Harry Potter and The Other

Arcturus didn't have to wait long. He was still getting used to the sound of his new voice, so different from his old one, when a house-elf appeared before him. This elf was infamous throughout the Order of the Phoenix. Kreacher was always muttering about "mudbloods" and "blood traitors" under his breath, and no amount of Sirius' scolding could stop him.

"Kreacher is here, master," the elf said impassively, as if he were still talking to the old Harry Potter.

Arcturus was surprised, but now was not the time to deal with it.

"Kreacher, can you hide me in this house so that no one can find me?"

"Of course, master."

The elf extended his skinny hand, and Arcturus took it. In an instant, he felt the peculiar sensation of being squeezed through the eye of a needle, and they appeared in a small room, somewhere between a study and a sitting room. The furnishings were antique and luxurious, though more severe than ornate. Arcturus wasn't familiar with old interiors, but something vaguely reminded him of the Baroque style.

"No one will find you here, master," Kreacher announced, standing still before him. "The entrance can only be opened by the owners."

"But Sirius is also an owner, and he's in the house," Arcturus said, worried. "Eventually, he'll find me."

"Former master Sirius is disowned by the family; he cannot be the owner. He is allowed to live in the house because he has Black blood, but he has not been refused residency."

"That won't last long," Arcturus thought. As soon as the real Harry Potter transfers the Black estate back to Sirius, he'll be able to enter here as well. But that would happen in a few days, and for now, he had time. It was strange that Kreacher still thought of him as the master—could the elf have gone blind and deaf from old age?

"Er... Kreacher. Who do you think I am?" Arcturus finally asked, feeling it was dishonest to keep the elf in the dark.

"You are Kreacher's master, sir," the elf replied sharply.

"No, I mean, what do you think my name is?"

"Your name is Mister Harry Potter, master."

"Er... well, it turns out my name is Arcturus Travers."

"Kreacher understands, master. Now your name is Arcturus Travers. Kreacher remembers."

Arcturus was amazed at how little this news seemed to affect the elf. Kreacher stood before him, just as impassive, his ears twitching slightly as he awaited orders.

"And my appearance... doesn't it surprise you?" Arcturus asked uncertainly.

"Your appearance hasn't changed, master."

"Hasn't changed?!"

"House-elves see their masters through illusions, vampirism, metamorphosis, any shapeshifting or Animagus forms. All that's happened is that the false appearance has been removed, master."

So that's how it is… He wondered what else he didn't know about house-elves. Arcturus remembered again that Dumbledore, Sirius, and his non-parents were actively working to recover the Black property that had slipped into the wrong hands. Soon, he would no longer be the owner of the Black estate. But for now, he could take advantage of it. After all, he had no one else to turn to for help.

"Kreacher… I need some advice..."

"Kreacher is listening, master."

"You see, Sirius bequeathed all his property to his godson, Harry Potter"—his habitual honesty wouldn't let him hold it back—"He's not my godfather, and I'm not Harry Potter, so I'm not the rightful heir to the Black estate. They're going to return it to the real Harry Potter."

Arcturus fell silent, unsure how to phrase the question, but the elf understood without words.

"Master, to accept the legacy of an ancient house is not just a matter of signing papers. The Black family has accepted you as their heir, which means you own the Black property by right. They can't do anything about it. They won't be able to."

Wow, that was a pleasant surprise! Arcturus hadn't for a moment considered voluntarily giving up the benefits that had accidentally come his way—they didn't deserve it. Apparently, something had changed in his character along with his appearance. At least, he was thinking faster now and had no doubts that they owed him more than enough. Now he wouldn't end up penniless on the street, without friends or acquaintances, without means to live, and that was wonderful. After all, not every surprise had to be unpleasant.

Meanwhile, Dumbledore had noticed the boy's absence. Since he couldn't have left the locked room, Dumbledore searched the wardrobe, groaning as he looked under the bed. The window was locked, so the boy couldn't have left that way, and the old man hurried to Sirius, who was predictably found in the bar.

"Sirius, the boy is missing!" Dumbledore cheerfully announced to the hungry and angry Black. "He's not in the bedroom, even though I locked the door with a spell, and the boy doesn't have a wand."

"Maybe wandless magic?" Sirius suggested, irritated by Kreacher's absence and thinking that house-elves should be punished, no matter what Hermione said.

"How? No one's ever taught him that."

"Then maybe accidental magic?"

"That's possible. The boy is probably wandering around the house looking for us. Sirius, we need to find him quickly before he gets scared. If he looked in the mirror, he must be confused right now."

"How am I supposed to find him when most spells don't work here, and tracking spells are no exception? The ancestral protection, damn it, doesn't listen to me."

"Sirius, you know your house. Think, where would the boy go first?"

"The kitchen?" Sirius guessed excitedly.

"Exactly, the kitchen. Let's go."

Arcturus, indeed, was thinking faster now. If this was his house, why were people he hadn't invited wandering around it?

"Kreacher, is there anyone else in the house besides us?"

"Mr. Dumbledore and Mr. Sirius Black, master. They're coming downstairs to the first floor."

"Can you kick them out and stop them from coming back?"

"No problem, master."

An unknown epic force swept up Dumbledore and Sirius on their way to the kitchen, spun them around, stretched them out like string, tied them into a sailor's knot, ground them into powder, crumpled them back together, and tossed them out onto the square in front of the house, into a massive puddle left by a spring rain. While Dumbledore settled for elderly groaning and rubbing his injured backside, Sirius let out a stream of expletives, the mildest of which was "motherf*r." Both outcasts sat in the puddle and looked at each other.

"Potter," Sirius spat.

"Potter," Dumbledore agreed meekly. He tried to stand but slipped in the wet mud and, with a loud splash, returned to his original position.

"He's Travers now," Sirius remembered.

"Still Potter," sighed Dumbledore.