light up across the ceiling and the stone pillars beneath it, illuminating carved decoration that was elaborate even in its deterioration. Whole sections had crumbled or peeled away, but what remained was enough to understand what it had once been.
The house and the Black family had followed the same arc, more or less.
They reached the end of the entrance hall. A pair of velvet curtains on the far wall snapped open on their own, revealing a large portrait hanging in the centre. The subject was an elderly woman in a black cap, her skin the colour of old tallow, her nose curved downward like something that had belonged on a much larger bird.
What followed was a shriek that would have stripped paint.
"Filth! Traitor! Disgrace to the name of Black! Why didn't your father finish the job before you drew your first breath! You dare come back here! And you've brought"
The portrait's mouth kept moving. No sound came out.
Tom lowered his hand.
"Even a portrait is subject to a Silencing Charm. I worked that out from Phineas. You don't mind me taking liberties with your mother, do you, Sirius?"
"You've already taken them, so minding seems beside the point." Sirius did not look remotely upset. If anything, he looked like a man watching something he had wanted to see for years. The velvet curtains had always been his only option before, since she was still, technically, his mother. "Wait, did you say Phineas? Phineas Black? The one who was Headmaster?"
It had just caught up with him.
"That's right. We had some friction initially, but we've come to an understanding. Partly on your account."
"They still claim me?" Sirius laughed, but it was the short, flat kind. "As family?"
"You're the last one who can carry the name forward. In their eyes you're still a disgrace and a squanderer, but that doesn't change what you are to the line. You remain necessary."
Sirius stared at him. "So I'm a tool. What exactly is the difference between me and Kreacher?"
The name apparently functioned as a summons. A house-elf appeared at the top of the stairs and made his way down, slowly, with the energy of someone doing a task they found deeply beneath them. He was the oldest house-elf Tom had ever seen. Skin hanging loose over prominent bones, sparse white hair, a strip of dirty white cloth knotted at his waist.
Kreacher glanced at Sirius and produced a bow of absolute minimum effort. "The useless young master has returned to the mistress's house. Dragging in werewolves and half-bloods and filthy mud-"
Tom extended one finger.
Kreacher lifted off the floor and connected with the wall beside his mistress's portrait with a solid thud. A curtain drifted over and sealed itself across his mouth.
Tom had known what Kreacher was going to say before he finished saying it. There was no point in letting him get there.
"Sirius, give him a standing order, specific enough that he can't find the gaps. No insults, no complaints, no commentary of that kind in my presence. And set a clear standard of what that means, or he'll spend every waking moment finding the edges of whatever you said and working around them."
"That's brilliant." Sirius looked genuinely pleased by this.
"He does exactly that, doesn't he."
"Every single time. But setting the standard is hard, I can never think of the right wording on the spot."
"I can lend you one of mine in the meantime." Tom turned toward the room. "Puck!"
A crack, and a house-elf landed on the floor in a deep bow, nose nearly brushing the carpet. "Young Master Tom."
Sirius looked at Kreacher.
Look at that. Look at the difference.
Kreacher had stopped struggling. He stared at Puck with genuine bewilderment, unable to reconcile the existence of a house-elf who served a Mudblood with anything in his understanding of the world.
"Puck, this house-elf has no manners and was about to question my bloodline. Teach him what it looks like to properly receive a guest."
Puck's large eyes turned toward Kreacher and filled with righteous fury. "Yes, Young Master! This old disgrace to house-elfkind will be corrected immediately!"
Tom waved a hand and gestured for Sirius to keep moving. They made it to the second floor. Behind them, from below, Kreacher's yelps and Puck's scolding rose steadily.
Sirius paid it no attention. He had gone quiet somewhere in the last few steps, and when Tom glanced at him his expression was the one people wore when they are working up to saying something.
"What is it?" Tom asked.
"It's..." Sirius looked away briefly, then pressed on anyway. "Tom. Do you have anything that could speed up my recovery? Something that could get me back to where I was before Azkaban, or past it?"
A pause.
"Name your price. Whatever you want."