A house elf has only one purpose in life, and that is to serve their master to the best of their capability. The hallmark of a good house elf is to anticipate his Master's needs and desires before the wizard himself, and bend any magical rules to achieve that. They are limited only by their Master's power. Harry Potter is a powerful wizard, and Kreacher lives to serve the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black and its' new Lord. Let the timeline now be in redux.

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The first thing Kreacher did after the Final Battle of Hogwarts is pop over to the Gryffindor House tower. His young Master, Harry Potter, who was just as brave and noble as dear Master Regulus (and far better than that scoundrel, Sirius) was deeply asleep on his four-poster bed. Kreacher felt that this was only right. After all, Master Harry had just done the Wizarding World a great service by killing the Dark Lord.

This was not an opinion that many of the other fighters shared, as groups were already assembling to find and glorify their new hero. Kreacher disapproved. He knew that Master Harry had no wish to be disturbed right now, so- as all good elves would do- he took care of his Master's needs. First, he magically changed the dirtied robes into a pair of warm, flannel pajamas (with the family crest, of course) and levitated the comforter over him. Then, he asked the portrait of a rather large woman in pink if she would consent to keeping the accessway closed. Finally, he popped over to the Great Hall, in order to pass on orders of Master Harry's whereabouts.

Of Master Harry's friends, the blood traitor with the carrot hair was currently mourning with his family, and his mudblo- no, muggleborn friend was with him. Kreacher had no desire to speak with either. They were good friends to Master Harry, and he would tolerate their presence, but not at the expense of better choices.

Kreacher's large, protruding eyes scanned the hall critically, before they fell on a broad-shouldered young man with sandy blonde hair, sitting next to an elderly lady. The Longbottom heir! A decent, old family, and a good friend of his Master's. Yes, he would do. He popped over to them.

"Master Longbottom," Kreacher croaked out, his soft, scratchy voice catching the teenager's attention, "Youse is a friend of Master Harry?"

The boy's light hazel eyes fell on him with a startling amount of intensity once his Master's name was mentioned. He had been sitting in a secluded corner of the Hall, with only the elderly Longbottom matriarch around to hear his question. A bloodied sword of goblin-made silver, hilt studded with rubies, lay on his lap.

"You know Harry?" the boy asked, "Is he okay? Do you know where he is? Does he need any help?"

"Master Harry is fine," Kreacher answered, "Hes is sleeping now. Master is very tired."

"I'm glad he's okay then," the Longbottom heir smiled- a small, quick smile- and Kreacher knew that this new generation of Blacks would be allied with this man and his House. His Master chose a worthy friend. "I haven't introduced myself. I'm Neville Longbottom, and this is my grandmother Lady Augusta Longbottom."

He gestured to a small, thin old lady with dark purple robes, a red bag, and a pointed witch's hat with a stuffed vulture on top. Kreacher was fairly sure that it had been alive once. As she peered down at him with a strict expression on her face, the glass eyes of the vulture bobbed in tune to her head.

"I is Kreacher," the diminutive elf informed them, "Elf of Master Harry Potter. Hes is sleeping in the Gryffindor dorms, and doesn't wants to be woken up."

"I'll pass on the message to Professor McGonagall," Neville promised, "Thank you for telling me, Kreacher."

The house elf did not bother to reply before he popped out again. Master Harry would not be waking up for some time yet, so Kreacher would be checking up on the other members of the family. He went to Charms floor, at the second floor of the castle, where all the deceased bodies were brought to await their family's arrival. One of the body's was that of the shapeshifter traitor, the one who had been cast from the tree.

Kreacher paused as the years of training he had sent a wave of disgust over him, but rejected it just as quickly. Miss Tonks was a Black and a half-blood, and so was his Master. She would not have been accepted at the old House of Black, but this was no longer that old House. His new Lord was fond of her, and her lupine husband, and Kreacher would respect his wishes. And Black blood ran through her veins.

He saw that the body was uncovered and conjured a white sheet to place over her. After a second's thought, he added another sheet over the wolf-man. Though this one did not have the Black crest proudly emblazoned on it. Then he went to look for the shapeshifter's mother.

Andromeda Black was asleep in one of the makeshift hospitals in the Transfiguration room. A proud woman and a skilled healer, she had the strong, classical features of the Black family. They had become softer as she slept, magic exhausted from the onslaught of injuries the battle caused. Cradled to her chest was a sleeping babe with turquoise hair. The youngest member of the Black family.

Kreacher remembered Miss Andromeda. The eldest daughter of Master Orion's brother, Cygnus Black. She was quiet, respectful, and well-mannered, with a will of steel. Miss Andy did not have Miss Bella's sharp wit, or Miss Cissy's crafty nature, or even Master Sirius' clever tricks. She was careful, she was cunning, and she was admirably patient. Miss Andy played the obedient daughter so well, that no one knew otherwise until she had already escaped to elope with the muggleborn Tonks.

Mistress Walburga had said she was an awful, willful, nasty little girl with no care for her mother's poor heart. Master Orion had admitted, ruefully and with a detached sort of pride, that she was just as good a Slytherin as any Black. Master Sirius had been shocked and pleased and disapproving all at once, gleeful of her elopement and scathful of her cowardly display of rebellion.

Master Sirius would not have made a good Slytherin.

Kreacher remembered only that she was quiet, and polite, and well-mannered, and that her favorite dinner was beef burgundy and french onion soup. The elf thought that the Black family was getting so small. Kreacher left, and also thought that perhaps he could go to her later with a bowl of soup and a bottle for young Master Teddy. He would make it with Master Harry's corned beef sandwich and treacle tart.

The last Black he checked on was Miss Cissy. She had barricaded herself in an old Defense classroom- to leave now was to catch the eye of the Aurors stationed around Hogwarts. She was not alone. Her husband, the Malfoy Lord, was sleeping on a Transfigured bed, forehead creased with worry even as he rested. Her son was across the room, slumped on another bed, turned towards the wall with eyes glassy and open. Kreacher would have thought him dead but for the intermittent rise and fall of his chest. Could he not sleep? Did he dream of all the blood in his hands?

Miss Cissy was sitting next to him, fingers carding gently through his light blonde hair. Her thin frame and exhausted face did not hide the beauty of the quintessential grey-blue eyes of the Blacks. Alone of the three, she registered his presence and smoothly drew her wand. Miss Cissy pointed it towards him, despite the fact that Kreacher was using a veil of invisibility to cover himself.

Slowly, Kreacher released the magic. "Miss Cissy."

Her eyes became panicked for a second, and then recognized him. "Kreacher," she breathed, softly, eyes taking on a new light, "Oh Kreacher, you have no idea how glad I am to see you. I need your help. My family- we must-"

"I serve Master Harry," Kreacher said bluntly, eyes averting when her face suddenly fell.

"D-did he ask you to keep us here?" she asked, shakily. Taking his silence as a negative, she continued to implore him. "Then helping us would not disobey him. He owes me a favor. I've saved him from the Dark Lord. If my family goes out now, the Aurors will arrest us and- oh, my son! Please, Kreacher let me talk to your Master."

"Master is sleeping," Kreacher said.

"Can't you wake him up?" Narcissa asked, leaning forward with pleading eyes.

"Master is sleeping," Kreacher repeated, turning away, "I will bring you food."

He turned and popped away, not leaving quickly enough to avoid the soft, half-wrenched sob from Miss Cissy. Kreacher felt cold inside. He thought of the old Miss Cissy, the icy and arrogant socialite with a warm heart for her family and a kind smile for Kreacher, and thought of the trembling limbs and panicked eyes he left behind. He thought of her broken shell of a son, and the helplessness of her face as she smoothed down his blonde hair.

And Kreacher thought, once again, that the family was getting so small.