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Kreacher, an old hunched house-elf with drooping ears and a nose hooked to the bottom, modestly but persistently pushed me forward along the corridor, complaining about the stupidity of wizards. But that didn't bother me. A strange, pleasant feeling almost imperceptibly spread all over my body. I slowly walked forward, running my fingertips along the slightly rough surface of the old wallpaper, leaving traces on a thin old layer of dust that had thoroughly stuck into the texture.
It's funny, but before I have not experienced something like this. How to describe these sensations… it never occurred to me. There are simply no such words. As if you suddenly rushed down on a swing. This feeling was not so bright at all but exciting. I immediately remembered Narcissa. Why? It seems that I felt something like that when she nursed me ... What a pity that I don't have memories of that time for even a couple of minutes ...
"A striking lack of upbringing," the portrait of a stately brunette with hair gathered at the back of her head was feeling angry. Arrogant and irritable, it was she who brought me out of the meditative state.
"Oh, what an honor!" the lady in the portrait continued to get excited. "You deigned to draw attention to me, young man? Did the Malfoy family decide to give a damn about upbringing?! What a disgrace!"
The lady in the portrait threw up her hands in clearly feigned horror.
"By the will of Lucius, I have nothing to do with the Malfoy family."
The lady in the portrait literally choked on the prepared phrase. She stared at me with not aristocratic wide eyes in surprise.
"What nonsense, I beg your pardon, you say, young man?"
Despite the indignant tone of the question, I was in no hurry to answer - I was much more worried about that strange feeling. After listening to myself a little more, I finally found the most appropriate comparison - as if the house vibrates imperceptibly, and this vibration finds response and resonance in me.
"Young man? I asked a question!"
The tension that was carefully hidden from me, which I realized only now, finally broke through. It was only necessary to relax for a little and feel this strange sensation from home. The tension from the ritual and exile from the family, from the loss of a similar feeling in childhood ... This eternal, incomprehensible magic, spells ... Subconscious expectation of trouble, attack, death in the end! This damned Lucius, looming on the horizon, which is why I even study only combat, only out of the corner of my eye remembering and working out a little household and other enchantments ... All this, as it turned out, had been accumulating for quite a long time, and there was no one to share with. And now, here is a portrait of a woman I don't know in a beautiful black dress ... in such a familiar home ... She with such ease started to ask such questions.
It was as if the air was released from me, and I simply sat down on the chair that appeared behind my back, unbuttoned my coat, and loosened my scarf. I slowly began to tell my story in this world. Why? Because I simply don't know what to do. What to do?! Even a simple solution to "Kill Lucius" is extremely difficult to implement, and the consequences are unknown.
Of course, I did not tell her some of the nuances that no one should know about — such nuances as the Spirit Weapon or hemomancy, rebirth, and more.
After speaking out, I continued to sit on a chair opposite the portrait of a stately lady, and my soul was easy and calm. I spoke out. It helped me a lot and really became somewhat easier.
"And what do you want? What did you come here for?" The lady asked.
"I...how should I address you?"
"An amazingly timely question," she grinned but didn't swear. "Walburga Black."
"Maximilian Knight."
"I will repeat the question. What. Do. You. Want?"
"I don't know," I breathed. "Do you believe me?"
"Not really," Walburga grimaced almost imperceptibly. "If what you said is true, then you should have died before eleven."
"Huh?" I stared at the portrait with incomprehension. "What do you mean?"
"Burning the Legacy is a far from light ritual…" At that word, she grimaced even more. "Nobody survived after this, especially the squibs."
"So maybe I wasn't a squib?"
"Don't talk nonsense, young man!" Walburga sternly shouted from the portrait, so much so that Kreacher, who had been expecting something all this time, jumped on the spot, looking reverently at the hostess." Even I, far from magical medicine, know several spells with which you can test a child. I strongly doubt the Malfoy medics wizards know less."
"And what about Malfoy himself?"
"For you, young man, Lord Malfoy!" she shouted. "Such bad manners..."
"Ha, Lord. He's just a piece of shit..." I could not resist.
"Do not swear in front of me!" exclaimed Walburga, angrily flashing eyes from the portrait. "And even be so, it's none of your business. As you may have guessed, young man, from that day on, Malfoy's problems are Malfoy's problems."
"I understood. So why did I have to die?"
"Obviously! You forcibly lost half of your magic, half of your essence! This is a sentence! Such a ritual can only be performed with a child, dooming him to a terrible and painful death.
"Tsk..." I involuntarily clenched my fist and snapped my knuckles a couple of times. "But I survived."
"And this is strange ... Perhaps something or someone influenced it?" "Kreacher!!!"
An old house-elf literally flew up to the portrait in his shabby, dirty pillowcase.
"Kreacher is here, dear lady ..."
"Look at this young man and tell me what you feel?"
Kreacher turned to me and began to peer at me attentively. The silence lasted for at least a minute, and then he turned back to the portrait of Walburga.
"He's very similar to Mrs. Narcissa."
I already knew that, but I bet Kreacher meant something else.
"How much ?! Answer me!"
The little house-elf stumbled on the spot, bowing his head apologetically.
"Very similar ... Only a little different. Just a little bit…"
Seeing the discontent on Walburga's face, Kreacher sank even more. Walburga looked at me.
"And you, young man, what do you feel in this house?"
"It's hard to say," I thought. "Something native, as then, in infancy."
"Amazing!" Walburga threw up her hands. "You're the wizard, after all, survived somehow, studying at Hogwarts!"
The witch depicted in the portrait fussed, walking along the canvas from edge to edge. She kept walking and walking, muttering something under her breath.
"So, what should I do?"
"Huh?" Walburga stopped on the portrait, looking at me ... In a new way, or something. "What do you want?"
"So that the shadow of Malfoy does not loom over me, every now and then threatens to kill."
"So kill him," Walburga shrugged, lost in thought.
"Um…" I didn't even know what to say. "I was expecting something more ... Not so radical ..."
Walburga abruptly stopped near the chair in her portrait, sat down, and simply lit a cigarette.
"And what then? You, a young man, grew up among ... Muggles?"
"Yes."
"Oh, let the old lady guess," not a smile appeared on her face, but the grin of a predator sensing prey. "You thought that when you came here, I, or someone else, would gladly open their arms to you, teach you… How do the Muggle-borns say? I will teach Ancestral Magic, throw a couple of virgins on the altar, which is right behind the freezer? Something like that? Oh, yes, you still need to go to the little green ones, shed a couple of buckets of your blood, and learn a lot about yourself. Then hang on yourself a couple of titles, ancestral artifacts, rings, and other things, become a Lord, and no one will touch you? How much Muggle-blooded nonsense I've heard in my time ..."