Chapter 515: The Cold Light of the Sword

The wind stirred the curtains of Black Manor, their heavy, opulent, and ancient edges glinting with faint moonlight.

The room was silent yet tense. Sirius paced back and forth occasionally, eager yet showing not a trace of impatience.

He waited devoutly for that one, as night waits for the moonlight.

For Kreacher beside him, this was nothing new.

Days passed like this, one after another—the wild grass in the center of Grimmauld Place withered, turned brittle and yellow under the sun, while his life remained unchanged.

No one had ever lived in Number 12, and the house had never been noticed by the neighbors.

The Muggle residents of Grimmauld Place had long grown accustomed to the absurd mistake of Number 11 sitting right next to Number 13.

But today, at last, was a special day.

Kreacher glanced occasionally at his locket, feeling strangely “new,” as if the kitchen downstairs had been transformed too.

The kitchen had changed so much that Sirius barely recognized it.

Every surface now gleamed anew: copper pots and platters shone with a rose-gold luster, wooden tables were polished to a sheen, dinnerware had been set out, glinting in the firelight, and a large pot bubbled merrily over the flames.

But the house-elf hurrying toward Xiang Xiang Xien had changed even more—he wore a snow-white towel, his ear hairs fluffy and pure as cotton, and Regulus’s locket bounced against his thin chest.

“Master Green!”

Kreacher cried out in delight.

“Respected Master Green.”

Sirius smiled respectfully in return.

Directly before their gaze, the silhouette of a young wizard emerged from the shadows of the stairs.

He had thick, jet-black hair and eyes so bright even in dimness they could not be hidden—green as emeralds—and beside him walked a small, ever-vigilant creature.

Most striking of all, when the young wizard stepped into the dim room, he held in his hand a long, slender sword:

—sharp, noble, its hilt set with a blood-red gem.

“The Sword of Gryffindor?”

Sirius’s face changed instantly—he knew this sword, this legend, for he himself had been sorted into Gryffindor.

“Wizard, you have keen eyes—”

Puckett the butler snorted.

“How could this be...”

Sirius could not comprehend it—he remembered clearly that his god had walked the halls of Ravenclaw at Hogwarts, so how could he now carry the Sword of Gryffindor?

Where had he found it?

And how had he drawn it?

Had Hogwarts truly allowed him to appear with the Sword of Gryffindor?

“To destroy Horcruxes, we need powerful magical artifacts—the Sword of Gryffindor was forged by goblins and absorbs the power of any creature it harms...”

Xiang Xiang Xien explained calmly.

“But...”

Sirius fell silent.

Merlin—had any Gryffindor ever not dreamed of finding the Sword of Gryffindor?

Had any Gryffindor ever not wished to become a duelist as great as Godric Gryffindor, wielding that noble, powerful blade across the world?

Yet now it appeared—in the hands of a Ravenclaw—and he seemed unaware of how astonishing this was, speaking as if stating a simple fact:

—I needed the power of the Sword of Gryffindor, so it appeared, and now it belongs to me.

“Can I... can I touch it? Sorry, Master Green, I’m just too excited.”

Sirius quickly realized his lapse and regained his composure.

“It’s fine.”

Xiang Xiang Xien said.

He understood the impact this sword had on a true Gryffindor—just as he himself had never expected to draw it.

The Sorting Hat always said he possessed the courage Gryffindor recognized, yet sometimes Xiang Xiang Xien wondered...

He was simply walking forward.

“Wil.”

Xiang Xiang Xien called softly.

Puckett the butler understood at once and withdrew an object from a sealed box—the moment it appeared, every eye turned to it.

Sirius stared, startled and frightened—he saw the serpent-shaped “S,” inlaid with glittering green gems, easily imagining it as a small snake coiled on cold stone.

Kreacher screamed at once:

“It’s him! It’s him! Kreacher can’t leave a single mark on it!”

The house-elf cried out in despair,

“Kreacher tried every way, every way! But none worked—not one, not one!

The box is sealed with so many powerful spells—Kreacher believed only something from within could destroy it, but it won’t open...

Kreacher punished himself, tried again, punished himself, tried again.

Kreacher failed his command—he could not destroy the locket!

The mistress went mad with grief because Master Regulus disappeared, and Kreacher couldn’t tell her what happened—he couldn’t, because Master Regulus forbade—banned him from telling the family about the cave...”

Kreacher spoke rapidly, choking on his words several times.

Even Sirius could not bear to listen:

“You fool! How could you destroy it? If only something like the Sword of Gryffindor can harm it—where would you even find such a thing?”

“Kreacher couldn’t find it. Kreacher couldn’t fulfill Master Regulus’s final wish...”

Kreacher was so broken he let the cold wind blow over his fingers, scorched by self-punishment, let the bleak streetlight cast its pallid glow across his face.

“It’s alright, Kreacher.”

Xiang Xiang Xien said gently, raising the sword.

In an instant, a gale swept the earth, hurling the curtains forward, spilling moonlight into the room, outlining the silhouette of the black-haired wizard.

He stood tall, gripping the sword coldly, his pupils sharp as the blade’s edge.

But the sword remained poised—he had just remembered something important.

The locket bore countless powerful enchantments; smashing it outright was impossible—it needed...

“Open.”

Xiang Xiang Xien spoke in Parseltongue.

All eyes fixed on the locket, on the letter “S,” imagining a serpent—and inside, the contents rustled like cockroaches trapped in a cage.

And Xiang Xiang Xien’s final word was a hissing roar—making the locket’s tiny gold lid snap open with a click.

It revealed its interior:

Two small glass windows, each behind one blinking, living eye—dark, gleaming, alert, just as Tom Riddle’s had been before they turned red and his pupils became slits.