Now, the caretaker’s post was occupied by young Edgar Edgecombe, and never a more fitting replacement could there be.
Edgecombe himself seemed to have long forgotten his spite toward James as a student. Now, the stout young man was the very picture of sniveling respect and deference, simpering to the staff out of one side of his mouth while lashing venomously at students from the other.
James knew he should keep a fairly tight rein on the nasty little man. But he also knew from experience that nasty little men tended to be rather useful when it came to maintaining a sense of order, so long as their bite was not permitted to exceed their bark.
James left the castle via the old rotunda entrance and met a hard, cool breeze from the distant Forest. The lights were lit in Hagrid’s hut.
James was tempted to go knock, to share a late-night toddy with the beloved old professor and groundskeeper.
But he did not. Now that his journey was underway, he felt a slowly growing inertia behind him, pressing him forward, driving his strides through the hissing grass. The moon was a gigantic bone-coloured eye over the lake, presiding over its rippling reflection.
James entered a Forest trail, walked a quarter of the way toward Hogsmeade, and then apparated with a decisive crack.
The world snapped back into place around him in mid-stride.
He was in a cramped Islington street, crowded with parked cars, blowing trash and dead leaves. He slowed and looked up, turning to his right.
Number twelve Grimmauld Place wasn’t visible, of course.
Numbers thirteen and eleven pressed close together, now so distractingly old and decrepit that no one even blinked at the apparent mistake in numbering. The streetlamp nearest was broken, casting a pall of shadows over James where he stood. Traffic could be heard beyond the rooftops, but nothing moved on the street in either direction.
James produced a key and summoned the entrance to number twelve, causing the flats on either side to rumble aside, like drunken patrons making room at a bar.
No gaslights worked inside the old manor. Once inside, James lit his wand and startled when its glow shone on an exquisitely ugly, staring face, bare feet away.
“Good evening, Master,” a deep bullfrog voice grumbled.
“Kreacher,” James gasped, recovering. “How did you know I would be coming?”
“Kreacher’s first responsibility is to attend his master’s house with unfailing vigilance,” the ancient house elf said with the tiniest hint of indignation.
James rolled his eyes. “The empty portrait of Phineas Nigellus told you.”
Kreacher scowled and narrowed his eyes. “That as well, Master.”
James sighed and took off his hat, hanging it on a cobwebbed rack near the door. “Did he tell you why?”
“He suggested you might wish to view the Vault, Master.”
James blinked down at the knobbly old elf. Kreacher’s innate brand of ugly had blossomed over the last few decades, turning him into a truly spectacular specimen of grotesqueness. His nose and ear hair alone could well have been used to paint a rusty cauldron. James lifted his wand a little higher, distancing it from Kreacher’s attentive glower.
“I didn’t know that Grimmauld Place had a Vault,” he said.
“Precious few do, Master,” Kreacher nodded slowly. Then, as silent as a moth’s wing, he turned and padded away, apparently leading James further into the dark house.
James followed, his own footsteps creaking the floorboards, the breath of his passage drifting in layers of cobwebs.
James shivered. “When’s the last time this place was cleaned?”
“Kreacher cleans Master’s house twice per week,” Kreacher rumbled with sepulchral patience. “Top to bottom, stem to stern.”
James looked aside into the parlor as they passed. Dust lay in a thick film over every surface, clouding the tarnished mirror over the hearth, weighing down the closed velvet drapes. Clearly, Kreacher’s concept of cleaning was a unique and interesting entity unto itself.
Together, the two wended their way through the dark kitchen and then down the narrow stairs into the cellar. There, no light shone at all apart from James’ illuminated wand. Shadows loomed behind the old collection of mismatched furniture. The tiny wrought iron stove was as dark and cold as a grave.
Kreacher stopped next to the stove. Without turning back, he said, “Master’s key, sir.”
James looked at the elf’s knobby back and hunched shoulders.
“I… don’t have any key.”
“The Vault can’t be opened without Master’s key, sir.”
James patted his pockets, half expecting to find a mysterious key in his robes. He found nothing but a few spare Knuts and an old train ticket. He shook his head and exhaled in frustration. “I don’t have any key,” he said again. “You’re just going to have to open it yourself.”
Slowly, ponderously, Kreacher turned his warty head and looked back at James with one huge, rheumy eye. He measured him silently, inscrutably. “No one can open the Vault without the key, Master. Not Kreacher. Not you. Not anyone in this wide world, or any others.”
The sense of urgency descended over James again. Impatience came with it. Where would he find any mysterious key? Why had Phineas Nigellus sent him without telling him what he needed? He opened his mouth to demand an answer from Kreacher—an answer he knew he would probably never get—when a push of dusty air sighed down the stairway behind him. It was accompanied by a distant thunk, and then the unmistakable sound of hurrying footsteps, growing swiftly closer.
James turned on the spot and raised his wand warily, pointing it toward the stairs both for light and warning, as a figure began to clump down them.
The figure stopped on the second to last step, its own wand lit and held at head-height.
“Oh,” the figure said, “Hi, son.”
James slumped with relief and lowered his wand. “Dad! What are you doing here?”
Harry Potter tromped down the remaining step and moved to join his son. They were of equal height now, even if the elder Potter was still rather broader through the shoulders. His glasses reflected their lit wands brightly, but his smile was easy and comfortable, despite the fine lines that belied his age.
“It’s time, apparently,” he answered with a shrug. “I knew this day would come. Just didn’t think it would come quite this soon. The duty shall be yours now, such as it is.”
“What duty?” James asked, unable to keep the impatience out of his voice. “I feel like a Howler’s been going off in my own head for days, only it’s just screaming me onward, not using any actual words.
What’s this all about?”
Harry put a hand on his son’s shoulder and gave a commiserating squeeze. “I understand your frustration. Just think how it was for me! Sirius was dead by the time I got the calling. He wasn’t here to do for me what I’m about to do for you. I had to find the key all by myself. About drove me mad. And Kreacher here was about as useful as a candyfloss broomstick.”