Illusory § Order of the Phoenix

XXIX. PRETENDER

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      Christmas in the confines of Grimmauld Place was much quieter than the festive and rambunctious night that the party at Malfoy Manor turned into.

Antares would still be in bed, doing his best to recover from still being drunk the day after (and the hangover that would present itself on this morning). On his way out, as he and Adrian stumbled and used each other as support, he found an Invigoration Draught tucked away in his coat pocket.

He decided that Narcissa was an angel.

Getting out of bed, Antares made his way to the ground floor, the creaking floorboards beneath him echoing through the weathered corridors. In his hands were two pristinely wrapped silver boxes, one for Sirius and one for Harry. The rest of his gifts were already in the homes of his friends, many of them delivered by Peri, who was happily pecking at a bat she caught on the way home.

For Sirius, he picked out a custom leather spell-bound journal. It was enchanted to resist damage and weathering, making it durable for any adventure. It was a half-gift meant for something that Antares was still planning. But he had a feeling that when he explained it all, that wouldn't matter.

For Harry, Antares' gift was a tad more personal. In the gift box was Antares' very first wand-holster. The material was dragon-hide, which was resistant to a multitude of spells. The chances of it getting blown off in a fight were minimal. More than that, Antares couldn't risk the chance of Harry losing his wand.

The living room was eerily quiet, the dim light casting long shadows across the worn-out furniture. The Christmas tree, adorned with live fairies, stood in a corner, its flickering lights dispelling the overall gloom of the house. Antares strode over and placed the gifts under the tree before going to the kitchen. As he enjoyed his morning tea ritual, he sat silently, waiting for the moment to be disrupted. It didn't take long, though it wasn't by someone he was expecting.

"Master's little friend lurking in the dark corners," Kreacher's voice, as unpleasant as ever, sneered from the kitchen entrance.

"A pleasant morning to you as well, Kreacher," Antares sighed, sipping his cup.

"Pleasant?" Kreacher hummed. "Nothing pleasant about a house filled with filthy blood-traitors and Mudbloods."

Antares found himself appreciating Fizkey's cheerful demeanour. Unfortunately, Kreacher was not his house-elf. The older house-elf was deeply rooted in the Black family's purist beliefs and general disrespect. Spending many years alone in this house with no true master to serve had taken its toll on Kreacher. While Fizkey thrived on praise and encouragement, Kreacher now only recognized authority. Antares was sure Kreacher's more recent foul behaviour had something to do with being under the command of Sirius, who only ever insulted or yelled at him.

Antares narrowed his eyes over the rim of his teacup, meeting Kreacher's disdainful gaze. "Go spread your holiday cheer somewhere else, Kreacher."

Kreacher, however, snarled. "Kreacher doesn't serve you. Kreacher serves the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black."