Chapter 1: The Attic's Dirty Secret
The air in the attic of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place tasted of dust, decay, and something else—something musky and organic that made the back of Molly Weasley’s throat tighten. A single, wavering Lumos from her wand cast long, dancing shadows over towers of broken furniture and vast, shrouded shapes. She pushed a stray lock of red hair from her damp forehead with the back of her wrist.
“Just a few more boxes for the auction,” she muttered to herself, her voice swallowed by the oppressive quiet. Arthur was at the Ministry, the children were all scattered, and the silence of the old Black house was a living thing. It pressed in on her, heavy and full of forgotten secrets. Sometimes, in the deep quiet of the Burrow after everyone had gone, she felt a similar pressure, but there it was a longing. Here, it felt like being watched.
She tugged at a heavy velvet drape, sending a plume of grey dust motes swirling into her beam of light. Behind it was not another piece of furniture, but a low, arched doorway she hadn’t noticed before. The smell was stronger here, that animal sweetness. Her curiosity, a flame she spent most days diligently smothering under a pile of chores and worries, flickered to life.
She bent, the familiar strain in her lower back a dull protest, and pushed the door open.
The space beyond was a nest. A thick, moth-eaten tapestry of Slytherin silver and green formed a lumpy floor. Candle stubs, long burned down to puddles of wax, dotted the perimeter. And everywhere, pinned to the low rafters, fluttering like morbid flags, were pairs of women’s knickers. Silk, lace, cotton, in shades of black, red, cream. They were not new. Some were frayed. All of them, she realized with a jolt, were stolen.
Her eyes scanned the strange shrine, her heart hammering against her ribs. In the center of the tapestry lay a scattered pile of wizard photographs, their subjects moving in repetitive, graphic loops. A wave of heat rushed to her face, followed by a cold wash of shock. She took a step back, her heel crunching on a discarded bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky.
A dry, rasping voice slithered from the deepest shadow. “Mistress is poking her big nose where it does not belong.”
Kreacher emerged from the darkness, not with his usual resentful shuffle, but with a stiff, proud posture. The dim light glistened on his pale, sagging skin and bulbous eyes. He was completely naked.
Molly’s breath caught. Her gaze, against all her will, was dragged downward. The house-elf was grotesquely, impossibly endowed. A thick, veined shaft hung between his spindly legs, a monstrous weight that seemed to defy his frail body. It was ludicrous, shocking, a thing of bizarre and vulgar proportion. She felt a hysterical giggle bubble in her chest, strangled by pure, undiluted awe.
“Kreacher’s private treasures,” the elf hissed, his long fingers stroking a pair of lavender silk knickers beside him. “Kreacher keeps them safe. Kreacher enjoys them.” His bulbous eyes fixed on her, a challenge in their milky depths. “Mistress is looking. Mistress sees Kreacher.”
She should have turned. She should have hexed him, or screamed, or covered her eyes. Mother of seven, respectable, solid Molly Weasley. But the curious flame was a blaze now, fanned by years of quiet routine, by the sheer, audacious strangeness of it. This was a secret, dark and warm and throbbing with a life so utterly removed from her own.
“These… these are stolen,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper.
“Kreacher collects,” he said simply, taking a step closer. The smell of him, of old wool and male musk, filled the small space. “The pretty witches come and go. They leave pieces of themselves. Kreacher preserves them.” He tilted his head. “Mistress is a pretty witch. Plump. Ripe. Kreacher has watched Mistress bend over the oven. Kreacher has seen the sweat on her neck.”
A bolt of something electric—not entirely disgust—shot through her. It was the being seen. In her own home, she was a constant, comfortable presence. Here, in this foul nest, she had been observed, noted. The realization was terrifying and, in a deep, secret chamber of her soul, thrilling.
“You will not speak to me that way,” she said, but the command had no force. Her wand hand hung limp at her side.
Kreacher let out a wet, clicking sound, a laugh. He was close enough now that she could see the pores on his nose. “Mistress is curious. Her heart beats like a little bird. Kreacher can show her more. Kreacher can show her what the witches in the pictures feel.”
He gestured to the lewd photographs, their motions relentless. Molly’s eyes flickered to them, then back to the elf’s proud, monstrous display. The attic felt airless, hot. She thought of Arthur, his kind, absent-minded smiles, his gentle and familiar touch. This was a different planet.
A floorboard creaked, far below in the house.
The spell shattered.
“Molly? You up there, love?” Arthur’s voice, muffled but cheerful, floated up through the floors.
Panic, clean and sharp, injected clarity into her veins. Kreacher’s expression shifted instantly from leering pride to bitter malice. He shuffled back, his form seeming to shrivel, the impressive evidence of his arousal already beginning to wilt into shadow.
“Mistress will not tell,” he whispered, a venomous promise. “Mistress has dirty eyes now, too.”
“Molly?” Arthur’s call was closer, on the main attic stairs.
“Just a moment!” she called back, her voice cracking. She fumbled, pulling the dusty velvet drape back across the hidden doorway, sealing Kreacher and his nest away. She turned, pressing her back against the drape, as if holding the secret in by force. She could smell the musk on her clothes. Her cheeks were on fire.
Arthur’s lanky frame appeared at the top of the main stairs, his glasses gleaming in her wandlight. “There you are! I got off early. Thought I’d find you battling the doxies in the drawing room, not up here with the ghouls.” He smiled, warm and oblivious. “You alright? You look flushed.”
She pushed away from the wall, her legs trembling. “Fine,” she said, too quickly. “Just the dust. It’s thick as soup. Let’s… let’s go downstairs. I’ll put the kettle on.”
She moved past him, not meeting his eyes, careful not to let him get behind her. She could feel Kreacher’s gaze through the velvet, and the weight of a hundred stolen silks, and the terrifying, newly-awakened itch of her own curiosity burning in the dark, quiet center of her.