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Follow up to fic snippet here.
The thing that padded softly through the shadows of Grimmauld Lane was called by many names: Barghest, Gytrash, Skriker, Cwn Annwn, Black Shuck, Dip, Garm, Gabriel Hound. None of these were the name that had been used to summon him out of the underworld, but they were as good a term as any by which to call him.
The Black Shuck had tracked his prey’s scent from halfway across England, a task that had proven easier than it had expected. All roads were one road, to the Wild Hunt, and no man could escape the Gabriel Hounds so long as he stood out of doors.
Now, though, now his prey had gone indoors, inside the great, ugly human den that loomed over the rest of the street. The den was fenced about with magical protections strong enough to keep most humans from even noticing it, but the Black Shuck was a creature of magic, and to his eyes it was as clearly visible as any building on the street. He carried the touch of death on his fur, from the underworld, and death knew everyone’s secrets.
It was not the wards which kept him out, but something far older and simpler.
His prey had closed the door behind him.
The Black Shuck flowed out of the shadows and up onto the steps, sinking onto his haunches before the door. It was locked and barred against him, something he had not expected.
He lifted one great, black paw and scratched at the wood, whining.
There was a puff of displaced air, and a house elf appeared on the stoop, clad in grimy rags. “No, no no,” it grumbled. “Away with it. Nasty, undead, black thing. There have never been spectral hounds in the house, and Kreacher is not letting any in now.”
The Black Shuck growled.
“Kreacher doesn’t have to listen to dead things,” the house elf informed him smugly. “Kreacher is belonging to nasty Harry Potter now.” He reached up and grabbed his long, hairy ears, twisting them until they turned bright red. “Nasty, mudblood Harry Potter,” he went on, then turned and banged his head three times against the door jamb. “And Harry Potter told Kreacher to let no one in.”
The Black Shuck growled again, low in his throat, and eyed the house elf speculatively. All roads were one road to the Wild Hunt, but it was still a long run from Malfoy Manor to London, and it had been a very, very long time since he had eaten.
More may or may not be forthcoming at some future date. Anyone who knows a bit of British folklore can probably figure out what's going on, anyway.
The thing that padded softly through the shadows of Grimmauld Lane was called by many names: Barghest, Gytrash, Skriker, Cwn Annwn, Black Shuck, Dip, Garm, Gabriel Hound. None of these were the name that had been used to summon him out of the underworld, but they were as good a term as any by which to call him.
The Black Shuck had tracked his prey’s scent from halfway across England, a task that had proven easier than it had expected. All roads were one road, to the Wild Hunt, and no man could escape the Gabriel Hounds so long as he stood out of doors.
Now, though, now his prey had gone indoors, inside the great, ugly human den that loomed over the rest of the street. The den was fenced about with magical protections strong enough to keep most humans from even noticing it, but the Black Shuck was a creature of magic, and to his eyes it was as clearly visible as any building on the street. He carried the touch of death on his fur, from the underworld, and death knew everyone’s secrets.
It was not the wards which kept him out, but something far older and simpler.
His prey had closed the door behind him.
The Black Shuck flowed out of the shadows and up onto the steps, sinking onto his haunches before the door. It was locked and barred against him, something he had not expected.
He lifted one great, black paw and scratched at the wood, whining.
There was a puff of displaced air, and a house elf appeared on the stoop, clad in grimy rags. “No, no no,” it grumbled. “Away with it. Nasty, undead, black thing. There have never been spectral hounds in the house, and Kreacher is not letting any in now.”
The Black Shuck growled.
“Kreacher doesn’t have to listen to dead things,” the house elf informed him smugly. “Kreacher is belonging to nasty Harry Potter now.” He reached up and grabbed his long, hairy ears, twisting them until they turned bright red. “Nasty, mudblood Harry Potter,” he went on, then turned and banged his head three times against the door jamb. “And Harry Potter told Kreacher to let no one in.”
The Black Shuck growled again, low in his throat, and eyed the house elf speculatively. All roads were one road to the Wild Hunt, but it was still a long run from Malfoy Manor to London, and it had been a very, very long time since he had eaten.
More may or may not be forthcoming at some future date. Anyone who knows a bit of British folklore can probably figure out what's going on, anyway.
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