Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The canopy over Harry’s bed hasn’t changed, but Harry still stares at it, going on some three hours now.

He knows what this is. He doesn’t know the name for it, but he knows what it is. He’s in one of those slumps again, where he won’t be able to sleep no matter how tired he is.

The dorm is quiet, mostly. Ron snores softly. Seamus tosses and turns, he’s a restless sleeper. Now and then, Dean mumbles in his sleep. Neville is dead silent. Harry is awake.

He was hoping he wouldn’t have one of his slumps while at Hogwarts, but when has he ever been so lucky? He’s been alright for months, now; even after the troll situation, he was alright. A nightmare here and there, imaginings of being too late, being unable to save Hermione, Ron getting hurt, the troll hurting all of them. In the worst ones, he remembers vivid images of the troll ripping him to pieces with its bare hands, or mowing its way through the crowded Great Hall.

It’s awful, but they’re just dreams. He’s had worse. Bad dreams have nothing against Vernon’s fits of rage, or Dudley’s cruelty, or even Petunia’s viciousness. Harry can stomach a few bad dreams.

Going without sleep entirely, though... That’s harder.

He has a potions essay due in a few days, and there’s the joint potions-herbology assignment of harvesting ingredients in the greenhouse; he needs to read six chapters of their charms textbook and write a few paragraphs about two charms from those chapters (his choice of which two); he needs to practice his transfiguration, there’s an essay for history of magic, he needs to go to the library and pull star charts from his birth year and write an essay about them, and there’s some reading to do for DADA.

Harry isn’t going to be able to sleep. With a sigh, he rolls out of bed. He grabs his school bag and heads downstairs to the common room. Might as well try to do some of the homework. Maybe the reading, at least. The common room is quiet but warm. The fire is low, but still clinging to life. Before sitting down, Harry grabs one of the logs in the holder next to the fireplace and nudges it into the embers. With some gentle fanning, the flames start to slowly pick up. The warm, orange glow fills the room.

He gets comfortable at one of the writing desks tucked in near the walls, pulling out his textbooks and so on. The reading first, then.

Staring at the words on the pages of the DADA textbook makes Harry’s vision blur. It feels like his brain is being rinsed out in a tub of molasses. Every thought feels thick and syrupy. The words roll in and out of focus. He stares at the same page for God knows how long, struggling to read the same paragraph and failing over and over. The words make sense. He can understand them. Each word is one he knows; he knows their meaning and how they sound and how to spell them and use them in a sentence. But put together like this... The sentences seem long and rambling, never getting to the point (if there even is one). He can almost imagine the words spinning in circles inside his head, bouncing around off his skull and colliding and mixing up until its all just an unintelligible jumble of letters that, individually, make sense but put together seem completely foreign.

Harry wonders what Snape is doing. What he’s planning.

It feels as if nothing makes sense. The weird pain in Harry’s scar during the Sorting Ceremony, the Gringotts break-in and the strange package Hagrid picked up there, Fluffy, the troll, Snape being injured (most likely by Fluffy), Harry’s jinxed broom, Nicolas Flamel. How is it all connected? There are the obvious connections, sure, but why? Why and how? Why are all these things happening, and how does any of it make any proper sense?

The more Harry thinks about it, the more confused he feels.

Sighing, he leans back in his chair, head falling back to let him look up at the ceiling.

Why does he even care?

...

Wait. Why does he care? Why does he care? Why, out of all the hundreds of students at Hogwarts, does Harry care? Why should any student care? They’re children! Harry’s eleven! Why is it his job to care about all of this? It’s not his job to do any of that stuff!

His only job here is to go to school. If any of this is anyone’s job, it would be the teachers’, not an eleven-year-old child.

But...why would they even bring all this to the school? Who places a three-headed dog in a school? Who openly tells a bunch of kids to not do something like that, like Dumbledore did? He was practically inviting students to get involved in things!

And…who’s to say he wasn’t doing that?

Harry is a fool. Adults are not to be trusted, and he knows this above all other things. Adults can never be trusted. Not Snape, not Dumbledore, no one. None of these teachers can be trusted if they let their headmaster drag them into something like this. They’re no better than the Dursleys, any of them, for this. For placing a bunch of children in danger, in a place that is supposed to be the safest in all the world.

Disgust twists up Harry’s stomach. He flinches at himself, when the quill in his hand snaps in half. Sighing, he gets up and tosses the broken feather into the fire.

If Harry had a choice, he’d leave this school right now, for how sick the place is suddenly making him.

He stops.

Well, why can’t he leave?

He can’t leave right now, not without causing a stir, but...winter holidays are coming up. If he wanted to, he could just get on the train and go back to Surrey. Harry slumps into his chair again. He could do that, but then he’d just be stuck with the Dursleys again. Except… The Dursleys think he’s spending the winter holidays at Hogwarts. Harry has money, lots of it. He could just…not return to the Dursleys. Best case scenario, they won’t even know he’s technically missing until either the spring term ends, or the school comes asking where he is. Realistically, it will probably be the latter; they’ll probably come looking for Harry if he doesn’t turn up back here at Hogwarts when the new term starts. Even then, though, he will have a massive head start.

He could do whatever he wants. If he leaves the country, they can’t exactly force him to come back to school, can they? Right? And even if they try, he’s a kid, he’s an expert at getting lost, and thanks to the Dursleys, he’s an expert at hiding and running away too. Why can’t he just…hide from Hogwarts? Hide from the Ministry? There’s no one to stop him.

Harry flips through the pages of his DADA textbook. He’d miss Ron and Hermione, that’s true. He’d have to write to them. Just to let them know he’s alright. Hedwig…

He can’t use Hedwig, can he? He loves her dearly, and she’s the best thing he’s ever owned, his very first friend, but… It’s going to be hard to bring her along if he’s travelling. He can’t imagine forcing her to stay in her cage for all that time; he’ll probably be taking a train most of the time, and it’s not as if he can bring her on normal trains. People would have questions about that. He can’t carry her through town either, that’d upset people. He loves her, but she’s just too eye-catching. Any pet owl in a cage would be eye-catching. Even if he lets her follow him on her own, in the air, he’d just feel terrible about it. Making her fly all over Europe, or wherever else he might find himself going, while he gets to ride the train or whatever other means he might find.

Leaving her behind is a painful thought, but…it’s probably for the best, honestly. Surely, Harry can give her to Ron or Hermione to keep safe; they’d take good care of her. He’ll just say his family can’t have her home over the holidays, there’ll be a bunch of muggles over for Christmas and such and there would just be too many questions if anyone saw her, he doesn’t want to get in trouble. Ron can take her home with him, maybe. His family is all wizards and witches; they’d probably love to keep her for him, just for the holiday. Maybe even Hermione could take her; from everything she’s said, her family seems much more accepting and tolerant of all this wizarding stuff than the Dursleys ever will be. Either way, Hedwig will be safe.

Everything will be okay. Harry can take care of himself, and he trusts his friends to take care of Hedwig while he’s gone.

“You’re really going home for the holidays?” Ron asks for the hundredth time the day of the term’s end.

Harry shrugs, offering a commiserating look. “Sorry. I wish I could stay but…they said people would ask questions if I wasn’t there for the holidays and all. Best not to invite all that, isn’t it?”

The redheaded boy sighs. “Yeah, I know…”

Harry feels a bit bad. He thought Ron would be going home too, but it seems not. His parents are going to Romania apparently, to visit Ron’s older brother Charlie, so Ron has to stay behind.

“Sorry, Ron.”

Ron shakes his head. “Nah, no apologies, mate. I’ll have the whole room t’myself!” he says with a laugh.

“Thanks for taking care of Hedwig, too.”

“No worries, at least I’ll have some company, right?”

Harry shoves the last of his clothes into his trunk and shuts it tight. Just breakfast left, then carriages down to Hogsmeade for the train. Ron helps him maneuverer the trunk down the stairs from the dorms. The common room is a mess of kids of all ages scrambling to get all their belongings together and prepare for the trip home. Together, they find Hermione in the mix and make an exit to the stairs where it’s a bit quieter.

“So you’re really going home?” Hermione asks while they’re making their way down to the Great Hall. “I thought you said you’d be staying.”

Harry shrugs. “My uncle wrote and said they needed me at home. They’re having loads of people over, apparently, and there’ll be questions if I’m not there,” he explains. He feels bad for lying. “And knowing my uncle, it must be important if he went through the trouble of getting a letter to me.”

The girl sighs. “It’s a shame, I was hoping to have you two sneak into the Restricted Section now when the school will be nearly deserted,” she explains in a soft voice, to avoid being overheard.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Ron tells them, “-but no promises. That Madam Pince is a right terror when it comes to protecting her books.”

They make their way down a few more stairs, where they stumble upon Dumbledore himself wandering the halls. “Ah, ready for the holidays, then?” he asks with a good-natured smile when he sees them.

Harry forces a smile onto his face, despite the foul feeling in his stomach.

“I’m being left behind, sir,” Ron says jokingly, nudging Harry with his elbow. “These two will be gone after breakfast and here I will be, all alone…”

Hermione rolls her eyes, smiling, while Harry grins and nudges Ron back. “We’ll be back before long,” the girl assures. “I’m sure you’ll manage. We’ll be sending you presents, anyway, so stop complaining.”

“Yeah, Ron, stop complaining,” Harry says, slinging his arm around the other boy. “I’ll stop in Diagon Alley and send you lots of candy, and think about it, with no one here, you won’t have to share with anyone.”

The redhead snorts, grinning wide. “Sounds brilliant, that does! Send plenty of Chocolate Frogs, will you?”

“It sounds like you are all excited to get going, so I shan’t keep you too long,” Dumbledore hums. “But Mister Potter, might I have a word with you in my office before you go? Nothing bad, I assure you, no need to be concerned.”

Harry nods. “Of course, sir.”

“You go on, Harry, I’ll bring your trunk downstairs,” Ron offers as he grabs the handle of the trunk.

“Thanks, Ron. You’re getting an extra frog for that!” Harry chides while handing over the weight of the luggage.

His friends both laugh while Harry shuffles after Dumbledore. “What was it you wanted to talk about, sir?”

The headmaster hums. “Come with me. There’s something I think it’s time be returned to you. It’s in my office.”

Something returned to him? But…Harry hasn’t lost anything, he’s quite sure.

Dumbledore leads the way through the school at a sedate pace. His long, red robes drag the ground as he walks but he hardly seems to notice. The hallways are already mostly empty. Now and then, students will rush past them with their trunks in tow, or professors lugging their own bags. Outside the windows, snow rushes down from the sky. The drifts of it are deep enough to reach Harry’s chest in some places, he knows. Most of the courtyards are kept rather cleared, thanks to Filch and Hagrid, but suppose they can’t be everywhere all at once.

They reach the stone griffin Harry has been told leads to the headmaster’s office. Dumbledore speaks the password, pumpkin pasties, and together they ride the spiralling stairs up to the office itself. Once inside, Dumbledore sits down behind his massive desk in his massive chair (obnoxious much?), and reaches one hand into a drawer of the desk. He retrieves a brown-paper wrapped package, tied off with twine, which he places on the desk between him and Harry.

“This, Harry, belonged to your father once.”

Harry’s heart jumps into his throat; his eyes go wide as he stares at the package. His…father?

“He lent it to me for some study, I was quite curious, you understand, but…before I could return it, tragedy struck,” the headmaster explains gently. “All this time, I kept it safe, knowing you would one day be here, attending Hogwarts, and be old enough to best decide for yourself how to use it.”

Harry’s hands shake slightly as he picks up the soft package. “What- What is it?”

Dumbledore looks at him over the rims of his half-moon glasses. “A family heirloom. I have no doubt that if your father had lived, he would one day have passed it on to you himself. It pains me terribly, to have to act as the intermediary for you both.”

Swallowing, Harry nods. He holds the package close to himself. “Thank you, sir.”

The old man smiles, shaking his head slowly. “Not at all, not at all. I’m simply returning it to its rightful owner. I must ask you, however, to use it wisely.”

Harry nods again. “Thanks. Can I-…”

“Of course, Harry, go on, we can’t have you leaving school on an empty stomach.”

Clutching the package, Harry hurries out of the office.

He is revolted! How could he not see it before? The lies in Dumbledore’s eyes, the manipulation in every word he speaks, the false sense of safety in his seemingly gentle nature. Disgusting! Harry knows a liar, an abuser, when he sees one and he was looking at the textbook example of both only a moment ago, wearing the guise of an eccentric but kind old man.

Every word was chosen oh, so carefully to twist the knife in Harry’s heart, to drown him in grief before Dumbledore could once again play the perfect mentor-figure coming in with a kind word to soothe the ache and endear Harry to him. He was trying to bring Harry closer, win more and more of his trust and faith. After all, how could Harry doubt him when he spoke so gently of Harry’s father, of the family he never got to know? It was all designed to win Harry to his side.

Harry almost wants to throw the package away, toss it in the nearest fire, but at the same time, he can’t. What if it really did belong to his father once? That would make Dumbledore’s manipulations even more believable, wouldn’t it?

He hurries through the growing crowd of students milling down to breakfast, to finally sit down with his friends. They ask about the package; Harry makes something up, says it’s the quidditch uniform his father once wore, that it was found in storage and Dumbledore thought he might want it, since he has so little of his parents and all. Everyone in the vicinity fawns about it, of course, and Harry plays along to the best of his ability.

After eating, he and Hermione say a heartfelt goodbye to Ron, promising once again to send letters and presents. The four Weasley brothers all seem a bit melancholy to watch everyone leave, but Harry tries to comfort himself with the thought that at least they have each other to keep company with.

Harry’s promises himself to buy Ron a present from every place he visits.

Chapter Text

After seeing Hermione off with her parents, Harry finds a station attendant on the platform, who informs him about the Knight Bus. Though mildly concerned about the Trace, he follows the attendant’s directions.

Stand on the curb, right near the street, and put your wand out.

Harry looks around, scanning the road for a purple bus. The vehicle comes racing up the street, exhaust cracking and panging as the three-tiered bus swerves through traffic. The boy staggers back when the bus comes to a screeching halt right in front of him.

Woah...

The door opens with a creak. “Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this afternoon! May I assist you with your baggage, sir or madam?” the lanky, uniformed man who stands in the door reads from a small card.

“Um. Yes, please.”

Stan steps down onto the curb and grabs the trunk while waving Harry inside. Climbing the steps into the bus, Harry passes the white-haired driver, who is taking the opportunity to bite into a thick sandwich, and the shrunken head hanging in the window, which is berating the driver for something or other. Instead of the usual bus seats Harry expected, the interior is furnished with massive, plump armchairs, none of which are occupied at the moment. The floor is carpeted? From the ceiling, there hangs a glittering chandelier, which still sways mildly from side to side from the high speed and abrupt stop. Harry sits down in the nearest chair and gets comfy. Stan hefts the trunk onto the bus with a grunt of exertion, letting out a great sigh of relief once he can put it down, then wheels it over to sit next to Harry’s chair.

“So, where to, then, young lil’ sir, eh?” he asks, wiping the sweat from his pimpled forehead.

“The Leaky Cauldron, please. How much is the fare?” Harry digs in his pockets for the coin pouch he made sure to keep on his person.

“Eleven sickles, no matter the distance!” Stan informs proudly.

Harry nods and delves into his purse. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, eleven sickles, which he places into Stan’s held out hand. The conductor fiddles around for a minute, then hands over a small ticket.

“Hold on tight!”

When he staggers off the bus in front of the Leaky Cauldron, Harry needs to take a moment to just breathe. Dear God… He’s never taking that bloody bus ever again; he was sure he was going to die during that hellish ride!

Stan lugs his trunk down onto the curb with another grunt and slaps Harry on the back in passing. “Nice riding with ya, lad! Be sure to call us again, whenever you need!”

Never. Again.

Stan jumps back onto the bus, already arguing with the driver and the shrunken head, and then, with another backfire of the exhaust, the purple beast speeds off.

It takes Harry several minutes to collect himself enough to move again. When he does, he shuffles through the pub to the back, standing up on his toes to tap the bricks with his wand. When the doorway opens, a smile fills his face. Diagon Alley looks amazing. It’s covered in snow, which still falls slowly from the sky, and every storefront is bedecked with Christmas decorations. There’s tinsel as far as the eye can see! There are all sorts of crazy decorations Harry can hardly even describe, he’s never seen anything like them before, they’re so uniquely magical that there’s simply no muggle equivalent.

The crowd is good-natured but dense; everyone trudges through the packed down snow and slight patches of ice, coats and hats dusted in white and faces blushed red from the cold. Harry himself can feel the chill nipping at his nose; he’s glad he put on his winter attire before leaving the train. It was nice and balmy on the train, but outside? The temperature is frigid to say the least.

Because of the crowd, it takes him ages to reach the bank. If he’s going to travel, he’ll need a bit more money than the pocket change he has left on him. He’ll probably need to buy some supplies too. Maybe a more manoeuvrable bag? The trunk is good, but it’s quite unwieldy to deal with. Finally, he can shuffle into the atrium and get in line for one of the clerks. He’s careful not to remove his hat, even when he takes off his gloves and scarf. Best not to draw too much attention, and apparently, having his scar on display is like pointing a spotlight at himself.

After some twenty minutes of waiting, Harry’s turn comes up and he can approach the clerk.

“Good day, young sir,” the goblin behind the tall desk greets politely. “How may Gringotts be of assistance today?”

Harry clears his throat. “Hello, sir, I’d like to speak with someone in private, please.”

The goblin taps one of his long nails on the desk. “Someone? Who, exactly, do you wish to speak with, young sir?”

“Um… Well. Someone like you, I suppose? Like, a clerk? Or an account manager, maybe? I’ve got some questions about my vault, number 687, but I’d prefer to talk about things in private, if that’s alright.”

The clerk hums. He turns away from Harry and says something in the goblin language, Harry can’t recall what it’s called; another goblin approaches with rapt steps, rounding the desk to stand near the boy.

“This assistant will show you to the office of your account manager,” the clerk informs.

The second goblin grunts. “Follow me, please, young sir.”

Harry nods quickly. “Thank you, sir,” he tells the clerk, then to the assistant, “After you, sir.”

The goblin walks away just as raptly as he approached, and Harry follows close behind with his trunk in tow. He is lead out of the atrium into a quieter, but no less lavishly decorated, hallway. Everything is made of polished stone, marble mainly but with some kind of darker stone used for the flooring, with elegant, intricate carvings decorating the walls and pillars. Tapestries and enormous paintings dot the walls as well; most seeming to tell tales of war, though a few appear to display other widely known facets of goblin culture, mining, crafting, forging, enchanting, and so on. The path takes them down many turns and bends, and Harry is reasonably sure that they’re moving downward on a mild incline, but truly, he can’t be certain.

They reach, finally, a hallway with what must be hundreds of doors, packed tightly jamb to jamb, on either side. None of the doors have any markings or numbers that Harry can see, but his guide appears confident when he stops in front of a door that looks just like all the others. He knocks two times, then waits. From inside, there comes a muffled call in the goblin language, upon which Harry’s guide opens the door for Harry and gestures him inside.

“Thank you, sir,” the boy makes sure to say before stepping inside.

The door shuts quietly behind him, and he places his trunk near it. Finally able to look around, the room is most certainly magical. Where there was hardly an inch between the doors in the hallway, the inside of the room is much larger, must be at least roughly the size of Harry’s dorm room. The walls are all but fully covered by ornate filing cabinets stacked on top of each other but from what he can see, the marble is just as beautifully carved here as it is everywhere else in the bank. Most of the floor is covered by a plush rug which shimmers as if there’s actual gold woven into the intricate pattern. At the opposite end from the door, there is a very large desk, much larger than any Harry has seen before, which is covered in piles of papers, files, and stacks of rolled parchment, with a long line of different stamps along the desk’s edge. Behind the desk, sits a goblin in a large, plush chair, which dwarfs him even more than his already somewhat diminutive size does on its own.

“Mister Potter, you may call me Griphook. If you recall as I do, I have served you previously here at the bank.”

Griphook? Harry approaches the desk, getting a closer look at the goblin. Oh, yes! Harry remembers him, now! “You helped me earlier in the year, the first time I was here,” he says, sitting down in the smaller guest chair opposite the goblin. “Sorry I didn’t recognize you at first, it’s been a while.”

The clerk dips his head in a small bow. “Not at all, Mister Potter, nothing to fret about. Now, I was informed you had questions about your business with us. I assure you, I will provide all the answers available.”

And assured Harry feels, nodding eagerly. “Thank you, Griphook. Well. Where to start? I have a vault, of course, and I think it’s in my name, but I don’t have the key. Can I have it? Am I allowed to have it? Is there some kind of…executor system?”

He thought things over as much as he could during the train ride, so he feels moderately prepared.

Griphook hums. He pushes away from the desk then slides out of the chair. Harry watches him as he walks over to one of the filing cabinets near the door, where he makes a slight gesture of his long-clawed hand. The top drawer of the highest cabinet on the stack slides open, extending nearly all the way to touch the cabinet on the opposite side of the room. Then, a file near the far back rises from the mass, and gently floats down into Griphook’s waiting hands. With the file in hand, the drawer slides closed again while the goblin returns to his desk. Once he has sat down, he quickly flips through the many papers inside the folder.

“According to our records, the listed caretaker for your vaults and accounts is one Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,” Griphook declares finally, after another handful of moments, and fixes his sharp black eyes on Harry. “Were you not made aware of this by your caretaker?”

“Uh, no, sir.”

The goblin hums again. “I see.” He closes the folder and sets it down on the desk, clasping his hands on top of it then. “Do you feel that you, your vaults, and your accounts have been sufficiently cared for by your selected representative?”

That seems like a loaded question, but as they are his accounts, Harry has nothing to gain from not being truthful. “I… Well… I don’t really have access to my vault, I suppose? Or my accounts? Hagrid, from Hogwarts? He had my key when we came here in September, and I think he got it back after we accessed my vault. I assume he still has it, or it’s with Dumbledore. I don’t know, really.”

“I see. And were you the one who chose Headmaster Dumbledore to act as your representative?”

“No? I wasn’t really aware of wizards and magic and stuff until this summer when I received my Hogwarts letter. I was raised by muggle relatives of mine, they never told me about any of this stuff. Forgive me for saying, but I didn’t even think goblins were real.” Griphook nods his understanding as Harry goes on. “I suppose maybe my parents chose Dumbledore, before they died? But I really don’t know.”

Griphook seems quite interested in hearing all of this. “I see… And do you wish for Headmaster Dumbledore to remain your representative and caretaker?”

A frown fills Harry’s face. “Wait, I can change it?” He didn’t know that!

“Certainly, Mister Potter,” Griphook assures him again. “If you feel that you have been treated unfairly by your representative, you are fully within your rights to revoke their privileges and offer them to someone you feel will be better suited. You could also choose to not have a representative at all, and take over the responsibilities on your own.”

Harry’s frown deepens. “But…I’m underage?”

A very slight little smirk quirks Griphook’s thin lips upwards at the corners. “Yes. However, Gringotts is a part of the sovereign goblin kingdom and therefore operates mainly under their own legal restrictions, though with many concessions and cooperations agreed upon with the British Ministry of Magic to ensure healthy economical interactions and relationships. While vaults and accounts created for children and other underage individuals require the use of a representative and caretaker, usually a parent, until the individual comes of age, Gringotts has clauses within its regulations that allow a child who is without guardian, representative, or caretaker, to take over responsibility for their accounts and vaults, if the child chooses to do so and should the account manager judge the child to be mature and prepared enough to do so. As your account manager, I find you to be quite mature and with some further information given to you, I feel you would be appropriately prepared to take over management of your accounts. Do you wish to personally take over management, Mister Potter?”

Harry’s eyes go wide. He… He can take over his accounts? He can manage them on his own? Really? He doesn’t need Dumbledore?

“Yes!” Harry all but shouts in his eagerness. “Yes, that! I want that, I wanna do it myself!”

Again, the clerk dips his head in a small, acknowledging nod. “Certainly, Mister Potter.”

“But what about the key to my vault? I don’t have it.”

“Not to worry, Mister Potter. Once the paperwork has been filed, you will receive a new key, and the key in Headmaster Dumbledore’s possession will disintegrate in an otherwise harmless fashion.”

Magic is awesome, Harry thinks to himself, as Griphook flicks through one of the stacks of papers on his desk before abandoning it and looking through a pile of parchment rolls. Evidently finding what he’s searching for, he pulls a scroll from near the middle of a pile and unrolls it, laying it out flat on the small writing area left accessible on the desk. He picks up a quill, dips it, then sets it to the parchment. After a few moments of writing, he offers Harry first the quill then turns the parchment around towards him.

“Initials in the smaller space at the top and near the middle there, then full signature at the bottom, please.”

Harry quickly fills in the contract as instructed, signing neatly at the bottom. Griphook takes the contract back, signs at the bottom, pricks his thumb with a one of his other claws and presses it to the parchment near his signature, slams it with four separate stamps from his collection, and rolls it up neatly again. Lastly, he tosses the scroll into the air. The parchment dissolves into thin air almost as soon as it leaves his hand.

“This will be properly filed within five minutes, upon which I can authorize the key disintegration and the dispensing of a new key. Until then, we have some other matters to discuss, Mister Potter.”

“Other matters? Like what?”

“Usually, you would gain full, unrestricted access to your complete inheritance once you come of age, but as you have chosen to assume full responsibility for your business with Gringotts, we are now within our rights to also offer you this inheritance in its completion.”

Wait. Inheritance? But…

“I got my inheritance, didn’t I? The vault and all that money? Isn’t that it?”

Griphook shakes his head as minutely as he had previously nodded it. “Far from it, Mister Potter.” He opens the folder again and finds a page near the middle. “According to this, the initial vault was intended to be used to feed, house, and clothe you fully until you came of age, with possibility to access an additional vault should the first be depleted for whatever reason, and so on upon continued depletion. However, this is far from your full inheritance. As sole surviving and lawful heir, you will be receiving, as follows. Vaults 687 to 693, and all their contents, known as the Potter family vaults. Vaults 811 to 813, and all their contents, known as the Fleamont family vaults. Vaults 717 to 736, and all their contents, known as the Black family vaults. Nineteen patents, and their continued royalties. Fourteen parcels of land, eight of which contain some form of manor or house. You will also receive the following titles. Lord of the House of Fleamont. Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter. Lord and Heir of Gryffindor. Lord and Heir of Slytherin. Lord and Heir of Hufflepuff. Lord of the House of Gaunt. Lord of the House of Peverell.”

Harry’s head is spinning.

This is… Oh, God. Harry can hardly breathe. This is- This is just a lot to deal with.

Deep breath.

Okay. Okay. Just breathe. Freaking out can come later. Right now, business.

“I- I intend to travel. I’m not going back to Hogwarts when the next term starts. I’ll be travelling. Probably mostly Europe. I’ll be needing a good amount of money to bring with me. I don’t know if or when I’ll have any Gringotts offices available.”

Griphook nods. “Understood, my Lord. If you wish, you may wear a signet ring for one of the families you are lord of. Showing it will prove your status and title, and you may use it as a seal of authenticity on letters and documents by simply pressing its face to the parchment. If making a purchase, simply use the seal on the receipt provided by the shop and the appropriate sums will be removed from your vaults when these receipts are delivered to the nearest branch of Gringotts. This will, of course, save you from having to carry around large amounts of galleons, which could of course pose a security risk to yourself.”

Harry swallows around the slight knot in his throat. “Yes. Okay. That’s- That sounds good. Um, which rings are available? I mean, I’ll be trying to stay incognito, as it were, so I probably shouldn’t go around with the Potter ring if at all possible.”

Griphook scans the file. “Rings are available for the following names. Potter, Fleamont, Black, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Slytherin, and Peverell. As your advisor, I would recommend the Black ring. Though some members remain, married into other families, this presence remains inside Britain. Since you intend to leave Britain, this name will be most suitable. Known enough to immediately garner respect, but unknown enough that no one will question your origins or use of the name.”

“Okay, let’s go with that one.”

He watches as Griphook removes a small black pouch from inside the folder. He opens it and fishes something out from inside, offering it to Harry in the palm of his hand.

“As the Lord of the House, it is your sole right to wear it. Any other would be rejected by the ring itself. Customarily, it is to be worn on the pinkie finger of the non-dominant hand, with the seal facing outwards, but these days not many adhere to this custom. Wear it where it is most comfortable, I would suggest.”

Harry stares at the ring.

His hand seems to shake as he reaches out. When he picks it up, it seems to weigh more than a simple ring could feasibly weigh.

He holds it close, studying the ornate crest on its face. The ring is a simple silver band with a circular face; a heraldic shield with lots of decorative fuss along the top, with a skull in the middle of the vines. The shield itself is in three sections; the top section is a skeletal hand wielding a wand, surrounded by stars. The middle is a blank band, while the bottom section is blank save for three crows. Along the bottom of the shield there is a scroll with two words he doesn’t recognise, likely a family motto.

Tojours Pur

“The words?” Griphook asks.

Harry looks up; it takes a moment for the question to register. “Oh. Yes. I- My Latin probably isn’t as good as it ought to be.”

“According to the file, it’s French actually. The family has their roots in France. It means always pure, as in pureblood. They, like many families like them, were quite fanatic about their ideals concerning blood.”

Grimacing, Harry nods. He hates to think he’s got ties to a family like that, but suppose there isn’t much he can do about it. Either way, only Harry gets to decide Harry’s ideals; he might wear the ring and the name, but he has no interest in agreeing with the family motto.

What was it Griphook said? Pinkie, non-dominant hand, facing outwards. That sounds uncomfortable, though. He much rather wear it on his right hand. The slightly oversized ring easily slides onto Harry’s right middle finger. Upon reaching the finger’s base, the ring contracts itself together, shrinking down until it sits as a comfortable yet snug fit.

“Um. How- How can I be the heir of so many families? It sounds…crazy.”

“The families mingled, simply put,” Griphook explains while Harry accept the black pouch, which actually jingles with the other rings stored inside. “While Potter remained the dominant name and line, Peverell married into the family. When your parents passed, you were left the sole heir of both the Peverell and Potter lines. As for Fleamont, the last generation of the family mingled with the Potters and thereafter died out, leaving you again as the sole inheritor. The same happened with the Gryffindor line, though much further back. Concerning the Black family, while remaining members do have their own personal vaults, they have no claim on what is now yours through your godfather Sirius Black III as the Black lineage and inheritance is only passed through male offspring. While Sirius Black III is still alive, all personal property was considered forfeit by Gringotts when he was sentenced to life in Azkaban, and as he had a last will and testament already prepared with you named as the sole beneficiary, the forfeited property was passed directly to you in accordance with both the will and the Black family custom. Lastly, you became the heir of Gaunt, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin through magical conquest. By defeating the Dark Lord, his inheritances and conquests passed to you. Though it must seem overwhelming to you now, I can assure you it all happened quite organically over time.”

Harry slumps back in his chair, again utterly gobsmacked.

“I see you may need a moment to process all this. I’ll call for some tea. Take all the time you need, Lord Black.”

Holy bloody fucking shit… Lord Black…

He has a godfather? Sirius Black III... He must have been close with Harry’s parents, if they decided to name him the godfather, but... Life in Azkaban? As far as Harry understands, it’s a prison for wizards and witches, and Black has a life sentence there. What happened? He must have gone to prison before Harry’s parents died, or surely, Harry would have spent at least a little time with him, right? Harry wishes he could have known him, even if only for a short while.

Suppose it could be useful, though. He could just...pretend to be Sirius Black’s child, instead of the Potter family’s. It’s just for show, anyway, so it’s not like it matters. He could be Sirius Black IV. He could say his ‘father’ has no idea he exists (not that it matters, with him in prison for life), and his mother, whoever she was, decided to give him his father’s name so he could have a proper claim to his inheritance? Something dramatic like that. To be safe, just in case anyone asks!

He’ll need to discuss with Griphook.

Chapter Text

“So… you’d basically get me emancipated, then hire me as an employee of Gringotts?”

He skims the contract again. This is all so very insane. Harry’s a lord of a million different houses, he’s apparently way richer than he originally thought, and now, he can technically become a legal adult and get an actual job with just a couple of signatures. His head is spinning. This is crazy. This is wild. He is actually struggling to truly fathom all of this.

“Because you have taken control of your accounts with us, this gives us the legal basis to demand for your full emancipation as a minor, effectively rendering you an adult by law. Further, as you can see, Lord Black, if you were then to become an employee of Gringotts, you would be paid a modest salary, as well as on a commission basis,” Griphook explains between sips of his tea. “As you plan to travel, your assignment would simply be to keep your eyes open for any interesting artefacts or objects of value that you may come upon. When found, purchase the items with your own wealth. At your earliest convenience, report to a branch office of Gringotts, where clerks would select any objects we may find to be of interest. For these, we would reimburse you the price you paid, plus transport costs, plus a fair and adequate commission for your efforts. As an employee of Gringotts, we would handle the legal matters of your journey, such as visas, entry permits, and so on. You will have a monthly stipend for travelling and housing expenses, but should you exceed that stipend, it would come out of your personal funds. Any artefacts and so on that are not of interest to Gringotts, you may keep for yourself and do with as you wish as your personal property. You will not be reimbursed for these items.”

Right. Okay. Harry’s no lawyer, but that sounds fair. He leans over to his actual lawyer, a polite (if a bit grumpy) goblin by the name of Sharpeye, to hear his advice. While Sharpeye is an employee of Gringotts, his first duty is to represent his personal clients, even if it brings him into conflict with his true employer, which Harry is incredibly grateful for. He really needs the legal advice, and especially from a source that can be properly trusted.

Sharpeye grunts, nodding curtly. “I have scanned the employment contract in full, my Lord, and it is weighed heavily in your favour. I would suggest signing as soon as possible. If you do not, Griphook may feel you are not interested and withdraw the offer. If he does, I strongly doubt we will ever again see a contract as favourable as this, my Lord. I see no pitfalls, no traps, no loopholes. This is a fairly written contract and I say this on my honour, my Lord. I urge you to sign.”

Harry nods along as he listens. Okay. That’s good. That sounds good. However, there’s something he does need to ask. “Goblins have their own kind of magic, right?”

His lawyer frowns his confusion but nods. “This is correct, my Lord.”

“Could goblin magic hide my scar? Change my face? I don’t want to draw attention or get in trouble just because everyone knows my scar. Is that something I could ask to have put in the contract?”

Sharpeye hums. He taps his chin with one long finger as he considers the question. “I believe this will be possible, my Lord. Allow me to negotiate.”

The goblins converse in curt, clipped words of Gobbledegook (the very best language for negotiating, Sharpeye assured). They bite back and forth; first Sharpeye seems displeased, then Griphook looks upset, then Sharpeye again, and back and forth until they both look similarly disgruntled but in agreement. Sharpeye dips his quill in ink and sets it to the contract parchment. He writes for several long moments. When he finishes with a slight flourish, he blows on the ink slightly then offers the contract to Harry for his perusal.

Addendum 17: Gringotts Wizarding Bank will supply the undersigned with suitable camouflage through the traditional magical means of the goblin kingdom and peoples, so that the undersigned may go about their contracted duties undisturbed by civilians and government personnel of both wizarding and muggle kind.

Alright, that sounds good. “Should I sign now?”

“Unless you have further concerns, yes, my Lord.”

Harry nods. He picks up the quill left in the ink pot and scribbles out his signature on the marked line at the bottom of the contract. Then, he also presses his signet ring to the parchment, just under his signature, as a means of authentication, as Sharpeye instructed him to at the start of the process. Next, Sharpeye signs as his legal counsel, and authenticates with a bloody thumbprint. Lastly, Griphook signs as Gringotts’ representative, and leaves a thumbprint of his own. After that, Harry signs and stamps the emancipation of a minor documents, as well, effectively turning him into a legal adult. According to both Griphook and Sharpeye, the Trace disappears as soon as the documents are notarized, filed, and copies sent to the Ministry’s records department; the Trace only adheres to minors, and because Harry will no longer be, by law, a minor, the Trace can’t adhere to him, which neatly solves a big problem for him.

The goblins both excuse themselves, then. Sharpeye’s assistance is no longer needed; Harry thanks him profusely and gives him the firmest handshake he can manage and promises to request him again should he need legal advice. Griphook steps away to have Harry’s documents properly filed and run a few short errands for the young Lord Black within the bank.

Once the door closes behind them, Harry positively deflates into his chair.

What in the absolute hell? This is…incredibly crazy, all of it.

It’s hard for him to make peace with the fact that all of this is real. He’s basically wizarding royalty, he’s way richer than he thought, he’s technically an adult now, and he’s got a job.

This is... There aren’t words. It’s going to take him a long time to really process any of this, Harry thinks.

He drinks his tea and nibbles on the biscuits laid out on offer.

Griphook returns after some time. He carries a small black box, a purple satin pouch, and a leather folder. Without sitting, he first offers the folder to Harry.

“This contains your identity documents, where you are listed as Sirius Harry Black IV, including a muggle passport and identification card, as well as any and all travel documents you will require to travel within Europe. Should you wish to journey outside Europe, simply visit your nearest Gringotts office and request the requisite documents there. As you are an employee, the papers will be provided to you.”

The boy nods along, laying the folder in his lap as Griphook continues. The goblin offers the satin pouch, which is just about the size of Harry’s hand, tied closed with a gilded cord.

“This will be bound to you. Should you ever require cash, for, say, smaller purchases or in muggle establishments, simply state aloud the type of currency you require, then reach inside and you will be able to withdraw that currency. Any withdrawals will be automatically logged and drawn from your vaults. Once it has been bound to you, only you will be able to withdraw any currency from it.”

That’s useful; especially for muggle places, like Griphook said, and it saves Harry from carrying around loose cash. He sets it down on top of the folder in his lap. Griphook opens the black box and shows the contents to Harry. The inside is filled mostly by a plush pillow. Upon it lays two objects. The first is a thick needle, with a point so sharp it seems to glimmer. The second is a silver hoop, from which there hangs a small silver spike.

“This is your glamour anchor. It is an earring. It will be placed on your left earlobe. When worn, your appearance will not change as such, but it will appear changed to anyone but a goblin. Your scar will not be visible, your hair will be a dark brown, your eyes will be hazel, your skin will appear somewhat lighter in colour, and your facial features will be altered enough to dissuade any thoughts of resemblance. The anchor itself will show no magical signature and appear as a mundane earring of no particular make.”

An earring? Okay. Harry doesn’t have his ears pierced but his whole world has already changed so why not get his ear pierced as well?

Griphook picks up the needle and sets the box on the side table. Harry turns his head to show his left ear. When the goblin’s hand comes to rest on his head to hold him still, it feels as if a cool balm is being spread over his entire ear. The ear tingles briefly, before all sensation there completely disappears. Oh, a numbing spell of sorts! Thank God, that’s a relief. Griphook whispers in Gobbledegook; Harry can see him moving slightly out of the corner of his eye. There comes a slight tug on his head but there’s no pain. Griphook quickly picks up the satin pouch and seems to press it to Harry’s ear. He whispers some more words Harry can’t understand. A spell? Linking Harry to the pouch through a few drops of blood? Well, he can’t say he isn’t relieved he won’t have to prick his finger or something, on top of getting his ear pierced. Doing both at once seems nice and efficient.

The goblin sets the pouch down again, instead collecting the earring from the box. With some more moments of fiddling, another cool balm washes over the side of Harry’s head as Griphook steps back.

“I have healed the wound somewhat but once the numbing passes in some minutes, it may be sore. This will last for three days. If the pain grows worse, or lasts longer, visit one of our offices immediately. If a branch office is not available, seek a wizarding healer instead.”

“Understood. Is that all? I mean, is everything done now?”

“Yes, my Lord, everything we discussed is now finished. Unless you have further need of our services, this meeting can end at your leisure.”

“Right. Thank you, Griphook. You’ve been a massive help, but I won’t take up more of your time today,” Harry says, offering his hand. “Thanks again, for everything.”

Griphook shakes his head, as well as Harry’s hand. “Not at all, my Lord. Simply doing my job.”

“No, Griphook. You’re… Honestly, you’re probably the first person who’s ever been on my side,” Harry admits. “I mean, yeah, people have been nice and kind and stuff, and I’ve had loads of help, but… No one’s ever really been on my side, you know? Everyone is just…out for themselves. But you, you’ve done more for me in this one meeting than anyone ever has before in my life.”

The goblin looks at him for several moments, something…pensive in his dark eyes. He nods finally. “Contact me directly, should you run into any trouble. I will provide whatever support I can.”

A small smile tugs at Harry’s face. “Thanks, Griphook. That’s kind of you.”

With farewells out of the way, Harry collects his belongings (carefully tucking his folder and pouch into his trunk for now) and exits the office. The assistant waits outside, and immediately jumps into action to show Harry back to the atrium from the depths of the bank’s offices.

As it’s getting quite late in the day, Harry decides to run a last errand before retiring for the evening. Pushing and shoving through the ever-present crowd, he makes his way down to Carkitt Market to Stowe & Packers Magical Bags. He does so love his trunk, with his nameplate on the front and the Hogwarts crest emblazoned on it, but it really is too much of a fuss if he’s going to be on the wing. It’s all fine and dandy to have the big old thing sitting in the dorms, but like this, moving about? A bit more trouble than it’s worth. Not to mention, what good is his disguise going to do if he’s walking around with a Hogwarts trunk with his real name on it?

With the help of the clerk in the shop, Harry selects a more light-weight bag, which thankfully comes equipped with a strong extension-featherweight charm combination. All his luggage needs, in one neat messenger bag. He can even trade in the trunk for a light discount, once he’s pealed off the nameplate. Everyone wins; some lucky kid can get their trunk for cheap, and Harry gets a few galleons off his new bag. Thankfully, the clerk is kind enough to move all of Harry’s things from the trunk to the bag with a charm, saving him some trouble.

Back at the Leaky Cauldron, Harry rents himself a room for the night and orders dinner to be sent up.

His room is a tiny thing tucked into the corner on the third floor, with not much more than a bed and a table to eat at (the place is quite fully booked, given the season), but Harry couldn’t care less. A meal has never tasted so good, nor has a bed been so comfortable before.

He’s free.

Harry Potter is completely free, and there is nothing in the world to hold him back.

Though Harry was still unable to sleep, he stayed tucked into bed through the night, reading his textbooks by candlelight. He might not get any sleep, but he can at least let his body rest. Once he gets sick of his textbooks, he lays awake in the darkness letting his mind rest too. It’s not as good as sleeping, but it’s better than nothing.

After a hardy breakfast in the morning, he checks out of the room and returns into Diagon Alley.

Right.

Now, to shop.

First stop, Madam Malkin’s.

The Madam is more than happy to assist when informed that Harry will be needing essentially the entire line-up of basic apparel. With a swish of her wand, she has some ten tape measures buzzing about him and a quill jotting down the numbers on a slip of parchment. As they measure him up, she also brings out her catalogue for him to browse; a massively thick leather-bound book, where each spread holds detailed sketches of an item as well as small swatch cuttings of fabric to show the selection of available options. It takes some additional advice and guidance from the seamstress herself, but after much consideration, Harry produces a shockingly long order list. Undershirts, shirts (button-ups and otherwise), slacks and trousers, four finely tailored suits, a small variety of robes and jackets as well as a long overcoat, all in a wide array of colours to let him mix and match and build whatever outfit is needed for any intended occasion. He’s even talked into ordering some beautiful silk pyjamas, three sets in varying colours. For a handful of extra galleons, the Madam calls in a pair of shop assistants to help out, as he does need to have it all finished before the end of the day.

“Not to worry, lad!” the proprietress tells him when he apologizes for the trouble. “You’re hardly the first to need a rushed order, and you won’t be the last either. We’ll manage it all. Come back at about two and we should have everything ready!”

Harry presses his signet to the receipt, and is on his way again. Next is shoes. He visits the cobbler and gets fitted for several pairs, including but not limited to a lovely set of leather boots, loafers, and Chelseas. He decides to wear the leather boots out, as they are insulated against the cold temperature and the wet of the snow and such, and they’re really quite comfy, actually. After that are Gladrags and Harpy’s Bazaar, where he stocks up on underwear, socks, and other bits to fill out the closet with, including hats, scarves, and gloves that aren’t the standard Hogwarts style or house colours. He pays a visit to the Occulorium, as well, to get some new glasses.

Next is Flourish and Blotts, followed by the second-hand bookshop and Oldknowe; he may be dropping out of school but he knows the value of an education. With no teachers around, he’ll have to trust books to be his teachers. Hermione would be proud of him! Honestly, he purchases more books than he thinks he could ever manage to read, but suppose he’ll have lots of downtime since he’ll probably going by train for most of his journey, however long it may be. Better to spend at least some of that time reading, rather than doing nothing; that just seems like a waste of time, and Harry does have a hard time doing nothing. He tends to get a bit itchy if he has nothing to do, no goal to work towards, no tasks to complete, for which he completely blames the Dursleys. He may also select a few books just for Hermione as a Christmas present, and a fun book on quidditch for Ron.

Scribbulus and Amanuensis each get a short stop; he’ll need quills and parchment for his study notes, and a good sturdy journal, it would be nice to record his trip (even if it’s only so he can more fully share it with Ron and Hermione), plus a good stack of envelopes and cardstock, several bottles of ink in a whole rainbow of colours and hues. After that, he browses the Junk Shop for any interesting bits and bobs, then comes Wiseacre’s as the next stop. He stocks up on plenty of all the usual supplies, as well as a few extra little things that might come in handy; who knows what he might end up needing?

Lastly for himself is Shutterbutton’s Photography Studio. He doesn’t need his picture taken but it’s the only shop he can think of that might sell cameras. It would be awesome to be able to send photos to Ron and Hermione, and even cooler if he could learn how to make the pictures move. The shop attendant happily sells him an instant camera! It literally prints the picture as soon as he takes it! It seems like magic, but the attendant assures him it’s muggle technology, however he has modified the printing mechanism so the pictures will move just as Harry was hoping. Just to help Harry actually believe it’s real, the attendant has Harry take a picture of him waving. And just like he said, the camera snaps the photo and moments later, it’s spitting out a small rectangular picture, showing the attendant smiling and waving. Wow… Harry buys it immediately, along with ten whole boxes of film, which the attendant carefully shows him how to switch out and replace when necessary.

Amazed, Harry snaps another photo as soon as he leaves the shop, capturing Diagon Alley in all it’s magnificent, magical glory, carefully pocketing the picture to send to Hermione at some point. She’ll probably love hearing about the camera and learning about the interaction of muggle-wizarding technology packed into the little device. He wouldn’t be surprised if she ends up buying one for herself, too, just to see if she can figure out how it works.

He swings by Weeoanwhisker’s Barber Shop for a proper trim of his hair (pretty sure he’s never had one of those), before finally settling in for another filling meal at the Fountain of Fair Fortune. He takes the time to write out his letters as he enjoys his pub-fare in one of the spelled-for-privacy booths. Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore, and McGonagall. Each letter is carefully folded, tucked into envelopes, addressed, and sealed, ready to be handled when he makes a stop at the Owl Post.

Before the Owl Post however, he makes sure to stop at Sugarplum’s. He did promise Ron candy, after all! Then, finally, Harry drops into the post office. The clerk packs up Ron and Hermione’s presents in neat packages, to be sent off immediately. The letters, though, are placed on hold. They are not to be sent until the day after students are intended to return to Hogwarts.

Goodness, he has been busy today, hasn’t he? He’s almost finished, though! Only Globus Mundi and Madam Malkin’s left.

With the travel agency, he books himself a ticket on the Grand European Line, a network of tracks that are traversed by a collection of trains all through Europe, stopping in just about every country according to the brochures. He makes sure to book a compartment to himself, which will function almost like a hotel room for him while on the train. Lovely!

And at long last, Madam Malkin’s! He decides to put the changing rooms to use; he’ll not be wearing Dudley’s cast-offs ever again. In fact, he might burn them all at the first opportunity. With his wardrobe complete and dressed suitably lordly, he can finally leave Diagon Alley and the Leaky Cauldron, and take a regular muggle taxi back to King’s Cross. He will never be taking the Knight Bus again, if it can at all be avoided; he’s eleven years old, he’s too young for a heart attack.

On platform 7½, Harry boards his train. The conductor inspects his ticket, his identification papers and passport, as well as his travel permits and such, before giving Harry the tour.

“Towards the front of the train, the young lord will find the restaurant and bar carts. Meals can be ordered and prepared at any time there, or in your own cabin,” he directs as they move down the length of the train towards the tail. “These are the public areas, where all passengers are permitted to spend time. However, we do request the usual decorum and respect for your fellow travellers, and we do not permit sleeping in these areas. Here we have the private cabins. The young lord will be housed in Cabin 14.”

He leads the way all the way to the door, which he then opens for Harry to let him inside. There, he offers Harry a small silver key.

“While the young lord is the only passenger with the key to the cabin, the staff does possess copies, in case of emergencies and so forth. You will find the menus for the restaurant over on the desk, there. If you wish to be served here in your cabin, simply write your order on the included notepad and allow the paper airplane to exit the room. Your meal will be delivered as soon as is possible, or at the requested time noted with the order. Over here, you will find your private washroom. If you are ever in need of a conductor or elf, simply ring the bell over here by the door and someone will be with you shortly. Does the young lord have any questions?”

Harry clears his throat softly. “When will be leaving, sir?”

The conductor checks his pocket watch. “We will be taking off in roughly an hour, my Lord. You are welcome to make use of any of the train’s facilities during the wait, of course.”

“And what’s the first stop? How long until we get there?”

“Our first stop will be in Paris, France, and once we are on the way, the ride will only take just over two hours. Our stop there will only be one hour long, but the young lord’s ticket will allow you to take the next train, which will arrive three days later, if the young lord wishes to sightsee.”

Upon seeing the somewhat conflicted look on Harry’s face, the conductor offers a small, genuine smile. “I can bring you this year’s complete schedule for the whole line, if you want, sir. It’ll let you plan your trip in more detail. Your ticket lasts for a week, so you can jump from train to train however much you please during that time, no need to worry about missing out on anything, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

Right, that sounds better. One hour to see all of Paris, that felt a bit impossible, but if he stayed, then he might miss the next train and be stuck in Paris for who know how long. A schedule would be good; like the conductor said, he’d feel a bit better if he can try to plan things out for himself. If there’s a plan, he won’t need to worry about missing any trains and so on.

“A schedule would be great, thank you.”

“I’ll have it to you shortly, sir.”

With that, the conductor excuses himself and Harry can take a proper look around.

The cabin is moderately sized, with fine wood-panel walls and exquisite carpeting on the floor. The flowery pattern of the carpet moves; flowers blooming and wilting, and re-growing as buds in a slow cycle. The leaves on the woven trees shift colours before falling away, a fresh wave of green growing back little by little. The right side of the cabin is walled off to a small lavatory and shower, while the opposite short-side is taken up by a plush bed. It’s piled high with thick pillows and elegantly embroidered silk covers and soft linens. The foot end of the bed is pressed to the wall, the board reaching up just to the bottom of the large windows. Also along the windows, there is a mahogany writing desk, with a matching chair. Opposite that sits two large winged armchairs. Just next to the cabin door, there is a small brass bell mounted on the wall, with a thin pull string dangling down from it.

A lovely room, honestly. Harry almost wants to skip Paris for now, so he can put the cabin to use for the night, but who can really say no to Paris?

He sets his bag on the desk, then removes his outerwear and drapes them over one of the armchairs. Sitting down by the desk, he digs out his journal, a swan feather quill, and a bottle of midnight blue ink. While he waits for the conductor to return, he sets about writing his first entry.

At the corner of the page, he draws the crest he wears on his ring.

Toujours Pur, always pure, he writes below it. How disgusting. The whole idea of purebloods and so on, it’s just disgusting.

But then again... Harry’s the lord of the house. What good is being lord of the house if he can’t change how the house works?

What would be a better motto?

The always part might be able to stay, but the whole pure bit needs to go, obviously. Hm. He’ll have to think on it.

Always...honest?

Always...loyal?

Always...brave?

Always...strong?

Harry pauses his contemplation when there comes a knock on his door. When he steps over to open it, the conductor stands outside.

“Here are our schedules, my Lord. I also took the liberty of including some pamphlets for hotels in Paris, for your perusal, as well as a map of the city with directions to the wizarding quarters and some common tourist locations,” he explains as he hands over the packet. He shows a last leaflet to Harry, most specifically, before offering it. “This is for a guide service. They provide people who can act as tour guides, translators, and so on, quite a lovely service, and I assure you, most reputable. The lord will have no issues if he chooses to place his faith in them.”

Harry gladly accepts it all. “Thank you, sir, I appreciate it. I’m sorry, I’m a bit new to all this. Is it...customary to tip?”

The conductor smiles. “All our staff are of course delighted to accept tips, but I assure you, my Lord, it is most certainly not necessary.”

The boy hurries to his bag and digs out the satin pouch. He whispers galleons to it, then pulls out a handful. He offers them to the conductor. “Is that enough?”

The man stares at the small pile of gold coins. After a moment, he counts out five of them and puts them in his pocket, offering the rest back to Harry. “There, sir, that’s plenty. Thank you very much, sir.”

Harry nods, tucking the leftover coins in his own pocket. “No, thank you, for being honest. And thank you again for the pamphlets and such.”

“My pleasure, sir. We’ll be moving in about forty minutes now. Give us a ring if you’re in need, sir,” he says with his usual small smile then steps back and gently shuts the door on himself, leaving the passenger to his privacy.

Harry sits down with his collection of pamphlets and leaflets. Looking through the hotels, he selects one located in Place Cachée, the wizarding quarters, and sets it aside. Their list of amenities seems good, and the prices reasonable. Next, he goes through the tourism leaflets, each one advertising a must-see location. Only a few catch his eye, though, and they go into the pile as well. Lastly, he studies the map, which folds out to be much larger and more detailed than he expected. Montmartre is clearly marked in red, as housing the hidden entrance to Place Cachée, with a line drawn from there to a train station called Gare du Nord, which Harry assumes is where his train will be stopping. Hm, shouldn’t be too terrible of a walk to make. Half an hour, maybe? As long as he follows the map, it’ll be a nice little look at the city before he gets a hold of a guide.

Speaking of guides; he reads through the flier concerning the topic. Twenty galleons, or roughly twenty-two bezants, and he gets a personal guide that accompanies him for the day, who will act as translator as well. Not a bad deal… Hm, free side-along apparation within Paris city limits. That’s interesting. It would save on walking, if he’s planning on going all over the city. The list of places he wants to visit isn’t very long, but having someone who can apparate with him will be a great help.

Done for now, he tucks his selected pamphlets into one of the front pockets on his bag, and puts his journal and such away as well. Instead, he pulls out the camera. Smiling to himself, Harry snaps a handful of pictures of the cabin. Ron and Hermione will go crazy when they see this place! They’ll be so jealous. After the pictures develop, he carefully slides them into an envelope for safe-keeping. He won’t send any of them until after the holidays are over; he doesn’t want anyone to know where he is yet, nor does he want to get them in trouble for keeping secrets for him if their parents were to find out or the like. Plausible deniability, and all that.

Harry selects one of his brand-new textbooks and gets comfortable sitting on the bed (with the curtains shut). He needs to study up on charms. Right now, he only knows the very, very basic ones that Professor Flitwick taught during the term, but Harry’s on his own now and technically an adult. There’s lots he needs to learn.

Taking his wand out of the holster strapped to his left forearm (thank you, Harpy’s Bazaar), Harry decides to practice the first charm in the book after reading the chapter on it thoroughly.

“Accio scarf.”

His navy-blue scarf, draped over the furthest armchair, launches itself at him. Ducking down, the scarf hits the wall behind him with a soft thump. Oh. That was…quite easy. He grabs the scarf and moves it to lay in front of him. According to the following chapter, the reverse of the summoning charm is simply the banishing charm.

“Depulso.”

As if yanked away, the scarf is thrown across the cabin to the other end of the room, where it lands on the floor. It worked!

“Accio. Depulso. Accio. Depulso.”

He flings the scarf back and forth across the room several times over. With each cast, he gets just a bit more control over it; slowing or speeding up the movements of the scarf, and improving his aim on where to have the scarf land (he even manages to start catching it with his hands when it comes at him).

The fleece fabric slaps him in the face when the jerk of the train starting to move catches him off guard. Obviously, it doesn’t hurt, but it does make him laugh to himself. Casting depulso again, Harry puts the scarf back on the armchair and moves on to the next chapter in the book.

“Baubillious.”

A single white spark limps out of Harry’s wand. Right... Well, at least he produced something, right? It’s a start.

“Blavillious,” produces similar results, though the two sparks he manages to make are bright blue.

“Verdillious,” gets him two toxic-green sparks, and the following “Vermillious” spits out a handful of ruby red embers.

Wait, how does he make more sparks? The illustration in the book shows a whole plume of them jetting from the caster’s wand. Mh, no, it’s just practice. Intensity comes with mastery, the book advices. Suppose that would hold true for most spells; the more he practices, the better his use of the spell in question will be, just like with accio and depulso. He couldn’t control those at first but with just a bit of practice, he got more comfortable with the spells and could exert more control over the results.

Harry endeavours to spend a good while on the many sparks charms.

The train rolls into Gare du Nord promptly at five o’clock.

He makes quick work of gathering up his things and straightening the cabin out as best he can, before exiting onto the platform. Just a bit further down the way, he finds the conductor again to hand over his key. Then, the man kindly points him to the stairs.

When he makes his way up the steps, Harry finds himself emerging from the asphalt between two muggle platforms. Stepping off the stairs, the opening is completely invisible, though the area of the asphalt that it would occupy has been marked off-limits with yellow street paint. Among the diagonal lines is written 3⅝, the number of the hidden platform. Ha! How clever! Similar to the platforms at King’s Cross, all accessed through doorways masked as brick pillars, but perfectly adjusted to suit the layout of Gare du Nord better. Harry snaps a photo; Ron will think it’s mental.

Map in hand, Harry follows the signage out of the massive station to the street, where he can then orient himself to face more north-west and begin following the marked line.

Even just walking away from the train station, Harry’s eyes wander over the beautiful buildings. Yes, there’s plenty of beautiful buildings in London too, but these are so different! All the facades are so much brighter. Many of them look very similar, there’s an obvious interconnecting style for the entire street he’s moving down, and yet, the style feels fresh, in a way. The street is lined by huge trees on either side, with wide sidewalks and plenty of room for bicycle lanes; the lowest floor of each building houses a storefront of some sort, most of which are still open for business for the day. The actual road is so narrow! Harry hardly thought roads in the middle of a city this big could be so thin and narrow.

He has to stop in awe, when he reaches Square Louise Michel. The view of the basilica up on the hill is… It’s stunning. He fishes his camera out to take a picture of it; he needs to add that to his list of places to visit! It looks beautiful from a distance; he can hardly imagine what it might look like up-close.

Harry crosses the street to get up closer and take pictures of the Carrousel de Saint-Pierre. It’s lit up beautifully, surrounded by the yellow glow of its hundreds of lightbulbs, playing music as it spins, joined by the laughter of the children sitting astride the horses and in the carriages.

Moving on, Harry follows the map to smaller side-streets where the narrow streets become cobbled instead of paved. Walking for several minutes more, he finally reaches the statue described and illustrated on the edge of the map. Well, it says to simply approach and the bronze-cast woman will open the way for him; and so, Harry steps up to the statue.

The woman reaches her outstretched hand down to her plinth. She moves her leg to the side and pulls her shroud away. Amazing…

Harry steps through after a quick look around.

Place Cachée is even more beautiful than the rest of Paris. Just like in Diagon Alley, Harry can feel the magic, the wonder, in the air as he looks around. The buildings here are older in style, a more classic feeling to them; each storefront sports hand-painted signs with elegant lettering. The streets are cobbled, and- Oh, goodness! They have actual cars! They all look like the old Ford Model T Harry saw on TV at the Dursleys once, but those are most definitely cars. Mister Weasley would be positively enchanted! Harry snaps a few photos for him; it’ll make his day to receive them, Harry’s absolutely sure, based on what Ron has said about him. He continues to marvel at the simple beauty of the district as he wanders the many streets. It’s much bigger than Diagon Alley, almost a whole little city of its own hidden right in the middle of Paris. Incredible...

The hotel is a narrow building squeezed in between a watch-maker and a haberdashery, with a red brick facade and a light blue door. The sign above the entrance is a bit crooked, but Harry can’t say he minds. He enters into a very small lobby with a chequered floor, made of black and white marble. The reception counter is massive, in lacquered dark wood, with a plump little man stationed behind it.

He smiles big and wide when the bell on the door rings, greeting Harry is rapid French.

“Um, English?” is all Harry can think to say as he approaches, grabbing the edge of the counter with his right hand to subtly display his signet.

The receptionist glances at the ring before meeting Harry’s eyes again, his smile growing wider. “Ah, yes, mon Seigneur, English, no problem! You wish for a suite, mon Seigneur?”

Harry nods. “Yes, please.”

The man picks up his wand to wave it mildly; on the desk, a quill scribbles in a large notebook while a key lifts off the rack hanging on the wall behind the man. He picks the key out of the air to offer it to Harry.

“A name, mon Seigneur, for our record, please.”

“Sirius Black IV.”

The quill notes it down. “Very good, mon Seigneur! Fourth floor, room 77.”

Tucking the key away, Harry takes out the leaflet for the guide service. “Can you arrange a guide for me, sir? For tomorrow?”

The man studies the leaflet; he takes his quill and makes a note for himself. “It will be done, mon Seigneur. Does mon Seigneur wish for dinner? Restaurant on the second floor, or call for room service, very simple, mon Seigneur.”

“Thank you, I’ll consider it. Good evening.”

“Bonne soirée, mon Seigneur!”

Harry exits to the left, to the staircase. The stairs are quite narrow but Harry doesn’t think much of it. Now and then, the steps creak under his boots, the fine red carpet scuffs a bit. He climbs to the fourth floor as instructed, and wanders the impossibly long hallway to room 77, which unlocks easily with the given key.

The entrance is a beautiful sitting room, made up and decorated in a baroque style. The dark hardwood floors are contrasted by powder blue wall panels, decorated with gold embellishments. The furniture, lavish couches and chairs, seem to be made of the same dark wood as the floor and upholstered in wine red satin. The whole ceiling is golden, and it too is embellished to hell and back. Dark navy drapes, also with gilded details, hang over the windows. The bedroom off to the side is thankfully not as large, but holds the same base pattern of decor. Harry sets his bag on the polished writing desk while eyeing the enormous bed, which is covered with a red duvet and surrounded by blue drapes and a canopy. This is going to cost a fortune... Well. Remind Harry to not flash his ring like that again, at least not at a hotel.

In the bathroom, everything is snow white tiles with brass fixtures and neatly folded navy towels. The claw-foot bathtub is huge! Jesus, Hagrid could fit in this thing! Taking that beast for a test-drive will have to wait; Harry’s getting hungry, so a quick shower will suffice. After he’s all scrubbed and dried, he dresses in one of his suits, matched with a fine black cloak and his best oxfords. He even figures out how to put on the cufflinks and tie his tie, just like Madam Malkin showed him.

With two spell books under his arm, Harry makes his way to one of the restaurants he spied in passing. By simply showing his ring, he is given a table (even without a reservation). Within minutes of ordering, his waiter delivers two enormous charcuterie boards; one is filled with different types of breads and crackers, along with an assortment of fruits and vegetables all neatly sliced and positioned, while the other is positively swimming in meats and cheeses, as well as a whole line of different sauces and spreads served in small bowls. At his request, it’s paired with a delightful non-alcoholic cider.

Harry reads while he eats, taking his time with it both to savour the incredible food and to absorb as much knowledge as he possibly can.

It’s been...a crazy day. Just this morning, he was in his mildly dingy room at the Leaky Cauldron; now, here he sits, at a ludicrously luxurious restaurant in Paris.

Harry has never felt so light in his life. His back no longer hurts from carrying all that  weight. While he wishes he could just be a child, the ship has long since sailed on that one. He’s not sure he ever got to be a child. Not at Hogwarts, and certainly not with the Dursleys, and not now. The childhood was beaten out of him years ago.

He may not get to be a child, but now, at least he gets to be free.

Chapter Text

After spending most of the night practicing his spells, Harry fell asleep. While he wishes he could have made use of the massive bed, the couch in the sitting room did well enough. Any sleep is good sleep, he figures. Especially with his slump; he’d been awake for nearly two full days. A few hours on the couch is better than nothing.

He saw an apothecary yesterday in passing; maybe he’ll stop on his way back after his tour, and see if they have anything light to help him sleep.

At eight o’clock, just after Harry has finished his breakfast and a wispy little house-elf has taken the dishes away, there comes a knock at his door. When he opens it, a young witch greets him with a smile and a small curtsey.

“Good morning, sir. I am Isabelle, I come from the guide service. You are the Lord Black, yes?”

Harry nods. “Yes, that’s me. Please, come inside. I just need to get dressed. Have a seat, I’ll be just a minute.”

“Thank you, sir, please, take your time,” she says as she enters and moves over to sit in one of the armchairs.

The boy hurries to the bedroom, where he quickly changes out of his pyjamas to a casual, comfortable outfit. Minutes later, he and his guide leave the hotel together.

“Did sir have any particular destinations in mind, or would sir prefer a more general tour?” Isabelle asks as they make towards the statue exit of Place Cachée.

“I’d actually love to start with the basilica in Montmartre, am I saying that right?”

“Very close, sir, it’s Monmartre, with the rolling R at the end. Do you mean the one with the carousel nearby?”

“Yes, that one! I saw it on my way in last night, it looked amazing. I’d love a closer look.”

“Certainly, sir. Please take my arm and hold very firmly. I will take us directly there.”

She offers her arm, and he grips it tight like she said. Taking out her wand, she casts a charm of some sort over them; probably a Notice-Me-Not or something of that nature, so they won’t be spotted by any muggles. Whatever the spell is, it sends a warm rush of magic cascading over his body, like a sudden, short rainfall. Apparating is... It’s quite unlike anything he’s ever experienced. Like being hooked by the stomach and dragged through a tube the size of a straw at a frightening speed. Everything is spinning around them and there are flashing lights, and in an instant, they’re standing only a short distance from the massive church on the hill.

Isabelle shares lots of information about the building itself, and its surroundings, as they wander around it. Harry snaps lots of pictures for his friends. She offers to take him inside, but Harry declines; he’s never found any comfort in religion and such things. The Dursleys weren’t exactly strict church-goers or anything of that sort, but they made quite certain Harry knew he was a disgrace and an affront to God, all his freakishness was the work of the Devil, he was going to burn in hell, and so on. God and religion was never a safe place for Harry; he has no problem with it as a whole, but for him, personally, it would just feel wrong to intrude on a place like that. He can happily admire from the outside, but entering the circle has never felt right within himself.

Instead, he hands over the list of places he’s eager to see.

First on the list: the Louvre.

The exterior is magnificent in and of itself. The architecture is stunning. Everything about it feels majestic in the most royal of senses. It feels like a true palace where actual royalty might live. The air itself is filled with a sense of nobility.

And the interior... Harry has no words. Not only is the building itself a work of art in its own right, but the works on display are at times downright breath-taking. He wanders the halls of the museum in a state of complete awe. When asked, Isabelle provides as much information as she possesses, happy to share the history of both the museum itself and the art it houses.

When they reach the gift shop at the end, Harry spends lots of francs buying souvenirs for himself and his friends.

Next on the list makes Isabelle laugh with delight; Musée de la Magie, a museum dedicated to the art of muggle magic. The place occupies a small storefront and a larger basement area, displaying lots of memorabilia of famous magicians and props from their magic tricks. Harry expends almost a whole cartridge of film for his camera there; Ron will be utterly confused, his father will be mesmerised, and Fred and George will probably love it too! Isabelle herself is quite dumbfounded by the magic show they put on, and she’s gushing about it the whole time they’re leaving. Harry doesn’t mind in the least, he too found it incredible.

Notre Dame is next on the list. Much like the basilica, it’s a marvel to study the architecture and hear Isabelle talk about its history. Again, he declines going inside. He’s happy enough watching from the outside. After their short stop there, comes his most anticipated stop; Jardin des plantes. A botanical garden. Though the outdoors park area is in a bit of a sorry state, with the winter and all, Harry loves the long walk among the flowerbeds. When they get to the greenhouses, he can’t help but smile.

He’s always loved plants and gardening. At the Dursleys, it was a good way to escape the house for a while, even if it entailed endless hours of busy work. Despite the, at times, back-breaking labour, there was something peaceful about it. Just getting lost in the repetitiveness of the tasks; pushing the lawnmower, yanking out weeds, painting the fence, and so on. His body stayed busy and his mind could wander. Herbology was…okay. It was strange to work with so many completely different plants, and do it in a classroom-like setting was even weirder. Learning about the plants and caring for them was interesting, but there wasn’t the same type of peace in it. He always had to stay alert to follow Professor Sprout’s instructions, take down notes, read the textbook. This little retreat is a breath of fresh air.

“Does the lord wish to visit a magical botanical garden at some point?” Isabelle asks while they’re finally exiting the greenhouses.

“That would be nice, I think. Is there one here, in Paris?”

“Unfortunately, nothing that is open to the public, but I know there is one somewhere in Germany, near Berlin, I think. If the lord wishes, I could look into the matter and perhaps find some details?”

“Oh, that’d be lovely!” Harry says excitedly. “I can’t even imagine what a magical botanical garden would look like.”

“I will see what I can find. Where do you wish to go next, my Lord? Or do you wish to visit the Ménagerie? Perhaps galerie de Minéralogie et de Géologie?”

“Hm, I’m not one much for zoos and all, really. The next place I’d like to go is Versailles, to the palace, but I know that’s out of bounds, or whatever you call it. Maybe you can help me find a train there, instead?”

The witch considers. “If the lord wishes to pause for a late lunch, I can return and speak with my supervisor about the matter. It may incur an extra cost, but she is a kind woman, I do not think it would be any trouble. And I could look for that information on the garden in Germany, as well, while I’m there.”

“Really? And it wouldn’t be any trouble for you, specifically, either? I mean, you’re the one doing the apparating, I’d hate to ask too much from you.”

Isabelle smiles, shaking her head. “Not at all, my Lord! I’m quite enjoying myself too, if it’s not too much to say. You are quite excellent company, sir!”

The boy laughs. “Thank you, that’s good to hear! And if you don’t mind, I’d like to say same about you. Well, alright, then! Why don’t you show me a restaurant you enjoy, for lunch? I’m sure you have some excellent suggestions.”

“Oh, yes! There is a place in Saint-Lambert, they have such a wonderful Coq au Vin, it is my most favourite place to eat.”

Harry nods along, intrigued by her enthusiasm. “Sounds lovely! What’s Coq au Vin?”

“A most delicious stew, my Lord! It is chicken, cooked with wine, vegetables, mushrooms, lardon, many beautiful spices. A good, hearty stew, perfect for the winter months.”

Harry can feel his mouth watering and his stomach lurching; it sounds incredible. “Please, I’d love to try it!” he says, offering his hand.

Isabelle grins, placing her arm under his hand for him to hold onto.

After several hours of touring the awe-inspiring palace of Versailles (for only a small extra cost, on Harry’s part), the two return to Place Cachée for the day.

“Will the lord be requiring our service tomorrow as well?” Isabelle wonders while they walk.

“Yes, please, actually. I’m looking to go antiquing if at all possible, for both magical and mundane artefacts. Is that something you can help with?”

“Oh, yes! I will show you all the best places, my Lord, you have my word. One can of course never guarantee what one might find in these places, but at the very least, I will show them all to you.”

“Thank you, Isabelle. You’ve been a wonderful help today, and I’m looking forward to tomorrow. Eight o’clock at the hotel?”

“Very good, sir. I shall meet you there, then. Have a wonderful evening, my Lord.”

He wishes her the same; she offers a slight curtsey and shakes his hand, before disapparating with a loud crack.

Alright, now where was that apothecary?

Wandering for a few minutes in search, he manages to find it; Dr. Aziz Branchiflore. Shelves of glass jars fill up the windows, and outside sits a row of large clay pots, as well as wires from which hang bundles of dried herbs. As the light is on inside, Harry steps through the door. The shop is cramped; almost every available space is taken up by shelves, which in turn are filled with jars and pots and bottles of all shapes and sizes. Along one wall, there sits a line of large, uncovered baskets, each one filled with herbs or plant matter of some sort, and a few with other assorted potion ingredients. The air smells thickly of spice but the scent is not so sharp as to be assaulting to the nose.

“Hello? Is anyone here?” he asks, raising his voice slightly, when he sees no other customers nor any employees.

“Une minute s'il vous plait!” a man calls from the far back of the store.

Satisfied, Harry shuffles over to the service counter to wait. It only takes another few moments before a man emerges from the doorway there, behind the counter, sweeping the curtain aside. An older gentleman, dressed in a fine tweed suit; his face wrinkled from smiling, but hidden somewhat by a short salt-and-pepper beard.

“Bonsoir Monsieur! Comment puis je vous aider?” he asks raptly, resting his large hands on the counter.

“English?”

The apothecary smiles. “Ah, yes, yes! English, of course, Monsieur. ‘ow can I ‘elp you? Potions? Ingredients?”

Harry clears his throat. “I have trouble sleeping sometimes. I stay awake for two days, three maybe. I try to sleep but I just can’t get to rest. Do you have anything that can help? Nothing too strong, please.”

The elder man hums, nodding. He thinks on it for a moment, then steps out from behind the counter. Harry follows where he leads in the shop. They reach a shelf near the entrance, where the apothecary picks out a small blue bottle.

“Zis is very good for sleep, Monsieur, my fazer’s recipe. ‘elps sooze ze mind, calm ze body, but it is not too ‘eavy. No danger at all, I assure, Monsieur. Simply put zree drops in a cup of tea before bed, and sleep will come easy.”

Harry accepts the bottle. There’s a small white label on the front, with some kind of name written on it in black ink. His father’s recipe… Well, if it’s been around that long, suppose it’s trusted enough by people by now.

“Thank you, sir. How much will it be?”

“Eight bezant, Monsieur. If you feel any ill effect, if it does not work for you, come see me tomorrow and we will discuss. We ‘ave many ozer options available.”

“Perfect! Thank you so much!”

He is more than happy to purchase the remedy and hurry back to his hotel room with it. Later in the evening, he orders tea from room service, carefully counting out three drops of the midnight blue potion into his cup.

When Harry tucks into bed later, he falls asleep within minutes.

Antiquing is surprisingly fun, Harry finds.

Browsing through amassed collections of pieces taken straight from history is a curious study in humanity. Of course, most of the objects have no actual historical value in the commonly known way, but it’s the personal history of every piece that makes it interesting. Who made this? Why? Who owned it? What did they do with it? How many lives has this object been a part of? How did it end up here, to be found by someone new whose life it can take part in? It’s just mind-boggling to think that each and every one of the objects he looks at, no matter how small or plain or boring it may be, was someone else’s at some point. Maybe it was even their favourite possession in the whole world! Everything has such a deep value, even if that value isn’t monetary; it was still valuable to someone, somewhere.

Harry keeps his signet tucked away in his pocket almost the whole day. Wearing a fancy ring like that? That’s like begging to get ripped off. The muggles don’t take a child seriously anyway, and without the ring, there’s nothing to even indicate he’s anything more than the curious young boy he presents himself as, dressed down in simple, comfy clothes. In the wizarding places, however, wearing a signet like that would be like walking around with his bank balance stamped on his forehead. None of the good stuff comes cheap, not at all, but he’s less likely to be robbed blind by some enterprising salesperson.

With Isabelle’s help, he gets all his purchases draped in protective charms before they’re tucked into his bag. He’s read about the charms but he’s yet to practice them; better someone with a bit more experience handles it. He much rather that, than turn up at Gringotts with all his precious bits and bobs smashed to pieces. Hm. Protective charms might have to jump to the top of his list of priorities. He won’t always have Isabelle, of course.

Speaking of Isabelle, Harry makes extra certain to give her a liberal tip for all her help. She insists he asks for her, if ever he needs help in the city, and it’s a promise he can gladly make. They part ways just after arriving back at Place Cachée, with a firm handshake.

Harry navigates to the apothecary, next. He needs to buy a few more bottles of that potion to bring with him, and see about arranging owl orders once those run out.

The apothecary sits behind the counter with a book when Harry arrives, smiling when he recognizes the boy.

“Ah, you look rested, Monsieur! Ze potion ‘elped?”

“It was perfect, sir, an immense help. It put me right to sleep.”

“Zis is wonderful news! It is always a ‘appy occasion, when I can ‘elp someone.”

“Thank you so much, I’ve never had such a good night’s sleep! How much do you have in stock? I’ll be leaving France shortly, can I buy a few bottles to take with me? Do you do owl orders, perhaps?”

“Oh, yes, Monsieur! I only ‘ave what is on ze shelf, but you are welcome to zem! Allow me.”

The man scurries out from behind the counter, disappearing among the shelves for a moment before returning with some five more bottles in hand. He packages them neatly in a small cardboard box, wrapping it in simple brown paper and twine. He also writes down the shop address and his other details on a card, which he offers to Harry.

“For owl order, simply write ze specifics of which potions or ingredients you are in need of, wiz ze name and return address, and it will be done.”

Harry places the card, glancing briefly at it, in his pocket with a mental note to himself to figure out some way to maybe keep file of that sort of thing. “And payment, how does that work, sir?”

The Doctor Aziz smiles kindly. “Very simple, Monsieur. A bill comes wiz ze package, and you order payment zrough ze bank. Simple instructions will be on ze bill for you.”

“Thank you, that’s perfect. And here,” Harry says, handing over payment for his current purchase. “Thanks again for the help! Potions can be really incredible. I wish my professor had been as kind as you, maybe I’d’ve actually learned something.”

The doctor chuckles softly as he sorts the coins into the register. “Potions is a magic of its own. So very precise, so very unforgiving, but if it is done right, one can work wonders. If you were staying in Paris, I would be ‘appy to teach you some, I ‘ave ‘ad many apprentices before, but ah, such is life.”

Harry’s eyes widen. He would teach him? Really? He would actually want to teach Harry, and help him learn properly? Eager, Harry digs into the front pocket of his bag and pulls out his train schedule. The train runs regularly; one departure every three days in Paris, so in truth, he could honestly stay longer, he’d need to buy a new ticket later but that’s the least of his worries!

“Doctor, would you really teach me? Have me as a student?”

Though appearing somewhat surprised, the doctor nods. “Oui, if you are interested, I am ‘appy to take students, but...you are leaving?”

Harry shows him the train schedule. “I can stay! I’m not in a hurry or on a schedule, I’d love to learn if you’ll have me.”

“Well, if you are certain...?”

The boy nods. “Yes, please! Even if it’s only for a few weeks, I’ll take it.”

Doctor Aziz chuckles again. “You are eager to learn, zis is good. Zese people make ze best students,” he says with a fond smile as he picks up his quill and begins writing on a piece of parchment. “Zese are some very good books. ‘urry down ze way to ze bookshop on ze corner. It should still be open. Give zis to Monsieur Ambroise. ‘e will ‘andle it. And tomorrow, you come ‘ere, eight o’clock. Oui?”

Harry is more than happy to accept the list of books and his packaged bottles. “Thank you, doctor! Thank you so much! Have a good evening, sir!”

He hurries out of the store, and once he reaches the street, he runs the distance to the bookshop on the corner. The clerk reads the note from the doctor; while he flits about collecting the listed books, Harry browses. Obviously nearly everything is in French, but he does find a few interesting volumes, including one that is advertised to be the best language-learning companion available. Picking up a bit of French wouldn’t hurt, Harry decides and takes a copy. With all his new study materials under his arm, he finds a new restaurant to try. The Coq au Vin he had for lunch was amazing, but he will admit to growing somewhat peckish again.

Once settled at his table, he cracks open one of his new books on potions. Studying ahead is always an advantage.

“Bonsoir, Lord Black,” the waiter says as he arrives with the menu. It seems word about the visiting noble has spread among the restaurants in the area, then. “We are most delighted to ‘ave you with us zis evening. May I bring you somezing to drink while you peruse our menu?”

“Just some water to start with, please.”

The waiter gestures with a delicately spiralled wand, then gives a short bow and moves along to his next table. Moments later, a crystal pitcher of ice water and a matching crystal glass have come to deposit themselves on Harry’s table, the pitcher pouring a generous measure into the glass before settling. Harry sips as he scans the menu.

“Excuse me.”

Harry looks up. Before him stands beautiful woman, her skin pale and her hair divided into two colours, partly platinum blonde while the other is dark brown. It’s all pinned up together in a tight bun, high on her head. She’s dressed in fine fabrics that seem to shimmer, with glittering stones hanging from her ears.

“Yes?”

“Did I hear the waiter call you Lord Black?”

Harry frowns. Under the table, his right hand clenches; he feels the silver ring wrapped firmly around his finger. “Is that any of your business?”

The woman turns up her nose at him. “As the only Black still alive and free, I do believe it is.”

She’s a Black? The gears in Harry’s head spin. Griphook said the family was only active in Britain, Harry didn’t expect to run into whatever members remain out here in continental Europe; then again, Griphook also said the family has roots in France. Maybe using it as a vacation destination isn’t that odd? Either way, Harry has no choice but to play his part. “Suppose we’re family, then. Sirius Black. The fourth.”

Her eyes widen for a brief moment, before her gaze hardens to steel. “Sirius is my cousin. He has no children.”

“None that he knows about.”

The woman narrows her eyes at him. “If you are the Lord of the House, show me the ring. If you don’t, I will be contacting the Ministry, both here and in Britain.”

Harry sighs. Suppose he doesn’t have much choice in this either. He’s not interested in having the Ministry involved so early. He lifts his right hand up and places it on the table. “Satisfied?”

She stares at the signet. “How-… You look nothing like him.”

“And I thank my mother for it every day,” he counters. “If you’re finished, you can leave now.”

“Who is she? Your mother.”

“What she is, is dead.” Harry stands up. He grabs his book and takes his cloak from where it hangs over the back of his chair. “Good evening.”

He makes for the exit.

“Wait! Wait! Please, wait,” the woman says, following him. He pauses before he reaches the door. “You and I, and my son, we’re all that’s left of the family. Everyone else is gone. Sirius and my sister are in Azkaban, my second sister was disowned. Please. Don’t leave. Sit with us. I’ll answer any questions you have about the family, about Sirius. Please, my Lord… We can try to be family. Can’t we?”

The offer of family feels like a stab in the stomach. Family. He could have a family, all of his own. If he just gives this woman a chance, she could be his family.

Harry turns around. “I’ll join you for dinner. After that…”

She smiles, her hands to her heart. “Thank you. Please, we’re over here.”

The elegant woman leads him to a table a short distance away, where two blonde people sit. When they come around the table, Harry struggles to keep his expression under control.

Bloody Draco Malfoy!

“Allow me to introduce everyone,” the woman says. “I am Narcissa Malfoy, previously Black. My husband, Lord Lucius Malfoy, and our son, Draco. This is Lord Sirius Black, IV.”

Lucius stands up and offers his hand, which Harry reluctantly shakes. “I wasn’t aware he had a son.”

“Neither is he,” Harry counters again. “But with him in Azkaban, his inheritance was forfeit and passed to me.”

“Interesting. My wife invited you to join us, I assume?”

“She insisted, I’m afraid,” Harry says, before turning his eyes to Draco. Well, when the opportunity to put the little twat in his place has so easily presented itself, who is Harry to resist? “Do forgive me if I’m mistaken, but isn’t it common practice to bow when a noble of a higher standing is presented to you?”

“Draco,” Narcissa hisses at the boy, quickly showing Harry a charming smile afterwards. “My apologies, my Lord, I think he was just a bit taken aback. It won’t happen again.”

Draco grimaces but stands up. He gives a put-upon bow to the Lord. “My mistake, my Lord.”

Harry doesn’t respond. He drapes his cloak over the open seat, setting his book on the table, before sitting down. The others sit, as well. The waiter, as if having waited for this moment, hurries over to place Harry’s glass and pitcher on the table for him. The Lords give their meal orders first, followed by the Lady, and Draco last.

“So, Narcissa. You mentioned your sisters. Tell me about them.”

She sips delicately at her glass of wine. “Yes, Bellatrix. She married into the Lestrange family, but unfortunately, she and her husband are both in Azkaban. She is where she deserves to be, of course, but as her sister, I can’t help but miss her. She and I had both hoped once, in our youth, that our children would grow up together. She never managed to have any, before she went away.”

“And the other one?”

“Hm?”

“The other sister. You said you had a second sister.”

Narcissa clears her throat softly. “Yes. She…married poorly. A muggle-born man. Tonks, I believe. Our parents disagreed, and she was disowned. I think she has a daughter, but I’m not sure.”

“What’s her name?”

“Andromeda.”

Hm. Harry will have to see what can be done about that disownment business. Even if she’s not interested in knowing him or accepting anything from him, he can at least give it a try, right? Andromeda Tonks. He’ll remember that.

“So, Sirius, what brings you to Paris?” Lucius questions, very obviously probing for information. “And what school do you attend? Draco never mentioned seeing you at Hogwarts.”

“I felt like travelling. Paris is my first stop. I don’t attend school. I considered Hogwarts but… Suffice it to say, it’s not up to my standards.”

“What house do you think you’d be in if you’d gone?” Draco questions with a smirk. “I’m a Slytherin!”

Oh, another opportunity to get back at Draco, even if only a little bit! What fun! “A Slytherin, yes. I, however, am the Slytherin.”

The blond boy frowns. “What’s that mean?”

A smirk fills Harry’s lips as he leans back. “I recently found out I’m the remaining heir to the Slytherin family line. Through my mother, of course.”

Draco’s eyes widen; Lucius stares at Harry, Narcissa gasps. And now to twist the knife!

“But of course, I’m not the babbling idiot my ancestor was, so that whole blood purity idea is not something I’ve ever entertained. It’s unseemly, isn’t it? Thank Merlin it’s becoming a thing of the past. An antiquated idea like that, I can’t wait for the day it’s been completely wiped from living memory. Two or three more generations should do it, I think, including yours, of course, Lord Malfoy, Lady Malfoy.”

Lucius looks like he’s been sucking on lemons. Narcissa’s face is a mask of practiced neutrality. Draco’s eyes bounce between his parents like he’s trying to comprehend what’s going on.

The waiter returns and Harry smiles as his meal is delivered.

“You should come with us, Sirius. Our villa outside the city has plenty of space for you,” Narcissa says as they’re leaving the restaurant together.

“No, thank you. I have a room.”

“Can I stay with you?” Draco asks eagerly. “Can I, mother? We can go shopping together tomorrow! I’ll show you all the best places!”

“No, I have important things to do,” Harry tells him. “I’ll be busy.”

Draco grimaces. “Doing what? We’re cousins, we should spend time together!”

Harry has to strain to resist rolling his eyes. Spoiled. “Do whatever you want, but you’re not staying with me and I’m not changing my plans for you.”

He walks away. He has no interest in spending time with Draco or his parents.

Stupid. It was stupid to think Harry could have family. Stupid! It’s already been proven more than once that Harry isn’t destined for family. First his parents, then his godfather, and the horrible Dursleys after that, and Dumbledore, whom Harry at one point genuinely believed could at the very least become a kind of mentor figure but not even that was meant for him. He loves Ron and Hermione, they’re his best friends in the whole world, but they have their own families. They’ll never be his family. He was crazy to think he’d ever have something like that, when the world has already proven it won’t allow it.

Harry retreats to study in peace. Alone, just like he’s meant to be.

Chapter Text

Working with Doctor Aziz, Basim, he insisted Harry call him Basim, Doctor Aziz makes him feel old, is amazing. Harry’s been with him for less than a week and it already feels like he’s learned more than he ever did with Snape for a teacher.

What a surprise; it’s a lot easier to learn when the teacher actually teaches. All Snape ever did was complain and insult people; why is he even working as a teacher if he obviously hates it so much?

Basim actually explains things. He shows Harry how best to prepare his ingredients; how to hold the knife to avoid too much tension in the wrist, how to chop things into the right sizes and what the different sizes even are since the books only ever seem to say things like cut finely or dice roughly (what does that even mean, how big is a rough dice, how small is finely chopped, just explain the sizes properly for Christ’s sake!), how to tell cauldron materials apart and how to judge what material is best if none is specified in the recipe, things like that! It all feels like such basic knowledge that Harry’s almost ashamed he doesn’t know, but his rational mind quickly slams that book shut. He is a child; he was trying to learn but his teacher prevented it. The person who was supposed to give him all this knowledge is the one who failed to perform their task.

Harry didn’t fail to learn; Snape failed to teach.

The very thought is infuriating. His opinion of Hogwarts had already dropped significantly, and this only worsens it. Hm. Is there a schoolboard he can complain to? Is Hogwarts government funded? It’s technically a public school, so it would be, wouldn’t it? He should file a complaint with the Ministry.

“I can see ze steam from your ears, Sirius,” Basim comments from the other side of the workbench they’re sharing. “You are upset. Why?”

The boy sighs. He sets his knife down and scoops the chopped belladonna leaves into their bowl. “Thinking about my old potions teacher. He was a bad teacher,” he explains while moving over to rinse his hands and tools carefully in the sink. “All he ever did was insult us. He refused to actually help us learn anything.”

The doctor hums, joined by the steady sound of the knife on his own cutting board. “Oui, zere are too many who are teachers, who should not be teachers.”

“I always left his classes feeling like such an idiot, and I know I’m far from the only one. He accused us of hating potions, but we only ever hated it because he made us hate it. It’s just...frustrating to think about. I think if we had a teacher more like you, everyone would love potions class.”

Basim chuckles at the indirect compliment. “Merci, merci, your faiz in me is much appreciated. I simply love ze art of ze potion, just like my fazer, and his fazer. I love it so deeply, ‘ow can I not wish to share zat love? Why would I not want to instil zat love in new minds and ‘earts? Nurture ze curiosity and feed ze ‘unger for knowledge? Listen to me.”

Harry does; he steps closer and listens avidly. Basim pauses his chore of chopping to look at the boy and meet his eye.

“Ze best love, is shared love,” he says with a sagely smile. “Of all my lessons, if zat is all you remember, zen I will still ‘ave taught you well.”

The boy nods but remains silent. The best love is shared love. Basim is right, he knows. Something in Harry’s chest softens at that. At the same time, that soft thing twinges painfully, but it’s a tender, gentle pain. It’s the pain of knowing, logically, that he is worthy of love but also knowing that he has never experienced the feeling of being loved. He deserves love, he’s allowed to be loved; he’s just never been loved.

It’s not fully true, though. His parents probably loved him. Maybe even his godfather loved him. Harry just wasn’t old enough to savour the experience before it was ripped away. Maybe that’s worse. Knowing he was loved once, yet having no memory of it. The thought cuts like a knife. It’s like the sickest form of torture he could ever imagine.

He tries to focus on work. They need to prepare all these ingredients, then tomorrow they’ll be doing revision regarding the additional tools of the craft and useful techniques. The day after that, they’re going to start working on actually brewing potions.

In the afternoon, Harry watches from a distance as Basim prepares stock to go on the shelves; checking on simmering potions, bottling, labelling, counting and organizing.

“Zis is remedy for joint pain,” Basim explains, flitting around the whole work room and getting everything ready to be shelved, as Harry sweats over the mortar and pestle. “And zis, is for migraines. Zis cream, for babies, helps wiz teezing pain. Blood-replenishing. Dittany, for open wounds. Aconite for ze werewolf.”

Bell on the front door jingles.

“I can take it, if you want?” Harry offers.

Basim nods. “Oui, s’il vous plais. Shout if you need ‘elp.”

“Yes, sir!”

The boy wipes his hands off, before scurrying out of the back rooms to the front of the store.

Narcissa.

Harry controls his face. The woman turns when she hears someone coming, and looks surprised to see him. Hm, at least it seems she didn’t come looking for him specifically.

“Lord Sirius,” she says quickly, curtseying to him.

“What can I do for you, Narcissa?”

She approaches the service counter. “I-... There’s an order. In my name.”

Harry steps back through the curtain. In the small storage room just on the other side, packaged orders sit neatly organized on shelves. He looks through the tags for some moments until he locates and extricates the one marked for Narcissa, which he then delivers to her.

“Sixteen bezants, please,” he requests, as stated on the tag.

She quickly fishes the coins out of her wallet and hands them over. “My Lord, I... Draco really wants to spend time with you,” she says while he sorts the coins into the register and makes note of the pick-up in the records book. “You’re the only cousin he has. Would it really be so bad to get to know him?”

The boy sighs. “Maybe not. But as you can see, I’m quite occupied. Not to mention I also have other studies on top of this and a job.”

“You’re working, my Lord? Why? The Black fortune would-“

“Because I’m not a spoiled child who expects everything to be handed to me on a silver platter,” he tells her plainly. “Because it enables my fortune to grow. Because it lets me travel and learn about the world and meet new people. Because I’m eleven years old and I have plenty of growing left to do, and because if I didn’t, I’d probably turn into the same old miserable sort your husband is, and that your son is slowly becoming. Narcissa, I want more than that for myself. Thank you for your business, I’ll give your best to Doctor Aziz.”

He turns to go behind the curtain again.

“Draco is a spoiled brat.”

Harry stops. That isn’t exactly new information, but it is surprising to hear from Draco’s own mother.

“I was hoping that... Perhaps he could learn to be better than that, by watching you. It was obvious to see the other night that you are as different from him as night is from day, and... I want my son to be better. Better than...his father. Perhaps if we had had more children, things would have been different, but it never happened for us. Draco was our miracle. My love for him made me forget to teach him to be good and kind. Please, Sirius, help me correct my mistake.”

Shit.

Harry is having a really hard time finding a good enough reason to say no. He turns back, offering the woman a quill and parchment.

“I’ll think about it. Write where I can reach you by owl.”

She does so raptly, as if worried he’ll change his mind if she takes too long. “Thank you. Truly, thank you. I just-... I want the best for him.”

He nods. She thanks him again then makes her exit quietly. Harry slumps against the counter with a sigh once he hears the door close.

He can’t believe it; he’s jealous of Draco. He might be a spoiled twat but at least he has parents, and they actually seem to care about him. It feels unfair. Why does Draco get to have it all, but Harry doesn’t? He hates how unfair it all is.

Harry stomps into the back again and returns to his mortar and pestle with renewed vigour.

Life isn’t fair, he knows that better than anyone. Draco gets to have it all, while Harry gets nothing. Harry had to fight for the right to be alive, but Draco had everything handed to him. Harry’s lucky too, though, and he knows that, and it makes his anger feel like it’s unreasonable, like he’s not allowed to be angry. If it wasn’t for who his parents were, who is godfather is, even if they’re dead or in prison, Harry would have nothing. He had so much handed to him too, and it makes him feel like a fucking hypocrite. How can he hate Draco when he himself is just the same as him? The only reason Harry isn’t the same kind of spoiled brat is because his parents died and he ended up with the Dursleys. Yes, he had to fight to live, but he’s only where he is because of his parents’ money. If he didn’t have that, he’d still be stuck at Privet Drive or worse, Hogwarts.

God, he’s so angry! Why can’t everything just leave him alone and let him live in peace? He ran away from Hogwarts and the Dursleys for a reason, and everything was perfect, but the world won’t let him have anything to himself and decided to remind him of that with stupid Draco.

“Sirius.”

He stops. He looks up. Basim stands beside him with a sympathetic look on his face.

“Come. Let’s take a break. Zere is a delivery for ze ‘ospital. You are not focusing.”

Harry deflates. He sets the pestle down and wipes his sweaty palms on his apron. “Sorry. I just-...”

Basim pats him on the shoulder. “Come. Fresh air will ‘elp.”

Sighing, Harry gives in. They clean up the worktable some and hang up their aprons. Basim looks over the order list and double-checks that everything is as it should be. Once they’re bundled up in their overcoats and such, they set out for the hospital each carrying a large crate of potions. Thankfully, Basim used the featherweight charm on the crates, otherwise they’d probably be much too heavy for Harry to be able to carry.

“So, tell me, what is ze matter, hm?” Basim asks while they trudge through the snow.

“Just...personal stuff.”

The man hums. “You argue wiz my customers, in my store,” he says, though not unkindly, still smiling as mildly as ever. “I do not zink your personal stuff is very personal anymore, oui?”

Harry sighs. Basim’s right. He always bloody is, isn’t he? “It’s just... I left England so I could be alone. So all that stuff wouldn’t be able to bother me. But here it all is, chasing after me. All I want is to be left alone and I can’t even have that.”

His teacher hums his understanding. “Per’aps zese zings chase after you because zey are zings zat need to be ‘andled. A man cannot escape ‘is destiny, ‘e can only delay it. You delayed it by coming to France, to Paris, but it ‘as caught up wiz you.”

“So what do I do? Do I just accept that I have no say in my own life? That’s not the kind of life I want. I’d rather keep running.”

“But who is to say being caught by your destiny is a bad zing? Mh? If part of your destiny is spending time wiz zis boy, Draco, zen I do not zink zat is so bad. Per’aps you do not like ‘im or ‘is company, but do you know zis for certain? ‘ave you given ‘im a chance? I was not sure if I should take you on as a student or not but I gave you a chance, and I find you to be a brilliant student and excellent company. Per’aps you will see Draco ze same. Per’aps you will not. Can you say for certain?”

Why is Basim always right?

Harry stays quiet for the rest of their errand.

The hospital is two streets over from Basim’s shop, located in an ornate building that honestly reminds Harry of the Louvre. It’s busy inside, like most hospitals always are, but a nurse greets Basim with a smile and seems happy to walk them to their internal apothecary. There, another potioneer, a frazzled-looking young man, seems incredibly relieved to accept their delivery. He and Basim speak for some minutes, likely discussing the ordered potions. Harry listens intently even though he has so far only picked up a little French (that language book was quite beneficial, but it will take a bit more time before Harry can hold any sort of conversation). The hospital potioneer signs some documents; with them in hand, Harry and Basim bid their farewell and head out with their errand completed.

Is Harry really going to give Draco a chance? He wishes he could ask Ron and Hermione for their opinions, but at the same time, he knows what they would say. Ron would be furious Harry is even considering it; Hermione wouldn’t be as outwardly upset, but he knows it would bother her incredibly. It bothers Harry, too. The very idea of spending an extended amount of time with Draco, probably mostly just the two of them, is uncomfortable. Harry already knows everything he needs to know; Draco is a stuck-up, spoiled brat, who thinks he’s better than everyone around him, and is of the opinion that anyone who isn’t a pureblood shouldn’t even be allowed to have basic human rights. He doesn’t deserve Harry’s time, or anyone else’s time, because why should anyone afford any of their precious time to someone with such disgusting, bigoted ideals?

But at the same time, isn’t Draco a victim of circumstance? Couldn’t Harry easily have been just like him? Draco only has those opinions because that’s how he was raised, because those are the opinions of his father and his friends and everyone he’s probably ever been around before going to Hogwarts. If Harry’s parents hadn’t died, he would probably have been raised in a pretty similar household, with his own pureblood parents and their own takes on those ideals. Yeah, maybe they would be a bit lighter on it, given how Harry’s mother was muggle-born, but at the same time, his father was still a traditionally raised pureblood, to the best of Harry’s knowledge. Even if they loved each other, Harry can only assume that at least sometimes, their opinions would clash and, in the end, Harry would still walk away with some of those gross thoughts trapped in his brain. Harry could have been stuck with opinions very similar to Draco’s, if the situation had been just a little different. And if Draco had grown up in the same way Harry did, an orphan trapped with abusive muggles and without any knowledge of anything magical, he could have had the ideals Harry currently has. Their places could have been reversed.

It could be anyone in Draco’s place. It could be Harry in Draco’s place. Harry might not like Draco, but he’s just a person. No matter his name or his opinions or who his family is, Draco is just a person. He deserves a chance, right? He deserves to have a chance to see that his opinions are wrong, and a chance to better himself. He’s just a child! He’s eleven! He’s allowed to make mistakes and learn from them and get better. That’s a part of being a child, and if Draco isn’t offered that chance to better himself, then he’s just going to turn into another shitty version of his shitty dad and the world could seriously do without more Lucius Malfoys.

He needs to give Draco that chance, that opportunity. Maybe with Harry there to actually force him to question his gross opinions, Draco will start thinking for himself.

“You look determined, my friend,” Basim says as he unlocks the shop’s door to let them back inside. “’ave you come to a decision?”

“I think so. Maybe I’ll go see them for dinner and talk for a bit. I’m just… It’s hard to explain how, but I’ve had bad meetings with Draco before, even if he doesn’t remember it, and I guess I’m holding grudges. He’s insulted my friends a bunch of times, so I’m just not super excited to be stuck with him.”

“Zen maybe you should tell ‘im ‘e upset you so ‘e can apologize and learn not to do it again,” the doctor suggests with a shrug.

He makes it sound easy.

It probably is easy, but Harry is stubborn so…

He’ll write to Narcissa and ask to join them for dinner again sometime soon. He’ll bring up spending time with Draco and they can all discuss it together. Yes. Good. That sounds good. That’s a good plan.

He explains the plan to Basim, who only smiles and pats him on the back. Harry will take that as him agreeing it’s a good idea.

At six o’clock, a house-elf apparates into Harry’s hotel room to pick him up. “Good evenings, sir Lord Black, Dobby is here to brings you to dinner with Master Lucius, sir,” the elf says, bowing so deep his forehead is nearly on the floor.

“Hello, Dobby. Give me just one moment.”

“Yes, Lord sir Black, Dobby waits.”

Harry tucks his wand into the holster on his forearm, he straightens his bowtie, wipes his glasses off, he straightens the Slytherin signet on his left middle finger, and collects the bottle of wine Basim suggested he should bring as a gesture of good-will. He checks his hair in the mirror one last time (it’s still weird to look in the mirror and see a completely different face looking back at him, but he thinks he’s starting to get used to it). Finally ready, he returns to where Dobby waits.

“Alright, Dobby, I’m ready. How do we do this, then?”

“Mister Lord Black will holds onto Dobby’s armses, sir, a-and Dobby wills deliver him to the Malfoyses Villa,” he explains and offers his arm out.

Harry takes Dobby’s slender hand in his own, to which the elf makes a strange little strangled noise before they disapparate together. They land in an airy, elegant sitting room (slash library) where Lucius already sits in one of two armchairs in front of a large, marble fireplace. Harry isn’t looking forward to playing nice and friendly with the man, but needs must.

“Thank you, Dobby,” Harry says gently to the nervous elf. “Here, I brought some wine for dinner. Can I give it to you?”

Looking up at him with wide eyes, the elf nods and accepts the bottle. “Yes, Lord Black, sir! Dobby will serves with dinners, sir!”

Dobby bows again, and disapparates once more. When he’s gone, Harry saunters over to sit with his host. “Evening, Lucius. How are you?” he asks, offering his hand.

The blond man leans over and shakes his hand. “Good, good. And you? Narcissa said she found you working at Dr. Aziz Branchiflore.”

Harry hums, leaning back and settling into the comfortable chair. “I’m alright, I suppose. And yes, Basim, Doctor Aziz, he’s an incredibly gifted potioneer, supplies the St. Jude’s hospital apothecary with some of their most complex potions. He agreed to take me on as a student after some convincing. I’m not attending school, as you know, so I have to find my education elsewhere. Basim was willing to help.”

Lucius sips a small glass of amber liquor. “Hm, I see. How long do you intend to stay with him?”

“A few weeks, I think. Not too long. I’ve no real interest in potions, but I thought it would be best to at least have a basic knowledge of the subject. I think I’ll be going to Spain or Germany next, I’ve not decided yet.”

“Why those two? Any particular reasons?”

“Well, I hear Germany has one of the largest magical botanical gardens available to the public, in the world. I intend to try to get into contact with some of the caretakers, in search of some tutoring in herbology. As for Spain, they have that big reserve for magical creatures down south, near Gibraltar. I think it would be most interesting to study the beasts, if at all possible. Of course, that depends on what their caretakers say, too. So, we’ll see, I suppose.”

“How interesting. You seem to value your education, even without attending an actual school. If only Draco had the same interest in studying. He does have a talent for potions, but his grades so far in his other subjects… Hm, they do leave something to be desired. His charms are…subpar.”

Harry shrugs. “A man can do nothing if he knows nothing. As for Draco... Well. I did come to discuss the possibility of maybe...having a relationship with him. We are cousins after all, like he said, and maybe I was too quick to dismiss that. I’m accustomed to being alone. Being not alone is quite new to me. But we are family, in the end.”

“Well said. I think Draco will be ecstatic. He’s been going on about you ever since we left the restaurant. He’s an only child as you know. I think the concept of having a sibling of sorts, if you will, a peer, excites him.”

Before Harry can respond, a house-elf appears before them; not Dobby, a different one. She curtsies deeply to them, holding her filthy pillowcase as if it were an elegant skirt. “Excuse mes, my Lordses, but dinners is ready. Mistress Narcissa and young sir Draco is waitings, sirses.”

She disappears again, as the men stand up. Lucius quickly polishes off the last of his drink, leaving the glass on the side-table. He straightens his sleek jacket and bids Harry to follow him. They exit the sitting room together into a similarly beautiful hallway. Only a short distance down the hall, they then enter a large dining room, which is filled by a long and massive table surrounded in chairs. When they enter, Narcissa and Draco, waiting just inside, curtsey and bow, respectively. Lucius sits at the head of the table; Narcissa takes the seat to his left, and Draco the seat after that. Harry takes the last seat, grateful that he didn’t have to embarrass himself if there was assigned seating or something like that.

A small appetizer appears on their plates, much like it would in the Great Hall at Hogwarts. Harry carefully watches the others at the table. Once Lucius has selected one of his many forks, Harry picks up the same one for himself out of his own selection.

“I’m so glad you could join us tonight, Sirius,” Narcissa says between small, prim bites. “I was overjoyed to receive your letter.”

Harry nods, washing his bite down with a sip of the bitter wine served to him. “I’m glad to be here, as well. I was just telling Lucius, I thought things over after our dinner and especially after you and I ran into each other the other day. You and Draco were both right. We are family, and to disregard that would be a waste for us all. I’ve just never…had much family, you see. I never knew my father, as you know, and my mother had no relatives left either. Once she was gone, it was just me. Having family suddenly appear out of nowhere like all of you did… Well, I was unprepared, I suppose is all I can call it.”

Narcissa nods along in sympathy as he speaks. “We understand, of course. Yes, we were upset when you…rejected us, of course, but I can understand why you did it. Don’t we, Draco?”

“Yeah, I understand,” he agrees, too. “And I understand if you don’t want to be cousins right away. Let’s just start as friends! And then, we’ll see how it feels after a while.”

A surprisingly level-headed suggestion by the boy, but one Harry can’t really find a reason to argue with. “That sounds nice, Draco. Friends is a good start.”

The other boy lights up in grin, nodding. “Alright! Friends, then!”

Harry smiles. “Friends. Why don’t you tell me about Hogwarts? I’m…not interested in going, myself, but you obviously enjoy it. Tell me about it.”

Draco’s grin grows wider. “Oh, it’s fantastic! I mean, most of the staff is bloody useless-”

“Draco,” Narcissa bites. “Do not swear. We don’t swear.”

The boy sighs, rolling his eyes. “Sorry, mother, it won’t happen again. It’s true, though, the teachers are useless, most of them are fools.”

“Oh? How so?” Harry probes, sipping his wine again. He waves over one of the house-elves standing in the background of the room (ready to attend to any needs) and quietly requests some water to replace the wine, after that. A few sips can be alright, but he’s not interested in more than that. “Why do you think they’re useless?”

“Sprout, the herbology professor, she’s acts like she’s been smoking something most of the time. I hear Trelawney, the divinations professor, she’s crazy too. Quirrell is a mystery on how he even got hired in the first place. Binns is an actual ghost teaching classes, which has to be against the rules somehow. McGonagall is alright enough, I suppose, even for a Gryffindor.”

Harry nods along, listening intently. “What about the headmaster? Everyone knows who Dumbledore is.”

Lucius scoffs at that. “Dumbledore! If anyone at that school is a fool, then it’s that old coot. The board of governors has been trying to get him thrown out for years, now.”

“Board of governors? What does that entail?”

The older lord sighs, shaking his head. “It might as well entail nothing at all for the good we do. We’re supposed to look out for the best interests of the students, but with so many clashing opinions, we hardly get anything done. Not that the Ministry would hear us out anyway! Nearly everyone there is star-struck by Dumbledore. People wanted him for Minister, you know, but the old man refused, which of course only put him on the Minister’s bad side. Sees him as a threat, and all that. Fudge knows that if Dumbledore were to change his mind, he would be out of a job in a blink."

“Is the Ministry involved in running Hogwarts, you mean?”

“Mh, yes, the school is funded by the Ministry, the staff paid by the Ministry, and so on. It’s a mess, in my opinion.”

The cleared appetizer plates disappear and are swiftly replaced by the main course, some kind of salmon dish.

“A mess?” Harry continues to probe. “How do you mean? It’s funded by the Ministry and managed by the governors, why is that complicated?”

Lucius drinks deep from his wine. “Well, it’s underfunded by the Ministry, refuses to be managed by the governors, and the I.C.W watches from a distance and hopes nothing goes wrong.”

The I.C.W… Oh, Harry knows that! He read about that in one of his textbooks; the International Confederation of Wizards. The I.C.W is really involved in Hogwarts’ business? Hm, makes sense, in a way. If they oversee all the magical schools in the world, they can standardize the education somewhat and make sure everyone gets a fair and equal schooling no matter where in the world they attend.

“I see. Yes, that does sound a bit messy, doesn’t it? But as the board of governors, can’t you issue a complaint to the I.C.W? If you’ve been selected to manage Hogwarts, but Hogwarts won’t allow you to manage it, then shouldn’t the I.C.W be getting involved and put Hogwarts in its place? You, as the governors, are only out for what’s best for the students, aren’t you? As a concerned parent, and governor, it’s your duty, Lucius, is it not?”

Lucius sighs and shakes his head to himself over the bother. “Yes. Yes, you might be right, Sirius. Hm. I’ll have to discuss it with the other governors. Quite an astute observation, my friend. But let’s move on from all that business. I can feel my blood-pressure rising the more we discuss it,” he comments with a quirked lip.

The boy chuckles. “Fair, fair, you’re much too young to be having a heart attack at the dinner table,” he quips, to which Lucius laughs mildly as well.

“I’ll be taking that as a compliment, thank you very much,” he rebuts and raises his glass.

Harry dips his head in a bow, with a smirk, clinking his glass of water with Lucius’ and taking a long drink; he dislikes Lucius, but he needs to play nice if he’s going to have any chance of getting close with Draco and Narcissa. “So, Draco,” Harry goes on then, shifting the topic like his host requested. “I do want to spend time together and get to know each other, but you must understand, I have some responsibilities I can’t neglect.”

“Mother told me she saw you at Doctor Aziz’ shop. Are you working there?”

“More like apprenticing. With no school to attend, I seek education elsewhere. Doctor Aziz is tutoring me in potions. I’ve only been with him for about a week now, but he’s an excellent teacher. He allowed me to brew my very own batch of Wolfsbane potion today, actually.”

“Really?” Draco says, awed. “At Hogwarts, we won’t learn that one until our last year!”

Really? Basim said it was a complex potion but Harry didn’t think it was that hard. As long as he followed the recipe, everything went fine. It’s like cooking, isn’t it? It’s hard to fail if you follow the recipe as it’s written. The precision of it can be challenging but Harry is learning to manage it.

“It was an interesting experiment. Tomorrow, I’ll be helping him brew some Felix Felicis. Of course, it’ll be simmering for six months, but the brewing itself will be a nice challenge.”

“How interesting!” Narcissa comments. “Does he sell Felix Felicis in the shop?”

Harry shakes his head. “No, but he supplies it to St. Jude’s. In very, very small doses, it can apparently help treat mental ailments like depression and so on. But back to the topic at hand. Like I said, Draco, I won’t be compromising on my tutoring, but my hours at the shop end at about three in the afternoon. If you’re interested, we could try to spend the afternoon together. I usually spend the time studying and reading, but maybe we can practice our spell work together? Charms, transfiguration? And maybe if we’re here, with some adult supervision, we can mock-duel?”

Draco grins with his entire face, nearly bouncing in his chair. “Oh, yes! That sounds incredible! I’d love that! Doesn’t that sound good, mother? You can supervise our mock-duels, right?”

The woman smiles; she reaches over and pets her boy’s cheek. “Of course I can, my love. As long as you spend plenty of time practicing your other spells with Sirius, I think you both deserve a bit of fun as a reward. Lucius?”

“Yes, I think that sounds like an excellent idea. A lovely suggestion, Sirius,” the man says, with a small conspiratorial look towards Harry.

The boy responds to the look with a slight nod. He heard Lucius’ minor complaint about Draco’s grades, and is helping to hopefully raise them, under the guise of playful bonding between friends/cousins. Lucius very obviously appreciates the assistance, and Harry is happy to be owed a small favour.

Plus, Harry will have someone to practice his duelling spells on, so he may be doing this mostly for his own benefit but no one needs to know that but him.

Chapter Text

“Expecto Patronum.”

A very slight wisp of white mist dribbles out of Harry’s wand.

The memory of his first arrival in Diagon Alley wasn’t enough, either. It feels like he’s gone through all his happiest memories, and yet, he hasn’t been able to produce anything more than those little wisps. Given that it’s an incredibly advanced spell, one of the most difficult ones known, suppose he should be quite happy with himself that he’s managed that much. According to the book, most people can’t even bring out that.

“That was great, Sirius! I can’t believe it, you can actually cast the patronus!” Draco gushes. “I can’t even make any smoke, and you’ve done it, like, three times!”

Harry shuffles over and sits down next to Draco on the couch. “Don’t worry, it’s not like it’s an easy spell. Loads of people can’t do it. And I mean, I’m probably lucky I can even do as much as a bit of smoke.”

Draco sighs, dragging one of their spell books to himself. “I guess... Let’s move on for now. It’s not like we’ll be making any memories here that are strong enough for that spell anyway.”

Harry leans in to look at the pages with him. “What should we try next?”

“If you have a cauldron, we could do this one, cauldron to cat. We’re supposed to study it over the break anyway. Getting in some practice would be good.”

Harry’s been practicing using accio without the incantation; he tries to cast it silently for the millionth time. Across the room, his bag, sitting on the floor next to the bedroom door, jitters slightly but doesn’t move much more. He casts again. The bag nudges away from the wall. Come on, it’s almost there, he’s almost got it! He casts a third time.

Yanked by the invisible force of the spell, the bag is tossed across the room. Harry grunts when it’s flung into his arms, throwing him backwards into the cushions of the couch.

“Woah! You can use nonverbal magic?! That’s incredible!” Draco all but yells at him.

Harry laughs as he digs into his bag. “Just for accio! And, as you could see, I’m not exactly very good at it yet, either.”

“But you did it!” Draco insists. “You actually managed to use a nonverbal spell, even if it wasn’t perfect! I mean, at Hogwarts, we’re not supposed to learn that ‘til sixth year! I don’t know anyone in my year who can do anything nonverbally!”

Oh. Really? Oh… Harry didn’t realize it was that late. Yes, it’s a bit difficult, but he figured it would be at least in the second or third year at Hogwarts, that they’d be studying nonverbal magic. Basim said they start practicing it in their second year at Beauxbatons, the French school of magic, but it’s not rigidly used in their classes until the fourth year, meaning they have two whole years to master the skill before it becomes a requirement. But the sixth year? That seems really late. It’s only taken Harry about three days to get accio to work nonverbally, and that’s without a teacher to instruct and guide him. If he was in school, he’d probably figure it out much sooner.

He pulls the cauldron out of his bag. They clear some space on the table, where he then places the cauldron. Draco gets to go first.

“How much?”

Isabelle repeats the question to the seller in French. He responds, and Isabelle translates. “Twenty euro, the whole bag.”

Harry rolls the bag over in his hands; it’s a big plastic bag filled to the brim with a mixed assortment of jewellery. He can see necklace chains, some pearls, a few bangle bracelets, a large belt-buckle, a number of rings of different materials. Most, if not all, of it is probably fake, but he sees a few pieces he thinks might be real. He’s been studying the real gold and silver and gems he’s purchased (and authenticated with a nice charm he learned), and he thinks he’s gotten pretty decent at telling real from fake, but who knows? Twenty euros is…a good price. Even if only one of the pieces is authentic, he can probably sell it for at least a handful more euros. And the others bits, even if they’re fake, he can pawn them off at half a euro, a euro, per piece. There’s probably a good fifty, sixty pieces in there, so he’d still make a profit, even if it’s a small one.

“Fifteen,” he counters.

The seller scoffs. With Isabelle’s voice, he responds with, “Nineteen.”

“Fifteen.”

“Eighteen.”

“Hm. Sixteen.”

“Seventeen, or move on.”

“Alright, I’ll take seventeen.”

They shake hands. Harry drops the plastic bag into his leather messenger bag, and fishes out seventeen euros from the pouch he keeps in the front pocket. The man thanks him as he accepts the bills and coins. Harry and Isabelle move on. Draco trails after. They move slowly down the aisle of pop-up flea market stands. Harry’s eyes scan over every stand they pass, over every object they have on display. He’s already found a few possible treasures, but he’s not quite satisfied yet. He’s planning to check in with Gringotts later today, and the hope is to scoop up a few more pieces before they head there.

Isabelle gasps, grabbing Harry’s arm tightly. “Sir! Sir, do not react too much to what I am going to tell you.”

Harry pauses and looks up at her. “Okay? What is it?”

She clears her throat. “The stand behind me. The two large urns. You must buy them. You must, my Lord.”

Harry glances over, spotting the urns, all gold and cobalt blue, sitting on a table at the back of the stand. “Why?”

“They are Sèvre, sir. Fine porcelain, extremely valuable. I have heard of these types of porcelain selling for many tens of thousands of euros.”

Harry almost chokes. He nods curtly, then steps over to the stand in question. Playing casual, he takes a look around, inspecting a few things here and there but passing them up. He comes to the urns after some moments, and inspects them closely as well. The seller hurries over to speak to him, though is stopped by Isabelle who speaks for him.

“She says they’re fake but because they’re beautiful, she wants a hundred euro per urn.”

“One-fifty for both.”

“Two-hundred.”

“One-forty. I’ll keep going lower.”

The seller sighs.

“One-eighty.”

“One-forty.”

“One-forty is too low. She’ll take one-sixty but that’s the lowest she’ll go.”

“One-fifty, or we’re leaving.”

“Alright, one-fifty.”

Harry counts out the bills and hands them over. The seller looks mildly displeased but she allows them to take the urns. Once she’s turned away, Isabelle surreptitiously casts a featherweight charm on the urns, as well as a small number of protective charms. Harry takes one, while Isabelle takes the other. After leaving the stall, Isabelle disillusions them; they carefully pack the porcelain into Harry’s bag, and move a short distance further down the way before she releases the disillusionment. No one notices their small use of magic in public, nor the disappearing urns. Draco joins after a minute, jogging back to them from further along.

“Is that it? Are we done, or is there more?” he asks, and surprisingly, he’s not gotten upset about being dragged along to Harry’s antiquing rounds. “I saw a painting a few stalls over, I don’t know if the painting’s worth anything but the frame looks like real gold-leaf. We have a few just like it at home.”

Another possible find, on Draco’s suggestion? Interesting.

Draco leads the way to a stand filled to the brim with framed paintings. He finds the piece in question and shows it to Harry, who feels quite ready to accept Draco’s assumption after a few seconds of study. The gold-leaf does look genuine; or, at the very least, a very good imitation. The panting itself is a vague, abstract thing, splashes of colour strewn over the canvas without direction. Hm, no signature visible; he doesn’t recognize the style either, not as any of the big names. Probably a hobbyist, or maybe even one of the lesser-known names. If nothing else, Harry can use the frame for something else, once he finds a place where he wants to settle down and live.

He buys it for fifteen euros.

They browse for another hour or so, perusing the pop-up market, but their good luck seems to have run out. They exit the bustle of the market to step down the nearest side-street where the crowd has minimal presence. There, Isabelle disillusions them and apparates them directly into place in front of the Gringotts branch office in Place Cachée. Together, they move inside. Thankfully, the goblins speak very clear English; Harry appreciates Isabelle, but he’d prefer to keep his business private. That would be a lot more difficult if he couldn’t actually speak with the goblins. Isabelle and Draco wait in the atrium while Harry is lead to a small meeting room at the back of the bank’s main area of business.

Once there, Harry empties out his bag. One by one, he pulls items out of the hidden space and sets it out for the three goblins with him to inspect. They work swiftly, though in silence. Each item is closely studied by one of the goblins, then divided up. Most items are placed on one side of the room, while a smaller handful is set to the other side. It takes them many long minutes before one of the goblins approaches Harry.

“We have inspected your items, Lord Black,” he says. “On this side are the items that are of interest to Gringotts. These over here, are yours to keep.”

As expected, the smaller collection is for Gringotts; at least they took the Sèvre urns, but Harry’s bag of jewellery was passed over, as was the gold-leaf frame. “May I ask, what will be done with the items? Purely out of curiosity, of course.”

The goblin nods. “Some are to be studied by our craftsmen. Though we are gifted as a people, we do not know everything. Studying the crafts of others is one way to better ourselves. The others will be priced according to their value, then put up for sale. You will receive one quarter of the sell-price, as your commission, on top of the reimbursement for the price you paid on the purchase.”

One quarter, that sounds mighty fine. Especially for those urns, if they really do sell for as much as Isabelle suggested. “Very good. Could you have my share of the items priced as well, then placed in my vaults? I’ve not much intention to sell anything quite yet, but it’s always good to know what I have. Of course, I’d be glad to pay for the service like any other customer, I’d expect no less.”

“Certainly, Lord Black, this can be arranged. Leave everything with us and it will be done. By tomorrow evening, you will receive documents on the matter, your payments and reimbursements as well as the pricing list for your items.”

“Thank you, sir. One last question. Could I request a subscription to the Daily Prophet? My mail is being delivered to your branch office in London before being passed on to me. Would it be any trouble if I requested the paper?”

“Not at all, sir. I will see it done for you. Expect your papers delivered by one of our house-elf staff. They will also be the ones to deliver any other mail you may receive.”

“Alright, thank you very much for the help, sir.” Harry shakes the goblin’s hand firmly then exits back to the atrium, where he meets up with his companions, upon which he hands over his guide’s payment and a large tip (maybe something near to a hundred bezant, which she scrambles to keep from falling out of her arms when he hands the coins over). “That’ll be all for today, Isabelle, and don’t argue with me on the tip, it’s the least I can do for the help with those urns.”

“Mon Dieu, thank you, my Lord! Thank you, this is- This is too kind! Thank you. Please, don’t hesitate to call for me whenever you need me, I’ll be there, sir!”

Smiling, Harry nods. “Thank you, Isabelle, I really appreciate that. Have a good night, okay? Get yourself a treat with that.”

She thanks him another few times before hurrying away to probably deposit the tip directly, for safe-keeping.

“I’m starving, let’s get something to eat,” Draco suggests while they exit the bank.

“Hm, I could eat. Where should we go? I still haven’t tried the restaurant at my hotel yet.”

“This way!” the blond says, grabbing Harry by the arm and pulling him along. “There’s a café down this way, they’ve got the best croque monsieurs! Father doesn’t want us eating that commoner stuff, but mother always takes me there in secret on the last day of our visit here. Come on! I can have it twice this time!”

Harry breaks out laughing but follows. Draco lets go of his arm as they start running, racing down the street together.

It’s weird. Draco actually isn’t so bad. Harry has no idea why acts like such an arse at Hogwarts when he’s perfectly capable of being civil and at times, even nice, and fun. It’s strange to think that, in only a few days, when he returns to Hogwarts, he’ll be back to being a mean twat to everyone.

They reach the café. Once they have their sandwiches and sodas in hand, they sit down at a table across from each other.

“Can I ask you something?” Harry poses while they’re eating.

The other boy shrugs. “Sure.”

“Why do you think purebloods are better than half-bloods and muggle-borns?”

Draco frowns. “I don’t know. They just are.”

“But what if they aren’t?”

“But they are.”

Harry sighs. Okay, different angle, then. “You think I’m a very strong wizard, right?”

“Of course I do! You can make super advanced potions, you know so many charms, you’re great at transfiguring, and you always beat me when we’re duelling, and you can even do nonverbal spells and you can almost make an incorporeal patronus! You’re an amazing wizard! Definitely the strongest one I’ve ever met that’s near my age.”

“Right. And I’m a pureblood?”

The blond scoffs. “Of course you are. You’re a Black, obviously you’re a pureblood.”

“And what if I told you my mother was muggle-born?”

Draco nearly drops his drink. He stares at Harry.

“But… You said she was a descendant of Slytherin?”

“She was. But a while back, another descendant married a muggle, they had non-magical kids who married non-magical people, and finally, my mother was born and somehow, she presented with magic. An heir of Slytherin and a muggle-born. The old man would turn over in his grave if he knew.”

All complete and utter lies, but Harry thinks it can be forgiven.

Draco stares. “But… You have to be pureblood.”

Harry shrugs. “And yet, I’m not.”

The other boy shifts his eyes down to his sandwich, staring at that instead. Harry bites into his own sandwich. Makes sense Draco would need a minute to process things; he’s having his whole life turned upside down, basically.

“But…why do we all think purebloods are better?” Draco questions finally, after some two or three minutes of deep thinking. “I mean, if they’re...not?”

Again, Harry shrugs. “Because some people need to feel like they’re better than everyone else. In the end, though, we’re all just people. If we both cut our hands open, right here, right now, Draco, your blood would be the exact same colour as mine. Open us up, and we’ll look the same on the inside. People forget sometimes, that…people are just people. No matter what they look like, or where they’re from, if they have magic or not. We’re all just people. Our blood doesn’t matter. What we do with the gift of life is what matters.”

Draco looks back down at his half-eaten sandwich. “There’s…a girl. At Hogwarts. She’s…really, really smart. And a great witch. But she’s muggle-born.”

Harry wants to assume he means Hermione but given the size of Hogwarts, he can’t exactly be certain unless Draco actually says a name.

“I’ve been…really shitty to her, I think.”

“Maybe you have. But you can learn to do better. You can apologize for your mistakes, explain that that’s the way you were raised but now you’re trying to be different. And then, actually try to be different. Trust me, Draco, life is a lot less awful when you don’t spend all your time hating.”

“Yeah. I-… I guess. But what do I tell father?”

“You don’t have to tell him anything. If he asks, all you have to say is that you’re your own person and you can make your own choices. That’s all anyone can do. But if he doesn’t agree, if anything happens… You can come to me. You can come straight to me and I’ll help you in whatever way I can. You’re not just a Malfoy, Draco. You’re a Black, too, and that means that as Lord Black, you’re under my protection.”

Draco’s throat moves as he swallows. He nods jerkily. “I-… Okay. I’ll think about what you said, and… I’ll make my own opinion. And if my father doesn’t agree, then…I have my cousin to lean on.”

Harry smiles. “Yes, you do, Draco.”

“How’s this?”

Harry steps away from the puttering cauldron to let Basim get closer. The old wizard inspects the brew closely. He tests the temperature of the liquid, he checks the colour of the flames and for any leaks in the cauldron; next, he gives it a stir and lifts up a ladleful which he pours out again, he leans in and takes a long sniff, he dips a stick into the brew and inspects it under close lighting, then gives it a quick taste and spits it out into a tissue.

Harry waits, tense, for the judgement of his teacher. It’s the sixth time he’s brewing this potion, a remedy to encourage nerve-regrowth for the hospital to use, and he’s yet to get it perfect. First it was too thick, then it was too thin, then the taste was off meaning the ratio of ingredients was off, the same with the next batch where the smell was off, and in his last batch, he stirred just a bit too much which made the colour go off. According to Basim, these seemingly innocuous, innocent flaws could lead to disastrous effects if the potion was actually used to treat patients. There can be no flaws in potions. If the potion can be improved, that can and should be done, but if one fails to follow the original recipe without improvements in mind or without the requisite expertise, all that follows is disaster.

Basim turns back to Harry. The very slight smile on the man’s face brings hope to Harry’s nervous heart.

“C'est parfait.”

Harry literally jumps for joy. He lets out an embarrassing squeal and bounces on his toes and throws himself at Basim to hug him. Basim laughs with him, hugging him for a moment and patting him on the back.

“Come, come! You must bottle it before it overcooks!” the doctor reminds then. “Quickly now!”

Jittery with excitement and joy, Harry summons his prepared bottles to line up on the table. Next, he lifts the brew from the cauldron and carefully divides it, guiding each part into its bottle. The corks settle into place, and lastly, a sealing charm to keep contaminants out and a preservation charm to ensure a long shelf-life.

He stares at his twelve perfect potions. He did it. He actually did it! He got the potion completely, perfectly right, and once these bottles have been delivered to St. Jude’s, they’re going to help people recover from awful, terrible injuries. Harry did that. Harry did that!

He looks up when Basim’s hand lands on his shoulder. “I’m very proud of you, Sirius.”

Harry smiles up at him. “Thanks, Basim, for everything. I’ve learned so much in so little time. Two weeks! I didn’t even think it was possible!”

The man shakes his head. “Potions is easy to learn, and difficult to master. You ‘ave learned. Now, you work to master. And zis, no one can ‘elp you wiz.”

The boy nods. “I’ll do my best!”

Basim chuckles, patting his shoulder again before stepping away. He walks over to the bookshelf containing his many collections of recipes. After searching the titles, he pulls one out of its place on the shelf. He brings it over and offers it to Harry, who gladly accepts it.

“What’s next?” he asks as he opens the cover to the contents list showing the recipes available.

Before Basim can quite respond, the bell on the shop door rings and announces a customer. Quickly, Harry sets the book down and scurries out to the counter.

“Bonjour, bienvenue! Comment puis-je aider?” he rambles off as the customer approaches the counter.

The woman smiles. “So you are the young Lord Black, then, yes?”

Frowning, Harry’s head tips to the left in confusion. “Excuse me?”

“Ah, Coco! Right on time,” Basim announces as he comes out to join them. He quickly steps around the counter to embrace the woman for a moment, after which they trade kisses on either cheek. “So lovely to see you, my friend, and zank you for coming!”

The woman, Coco, scoffs and waves him off. “How am I to say no to an invitation from a friend, mh? And speaking so highly of your student? How was I to resist?”

Basim laughs and hugs her again. Confused, Harry’s eyes flit between them. They look to be of a similar age; maybe they grew up together? Went to school together? Coco’s vague accent marks her clearly as French, but she seems to have worked hard to minimize the impact on her English, unlike Basim who still breaks quite heavily. After some further greetings and hugs and kisses, they both turn to Harry.

“Sirius, zis is one of my closest friends, Lady Colombe Leclair,” Basim introduces. “Colombe, as you suspected, zis is my student, Lord Sirius Black, ze fourz.”

Harry shakes the woman’s dainty hand with a gentle touch. “An honour to meet you, my Lady. Sirius is just fine, if the Lady wishes, since we’re among friends,” he offers politely.

She smiles in return. “Very well, Sirius, and please, call me Coco and remind me of my youth,” she comments with a wink.

“Sirius, put on some tea for us, oui? I’ll be wiz you in a moment,” Basim says and scurries away among the shelves.

Probably closing the shop for the day to afford them some privacy. While he’s gone, Harry shows Coco into the back to the small break area set up furthest to the shop’s back. He putters with the kettle and such while the lady takes a seat in one of the two armchairs. Harry pulls up one of the stools from the worktables for himself; if anyone deserves the remaining armchair, it’s Basim. He’s just pouring the kettle into the teapot when Basim re-joins the group and sits down. By now, he thankfully knows better than to argue with Harry over who gets the comfy chair and such things. Harry gladly pours them each a cup before taking his seat, as well.

“Are you going to tell the boy why I’m here, Basim, or must I?” Coco quips at the man over her tea before taking a small sip.

Basim chuckles, cradling his porcelain cup in his thick hands. “Yes, yes, I will, Coco, no need for zreats. Sirius, Coco is a professor at Beauxbatons. She teaches astronomy. Because all zat remains for you is practice, you ‘ave learned all ze basics I can teach you, I asked Coco to take over. If you are interested, Coco will tutor you in astronomy.”

At that, Coco clucks her tongue. “And astrophysics and mathematics.”

Harry’s eyes bounce between them again, jaw hanging open. Astronomy, astrophysics, mathematics? And a new tutor? One, who happens to be a professor at Beauxbatons, an academy that has fostered some of the most prominent astronomers in the world?

“The term begins on Monday and you would join me at the academy. You would audit my classes, and have private lessons with me according to a study plan I have devised for you. Basim wrote that you intend to travel, so you would be with me for only three weeks, where you would learn as much of the basics as you can. After that, if you wish to continue your studies at some point in the future, I can be amenable to tutor you again. Everything has been approved by our headmistress Madam Maxime, and as long as you prove not to be a disruption or distraction to other students, you are welcome to join us at the palace.”

Harry is nodding his agreement long before she’s finished speaking. “Yes! Please, yes, I’d love to study with you, that sounds amazing! I- I’m- Basim, thank you!”

The man smiles. “You are an intelligent young man, Sirius, and to not nurture your ‘unger for knowledge would be a detriment to ze world, I zink. Ze book I gave you, bring it, s’il vous plait.”

Harry’s gotten much better at the nonverbal accio, which he uses to summon the book to himself. He offers it immediately to Basim, but he declines taking it.

“You may borrow it, but you must take very good care of it. It is my fazer’s collection of ‘is fazer’s recipes and ‘is own, and mine as well. It will be passed to my son when ‘e ‘as finished ‘is apprenticeship in America, but ‘e agreed to let you borrow it to ‘elp your continued studies.”

Harry’s jaw has once again dropped.

Basim’s potion recipes, his father’s potion recipes, and his father’s potion recipes, all collected and curated in one single book, the only one like it in the world, meant to go to Basim’s son to continue the family tradition... And they’re letting Harry borrow it? Insignificant little Harry, being allowed to even just hold an object so unfathomably precious?

“Basim, I- No, I- I can’t! I can’t take this, I can’t accept this!” Harry argues, holding the book out to make him take it back. There’s no way Harry’s worthy of this! “This is too much, I can’t take this!”

The doctor sighs, shaking his head almost fondly. “You are not taking it, Sirius. I am allowing you to borrow it, so zat you may study it and learn from it. And when ze time comes, you will return it.”

Harry looks down at the book. It’s a simple leather-bound volume, with thick, yellowing pages neatly and carefully tucked and bound inside. When he opens it, some recipes look very neat, each step recorded with elegantly swooping letters, while on other pages, the writing is cluttered and a bit disorganized with bits crossed out here and there and annotations made in the margins, like the recipe was being written down while it was being created. A few pages are spotted with remnants of potions, speckles of all imaginable colours soaked into the old paper stock. Here and there, ink-blots have been left behind, as if the author had to stop and study his potion as it brewed or to consider his observations closely before continuing to note them down. Harry is speechless. Something so infinitely valuable, placed in his hands, under his care?

“Basim… This is… I don’t have any words. Thank you. I’ll take good care of it, I swear. I’ll make sure it’s in perfect condition for your son, I’ll protect it with my life, I won’t let anything happen to it, you have my word!”

“I know you will take care of it, which is why I chose to lend it to you,” Basim assures. “And not to worry. It ‘as been enchanted wiz protection many times over zrough ze years. Zere is very little zat could ‘arm it.”

Harry closes the book gently and holds it close, hugging it to his chest as if to shield it with his body. “Still, I’ll protect it. For as long as I have it, I’ll protect it. And please, do tell your son, whenever he wants it, just let me know and I’ll deliver it to him personally as quickly as I can!”

“Oh, he really is a sweet boy,” Coco comments to Basim with a small smirk. “He’ll charm the whole school without even meaning to!” Red fills Harry’s cheeks. He quickly picks up his cup of tea and drinks a long sip to calm himself. “Well, Sirius! On Sunday, meet me here outside the shop at seven and we will depart for the academy, yes? You’ll have plenty of time to pack, and here, this is a list of books I suggest you prepare as well as some other equipment,” she goes on, handing him a slip of light blue parchment.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be zere to see you off,” Basim promises, plucking the question right out of Harry’s head. “Go on, prepare.”

The boy nods eagerly; he throws back the last of his tea, coughing slightly when it singes his tongue just a bit, before jumping out of his seat. He hangs up his apron and snatches up his coat, shouting a farewell back at the adults as he leaves the shop.

There’s so much to do, so much to prepare! First of all, though, Harry needs to bring this book back to his hotel room and carefully pack it away in his bag where it will be nice and safe. Forty-eight hours of preparing to (sort of) attend Beauxbatons begins now!

Chapter Text

“I’m so jealous,” Draco says, pouting only a little bit, over their meal. “Father wanted to send me to Durmstrang, and mother wanted to put me in Hogwarts. Obviously, mother won the argument, but neither of them listened to what I wanted. Beauxbatons sounds so amazing...”

Harry reaches across the table to pat his cousin’s hand. “I’ll send lots of pictures, I promise.”

Draco manages a hint of a smile before his face falls again. “I just wish I could go there, too.”

“Maybe talk to Aunt Cissa? If you tell her how badly you want it, maybe she’ll at least think about it. I mean, she’s your mum, she’ll do anything for you. Transferring schools isn’t the end of the world.”

“I know, but... She’s not exactly the type to be easily convinced of anything.”

“Do you want me to talk to her? I’m lord of the Black family, she has to at least hear me out, right?”

The other boy sighs. “Maybe… But not yet. I’ll talk to her on my own first. You were right, this is my life and I’m in charge of it and even though I’m still a kid, I get to have a say in things.”

Harry smiles. After that initial little world-breaking moment during their post-antiquing meal last week, Draco has very quickly started to step up and be there for himself. Even in such a short time, he already seems like he’s trying to change and be a better person; not for Harry, or for anyone else, but for himself. What Harry said about life being less awful if it’s not spent hating seems to have stuck with him. It’s a relief. Something Harry realized since they started hanging out only just over a week ago, is that Harry never actually hated Draco. He just hated the things Draco said and did, the way he behaved. With Draco actually trying to stop saying and doing those things, and changing his behaviour, there’s nothing left about him for Harry to hate.

They move on to chat about less heavy topic while they finish their food. They wander down the street to the tailor afterwards where Harry picks up a new set of suits, which he ordered on Draco’s advice. According to him, Beauxbatons has quite formal uniforms that resemble suits, for both boys and girls, and while Harry won’t be allowed to wear the uniform (as he isn’t technically a student of the school but only of one professor), he can at least try to match the dress code as best as possible. Thus, suits and ties for every day of the week, and on the tailor’s insistence that it’s the colour best suited for Harry, each one is black on black. It was only by some miracle that Harry could manage to talk the man out of forcing a matching cane into his hands, too (“Every lord needs a good cane!” Not this bloody lord!)

They walk together for a while longer once Harry checks his watch. Still only about six o’clock, after all. Harry makes sure to give Draco his mailing instructions for the tenth time (address the envelope to him, place it in another envelope, address that one to Gringotts, and they’ll take care of it after that, and don’t be freaked out if he gets loads of Gringotts embossed envelopes back, those are just Harry’s replies), which Draco assures him, for the tenth time, that he knows very well and remembers.

As the time approaches seven, do they too approach Basim’s shop. The man himself is waiting outside together with Coco, who carries a small suitcase for the journey. Harry says a fond farewell to Draco then to Basim, who reminds him to keep studying his potions when he can even if he’s busy with all of Coco’s work, before he and Coco mount up on their brooms together.

It’s lovely to be in the air again. Harry hasn’t flown since he was at Hogwarts, before the quidditch season ended for the winter. Seeing all of Place Cachée from above, then all of Paris… It’s incredible! Harry has only ever flown over the Hogwarts grounds before, which was always special in its own way, but flying over all this open country, that has to be even better! All he has to do is make sure he keeps Coco in sight ahead of him, and he can spend his time just watching the world below. The flight is nearly three hours long, but Harry couldn’t care less; it’s incredible.

As they’re draw near the palace hidden among the mountains, Harry signals for his guide to stop. Coco laughs with delight when he asks, but she’s happy to pose on her broom in front of the distant palace. He snaps a photo of her like that, and another without her, and can only imagine how amazed Ron, Hermione, and Draco will be when they see them. They fly the last of the distance and as everything becomes clearer and more visible, Harry is awed.

The school is housed in an immense chateau with a beautiful, stately appearance. The stone walls are nearly snow-white in colour and the many windows seem to glisten with how carefully they have been tended, washed, and polished. At the front of the palace stretches out vast lawns which have been striped with absolute precision; paved footpaths snake around and through the grass, each one lined with large bushes trimmed into the shapes of various animals. The bushes actually move to simulate life in the sculptures, enchanted by a masterful hand. The back of the palace grounds is split in two; first, nearest to the building, there is a park of sorts, with trees and bushes and flowerbeds laid out in very intentional designs and patterns. He can even see marble statues, fountains, a couple of gazebos, and lots of park benches for students to enjoy. Beyond the park is a large garden, which looks to have been carefully tended and nurtured, that surrounds a domed greenhouse in the centre. Harry takes several pictures before joining Coco in landing near the front entrance.

As it’s quite late by then, Coco only gives Harry the short tour, showing him the extravagant dining hall and pointing out classrooms and other locations of interest on the way up to the staff quarters on the west side of the palace. There, he is given a room of his very own to use! Apparently, it belonged to a former professor but has been out of use since said professor chose to retire before the current school year started. It’s more than enough for Harry, truly. It’s not a cupboard under the stairs, so yes, he’ll be just fine.

Beauxbatons is…a sea of powder blue uniforms. Dressed all in black, Harry stands out like a sore thumb. And of course, by Monday afternoon, after all the students have returned from their winter holidays, the entire school is abuzz with the exciting news of a young British lord visiting to study under Professor Leclair. At dinner, Harry sits next to Coco at the head table with the professors, and he can feel hundreds of pairs of eyes on him throughout the whole meal.

Wednesday morning, the day after Hogwarts’ first day of classes for the term, mail arrives for Harry. A house-elf dressed in a stylish Gringotts uniform pops up next to Harry during breakfast and hands over a large envelope before disappearing again. When he opens the envelope, a copy of the Daily Prophet and several smaller envelopes fall out. Ron’s handwriting, Hermione’s, Draco’s, that’s McGonagall’s, and…Dumbledore’s. Right.

“Professor, may I be excused?” Harry asks Coco discretely, using his French. He’s decided to use it as much as possible while he’s at the academy to hopefully get it all ingrained in his head. “These letters are…quite private.”

The woman nods. “Of course, but don’t be late to our class.”

“Yes, professor.”

Harry excuses himself from the table and moves swiftly through the sea of round tables seating students, out of the hall. He escapes back to his little room.

Let’s start with the good letters.

Ron obviously rambles right from the start about where Harry is, where he’s disappeared to, the whole school is worried sick, no one saw him at King’s Cross or on the train and he wasn’t at the school either, please just write and let everyone know he’s okay; he is okay, right? Ron isn’t mad that he’s gone, he’s just worried, so please be okay, Harry!

Hermione’s letter is much of the same, though she does seem a bit mad despite Ron insisting in his letter that she isn’t, and she’ll give him a right thrashing when he gets back for just disappearing like that, don’t you know how worried we are?

Harry does feel bad about lying. He knew this moment was fast approaching but he had sort of put it to the back of his mind and tried to forget about it. Still, the day came, as it always does. This afternoon, he’ll write to them both and explain things as best he can; they’re his friends, they deserve at least that much. Hopefully, his collection of photos from Paris will make it up to them, even if only a little bit.

Draco’s letter details his conversation with his mother about the possibility of transferring to Beauxbatons; she seemed a bit resistant to the idea, but promised to think it over and speak to Lucius and see what can be done, if it’s even possible at all. Moreover, he’s excited to be back at school anyway, to see his friends again. He’ll try to work on changing their minds on this whole pureblood thing too, but knowing them, it’ll probably take a while to get through to them. He comments on the fact that all of Hogwarts seems to be losing their minds over that stupid Potter being missing, or something. Sure, Draco doesn’t wish the idiot any actual harm or anything like that, but seriously? Is this level of panic really necessary?

Harry laughs about it, but at the same time, he knows it’s going to be hard to explain his true identity one of these days. Fingers crossed it won’t be necessary until far in the future so Harry has time to figure out how to manage that conversation.

McGonagall… Mister Potter this, Mister Potter that, blah blah blah, we have contacted the Ministry, we hope for your safety, your relatives say you never returned home at the start of the holidays, your friends miss you, please return if you can and if you cannot then please hold on and we will come find you and help you, and so on, so forth.

Lastly, Dumbledore.

Harry,

I am afraid I must say that I am quite disappointed in you. It would appear that you have run away, for some unknown reason, and I truly expected better from you. You are a very smart young man, so I do not understand why you would make this choice. If you were unhappy here, you could have come to me, or to Professor McGonagall, and we would have done everything in our power to help you.

If only you had spoken with us, told us something was wrong, we would have helped.

If your mother and father were here, I’m certain they would agree with my disappointment in you over this. Return to Hogwarts as soon as you can, and the punishment for missing school will be lighter.

Uch, Harry doesn’t even bother reading all his stupid names and all his stupid titles. The fucking nerve of this old bastard! The absolute nerve! How dare he?! How dare he try to use Harry’s mum and dad against him like a weapon?! He disgusts Harry. He makes Harry sick to his stomach. Harry wants to spit in his face!

He throws himself down in the chair at his tiny desk and puts quill to parchment.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,

You disgust me.

You are a vermin on this earth! How dare you try to use the memory of my parents to manipulate me?! They died for YOUR cause and now, you try to use them to manipulate me to return to Hogwarts so you can continue brainwashing me! You are filth! You are dung on the heel of my shoe!

You left me for ten years in a house where I was abused on a daily basis! They broke my bones with their bare hands time and time again, yet couldn’t once be bothered to bring me to the hospital! I have, on more than one occasion, woken up in the middle of the night choking on blood from my broken nose! If it weren’t for my own wild magic keeping me desperately clinging to life, I would surely have died many years ago! When they weren’t attacking me physically, they did it verbally! For the first six years of my life, I thought my name was Freak because that’s all they ever called me! I was forced to sleep in a cupboard under the stairs! They locked me in for days on end as punishment! I once spent a whole month in the cupboard, only coming out every third day to use the bathroom, and tossed scraps from the table like an animal! YOU left me there, after my parents died for you!

But now? I am free! You will never again lay eyes on me unless I allow you to do so! You will never again speak poison in my ear! You will never again try to twist the world to suit your whims, where I am concerned!

I cast plague upon you, I cast death upon you! Know with this letter that Harry Potter is free and will never be under your control again!

With the sincerest disdain,

Harry James Potter

Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter

When his furious scribbling is done, he taps the parchment with his wand. The parchment raptly folds itself together, a stark red envelope forming around it and sealing tight. Calling her name, the post elf from Gringotts appears to him again, accepting the howler.

“Go to Hogwarts. It should still be breakfast. Deliver this directly to Headmaster Dumbledore immediately and do not allow him to use magic to mute the sound. I want the whole Great Hall to hear every single word. Do you understand?”

The elf nods jerkily. “Yes, sir Lord Black! Mipsy understands, it wills be done, Lord sir!”

“Thank you, Mipsy. That will be all.”

Once she has disapparated, Harry starts to cry.

The next morning, Mipsy delivers a whole box of letters. There seems to be one from almost every single person in Gryffindor, all the way from Harry’s own class to the seventh-years, each one expressing their deepest sympathies and some promising that they’ve mailed the Ministry and their parents and every important person they can think of to try to have this awful business put to rights! He even finds letter of sympathy from the other houses too; Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff make up the bulk of them, as one might expect, but there are two or three from Slytherin as well. Among them, to Harry’s surprise, is one from Draco. Obviously, Harry expected Draco to write to Lord Sirius Black IV, his cousin, but for Draco to write to Harry Potter? It’s a short letter, only a few sentences; essentially, he apologizes for being a twat and promises to not be a twat in the future and he’s sorry Harry had to go through all those awful things, Dumbledore really is as much of a bastard as Draco’s been told, just wait until his father hears about this, though of course, he says it in much fancier words.

McGonagall is the only professor who writes. She expresses her deepest apologies for her involvement in leaving Harry with the Dursleys; she knew he was there and she begged Dumbledore not to leave him with them, but she didn’t stop him. She fully understands if he has ill-feelings towards her, and she accepts responsibility for her part in it all; she wished to say this to him in detail, but will from now on cease contacting him, unless it is an emergency. She will always be available to receive his communications, however, and will do whatever she can to, in some miniscule way, make up for her failures.

Harry appreciates her letter. Though learning of her involvement was painful, he honestly doesn’t blame her. She trusted Dumbledore. He can’t fault her for being trapped by his manipulations. She tried to speak out, to save Harry from his fate, but Dumbledore ignored her and did what he pleased like he always seems to do. Harry isn’t unreasonable; he’s not going to hold McGonagall responsible for Dumbledore’s actions. He’s angry at her for it all, but... He doesn’t blame her.

“Are you alright?” Coco questions him when he joins the morning lecture. “That package you received, you seemed upset when you got it. How are you?”

The boy tries his best to show a smile. “Yes. It was… There were positive things and negative things, and I just have a lot of thinking to do. That’s all.”

Coco squeezes his shoulder. “Alright, if you say so. But you can talk to me if you need to. The school counsellor will welcome you as well, if you prefer. I can show you where his office is, after the lecture?”

“No, that’s alright. Thank you, though. The lecture, what’s it about again?”

“Spectroscopic study in astronomy.”

“Right...”

That totally makes sense to Harry, he definitely remembers what spectroscopy is.

He takes his reserved seat to the side of the lecture hall and brings out his notebooks, quill, and ink.

Thankfully, the attending classes are only second-years so the subject matter isn’t too complicated yet. Even then, though, Coco is a very good teacher. Like Basim, she actually explains things in ways that make sense to Harry. Based on the enthralled expressions and avid note-taking by other attendees, many feel the same way.

Even the math classes that Harry dreaded are actually kind of fun? He’s never been good at math, the numbers just never seemed to go together in the right ways, but with some extra tutoring from Coco between classes, the numbers actually start making sense! He feels stupid for not getting it before, even if Coco tells him over and over that math isn’t for everyone, everyone learns differently, everyone struggles with different things, and he knows all that stuff, he really does, but that doesn’t change the fact that he feels stupid. All that logic can’t do much about emotions, but logic in itself is almost magical. That’s the thing about math! It’s so perfectly logical! There is only right or wrong; there are no opinions, no emotions, no grey areas, no differing perspectives. One plus one always equals two, no matter what anyone thinks about it. Their opinion doesn’t matter, because one plus one will always equal two. Not three, not four, not six million! It can and will only ever equal two!

There’s something strangely comforting in that, isn’t there? If the equation stays the same, the answer will also remain the same. The answer can’t change unless the available information changes. Math is just drawing logical conclusions based on the available information.

“Yes, so if X is nine, then Y must be…?”

The girl sucks on the end of her lilac quill as she racks her brain. “Then Y must be…four?”

Harry grins. “Exactly! That’s very good!”

The others at the table cheer on the girl for her success; she’s been struggling with her algebra and when Harry happened to sit next to her during study hall, she asked if he had any advice. He may or may not have recycled the explanation Coco gave him a few days ago, but no one needs to know that.

“And now, you just need to remember that formula. The rest of that chapter uses it a lot. Professor Leclair has a perfect worksheet for it if you need some extra practice,” Harry tells her. What was her name again? He’s been introduced to about eight-hundred students in the week he’s been here so far, so forgive him if the names are a bit fuzzy.

The brunette nods as she scribbles on her parchment. “I’ll ask her after our next class! Thank you for the help!”

“How long will you be staying?” a boy across the table asks a bit later. “The whole term?”

Harry taps his quill on the open page of his notebook, sighing. “Unfortunately, no. Another two weeks, or so. Then I think I’m going to Spain for a short while. There’s a creature reserve there that I want to visit.”

The group all bemoan their fate of being trapped at school. “It’s so unfair,” one girl says with a playful smile. “You get to do whatever you want, and we’re all stuck here.”

“Believe me, it’s not a bad place to be stuck,” Harry tells them. “I visited Hogwarts briefly, in Britain. It was awful. A complete mess. And I’ve heard talk Dumbledore is coming under fire, and the rest of the staff too because of him. And don’t get me started on the potions professor! An absolutely horrendous man!”

The whole table titters and giggles about the fresh dish of gossip.

Ten o’clock, the seventh-year classes (and Harry) are gathered in the dining hall for the first observatory field trip of the new year.

“I know you all remember these trips since last semester, but do not forget the rules! If you break these rules, you will be barred from future trips and receive detentions, remember that! I’ll be taking roll call, then we will be leaving!”

Harry stays close to Coco’s side even as she checks names off the list. Everyone else might know exactly where they’re going but Harry does not; he’d rather stay glued to Coco than get left behind on accident.

Once she has double-checked that everyone has joined the group, Coco begins to lead them out of the dining hall. Three young teaching assistants head up the rear to keep anyone from falling behind. They all walk together through the palace, down the stairs to the basements, past the kitchens and so on, to an insignificant-looking wooden door at the far end of a narrow hallway. Coco opens it wide, propping it open with a door stop, and steps inside. Harry is the first to follow.

It leads to-

Wait, more hallways? Except…these don’t look like the hallways in the rest of the palace. These look more like muggle work, with plain white walls and bleak grey carpet.

“Where are we?”

Coco grins. “Pic du Midi Observatory.”

An actual observatory? But… Harry thought they would just go out somewhere quiet and dark with their own little telescopes, and well, observe, but a real observatory with one of those huge telescopes? That’s amazing! Oh, yes, that’s amazing, Harry can understand why the seventh-years have been so excited the last few days! This is going to be incredible!

After walking through several different, yet somehow identical, hallways, Coco leads them through another door. This one, however, takes them back to an area that both looks and feels distinctly magical again. With just a bit more walking, and a good few sets of stairs, they reach the observatory chamber itself.

The ceiling dome is tens of meters high and split open to the night in two places, each opening housing a telescope of its own. They look almost exactly like the normal telescope Harry has tucked away in his bag, just massively scaled up, with a seat and a writing surface attached by the eye-piece to allow the observer to take their notes. One of the telescopes is occupied by an elderly man with a long black beard, while the other seems available for use.

Coco gathers the group by the second telescope. “You know how this works! Make an orderly line while I adjust the telescope. Each of you gets two minutes to observe at first. Once everyone has had a turn, you may come up and take a second turn, this one lasting up to five minutes. You already have your assignment. Let’s not waste any time! Sirius, will you help me with the adjustments?”

Really?! Harry! Harry gets to help adjust the bloody telescope! This is so awesome! “Yes, professor!”

Esteemed Members of the Educational Office of the International Confederation of Wizards,

I write to you today, to file a complaint against Professor Severus Snape.

During my short time at Hogwarts, I endured constant insults from Snape, including derogatory comments about my deceased father, my appearance, my ‘subpar intellect’, and many, many more. In truth, most of Snape’s lessons consisted of him verbally abusing the students he is meant to teach. While he did appear to show some favouritism towards members of his house, Slytherin, even they were not completely safe from his disgusting behaviour. I assure you, if you were to question nearly ANY student at Hogwarts, they would tell you the exact same thing; Snape is a horrible excuse for a human being, and an even worse example of a teacher.

I will not be so unreasonable as to demand he be immediately fired and blacklisted from ever teaching again; I must, however, demand that you begin an investigation into the matter which I have described in this letter. I will readily accept whatever decisions you come to, as long as it is preceded by a thorough investigation and based purely on collected evidence.

Severus Snape should never have been allowed to teach. If he is unable to treat students with basic human decency and respect, he should not have been allowed to set foot on Hogwarts grounds again after his own graduation.

Sincerely,

Harry J. Potter

Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter

There. That’s good, right? It looks good. He digs the Potter ring out of the pouch he stores all his signets in, and slips it onto his left hand. Once it has adjusted to fit, he presses the signet to the parchment as proof of authenticity. He quickly tucks the ring away again before he forgets. Best to only have one on at a time (unless he’s around Lucius, of course, and can lord the Slytherin signet over him, just for fun).

At his request, Mipsy, from Gringotts, takes his letter and delivers it directly to the main office of the I.C.W’s branch in England. Mipsy is also restricted from telling anyone there where Harry is located. Meaning, they will hopefully assume he’s still somewhere in Britain and is using Gringotts as a go-between to keep his exact location disguised. This is, of course, exactly what he wants them to think. They don’t need to know he’s sheltering at Beauxbatons.

Lord Black’s whereabouts may be shared; Harry Potter’s can’t.

Next, he heads for the Martial Magic classroom on the third floor. After discussing with Madam Maxime and the professor, they gave their approval to let him sit-in on classes. As this particular class is a group of sixth-years, Harry practices against a dummy rather than another student. He may be getting pretty good at duelling but he’s no match for the sixth-years yet; the dummy is much more on his level, for now. The professor gladly informs him where to get a hold of a dummy of his own that he can take with him and train with, as well as a number of books he would suggest Harry study. Harry makes a note to send out owl orders sometime soon.

He only has a week left here, now. He’s following Coco’s study plan quite nicely (though he will admit he’s a bit behind in the physics segments, the topic is much more complex than he expected), and he has just enough time to sit in on the Martial Magic classes now and then, and he can squeeze in a few hours at the school library too at times; in the evenings, he works on his potions, studying and brewing as much as he can, unless there are night sessions planned with Coco. With how busy he is, Harry doesn’t need Basim’s sleep tonic as often as he thought he would; most nights, his brain is much too wrung out for sleep to be a struggle. Either way, he’s glad to have the help available on the evenings it is needed.

Goodness, the creature reserve in Spain is expecting him, too. They unfortunately won’t be able to provide any tutoring, but they’re more than happy to welcome him as a visitor and give him a thorough touring of the reserve (after a small contribution to their funding). He’ll have to talk to them about further donations when he gets there; it’s the least he can do for them in return for welcoming him like they plan. Harry can only imagine caring for all those animals must be pretty costly. He’ll see if he can set up some kind of monthly donation, perhaps. That would be nice.

Where will he go after Spain, though? Taking the train all the way back through the country and through France again, just to get to Germany feels a bit like a waste of time. Just from Perpignan to Gibraltar the train ride will be nearly eighteen hours, then it would be almost twice that distance back again just to cross the border into Germany, not to mention the following distance to Berlin. And of course, that’s just travel time; add on the hour-long stops per station along the way and it’ll be a whole eternity to get where he’s going.

Hm...

Maybe Italy? There has to be a boat from Spain to Italy, right? There just has to be! The travel distance would be similar but at least he won’t be backtracking, right? Grab a boat to Italy, probably land right near Rome, spend a few days there, then take the train up north, maybe make a few more tourist stops, and take on Germany after that. Hm... He’ll have to investigate once he gets down to Spain.

“Sirius!”

Harry whips around; he’s really starting to get used to being called Sirius. “Yes?”

His acquaintances from the fifth-year class all catch up to him in the hallway. “We’re going to the greenhouse to work on our herbology assignments. Would you like to come with?” Fleur asks on behalf of the group.

The boy smiles. “Sure! Think anyone would mind if I harvested some ingredients? There’s a potion I want to try brewing later.”

“It should be alright,” Pierre tells him. “Students are free to harvest as long we leave the plant intact enough to grow back.”

“That’s wonderful! I just need a few small things.”

“Great! Come on, let’s go!”

They laugh together as they leave the palace to run through the park to the greenhouse.

“Lord Black.”

Harry looks up from the textbook he’s studying. “Madam Maxime, good afternoon. What can I do for you, Madam?”

The woman offers her customary kindly smile. “Would you walk with me, Lord Black? We can postpone until later, if your studies require your attention, of course.”

“Not at all, Madam. How am I to decline your stellar company?” the boy compliments as he swiftly packs his things up into his bag, and follows the madam out of the library.

For a short time, they stroll in quiet company. Harry doesn’t mind. He knows the simple pleasure of silence, and there isn’t much that can make it better than some good company.

“I understand you will be leaving us soon, yes?” Olympe asks after a time.

Harry hums. “Yes, I have my last class with Professor Leclair during Tuesday night, then I thought I’d join for a last breakfast and be in Perpignan by one o’clock when my train comes in. I’ll hopefully have plenty of time to say goodbye to the friends I’ve made here.”

“Yes, you seem to have become quite popular, if I might say.”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t call it popularity. Suppose it’s more like a novelty, I would think. Give it a few weeks and I’m sure everyone will have forgotten all about me. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say.”

Olympe hums at his observation. “Either way, I do hope you have enjoyed your time with us here. Colombe speaks very highly of you.”

She does? A flustered blush paints Harry’s face. Coco really talks about him? To other people? And says good things about him?

“I love it here, Madam,” Harry decides to tell her honestly. “The school and grounds are beautiful, and the classes are incredible! Your staff of professors are very gifted. If I may be so bold, you should be very proud of this place.”

The enormous woman lets out a soft, throaty chuckle at his praise. “Thank you, thank you, Lord Black, and I assure you, I’m very proud. Not just of our staff, but of our students as well. The students are what truly make Beauxbatons a beautiful place.”

“I most certainly agree, Madam. Everyone I’ve met have been so kind and welcoming! They really seem to do their best to band together and be family to each other. I think they’re all very lucky to have one another.”

“Indeed. Colombe mentioned you have an interest in antiques. Is that correct?”

Hm, a curious topic to bring up, but innocuous enough to allow. “Yes, Madam. I’m no expert, nor a true collector, but who can really resist? Regardless of monetary values, I find the sentimental idea behind every item to be what fascinates me.”

The woman hums. “Sentimental idea... How do you mean?”

“The thought that every single item has a history all its own. Someone created it with love, spent possibly hours and hours shaping it and pouring their imagination and passion into it. Someone loved it so much that they had to buy it, and they treasured it and took care of it. Even if it passed into the hands of someone else, they loved it too. I just think that if people have loved an item so dearly, then I should be able to find a reason to love it too.”

“An interesting point of view… Have you considered studying the art of psychometry?” Olympe suggests as they climb the stairs up to the third floor.

“No, what is it? I’m afraid I’ve never heard the term.”

“It is the art of sensing the past of an item, seeing visions of its life and the people that interacted with it. Perhaps if you learned this talent, you could more easily find reasons to love the items you find.”

Woah… That’s possible? Actually seeing the history of an item, and seeing all the people who loved and treasured it once… Magic really is amazing, isn’t it? He definitely has to look into the subject!

“Thank you for the tip, Madam, I’ll look into it. It sounds fascinating!”

Olympe smiles, bowing her head briefly in acknowledgement of his gratitude. “And now, for the main reason I asked you to walk with me, Lord Black,” she says as they reach a door with a plaque marking it as off-limits to students.

While Harry puzzles over what she means, she unlocks and opens the door to lead him inside. The room looks much like any other classroom in the school, though it has obviously been relegated to storage. Most everything is covered by greying sheets of fabric to protect from dust, which instead layers on top of the shrouds. Harry coughs lightly as the dust stirred up by their entrance tickles his throat.

“Over time, things have just ended up here, if you understand my meaning, and have since gone mostly forgotten. The plan has always been to sell everything off but as you can see, this has not come to pass. If you’re interested, Lord Black, we would be more than happy to trade it all for a fair monetary donation to the school.”

Harry nods along, delving into the dusty, musty room. He lights his wand with lumos to let him have a look around. Peeking under the sheets, it looks mostly like a few paintings (with the subjects all quietly snoring in their frames), some mismatched furniture, a trio of marble busts, a trunk full of books, and further odds and ends of that nature. Harry can see why some of the stuff has been shuffled away here; the décor of the school is immaculate from top to bottom, with no flaws allowed. Most of these bits seem to simply have no longer fit in to the surrounding theme, and so, they were removed. Nothing too strange about it. Though things are a bit dusty, perhaps a bit weatherworn with time, everything looks to be in decent enough condition. Nothing a good dusting and polishing couldn’t handle! Hm, yes, he’d love to take on this stuff. The books catch his eye, of course. He’ll have to take a good look at those.

“How much would you consider fair, Madam?”

“Twenty-thousand bezants.”

Hm… Twenty would be a bit high normally, but to be fair, it will all be going directly to the school, so honestly, Harry doesn’t really mind it. Even if Harry is taking a monetary loss overall with the trade, it won’t bother him at all. The money will go directly towards maintaining the school grounds, student care, and so on. He can’t find any fault in that.

“Alright. Let me write you a Gringotts Cheque.”

The headmistress curtsies politely. “Many thanks, Lord Black. I will see the money put to good use taking care of our students.”

Chapter Text

Harry hovers just above the front lawn on his broom. Below him is gathered what seems like every student at Beauxbatons, as well as a good number of teachers. He puts his wand to his throat to allow everyone to hear him clearly.

“Thank you everyone for coming out for this! It’s so very kind of you all! Again, I would like to thank you all for welcoming me to your school! I had the most wonderful time here, and it is in no small part because of you! It’s been such a blessing to be allowed to know you all, and I look forward to your letters! I promise to write back as much as I can! Now, when I go up and wave my hand, wave back!”

The crowd laughs and cheers as he soars higher up into the air. Camera in hand, he positions himself so that the whole mass of people is visible in the viewfinder. He waves with one hand. The students shout their farewells and all wave back at him. The picture is sure to turn out marvellous!

Pocketing the camera, he shoots off a rain of multi-coloured sparks and fireworks over the school from his wand with a laugh. Waving at them all, he takes off eastward to Perpignan. Quite a spectacular farewell, he’d say!

Once he’s away from the school, he shrouds himself in disillusionments and Notice-Me-Nots. He’ll be flying right into a muggle city after all. The flight itself is only some twenty minutes long. He decides to land in a quiet corner not too far from the train station. Best to know where he has the station, so he doesn’t end up scrambling for it later. He has some two hours before the train comes in but avoiding any stress would be nice. With that in mind, Harry wanders the streets around the station, simply enjoying the brisk air and the walk itself. It’s getting to be the start of February now. Beauxbatons and its grounds were protected by weather charms and such, allowing the area to remain a stable, comfortable temperature for most of the year; yes, there is a mild dip during the colder months, but nothing so severe as it would be outside the area of the charms. Here, however, things are still chilly, with some snow left on the ground. Still, it’s much better than any winter Harry can remember in Britain. It was always miserable there during the winters. Compare that to here? Perpignan is downright balmy!

As the clock draws near to one, Harry makes his way back to the station. Thanks to the instructions on the train service pamphlets the conductor gave him during his trip to Paris, he manages to find his way to the hidden platform, disguised with a mirror panel affixed to a wall. The sensation of stepping through the mirror is odd, to say the least. On the other side, he buys his ticket to Gibraltar and asks the question he’s had in mind from some time now. Is there a boat from Gibraltar to Rome?

Unfortunately, the clerk admits she doesn’t know, but suggests asking a conductor on the train as they tend to know more about the connection options. Harry thanks her for the tip, then finds a seat where he can wait the last minutes for the arrival of his train.

Harry misses Ron and Hermione. Once he’s on the train, he’ll write them both a super long letter and tell them everything about Beauxbatons; it’ll be safe to talk about it now that he’s left the school. Letters are good and all, but... He wishes there was some way to speak to them more directly, even when they’re apart like this. If they were all muggles, he’d buy them all one of those mobile phone things and they could talk whenever they wanted. It won’t work, though. According to Hermione, magic and muggle technology have a hard time mixing, especially in areas where the magic energy is intense; he doubts a phone would work at Hogwarts. At least, not without lots of modifications, like Harry’s camera.

Then again, it’s magic. There has to be some way to go about it, right? Even if it isn’t commonly known or used, there must be something.

The train rolls in after a while. When it has slowed to a stop and the conductor has stepped down onto the platform, Harry gets a move on. He gets his ticket clipped and a cabin key dispensed, along with a warm welcome aboard. He shuffles down the length of the train to the last carts, where he finds his cabin. As expected, it looks just about exactly the same as the last one he saw. He draws the curtains shut then changes out of his suit and tie. No need to be so formal here, he’ll be spending the journey in his cabin anyway; though perhaps he may try out the restaurant cart for dinner later. Hm, remains to be seen.

Finally, Harry sits down at the desk with his writing supplies.

While he does plan to write to his friends, there’s another letter he wants to write first. He’s postponed it long enough; it’s time to reach out to Andromeda. He’s been going over it in the back of his mind for ages now. At the very least, she deserves to know he exists, that he’s the lord of the family, and that he would like to get to know her, if she allows.

Andromeda,

My name is Sirius H. Black IV.

My story is not one I wish to discuss in a letter, but the point is this: I am the Lord of the House of Black. I understand if you hesitate to believe me, but simply see the bottom of the page, where I have pressed the family signet. If you still doubt, I understand, of course, and I don’t blame you. I’ve had the papers prepared at Gringotts for your inspection; simply ask for Griphook regarding the Black estate, and the documents will be made available for your perusal. Some parts of the story will still be missing, I admit, because there are things best discussed in person, face to face.

I wish to assure you, I do not ascribe to the same ideals of ‘purity’ as some others in the family do. Far from it. In truth, I’m strongly considering changing that awful family motto. ‘Always pure’, what foolishness.

I understand if meeting me, or even writing to me, is too painful for you. I can’t imagine the suffering the family has put you through, but I feel I must at least ask, even if the answer is no.

Can we meet? Just once. I have no family of my own. Sirius Black III, my father, your cousin, has been imprisoned all my life and doesn’t know I exist. My mother has passed, and I have no siblings. What little there is left is something I hold precious. To meet you and your husband, and your daughter, it would be like a dream come true. Again, I do understand if you have put the Black family behind you and moved on, I will never blame you for it if that is a choice you’ve made. If having any contact with me is too painful, please, do not force yourself. I much rather want you and your family to be happy, than for me to know you. If knowing me would bring you pain or unhappiness, I would never force it on you. I don’t know the details of the family’s history, or of your history, but what I do know, is the value of protecting your peace. If you have found peace, please do not allow me to disturb it. I would never wish that upon you, or anyone else in the world.

All I ask, Andromeda, is that you think it over.

I’m down in Europe, so visits would have to wait a bit either way. Take all the time you need to think things through and discuss with your family. Even if you want nothing to do with me personally, I would like to afford you the inheritance you were denied. You can discuss it with Griphook and he can act as intermediary between us, you won’t have to see me at all. No matter what happened in the past, no matter what any previous lord or lady may have said, you are still MY relative. My decree as the current lord is that you and your daughter have a right to your part of the estate. If anyone disagrees, send them to me and I’ll have a good, long chat with them about where they’re welcome to stick their opinion.

If you choose to not engage with me, I understand. If I receive no answer from you, I will accept that as answer enough and I will respect your choice. You will not hear from me again, if that is the case, however I will always be available to you if you change your mind, or if your daughter expresses interest. Should you ever need me, for any reason, you need only write and I will be there.

All my love to you and your family, truly.

Sincerely,

Lord Sirius H. Black IV

Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black

Right. That’s good.

He also writes a letter with instructions for Griphook, to match what he wrote to Andromeda. He writes only the woman’s name on the envelope. He has no clue where she might live, or even the faintest idea what her life might be like. They may not be related by blood, but to Harry, who has no family, any family is better than none.

He’s painted himself into quite the corner, hasn’t he, with these dual identities of his...

He writes his replies to Ron and Hermione, as well.

“Mipsy?”

A handful of moments pass before the elf appears. “Good day, Lord Black sir! These are your letterses, sir!” she says, bowing as she offers rolled up newspaper and two envelopes to him. “What cans Mipsy dos for the Lord Black, sir?”

Harry accepts the post, offering the new letters in return. “These two are going out. These two, are for Griphook, both of them. Tell him there are some instructions in the one marked for him, and once he’s read it, he’ll know what to do with the other one. Thank you, Mipsy.”

“No troubleses, sir! No troubleses at all, Mipsy will do as the Lordses says! Good day, sir!”

She disapparates while Harry begins looking through his mail. Hm, no urgent headlines; he sets the Prophet aside for now. As for the letters, the first is from Draco, and the second has handwriting he doesn’t recognize. Curious, he opens this letter first.

This is... An I.C.W letterhead! They must be writing about his letter! Eagerly, Harry’s eyes bounce across the neatly typed up page. We have decided to initiate an investigation not only into the behaviour and professional conduct of one Severus Snape, but also Hogwarts as a whole. Yes! Yes, yes, yes, this is amazing! They’re investigating the whole bloody school and oh, Harry almost wishes he were there to watch the chaos erupt! First, they’ll nail Snape to the wall (as he deserves), then they’ll no doubt find Fluffy and look into that whole mess, which will lead them right back around to none other than Dumbledore! This is bloody perfect!

With unrestrained glee, Harry throws himself down onto the plush bed. Everything is looking like it might work out, and Harry didn’t have to get personally involved beyond writing a simple letter. He will be eagerly monitoring the Prophet for news of Snape being fired.

During breakfast, Harry stops one of the conductors and finally gets an answer to his questions about any possible ferries to Italy. There is a ferry (Yes! He knew it, he knew there would be!), but it only runs once week; Harry will have to wait three days in Gibraltar, after the train’s arrival, for the next ferry departure, which honestly isn’t that unfortunate.

It’s bloody Gibraltar, after all!

There’s probably loads to do, and even if none of it interests him, he can laze about on the beach without boiling alive in his skin like he probably would during the scorching hot summer months.

He’s heard there’s lots of casinos around, and while he doesn’t really care about any of that, he does wonder if his emancipation would allow him to gamble. Technically, he is an adult; he has all the legal rights to match any other British adult, so it would make sense that he would be allowed to gamble. Then again, the casinos are technically private places of business so they do have the right to refuse service to anyone they please. They might still consider him unfit to gamble, despite his legal status. Hm, curious. Maybe if he has a spare moment, he’ll find a casino and see what happens.

When they reach the station in Gibraltar, Harry scans the platform. He spots the sign with the Black name on it after only some moments, and hurries to meet the man holding it up.

“Good day, sir, I’m Sirius Black,” he says, offering out his hand. “Thank you for meeting me!”

The man vanishes the sign and shakes Harry’s hand enthusiastically. “Not a problem, Lord Black, no trouble at all! I’m Arturo Olmo, I’m a caretaker at the reserve.”

“Please, Sirius is well enough. No need for formalities if we’ll be wandering through the wilderness, I think!”

Arturo chuckles. “Then please, call me Turo. Let’s not waste any time, sí? Hold onto me and we can start the tour right away, if you want!”

Harry nods eagerly, grabbing onto Turo’s offered arm. “Oh, yes, please! The wait is killing me, I’m so excited!”

Again, Turo laughs, but Harry can easily tell there’s nothing malicious in it; only a delight at Harry’s excitement and curiosity. With it being a closed reserve, they probably don’t give out guided tours very often, so seeing someone so excited to visit must be quite rewarding in a way, Harry can only speculate. He only managed to talk his way into a tour after expressing his most sincere interest and a sizeable donation, after all.

Turo’s apparation lands them in the middle of a forest. Though Harry had already begun to register the fair temperature on the sunlit train platform, the forest offers cooler, more balmy surroundings. The luscious tree crowns above must do well to keep out the worst of the heat. Camera at the ready, Harry follows close behind Turo as the man begins to walk.

“We have a small herd of centaurs living in this area, some twenty individuals,” Turo informs as they move. “They joined us only a few years ago from further up north. There was encroachment on their territory so they could not stay. Many places offered them shelter, all over the world, but they chose to move here, to stay as close to their original home as they could.”

“Encroachment? How do you mean?”

The man sighs, shaking his head at the misery of it all. “The ones without magic, what do you Brits call them again? Buggles?”

“Muggles.”

“Ah, sí, sí, muggles. Yes, these people. They grow and expand, and the people they cannot see are the ones that suffer. I do not know if they can be blamed, truly. How can they be blamed if they do not know they are doing something wrong, but… Suffering is still suffering.”

“And the centaurs? How are they doing now? Are they alright?”

“As alright as they can be. They are a prideful people. They do not like accepting help from outsiders, but we struck an agreement with them. Because their hunting is limited here, we provide them with additional supplies to make up for the shortage. In return, they help us take care of our other residents and help keep the forest, the land, healthy. I know they do not like it, but they know they must do what is needed to survive, I suppose.”

Harry can sympathize. Obviously, his struggles and their struggles are impossible to compare but at the very least, Harry thinks he knows enough about doing what must be done to survive. He lived with the Dursleys, after all; everything he did for them, he did to stay alive, no matter the pain or humiliation it brought him. He fought to survive, in his own struggle. These centaurs are fighting to survive, in their struggle. It’s not the same, but Harry can’t help but feel a mild camaraderie with them, even if it will only ever remain one-sided.

“I spoke to them in preparation for your visit,” Turo continues. “They will let us see them near the lake, but we cannot approach. And no photos, please. They requested to be left out of such things.”

Harry nods raptly. If they don’t want to be photographed, the least Harry can do is respect that decision. Seeing them is enough, he thinks. He’s never seen a centaur before, he’s not sure he could ever forget it!

They walk for some more minutes, before Turo stops them at the treeline. Harry watches with big eyes.

Some twenty metres ahead starts the bank of the small lake Turo mentioned. Only a short distance up from where he and Harry stand, hidden somewhat by the trees, Harry sees the centaurs. Oh, they’re beautiful… Massive like horses, of course, but with the torsos of humans in place of the head. There are only six of them that Harry can see; a group sent to fetch water for the herd, based on the many large clay pots they bring back and forth from the beach into the lake. Their coats are stunning to look at, the short fur shimmering with how neatly they’ve taken care of themselves. Two of them, who look as if they could very possibly be twins, are a light greying yellow with dark manes and tails, and black colouring around their hooves. Another, a female, is dark brown in both coat and skin, with bright blond hair and tail. Her companion, whom she’s chatting with, is a light grey in both coat and hair, with ashen skin. Of the remaining two, another set of males, one is a dappled grey and the other is an even chestnut. They’re absolutely stunning to look at.

The female notices them; her head whips around, eyes fixing on Harry and Turo, as she freezes in place. Turo bows his head to her, giving a small wave, before taking Harry by the shoulder and leading him away.

“Best not to bother them too much,” he explains. “They enjoy their privacy, you understand.”

“Of course. I feel so lucky that I even got just that glimpse of them. They’re beautiful.”

“Indeed, they are. But I think you will be even more impressed by what I will show you next.”

Suitably intrigued, Harry trails after Turo just as closely as before. It takes them only another handful of minutes to reach a new area of the forest, where Harry most definitely understands what Turo meant.

Unicorns…

Some thirty of them, maybe even forty, and each one is such a brilliant snow white that they almost seem to glow. Golden hooves glitter and their beautiful spiralled horns do the same. Harry can hardly breathe with how absolutely beautiful they are. It’s like his mind simply can’t fathom it.

“Look there, on the left,” Turo whispers.

Harry shifts his eyes, and gasps at what he sees. Foals, made of pure gold. Six of them, running and playing with each other, their horns nothing more than small white bumps on their foreheads as of yet. One of the adults neighs; the foals split up and wander off, returning to their mothers. Harry nearly wants to cry, simply because he knows no other way to express how moved he is by the beauty of these animals.

He fumbles with his camera. With the flash turned off, he manages to snap quite a few photos, of both mothers and foals together and then separate again once the younglings break away to go back to playing.

“They allow us to look at them, but they don’t like us getting too close,” Turo whispers. “A female caretaker can get closer, if the herd is in a good mood, but we mostly leave their care to the centaurs. The unicorns feel much more comfortable with them. Humans can make them anxious, so we try our best to keep our distance as not to stress them too much. Now and then, they will allow the centaurs to harvest their tail hairs and fallen horns, which we can sell for some profit. It all goes back into the care for the animals, of course.”

“They lose their horns?”

“Yes. If an adult unicorn is healthy and strong, it will lose its horn every two years or so, or if it gets damaged. It’s like shedding? It keeps the horn healthy and stops it from overgrowing.”

Fascinating! Harry knew unicorn horn is a fairly common potions ingredient, but he never really heard about where the horns come from; he just assumed they were collected when a unicorn dies, but if it’s shed naturally, that’s much better, isn’t it? If they could only be collected after the animal’s death, he can only assume there would be rampant poaching, which would be, as poaching always is, tragic. That’s a relief, Harry will admit. The animals are more valuable alive than dead, meaning just about everyone will go to great length to keep them alive.

Harry watches the unicorns for what feels like hours, but finally decides it’s probably about time to move on.

Turo leads him all through the reserve, telling him all there is to know about the place, pointing out creatures in passing and stopping now and then to spectate the more stationery subjects. Even with just one simple tour, Harry feels like he learns a whole library’s worth of knowledge.

It’s incredible.

It’s growing late in the afternoon when Turo informs they’re almost at his own favourite stop on the tour.

“This animal is very prideful, you must understand. Many have been injured, even killed, for offending it. It can be a vicious beast, yet also the most loyal companion a wizard could ever know. When we approach, Sirius, you must do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Harry vows.

“First thing you must know, do not look them in the eye. They may take it as a threat and attack.”

They cross the grass meadow towards the treeline, away from their last stop. They don’t approach the treeline, however, instead stopping a fair distance away.

Because there, in the grass and by the trees, Harry is allowed to awe at a flock of hippogriffs. Just like all the other creatures, Harry has only ever read about them. The hindquarters of a horse, but the front half is that of an eagle! Taloned feet, feathers, a beak, and wings! The flock holds some thirty individuals, by a loose count, and each of them looks so intensely magical. Yes, all the creatures he’s seen today have been magical in nature, but there is something about the hippogriffs that evokes a sense of wonder Harry isn’t sure he’s felt since the first time he stepped into Diagon Alley.

One of the creatures moves away from the herd, towards where Harry and Turo stand in the open. Quickly, Harry lowers his eyes to its feet to avoid its gaze. It’s a beautiful dappled grey in colour, its coat shifting seamlessly from fur to feathers. Its toxic-green eyes were sharp as a dagger, in the brief glimpse Harry had before he turned his own eyes away.

Turo squeezes his shoulder. “That is Pájarey, the leader of the herd. Approach slowly. Bow very deeply. If he bows back, you can get close and touch him.”

Touch him?! Harry’s heart races.

“A-And if he doesn’t bow?”

Turo swallows. “Remain bowing, and back away slowly. If anything happens, I will help you. Sí?”

The boy nods. “Okay.”

Turo steps back. Harry sucks in a deep breath, shoving his camera into his bag and tossing it aside. No need for it to get damaged; Lord knows what might happen to all the stuff he’s got crammed into it. With tiny steps, Harry slowly draws closer.

The hippogriff squawks. He stomps the earth, talons ripping up grass as they’re dragged over the ground. On the edges of his vision, Harry sees his wings spread and flap, like a threat display.

He breathes deeply again.

Then, he bows.

He dips low, his torso nearly pressed to his knees, head raised just enough to be able to keep a surreptitious eye on the animal.

Several moments pass.

Harry can barely breathe. His heart pounds against his ribs. Sweat pours over his skin and sticks to his clothes.

Pájarey bows back, one front foot forward and the other leg bent, his body leaning down low in mirrored respect.

“Stand up,” Turo whispers sharply behind him. “Slowly! Reach out!”

Harry does as he is told. Very slowly, he straightens up again, though keeps his eyes cast mildly downwards, to Pájarey’s chest instead of his feet. The hippogriff stands up as well. Cautiously, Harry reaches his hand out.

Oh, God, please don’t bite him, please don’t take his hand off, please don’t kill him, please, oh, God, this is so stupid, Harry’s going to die right he-

A cool beak brushes his fingers. Harry gasps. The beak nudges his hand, and nuzzles in under it, letting Harry’s hand rest on Pájarey’s face. The downy feathers on his face feel softer than any silk. They’re so soft that Harry almost can’t even tell they’re there, if not for the body heat emanating from under them. Harry lifts his eyes. Pájarey blinks back at him.

Woah…

“Go on,” Turo urges, whispering still. “Climb on his back. He has accepted you, he’ll let you fly!”

Fly? On a hippogriff?

As if understanding Turo, Pájarey moves. He pulls his head away from Harry’s hand, and turns his body to offer Harry his side instead, wing pulled away to let him climb on. He really…wants Harry to fly with him? After just one greeting? That’s-… It feels insane, but when is Harry ever going to get a chance like this again? When will he ever again have a chance to fly with a hippogriff? Though his heart still races with trepidation, he finds himself incapable of saying no. How could he say no? This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience! He may be a bit scared now, but if he says no, he knows he’ll regret it forever.

With a very mild application of the ascension charm, Harry manages to climb onto Pájarey’s back without too much trouble. The hippogriff cries and beats his wings. Harry clings to the thick feathers at his neck. Pájarey starts running. Turo dives out of the way just in time to avoid being mowed down. Pájarey flaps his wings in earnest, each beat jolting him forward with additional speed until he’s running so fast the world is a complete blur around Harry.

And then, they’re soaring.

In the blink of an eye, they’re in the air and it’s like nothing Harry has ever experienced before. He’s flown on a broom plenty of times and he loves it to death, but this… Oh, it’s so different… The feeling of Pájarey’s wings as they move, Harry’s legs straddling his thick midriff, the swelling of the animal’s every breath, the feathers under his hands, being completely out of control and just along for the ride… Harry can’t describe it. They circle over the forests of the reserve and the glittering lake, with the sea in the far, far distance. It’s breath-taking. Harry has never felt so alive, so in the moment, so…at home inside his own body. He feels aware of every inch of his being, and of how he now desperately clings Pájarey to survive because if he fell it would all be over, and how small that makes him feel, how infinitesimal he is in this great, big, massive world spread out around him like the petals of a flower.

Harry lets go of the hippogriff’s feathers and spreads his arms out wide. Feeling the wind against his body might be his favourite part of flying. The sensation of it, and what that sensation means. The freedom of it... Harry thinks he loves flying more than anything else in the world, but now, he knows for certain that broom-flight is far from the best way to fly. The best way to fly is by hippogriff, and he’s quite certain nothing will ever change that fact for him.

Pájarey descends towards the ground. His landing is a smooth transition from flight into galloping, which carries them back to where the herd lazes in the shade of the trees. He slows to a trot as they draw near, and then to a steady walk. When he finally pauses a distance away from his herd, Harry takes the hint. He swings his leg over Pájarey’s body to slide down his side. The hippogriff brings his head over to rub his face against Harry’s head, making the boy laugh. He pats the animal on his flank.

With a last nudge against Harry, Pájarey turns away and lumbers back to his family, where he settles in the shade with the rest of them.

“How was it?”

Harry looks up. Turo has appeared beside him, smiling down at the boy. Harry realizes he hasn’t stopped grinning from ear to ear since he was way up in the sky. “Brilliant. It was brilliant.”

Chapter Text

Harry has two days to explore in Gibraltar but honestly, once he gets to his hotel after ending his visit at the reserve and falls into bed, every sliver of energy in him simply vanishes.

God, he’s exhausted…

No wonder, either, really. He’s been essentially been going full steam ahead non-stop for some six weeks now.

First, he was running around like a maniac in London trying to scrape things together to get started on his escape. In Paris, he was either occupied with sightseeing or work, or Basim’s lessons and all that entailed, or hanging out with Draco, or doing his own studying almost obsessively; then it was straight down to Beauxbatons for the most intense three weeks of Harry’s life where he basically did nothing but study. Even when he was hanging out with other students, they were at the library, doing revisions and homework, studying together. In the few hours of downtime he had, he was working on his potions or more of his own studies, or auditing more classes.

And today, he spent about eight hours straight hiking on a safari.

Not only do his feet and legs ache from all the walking, his brain is hurting from the lack of rest. Maybe he just spends these two days locked up in his room, sleeping and eating and watching TV (thank God for muggle hotels) and maybe visiting the hotel spa and just…relaxing.

It is Gibraltar, yes, and it does feel like a waste to spend his limited time here cooped up in the hotel, but it’s not like the whole bloody place is just going to vanish as soon as Harry leaves. He can come back at another time.

It’s a waste, though…

Except…is it really?

Harry is exhausted. Treating this as another step in his private education might be good in its own way, but physically, it will do nothing but harm. Harry needs to rest. He may be legally an adult, but physically, he is still a child and children need to rest sometimes or it can stunt development. He needs to rest, so he can grow. Studying is what’s best in general, yes, but right now, in this moment, rest is best.

Yes. Harry is going to rest. He is going to be lazy and watch TV and eat junk food and take advantage of the huge jacuzzi bathtub in the bathroom and sprawl out all over the king-size bed and sleep all day, and he’s going to enjoy it too.

This is the happiest Harry has ever been. Being able to just exist without something weighing on him, no responsibilities, no professors, no Dursleys, nothing...

He spent the whole day in bed, watching movies, only really getting up when room service was arriving. There’s an immense relief in it all.

The thought of the patronus comes unbidden into Harry’s mind as he lazes through the early evening. Would this happiness be enough to conjure something more than just mere wisps of smoke? Honestly, he doubts it. From what he remembers of his studies, the spell feeds on the purest emotions in a person’s mind, things like love, hope, and happiness. Most people use a memory as a focus to cast the patronus, remembering moments of intense joy or love and so on and using them to feed the patronus, but Harry’s life isn’t exactly brimming with memories like that. He’s quite sure the happiest he’s ever been, has been during the last month and a half since he ran away from Hogwarts and broke free, so to say. Before that, there wasn’t much joy, nor any love.

But…only most people use a memory, meaning there are people who don’t have to use a memory, right? That’s quite a logical conclusion, isn’t it? So, if there are people who don’t use memories, then couldn’t Harry be one of those people? How does it work, though? If the patronus is fuelled by positive emotions, does Harry actually have to feel those emotions? As in, feeling them in the very moment that he casts the spell? And does he have to maintain the emotion to maintain the patronus? A car only runs when the engine is being fed fuel; is the patronus the same, the patronus only remains while the spell is being fed positive emotion as fuel?

Really, there’s nothing to do but experiment. Harry doesn’t even know if he can cast a patronus, so why even be bothered with the further intricacies beyond that? At least not until he can actually produce a patronus of any kind. Once he’s gotten that far, he can delve further into the inner workings of it all.

Harry sits up; he shuffles around on the bed until he can sit comfortably with his legs crossed and his back against the headboard so he faces the rest of the room. Wand in hand, he shuts his eyes and turns his focus inwards.

Happiness. Love. Hope.

The only real image of love Harry has in his mind is a flutter of long, beautiful red hair. A man laughing. He always imagined those to be his parents. His mother’s hair draped over him as she held him in her arms; his father laughing as they played together. He tries to picture their faces. He knows sort of what his mother looks like, but only sort of. In Petunia and Vernon’s bedroom, there was a small family picture sitting on Petunia’s vanity, of what Harry always guessed were her parents. There was a young, dark-haired girl, maybe three or four years old, and a baby with a shock of red hair and a pudgy face and bright green eyes. He only saw the picture once. They never let him in the room usually, even to clean. He tries to imagine that baby growing up; her face losing the baby fat as she grows older, getting a bit thinner and pointier, similar to Petunia, still with those piercing green eyes and long, long waves of red cascading down over her shoulders.

His father must have had dark hair, or Harry probably would have been a red-head too, right? He’s heard several times he looks just like his father, save for his eyes. He wonders if James would say the same thing, or if he would think Harry looks more like his mum. Harry tries his hardest to imagine all three of them together; Harry in Lily’s arms, James close at her side caressing Harry’s head. He wonders if they were happy when they found out she was pregnant. If it was a surprise or if they were trying for a baby. Were they excited? Nervous? Did they cry? How did they feel when he was born? He's heard that the world completely changes when you have a baby. Did that happen for them too? Did the world change, did everything seem brand-new and exciting and terrifying at the same time because now they have a baby to look out for and protect and take care of and the world is just such a dangerous place…

“Expecto Patronum.”

A pure white shimmering light leaps out of Harry’s wand. In the air, the shining smoke materializes into a shape, and…

A massive hippogriff lands silently in the middle of the room, wings flapping soundlessly. It paces for a moment, to the other end of the room, as if inspecting its surroundings, before turning around and moving back towards Harry. When it reaches the foot of the bed, it stops. It looks at Harry with white eyes. The whole suite is illuminated by its fantastic glow, the white light bathing everything in an almost mystical energy.

And then, the ghostly hippogriff dissolves into white smoke. The smoke disperses and disappears, leaving no trace at all behind.

Wow… He did it. He really did it.

Obviously, he has to write to Draco right away!

Draco!!!

I did it! I conjured a patronus! An actual real patronus shaped like an animal and everything!!!! I’ll tell you all about it next time we see each other and I’ll do my best to help you conjure one too! Can you guess what animal it looks like? I bet you can’t! If you guess it right, I’ll buy you the best present ever in the whole entire world, I promise, so start thinking on it!!

I’m in Gibraltar right now, and yesterday, I visited the creature reserve west of here, in Spain. It was amazing!!! I’m sending lots of pictures along. I got to see unicorn foals!!

Soon, I’m taking a boat to Italy. I wonder what amazing things I’ll see there! I promise to send you souvenirs!

On a more serious note, how are you? Are things alright with you and your friends? I hope they’re all still treating you well, despite your possibly differing opinions. If anyone is giving you trouble, give them a right thrashing and tell them to pull their heads out of their arses. No matter what happens, I’ve got your back.

Your favourite cousin in the whole world,

Sirius

It’s crazy to think that Harry’s never been on a proper boat before. There was that awful rowboat after Vernon lost his mind, and the little boats that delivered them to Hogwarts, but no actual boats. Suppose lots of people have never been on boats before either, come to think of it. How wild is that? It’s an absolutely bizarre thought, isn’t? That there’s a whole part of the world’s population that’s never been on a boat, or even seen the ocean?

It boggles the mind.

The ship is a fancy steam engine sort of thing, but Harry doesn’t pay much attention to most of it. As long as he has a cabin with a good window and he knows how to get to the restaurant, he’ll be just fine. He does take pictures of the beast before he embarks; another muggle wonder enchanted to discretely serve the wizarding folk, to show Ron and his father.

He does spend some time on the deck, to be fair. Watching the water lap against the ship’s hull, the waves as they move, the sight of land in the far distance, the sun on his face, the salty sea wind, it’s quite the wonder of its own.

When he’s in his cabin, he trains with his patronus. The cabin is just large enough that the fully formed hippogriff can walk in circles between the bathroom door and the foot of the bed, but not much more. It doesn’t need to do more. His training involves maintaining it, having it remain for as long as he can and to do so even when his mind is occupied by other matters. Harry read that since the patronus is among one of the most difficult spells to cast, and casting a fully corporeal one is even harder, being able to do so most often incurs great respect for the caster and their magical prowess. Because he is an eleven-year-old boy, it will likely be difficult for him to gain the respect of just about anyone; adults do seem to find it ever so challenging to afford children any sort of basic human respect. Effortlessly casting and maintaining a corporeal patronus is sure to change that.

Harry is not going to let anyone disrespect him.

He’s had enough of that to last a lifetime already. He’s done with it.

Over the some forty hours the ferry takes, Harry works up to maintaining the patronus for ten minutes straight, while reading and writing. Every second is a struggle to scrape out, but Harry is both stubborn and determined.

He uses the time for other purposes as well; he does plenty of reading, and he writes out another rash of complaint letters, these addressed to the Hogwarts board of governors, the Ministry of Magic, and a second letter with more detailed accounts to the Educational Office, of both Snape and Dumbledore’s behaviour.

The ship makes land in Rome very early in the morning. After stepping off the ship onto solid ground, the first thing Harry does is dig up his Europe MagiMap. One of his wonderful friends at Beauxbatons tipped him off about it; it’s similar to his map of Paris, but it covers all of Europe. All Harry has to do is tap a marked city with his wand, and it shows him a map of the city’s magical locations, such as the hidden wizarding quarters, points of magical interest, magic transit hubs, and so on. Of course, Harry just had to put in an owl order! A most useful tool for his travels, he thinks.

Tapping on Rome, the ink outlines of Europe and her countries fade out. A moment later, a detailed map of Rome fades into place instead. Brilliant! Hungry eyes scan the map and all the points of interest marked out for him. Oh, there’s so much to see and do here! Goodness, how is he supposed to choose what to do and what not to do? Well, maybe that’s something to think on once he’s secured himself a place to stay. Once he has a homebase of sorts, he can figure out his next step! And if he stays at a wizarding hotel, maybe they can direct him to a service similar to what Isabelle provided for him in Paris. With a city of this scale with so much to see, being able to apparate is just about a must, really. Hm, maybe he should look into finding someone to teach him to apparate on his own. A thought for another day.

Alright, wizarding quarters…

Here we go, alright, and now a taxi!

He feels like such a tourist watching the city pass outside the window but who cares? The drive takes him past the more modern parts of the city to the areas with more classical architecture, where the streets are much narrower and everything has that wondrous air about it. All those simple, flat modern buildings, no matter where they’re located in the world, are just so boring, aren’t they? Yes, they may be more efficient and more suitable for the times, but…the artistry involved in architecture seems to have been lost. It’s as if, at one point, being an architect was the same as being a sculptor, a painter, but nowadays, it’s nothing more than stacking bland bricks on bland bricks to make bland buildings. It feels foolish to criticise any of it, to be honest; mere months ago, Harry couldn’t care less about what a building looked like as long as it was safe enough for him to be in it, and yet, now, suppose he’s learned to appreciate it. Funny what only a few weeks can do, isn’t it?

The taxi delivers Harry on a narrow street, where he walks down a narrow alley to a narrow door. When he steps through it, he comes into the beautiful hidden wizarding streets of Rome. Here, like in Diagon Alley and Place Cachée, the buildings are much more leaning towards the historical. If it’s anything wizarding kind can be depended on, it’s for them to cling to the past. While that may be both good and bad in its separate ways, at least they can surely be trusted to never devolve into bland architecture. No, everything built with magic seems to be, by nature, artistic and whimsical and wondrous, and isn’t that just the most incredible thing in the world?

Harry chooses a simple inn, this time around. While luxury was nice in its own way, he’s honestly much more comfortable in the simpler accommodations. It’s much easier to relax if it doesn’t feel like he’s going to break something priceless just by existing in his own hotel room. He sits at the small desk in his room and studies his map over a half-glass of wine and a cup of tea. He’s actually come to like wine well enough, as long as it’s not too tart or bitter. The fruity, nutty flavours can be quite pleasant, though he usually reserves it for meals.

After close consideration, Harry heads back outside. As he hoped, there is a guide service available for his employment.

He really only has three tourist spots he wants to visit; apparently most of what’s available in Rome has to do with Catholicism, and as established, Harry has no real interest in that sort of thing. Three museums and a tour of the antiquing scene suits him more than well enough.

His guide, Basilio, starts them off at the Capitoline Museums. The Piazza del Campidoglio is an incredible start. The black background, and the elegant white pattern, is a sight to see. The star at the centre draws the eye to the statue of a mounted man (Marcus Aurelius, Basilio informs), then growing outwards like petals from a flower. The real tour starts in Palazzo dei Conservatori, where Harry wanders, completely awed, among the statues and frescos for what feels like an eternity. The stone of the sculptures seems so perfectly preserved, white as snow and masterfully carved. Truly, this is art; to create these images of life out of nothing but solid stone… Harry can’t fathom the time that would have been dedicated to this craft, to building the raw talent and honed skill of forming such realistic renderings. And the frescos! Oh, the colours! Even after so long, the colours are vibrant to his eyes, preserved truly as if by magic. The blues, so soft, and the reds so stark… Amazing. His awe continues to grow in Palazzo Nuovo, where the walls are lined with sculptures. The room of busts makes Harry feel like he’s looking into the eyes of living, breathing people.

Galleria Borghese and Galleria Colonna are both more of the same, and Harry continues to awe at it all. The architecture, the paintings, the frescos, the sculptures, everything! Everything simply exudes such beauty that Harry has never laid eyes on before. He has no words left.

Just after three, when they have finished their museum tour, Basilio takes him on the antiquing tour instead. Harry manages to collect quite a surprising number of mundane artefacts to begin with; artwork, jewellery, a few baroque style pieces of furniture, and so on. In the wizarding markets, he actually doesn’t find very much. Some aged books that catch his eye, a collection of antique wands created by the premier Italian wandmaker of the eighteen hundreds, a bit of this and that but nothing all too interesting; he does, however, stumble upon a simple wooden box filled with what looks like a number of cigarette cases.

“What are these?” Harry questions through Basilio.

“Two-way mirrors,” the seller explains, also through their translator. “Keep one, give another to someone else. Say their name into your mirror, then you can talk to each other over far distances. These all belonged to a family so they’re paired together with each other, but if you only want two, he can remove them from the group so your two mirrors can only contact and be contacted by each other.”

Harry counts the mirrors. Ten of them, all in different shapes but each about the size of his hand. He picks up each one and opens it, checking that the glass is whole and undamaged before he thinks any further. He’s lucky, though, all of them are good shape. A few have some minor chips along the edges, a few scratches here and there, but they’re second-hand (or even further on) so he can’t really complain; for that, they’re in surprisingly good condition.

These would be perfect! He could send them to Ron and Hermione, and maybe to Draco, and they could communicate much more freely when necessary! Letters will still probably be the main method, but a more direct mode of contact could be very useful to have as a back-up, or in cases of emergency. Brilliant! It’s exactly what he’s been looking for, it’s perfect!

But Harry keeps his face neutral. He can’t give away his interest, of course. “How much for all of them? You can keep the box.”

“Five per mirror, fifty aureus.”

“They’re not worth more than thirty, if even that.”

“He can give them to you for forty.”

“Thirty.”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Thirty-two.”

“Thirty-five, and that’s final.”

Harry sighs. “Alright. Thirty-five.”

He tucks the mirrors into his bag and walks away with a smile.

When they’re leaving the market, though, Harry sees something strange. Huddled up against a building, far out of the way of anyone, sits a small house-elf. That’s unusual...

“Don’t go near it, my Lord,” Basilio advises. “It is defective. It could be diseased. I heard it was freed and thrown out by its master last year. It’s been loitering around here for some time.”

The boy frowns. “Why? Why were they thrown out? What do you mean by defective?”

Basilio sighs, shaking his head. “It’s unable to speak, that’s all I know. Suppose they got tired of it.”

Disgusting. Harry met house-elves at Beauxbatons, but there, they were treated kindly and with respect and even wore their own powder blue tunics with pride. All the students knew the elves are the ones who really take care of them there, and thus, they deserve to be treated with the respect their hard work affords them. Any mistreatment of the elves was strictly forbidden, and punished harshly; repeated offences could even get a student expelled! To think people actually treat house-elves like this… How vile.

Harry approaches the pitiful little thing, kneeling down next to them. “Hello, there.”

The elf startles; they jolt to their feet and cower against the wall, holding their bat-like ears in close to their head.

“Do you understand English?”

Though the elf quivers like a leaf in the wind, they nods. The dirty black straw-like hair helps to hide their tightly shut eyes.

“My name is Sirius. I understand that you’re all on your own. Is that right?”

The bone-thin elf nods again.

“Would you…like to come work for me?”

The elf’s head whips up; massive blue eyes stare at him through strands of black hair. Harry watches the tears well up.

“I’ve never had a house-elf before, but… If you want, you can be my first. And I’ll take good care of you, too. You’ll have plenty to eat, a good place to sleep, and you can bathe whenever you want, and I’ll never, ever hurt you, and, um, you can have my livery too. I’ve heard that’s really important.”

Somehow, the elf’s eyes widen even further.

“I don’t mind that you can’t speak, but we will need to find a way for you to communicate. Just in case you need to tell me something important.”

The elf lets go of their ears, which flop back into place, standing up tall and pointy. With one hand, they points to themselves, obviously asking if he really means them.

Harry smiles. “Yes, I mean you. If you want to.”

The elf nods; they nod and nod and nod and start crying, tears pouring down their dirty little face in absolute silence. Harry stands up. He offers the elf his hand.

“Come on. Let’s find a tailor, and we’ll get you some livery to start with. I’m a lord after all. My elves need to represent me well, don’t they?”

The elf stares at his offered hand through the tears. Their own hand shakes as it reaches out to him. Their fingers are long and stick-thin when they wrap gently around his own. Harry smiles.

“Basilio, where’s a tailor, please?”

The man clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable, but leads the way.

At Harry’s room, he bustles his elf into the small bathroom and leaves her to get nice and washed up. He orders two dinners, making sure hers is loaded with some extra. She’s all too thin, it really can’t be healthy; he’ll need to get her on a strict meal schedule until she gains a bit of weight.

After a long shower and scrub down, the elf shuffles out of the bathroom dressed in her livery. It’s a simple black tunic, with a nice ribbon around the waist and the house crest embroidered on the chest, with matching little boots. Her dark tufts of hair are tied up with another length of ribbon. She looks very much like she’s struggling not to cry again when he invites her to eat with him.

“Do you know how to read and write?” Harry wonders as they eat. The elf nods between nibbles on her food. “Perfect, that gives us a good place to start.” He summons a quill, ink, and parchment to him, then scoots his chair closer next to her. “Here. Why don’t you write down your name for me? I’d love to know what to call you.”

She hesitantly accepts the quill from him, dipping it in the ink and putting it to the parchment. Her letters are a little uneven, but perfectly legible.

“Fila,” he reads, to which she nods. “That’s a very nice name.”

“Thank you, Lord Black, Fila is very grateful,” she writes to him.

“You’re welcome, Fila. Now, to be honest, I’m on a long journey right now and I’m not sure when it’ll end, or even really where I’m going. I’m mostly just…exploring, I suppose. I don’t know how much work I’ll have for you most of the time, but I’m sure we’ll figure something out. And if you ever have any suggestions on things you’d like to do or ways you want to help out, you’re welcome to tell me. Like I said, it’s my first time having an elf of my own so I’m new to it all. We’ll have to work together for a bit, I think, until we get a rhythm sorted out, you know?”

Fila nods eagerly. “Fila can tidy Master’s rooms and prepare clothes and fetch the meals and make the bed!”

“That’s a good start!” Harry agrees. “Let’s start with that, then. But you have to promise me, Fila, that you’ll eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day. I’ll be worried about you if you don’t eat properly, alright? And bathe whenever you feel like you need to. And…if you’re ever sick, or injured, or in pain, you need to tell me immediately, do you understand?”

The elf hesitates, but nods after a moment. “Fila will eat her meals and bathe and tell Master right away if something is wrong. Fila never wants Master to worry!”

“Thank you, Fila. I appreciate that very much.”

Later in the evening, Harry uses two pillows and one of the blankets off the bed to make up a nice plush bedding for Fila in one of the drawers of the dresser crammed into the room, next to the desk. At first, he thought she could just share the big bed with him, there’s plenty of room, especially with her being so very small, but decided against it; he wouldn’t want to put her in an awkward position or make her uncomfortable. The drawer isn’t perfect, but when Fila tucks in for the night, she seems happy as a clam.

After a good night’s sleep, Fila has prepared Harry’s clothes for him in the morning and is already tidying up the room as he rolls out of bed. Breakfast awaits him at the table, along with a copy of the day’s Prophet. He questions Fila on whether she’s eaten or not, as there’s only one serving out, and she promises she ate already, just like he ordered.

When Harry leaves the inn later, Fila walks proudly behind him with her head held high and her chest puffed out to show off his crest, her boots polished to shine. Harry smiles to himself; it’s not much, it’s certainly not perfect, but at least she’s safe and happy.

Guided by his map, Harry wanders through the streets in search of the so-called Library of Light. According to Basilio, whom he asked yesterday before they parted ways, it houses one of the largest collections in the world of books on the topic of fighting against and defending from the Dark Arts. Despite Quirrell as a whole, Harry actually quite enjoyed the DADA lessons. The topic is absolutely fascinating, and a whole library dedicated to the subject? Stunning.

The library is housed in a cathedral-looking building; if he didn’t know it isn’t a church, Harry wouldn’t step foot inside. When he enters, he’s greeted by that wonderful scent of books. Is there any better smell in the world? Not far past the entrance there is a pallid-looking old man seemingly drowning in books at a large desk.

“Excuse me?”

The old man grunts, his quill scratching against parchment. After several moments, he looks up, glaring at Harry. “Si?”

“Um, English?”

The man sighs as if this is the worst day of his entire life. “Yes.”

Harry clears his throat. “Right. I assume I can’t check books out like at a normal library?”

“No. Very valuable collection. Fragile. All books stay here. Read here.”

“Of course. And…if I copied books? Transcribed them? Would that be alright?”

The clerk searches around on his desk. After a minute of digging through drawers, he offers Harry a leaflet. “Empty books over there. Prices here. Copy. I inspect. Copy go with you. Original stay here. Yes?”

Yes! Eagerly, Harry nods. “Yes, thank you, sir.”

With that sorted, Harry delves into the library itself. There, he gives Fila his journal and a pen, requesting her to write down book titles when he reads them off to her. She nods excitedly and holds the pen at the ready as she follows him. Harry browses through the many shelves, scanning the books and their titles. Whenever he spots something of interest, he asks Fila to note it before moving on. As expected, the collection is vast and many of the titles draw his eye. Ten aureus per copy (translating to roughly seven galleons) is a decent prize but given the amount of books Harry is looking to copy, he’s looking at nearly eight-hundred galleons. Hm… For normal books, that would be quite a steep cost, but some of these volumes appear to be hundreds of years old. For books like that, eight-hundred galleons is a bloody bargain.

Hm. An interesting thought strikes Harry. He circles back to the old man near the entrance, who looks just as bothered to see him this time as he did previously.

“How much would it cost if I asked for all your books to be copied?”

At that, the old man’s eyes widen. He stares at Harry for several seconds. “Big order. Eight aureus per book. Two-thousand-six-hundred-thirty-one books.”

Harry does the math. “Twenty-one-thousand-and-forty-eight aureus, then.” He flicks his wand, summoning up his cheque book from the depths of his bag, and opens it to a fresh page. Fila quickly offers him her pen. Harry fills out the cheque and authenticates with his signet, then offers it to the old man. “As you can see on the cheque, the goods are to be delivered to Gringotts to be placed in my vault. I’ll inform them to expect the delivery. How long will it take do you think?”

The man takes the cheque, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Eh… All books? One month? Deliver in part, every week? Yes?”

Harry nods. “Yes, that sounds good. My journal, please, Fila.” The elf hands it over. Harry writes a quick note with some simple instructions on an empty page, signing his name neatly and pressing his signet, before tearing the page out and folding it in half. “Please take this to the nearest Gringotts office for me.” She accepts the message with a small curtsey and disappears in a small puff of smoke to carry out his orders. The boy offers his hand to the man, who is quick to shake it. “Thank you for your assistance, sir, and for all the hard work you’ll surely put into all this. I look forward to reading my new library!”

With that, Harry makes his exit.

He turns his focus instead towards general shopping. He still needs to find souvenirs for his friends. In a bookshop, he buys a variety of accounts of the history of Italy and the Roman empire, and the history of magic in said empire. Hermione will be thrilled, he’s sure. He also includes a series of fiction novels that a shop attendant suggests as popular among teens. Harry has no doubt that the fact that the books are in Italian will be no obstacle for Hermione; give her two weeks and she’ll have it all translated and read through at least once. He finds a few interesting books on potions as well, and buys two copies of each; one set for himself, and the other for Draco. A massive herbology lexicon with delicate illustrations will be perfect for Ron! He might not admit it, but Harry knows Ron loves their herbology classes. Surely, he’ll love it.

Harry also picks up another one of those language guides, just like the one he purchased in Paris, though of course, this edition is for Italian. If he puts in plenty of study and practice, he’ll no doubt be able to manage his new collection of DADA books quite well!

A visit to a stationary store sees Harry buying several bottles of ink that will shimmer red and gold; both Hermione and Ron will love it! Of course, he just has to buy matching green-silver ink for Draco too. When he looks at quills, however, an attendant stops him.

“Sir, may I suggest?”

“Oh, yes, please!”

“Sir should visit Murano. Glass artists there, best in the world. They make art! Look here,” she says, pausing to search the displays of quills for a moment. She finds what she’s searching for and shows him an elegant glass pen. Harry awes at the craftsmanship of the delicately shaped glass. “Like a quill. Dip in ink, and write. But this? Cheap. In Murano, real art.”

This is cheap? This beautiful piece of art is a cheap version… Oh, Harry can only imagine what the ‘real’ art in Murano would look like! He definitely needs to go there! He thanks the attendant profusely before he leaves. As he exits the shop, Fila appears beside him, quickly offering him a note in return from Gringotts. Hm, very good, they’ll accept the deliveries and have them passed on to their British branch, to be placed in his vaults. He thanks Fila for her help and she smiles and curtsies in response.

From there, Harry continues his casual walk through the district, wandering in and out of whichever store looks interesting. When time draws near to lunch, they sit at a lovely little café, him and Fila, and have a nice light meal. A few people rankle in disgust at Fila sitting at the table with him, and she shrinks under their eyes, but Harry instructs her very simply to ignore them.

“Their opinions don’t matter. I say you can sit at the table and eat with me, because I enjoy your company. You are a proud employee of the House of Black. Their thoughts and opinions on anything we do holds no weight.”

Fila nods curtly, internalising his words. She sits up straight and does her best to pay no mind to anyone not sitting at their table. Harry smiles. Very good. People will always think what they will, but it holds no weight unless it is given weight.

Eager to know more about Murano, Harry studies his MagiMap while they eat. Venice… A city built on the water, how fascinating! He simply must visit! He checks his train tables and times, and… Ah, yes! There’s a train leaving this afternoon, arriving in the evening; if they hurry back to the inn, they should be able to make it to the train station with some time to spare. Take the train to Venice, lodge for the night on the mainland, then spend the day looking around the city and visiting Murano, maybe stay another day if it’s needed, then keep going north with the train to… Hm, Munich doesn’t look to hold much of interest to Harry, so he can skip directly to Prague; the wizarding library there, oh, it just hungers for Harry’s attention! After that, continue north to Berlin, stay for a minute and visit that garden, then over to Poland, and take the track that leads back down south to Slovakia, Austria, Hungary, and so on, maybe even all the way down to Greece and Turkey. Hm… Yes, that sounds like a lovely plan!

“Come, Fila, our adventure continues.”

Fila gleefully holds his hand, bouncing along beside him all the way back to their inn.

Chapter Text

The morning’s mail (now personally picked up and delivered by Fila, on her own insistence) is a lively bunch.

Harry laughs the whole way through the ranting of Snape’s infuriated howler; apparently, as he was being fired, someone let slip it was initially Harry’s letter that brought him under investigation. He’s quite upset about it all, as being fired from Hogwarts essentially puts him on the social blacklists. No one is going to hire someone who was kicked out of their job at Hogwarts, after all. He’ll be relegated to menial labour far below his level, God forbid he might even have to stoop so low as to work with muggles, and it’s all Harry’s fault.

“Boohoo, I don’t like the consequences of my actions! Who thought abusing children would ever come back to haunt me!” is essentially what’s being said.

Harry finds himself sorely lacking in sympathy. Rather, he very much enjoys writing back.

Actions have consequences, you snivelling twit. If you’re looking for someone to blame, find a mirror.

Most sincerely,

Lord Harry James Potter

Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter

He presses his Potter signet next to his signature and seals the envelope with it.

Snape’s firing and the flaming of Dumbledore are the headlines of the Prophet, as expected. The Educational Office’s press release describes in vague terms Snape’s mistreatment and abuse of students, as well as Dumbledore continuously excusing and ignoring his horrid behaviour, and issues an apology on behalf of the entire I.C.W for not intervening sooner. They make promises about investigating all of Hogwarts’ staff and the school itself as well as the grounds, to ensure that no such oversights are made again.

The letters from Ron and Hermione gush about all of the student body celebrating as Snape was escorted out with his bags and suitcases. Fred and George set off fireworks! Even a good number of Slytherins were happy to see him go, which should tell everyone everything they need to know about the whole situation. Further, they both go on to describe the oddest thing! Draco Malfoy, approaching them to apologize! He actually verbally apologized for everything he’s said and done to them! Moreover, he promised he had come to his senses about all this blood purity nonsense and was trying his best to change as many minds as he can in Slytherin, though the work is quite slow-going. He wasn’t asking them to be his friends or anything, just that they give him a chance to be a better person from now on. And of course, neither Ron nor Hermione know how to react to any of that. Ron insists it has to be some kind of ploy, right? He’s just trying to lure them in so he can get one over on them, it has to be! Hermione is…reticent as well, but is choosing to cautiously move forward. She’ll be watching Malfoy like a hawk, though, don’t doubt that! First sign of any foul play, and she’ll put a stop to it all, right away!

Draco’s letter laments mildly about losing his favourite professor, but admits he understands why Snape was thrown out. Since coming back for the spring term, Draco’s really started noticing the man’s behaviour and he has to agree, it really has been despicable. No respectable teacher should be treating their students in such a way. Snape’s expulsion was fair and justified, but he was still Draco’s favourite, you know? It’s just difficult to reconcile the two. He’ll get there, but for now, it’s a bit of a challenge. Further, he finally summoned up the nerve and approached two of the people Draco himself has been treating poorly and apologised. Obviously, they seemed hesitant to accept his apology, and he completely understands, and he didn’t plead with them to accept it; he only asked that they give him the chance to prove himself. Draco promises both himself and Harry, that he’ll do his very best to prove he’s trying his hardest to be better.

In his responses, Harry suggests Ron and Hermione give Draco a chance. Harry might not be there to see any of it, but doesn’t Draco deserve a second chance? He’s just a kid, like all the rest of them! They’re all still learning how to be people, really, and Draco’s learned a new lesson. Shouldn’t they offer him the slightest benefit of the doubt? If they don’t, who knows how Draco might react? He might give up on it all and return to his old ways and get even worse! If he really wants to be a better person, shouldn’t they encourage him? Isn’t it better to just…let him try?

Harry sends along a mirror to either of them, explaining their use, though it’s probably best for now to reserve them for emergencies and the like. Who knows, the Educational Office or the professors might try to confiscate them! Everyone is still kind of looking for Harry, after all, and he’d hate to get them in trouble because of him. He does explain, though, that if they do contact him with the mirrors, that they need to be prepared for him looking…different. He gives them only some vague details about his glamour, but assures that yes, it is him.

He sends a mirror to Draco as well, but makes something up about if Draco tries to use this to distract either of them from their studies, Harry will be snitching to Narcissa and have her write to the school to have the mirror confiscated until the end of the year. He makes sure to offer his sympathies about Snape (despite his personal opinions, he can understand Draco’s conflicted emotions about it), and gives him a hint about his patronus form to cheer him up. Lastly, he commends Draco for his sincere apologies and his work towards bettering himself. Harry is eager to possibly meet Draco’s new prospective friends at some point, maybe over the summer.

After finishing his correspondences, Harry hands them over to Fila. The letters to Harry’s friends can go through Gringotts, though the response to Snape is to be delivered immediately. On his instruction, Fila hides the Black crest on her tunic, disguising it as that of Gringotts. Snape is the last person Harry wants to know about any of this.

Harry leaves his hotel to begin his exploration of Venice. Though the parts of the city located on the mainland are likely very interesting in their own right, Harry must of course prioritize the parts that lay on the water. A taxi takes him across the bridge first, where he then transfers to the gondolas. How incredible... A city built on the water! The ingenuity that lay behind it is simply beyond his comprehension. His perusal of the city earns him many interesting souvenirs, not least among them being a large collection of antique venetian masks. Goodness, with all the stuff Harry’s been buying during his journey so far, he surely won’t have any trouble furnishing at least one of those many houses he owns. Mh, maybe he should write to Griphook, ask for details about his properties. If he can pick one out, he can probably hire someone to get it cleaned up and furnished for him. He thinks he might return for a spell in the summer, if only to see his friends, so having a place ready and waiting might be nice.

Having spent the forenoon exploring Venice proper, Harry has lunch on the go while riding the ferry to Murano, a small neighbouring island which also technically belongs under the umbrella of Venice.

Just like that lovely store clerk suggested, the island overflows with glass art, studios dedicated to the craft, and innumerable shops of the same. Harry is reasonably certain he buys his own weight in beautiful glass beads and charms of all sizes, shapes, and colours. Not only that, but may also overindulge in the stunning jewellery he finds during his touring. He has pieces picked out for Hermione and her mother, and for Ron’s sister Ginny and their mother, and a beautiful set for Narcissa; in a moment of being overcome with hope, he also selects a number of pieces for Andromeda and her daughter, and even a nice bracelet for Andromeda’s husband. Even if they’re not interested in having any contact with him... He wants to give them something. Not something from the Black estate; something that’s just from him. He hopes they’ll like it. All of them.

As promised, Harry also finds plenty of glass pens like the ones previously shown to him. He buys a whole school’s worth of them, mostly for himself but also to distribute as gifts. In the island’s many antique shops, Harry picks up lots of antique glass pieces as well, including an entire bloody chandelier! Hm, might hang that in a nice, big dining room. He wonders if the goblins will be interested in the glass sculptures and plates and bowls and so on that Harry has collected. He’s never heard of goblins doing anything with glass blowing, so who knows? Even if they don’t want any of it, Harry will gladly keep it all to himself. Given how beautiful the craftsmanship is, and the product of it, he’d be a fool not to keep them.

What time is it? 18:09… Well. Harry had planned to stay another night and take the train to Prague in the morning but… There is a train coming it at six-thirty, departing at seven. Hm, but he’d never make it to the train station on time from here...

Fila!

Oh, bloody perfect wonderful little elf! She can apparate! She could just apparate them to the train station and solve the problem with ease! Of course, she could probably just apparate them directly to Prague as well, but Harry has no interest in that, especially not right now. The train ride will last late into the morning so he can just take the time to get some sleep, instead of staying an additional night at a hotel, plus he is on a journey, after all. Apparation is a neat trick to save some time, yes, but he doesn’t want his adventure to dwindle into nothing more than a few quick hops and a skip.

Harry steps away from the crowd, casting a disillusionment over himself once he’s out of sight. Only then does he summon Fila. The elf appears, smiling as ever, beside him, ready to help. As usual, she seems delighted to take his hand, and in the blink of an eye, they’re standing in a secluded corner of the same train station they arrived at the previous evening. When the train comes in at six-thirty, they settle for supper in the restaurant cart before tucking in for the night.

Harry has a splitting headache from the moment he wakes up. Even just the gentle rocking of the train sends daggers through his skull. Fila frets over him. She gently plies him with drinks of cool water and small morsels of plain bread to fill his stomach, and keeps a damp cloth over his forehead. With her help, he collects one of his home-brewed potions from his bag; a light painkiller he was tinkering with while at Beauxbatons, and thank God he did, he really needs it right now.

Though it doesn’t completely relieve his headache, it does ease the pain somewhat. Enough at least that he doesn’t feel like throwing up when Fila helps him sit up. It’s enough for now; he’ll take another dose in an hour or so, at around eleven, hopefully that will help as well. Fila fetches him a more substantial meal, though still keeps it very easy on his stomach. Simple broth soup with a cheese sandwich and a tall glass of water. It’ll fill him up without feeling like a brick in his stomach, which is definitely what he needs right now.

After taking away his tray, Fila offers him his mail. More letters from Ron and Hermione, and the Prophet, as usual. Urgh, the letters can wait, and he’ll just skim the headlines. Reading feels like an awful idea right now. He unrolls the Prophet to give the front page a quick glance.

YOU KNOW WHO CONFRONTED AT HOGWARTS

Harry stares at the headline. You Know Who? But… What?

Despite his horrendous headache, he reads the article closely.

The Educational Office performing their inspection, traces of dark magic, Hogwarts locked down and scoured from top to bottom, teachers and students questioned, quarters and dorms searched. Unregistered animagus found and apprehended, currently under investigation. But that’s not all. The traces of dark magic remained and they lead straight to Quirrell?! And when confronted late last night, he was revealed to be possessed by You Know Who himself! Hogwarts’ hallways were the scene of an awful duel, between You Know Who and almost the entire Hogwarts staff and the people from the Educational Office, with several severely injured (none dead, thank God) before You Know Who was pushed to retreat.

Holy Christ…

Quirrell? If Harry’s brain wasn’t hurting like this right now, he’d probably be having a hard time processing this; right now, his mind is just at a complete standstill, with nothing happening at all. Quirrell. Quirrell! Of all people, Quirrell…?

Harry scrambles after the letters. He rips open Hermione’s envelope and skims her message.

You’ve probably heard the news by now, the whole world seems to know already, and I’m begging you, Harry, DON’T COME BACK TO BRITAIN!!!! Everyone is saying You Know Who was here posing as a teacher to get close to you, so he could hurt you, and if you come back now, you’ll be in danger! And not just you. Anyone you come into contact with, anyone you associate with, anyone you so much as SPEAK TO, they’ll all be in danger too. You have the advantage right now, Harry. No one knows where you are, not even You Know Who, and that means you’re safe.

Please, Harry, don’t come back! And don’t use the mirrors! They were confiscated just like you thought they might be, when the dorms were searched yesterday afternoon. They said we’ll get them back soon, but don’t try to reach us with them yet. Be safe, Harry, and stay away.

Read Ron’s letter, and answer if you can. He’s really shaken up right now. After all this, and especially after what happened with Scabbers, he’s really rattled even if he’s trying not to show it.

Hermione is right, he knows that. Harry’s only advantage right now is that Voldemort doesn’t know where he is. He wants to go back, he wants to see his friends again, but… It’s safer if he doesn’t.

They’re stopping in Prague in less than an hour. He’ll find a place that does long-term stays, and lay low. It’s the best plan he’s going to be able to think up with his head pounding like this, anyway.

He opens Ron’s letter and gives it a quick read, too; God, he’s ready to shut his eyes and let his head rest until they reach the train station.

The animagus, it was Scabbers? Wait, what? Ron’s pet rat, was actually a person pretending to be a rat? Ew… Harry can see why Ron would be upset, he had Scabbers with him almost everywhere they went, cuddled him all the time, and… This whole time, it was a person? Disgusting…

Harry tucks the letter away. He’ll try to write his replies once he finds some lodgings, but it might have to wait until morning or for however long it takes for this headache to let up. For now, he’s going to rest just a bit more.

When they arrive at the station, Fila carries Harry’s bag and holds on tight to the boy’s hand as they leave their cabin.

However, when Harry steps down off the train onto the platform, another vicious stab of pain cuts into his head.

His knees fold under him.

His vision goes dark before he even reaches the ground.

Chapter Text

The first thing Harry sees when he opens his eyes is Fila’s blurry little face looking down at him. She jolts with shock when she sees him waking up. She gestures quickly for him to not move, stay laying down, before disapparating.

What... What happened?

His head no longer hurts as horrendously as before, at least. It has shrunk down to a mild throbbing which is a relief. He manages to look around, though his surroundings are mostly a blur. He’s been tucked into a narrow, wrought iron bed in a room with light grey walls and tile flooring. On the small nightstand next to his bed, his clothes have been neatly folded and his glasses placed on top. Beside it on the floor, sits his bag and his shoes. Where is he? What is this place?

They were on the train, Harry had that awful headache, they stopped in Prague, then... What happened next?

Fila joins him again, appearing on the bed with him, standing near his feet. She wrings her hands together anxiously. Only moments later, there comes a curt knock on the door. A woman enters immediately; quite young by his measure, with brown skin and dark eyes, long black hair falling in waves down to her hips. She wears a light green sari, though it’s partially covered by a drab white smock.

She approaches Harry’s bed. “Would you like your glasses, Lord Black?”

Harry rasps when he tries to respond; he has to stop to clear his throat, before trying again. “Yes, thank you,” he manages, though his voice is still a bit hoarse.

She picks the frames up and with gentle hands, she eases the glasses onto him. “There you go. I am Healer Maya Sharma. You can call me Maya, if you like.”

“Right. Thank you, Maya. Wh-Where am I?”

“You’re at the hospital in Prague’s wizarding district. You collapsed when you were coming off the train, and one of the station employees brought you here immediately. You’ve been unconscious for just under twenty-four hours.”

He…collapsed? Yeah. Right, that’s what happened, he remembers that now; his head was exploding and his legs just gave out. He must have fainted from the pain. “My headache. What is it? Why?”

Maya nods to his questions. “Yes, it is…a delicate topic I must discuss with you.” She draws a short, knobbly wand from a pocket on her smock, waving it briefly to summon up a small chair for herself. She sits down and scoots closer to his bedside. “Because of what I found in my examinations of you when you were brought it, I can come to only one conclusion, sir. You are Harry Potter.”

Harry’s eyes widen. His arm tries to move, though the lethargy won’t let it come far; Maya shakes her head, understanding his failed action.

“Your glamour is still in place, don’t be concerned. I assume either your ring or earring to be the anchor of the spell. I understand you have your reasons for hiding and that is not my business. I would not bring it up if it weren’t imperative to your health, sir,” the healer assures him. “When I examined you, I found cursed energy in your head. This is to be expected from any scar made by the Dark Arts, yet the intensity of the energy gave me pause. Such a foul energy could come only from true intent to kill, and only one person is known to have ever survived the Killing Curse. I searched deeper to see what effects it still has on you. In your body, I sensed your soul during the examination. Yet, I also sensed another soul within you.”

Another soul? Wait, souls are an actual thing? Like, an actual real physical thing that can be sensed?

“I understand your hesitance, sir. In most of the world, soul magic is considered dark magic, but where I am from, India, and some of the surrounding regions, soul magic is a very large part of the culture. It is taught in many of our schools, mainly in the largest one, called Shambhala, and used extensively by healers trained in our country, as well as in many other professions. Yes, soul magic can be used in dark ways, but it is not inherently dark. Is that not true for most forms of magic? So, as you might be able to reason, as a healer trained in India, I am also trained in soul magic. This is why I could sense your two souls.”

Harry’s brain is reeling at the two souls part.

“Your own soul is quite vibrant and healthy. The other soul, however… It is a fragment. It is sick and diseased, foul and tainted. It must be purged from you, or it may kill you one day.”

This is- What- Harry can’t- What?

“There is a dark use of soul magic, where one divides one’s own soul into parts and removes it from one’s body. By splitting the soul and placing the fragment in objects, one can achieve a form of immortality. It is a disgusting ritual, and it has been outlawed for many hundreds of years. However, because of your history, Mister Potter, the fragment inside you leads me to believe that You Know Who somehow learned how to use this forbidden magic. I believe that somehow, a piece of his soul was trapped inside you when he failed to kill you.”

Harry stares at her. At the foot of the bed, Fila sobs silently into her hands. Harry…has a piece of Voldemort’s soul inside him? That’s what caused his headache?

“Can- Can you take it out? Get rid of it! Destroy it!” he nearly shouts at the healer.

She is not insulted by his raised voice. She remains stoically calm. “If I attempted to remove it, or destroy it… It would most certainly kill you.”

So…it’s hopeless, then? He’s just going to walk around with a piece of Voldemort’s soul in his head until it kills him one day? “Isn’t there anything you can do? Please, I-… I don’t want to die.”

“There is nothing I can do. You, however, may be able to do something. I will write to Shambhala. I will explain the situation. I may be able to convince them to let you come and study soul magic. The fragment has become intertwined with your own soul over time, meaning that any involvement by outside forces will only be a danger. But if you learn how to sense your own soul, how to tell the difference between your soul and his, you may be able to untangle them.”

Harry swallows around the knot in his throat. Right. He’ll just…go to India, visit that school, study soul magic, and disentangle his and Voldemort’s souls from one another. Simple. Easy. No problem. Great.

“I will give you some time to process this. I understand it must be difficult. We can speak more later. While I have you, sir, may I examine your elf?” Maya requests. “The law here states that we cannot examine or treat house-elves without their master’s permission. I noticed she is unable to speak. If you don’t already know the reason, perhaps I can find out. There might be some kind of treatment we can prescribe.”

The boy shifts his gaze to the elf. She’s still crying silently, wiping the tears away with her hands. “Fila?” She looks up as soon as her name is called. “Do you want the healer to examine you? Maybe she can help with your voice. You don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s your choice, I’ll support it whatever you choose.” Fila wrings her hands; she looks between Harry and Maya several times, before giving a meek nod. “Alright. Maya will take care of you. I’ll get some more rest until you get back, okay? I’ll be right here when you’re finished.”

She nods again, then jumps off the bed. Maya gets up and vanishes her chair. Together, she and Fila exit the small room and leave Harry to rest. The door shuts with a soft click.

What the absolute bloody fuck?

Unfortunately, Fila was the victim of a rather nasty curse (most likely cast by her former master) to which Maya can’t yet find a counter-spell, nor a potion that might clear up the trouble. She endeavours to reach out to some colleagues and acquaintances to see if anyone knows anything, but for now, Fila remains silent. Maya does however provide Fila with a communications board, which she explains many patients use for a variety of reasons when speaking is not possible. It’s a simple square piece of light wood, lacquered and treated but not adorned or decorated in any other significant way. Fila needs only hold the board up and think what she wishes to say, and the words will appear on the board as if writtem there. As of yet, they’ve had no real difficulties communicating, quill and parchment does well enough, but this is indeed a much more efficient method.

“Fila is very grateful, Madam Healer Sharma, very, very grateful!” she speaks through her board.

Maya smiles. “You’re welcome, Fila. Lord Black, I’ll write to Shambhala this afternoon and I’ll contact you as soon as I have confirmation. It may take some time to convince them.”

Harry nods, doing up the last buttons on his shirt. “Thank you. Fila, why don’t you keep an ear out for Maya’s summons? I’d like to know as soon as possible, of course.”

“Yes, Master, Fila will come when Madam Healer Sharma calls!”

“Alright. Then I’ll prepare your discharge documents,” Maya says as she stands up and dismisses her chair. “You’ll need to sign them at the front desk on your way out, but that will be all.”

“Thank you, Maya.”

He shakes the healer’s hand, and she makes her exit. Harry leans down to pull his boots on but a sharp throb in his head makes him pause, a hiss at the pain leaving him unbidden. Fila hurries to his aid; she helps him ease his feet into the shoes one after the other, doing the laces up neatly.

“Thanks, Fila,” he says with a sigh, massaging his temples for a moment.

“Is Master’s headache very bad again, sir?”

He shakes his head slowly. “No, it’s...not terrible. Just caught me off guard for a second.”

The elf nods slowly, a sad, sympathetic look on her little face. She insists on helping him put on his light jacket as well, and on carrying his bag for him as they leave. Suppose Harry should be grateful he has someone who cares for him so deeply... Still, at times, the concept of house-elves can be...disturbing. Having been in a similar position himself, it feels weird to now, in turn, be the master in the dynamic. Perhaps, having been in that position, he knows exactly what not to do, and how to afford any elves working for him some measure of dignity and respect.

They find a good inn only two streets over from the hospital, and he can even pay a bit extra to have an elf-sized cot brought in for Fila. He makes sure to insist they give her an actual pillow and blanket, too, because apparently, for some God-awful reason, that’s not included. His facial expression makes quite certain the inn-keeper knows exactly how he feels about that.

Once in their room, Harry dives straight back into bed, despite the fact that it’s nearly noon by now. He won’t be doing much of anything until this headache passes.

It does, however, afford him plenty of time to actually think about all of…everything. Voldemort found at Hogwarts, and part of his soul is trapped in Harry, connecting the two of them together somehow. That awful headache Harry had, it must have been caused by Voldemort in some way. When Harry started at Hogwarts, during the Sorting Ceremony, his scar stung like hell when he looked at Quirrell, who was housing Voldemort inside his body at the time. Of course, Harry thought the pain was caused by Snape somehow, but that’s obviously been disproven now. Maybe… Voldemort snuck into Hogwarts for a reason, whether it was to hurt Harry or not doesn’t matter, and being found and pushed out must have enraged him. Did that overwhelming emotion bleed into Harry through the soul fragment in him and cause his headache? That must be it, right? Based on the timing of it all, it has to be that.

Meaning, Harry’s body, and most likely his mind too, are tied together with Voldemort’s. Harry’s read about the mental magics, legilimency and occlumency. If Voldemort has an opening into Harry’s mind, who knows what he might do with it?

So why hasn’t he?

Obviously, the connection is there, but in eleven years, Voldemort hasn’t done anything with it, he hasn’t used it. If he really wants to kill Harry, for whatever reason, then wouldn’t he put this to good use? He could look into Harry’s mind, use it to find his location, or maybe even make Harry come to him! And yet, he never did. He never did anything with it.

Why?

Because he doesn’t know about it.

Based on what little Harry has been able to read about Voldemort, he would thoroughly use any and all weapons at his disposal, and yet, he never used what would probably be the greatest weapon in his arsenal; his own soul trapped in Harry’s head. The only way that makes sense is if he honestly did not know that weapon existed and was available to him.

Harry has another advantage, then. Not only does Voldemort not know where he is, Voldemort also does not know a splinter of his soul exists in Harry.

If Voldemort hasn’t used it as a weapon, then maybe Harry can. The connection goes both ways. Voldemort might be able to look into Harry’s mind, but in return, Harry might be able to look into Voldemort’s mind too.

Harry needs to visit the library as soon as possible, and he needs to make his way to India the second Maya tells him if the school, Shambhala, will help him or not.

A soft tap on his arm makes Harry look over. Fila stands beside his bed, holding the Prophet and a letter. With the other hand, she holds up her board.

“Sir Griphook says his letter is most urgent, Master must read immediately! Very important!”

With a slight groan, Harry sits himself up against the headboard of his bed. “Thank you, Fila,” he says as he accepts the mail. “Will you fetch me a glass of water, please? Thank you.”

Fila disapparates, but is back at his side before Harry has even had a chance to break the Gringotts wax seal on the letter. He drinks deep of the cool water she offers. Good, it abates his dull headache somewhat.

Lord Black,

I bring what may be troubling news.

The animagus apprehended at Hogwarts has now been revealed to be Peter Pettigrew. If you do not know the story in full, allow me to explain.

During the war, your parents hid and their home was protected by a Fidelius charm, where one person is named the Secret Keeper and they are the one single person who knows the secret in question and are the only one able to share it with anyone else. In this case, the secret was the location where you and your parents where hiding. It was widely thought that their close, personal friend Sirius Black was named the Secret Keeper, and his betrayal lead You Know Who to slaying your parents and losing his own life. After that, it was thought that Sirius Black murdered another of their friends, Peter Pettigrew, along with twelve muggles. This is what caused his imprisonment in Azkaban.

After Pettigrew was found alive, he was questioned by the Wizengamot under veritaserum, meaning he was incapable of lying. PETTIGREW was the Secret Keeper, not Black, and his supposed death was a charade to frame Black for his crimes. All this time, Pettigrew has hidden himself and waited for the return of his master, You Know Who.

With his innocence now proven, Sirius Black was released from Azkaban early this very morning. As part of the release process, someone from the Ministry informed him his assets have passed to his son, you, Lord Black, and Sirius is now requesting all available information on you from the Ministry. It is only a matter of time before he turns to Gringotts for information. We cannot lie to him regarding his own accounts and assets (everything directly under his name has been reverted to his ownership, such as his personal vault, while the estate itself remains with you), but you are a separate client all together. What do you wish for me to do, Lord Black? How am I to handle the situation? So far, all he will be able to find out is that there is a Sirius Black IV listed as his son and heir, that your identity has been blood confirmed by Gringotts, and that you have control of all the Black estate. You must decide what else he can or cannot know.

Inform me as soon as is possible, and it will be handled accordingly.

Sincerely,

Griphook

Account Manager, London Branch, Gringotts Wizarding Bank

Harry stares at the letter.

He reads it again.

And again.

He sets the letter aside and unrolls the Prophet, skimming through the relevant pages rapidly.

Black declared innocent, Pettigrew to be imprisoned, veritaserum testimony leads to Death Eaters being arrested, Lucius Malfoy, Yaxley, Crabbe, Goyle, Snape (Jesus, Harry knew he was a piece of shit, but he was an actual Death Eater?! How in the hell did he ever get hired as a bloody teacher?!), all to be questioned under veritaserum, search for Harry Potter intensifies, Black searches for unknown son and missing godson.

Oh, God…

“Fila, my bag, please.”

She hurries to deliver it into his hands. He throws back a double dose of his painkiller potion, then pulls out his writing supplies.

“Prepare some clothes for me, please,” he orders while getting out of bed.

He sits at the writing desk while Fila sets about her chore. Harry needs to write to Draco and Narcissa, and to Griphook, probably to Ron and Hermione too. He starts with Griphook.

Griphook,

Hold Sirius at bay for now, I need to think on all of that. Tell him his son knows he’s looking, and to please give me some time. If he asks about Harry Potter, tell him I’m laying low somewhere in Britain, you don’t know exactly where but you’ll try to get in contact with me on his behalf. If I’m in possession of a property he wants, let him have it, I’m sure he needs somewhere to stay.

While I’m on properties, select a suitable one for Narcissa Malfoy to make use of in case she needs it. I only just read about Lucius Malfoy being arrested, and who knows what will happen to his family from here. I promised I’d look out for them to the best of my ability, and that’s what I’m going to do. I’ll tell her to contact you if she needs to use the place. Don’t tell Sirius about any of it. I don’t know how he might react, or what his relationship with his cousin is like, best to keep him out of it for now.

If the Ministry tries finding me through Gringotts, block them out. I want nothing to do with them.

I’m sending you an antique glass pen from Murano, as a personal gift. You’ve been incredibly helpful to me through all this and I appreciate everything you’ve done. May it serve you well in your continued work, both for me and for all your other clients.

Sincerely,

S.H.B, IV

Next, he writes to Narcissa.

Narcissa,

I read about Lucius. My deepest sympathies for this unfortunate turn of events. I won’t beat around the bush; there is nothing I can say that will make any of this better. All I can say is this; you’re not alone. You still have family on your side.

Will you be able to stay in the Malfoy Manor? Do you want to stay? If either answer is no, then contact Griphook at Gringotts. I’ve asked him to prepare one of my properties for you. If nothing else, perhaps it can be an escape from the press, if they are being as obnoxious as they have a tendency to be. I’ve also asked Griphook not to inform my father about your prospective location. If you want him to know, that is your choice to make and no one else will make it for you.

All my love to you, Narcissa. I cannot imagine how difficult this must be for you, but I promise, I am here for you through it. Enclosed is a two-way mirror. Draco has one as well. Say either of our names, and you will be able to speak to us directly if ever the need arises. I’m going to contact Draco with the mirrors as soon as I’ve finished this letter, and I hope to be able to offer him some comfort but given the situation, I’m not sure that will truly be possible. I may be far away, but if you need me at your side, I will come as quickly as I can. Take care of yourself. Draco needs you to be strong, but with me, you can have as many moments of weakness as you need.

Please, be kind to yourself, Aunt Cissa.

Love,

S.H.B, IV

He seals both letters and calls Fila over. Letters, mirror, and pen in hand, she disapparates all the way to Britain on his behalf. Harry summons his own mirror to him.

“Draco Malfoy.”

He waits.

It takes almost a whole minute before Draco’s tear-ridden face appears. “Sirius! They- They arrested father! I-I-I didn’t even know until breakfast when the owls were delivering the mail!”

Harry’s chest aches in sympathy; he can’t imagine finding out something as awful as that about his own father, from a newspaper! “I’m so sorry, Draco, I’m sorry. I only just read it myself, I was late on my mail, and I-… Draco, I’m so sorry.”

The blond boy snivels, wiping his face on the sleeve of his black school robes. “I know. And… If he is a criminal, I-… I guess he belongs in prison, but… He’s my dad!”

“I know, Draco, I understand what you mean. I sent my elf, Fila, with a letter to your mum just a second ago and she has a mirror now too. If you want, you can go talk to her instead?”

Draco shakes his head. “No, not yet… Maybe a bit later. I just-… Can you stay with me for a while?”

Harry tries his best to smile, but he’s not sure he really succeeds. “Of course I can, Draco. I’ll be with you for however long you want.”

“Thank you for lending me the cottage. Like you said, the press is already getting obnoxious. Having somewhere quiet to retreat to is a relief.”

“Of course. It’s yours for as long as you need it. What happened, Aunt Cissa? Did the Ministry come to the Manor?”

The woman sighs softly; Harry watches her dry a few tears on a handkerchief. “They came late in the evening. They said the Minister needed an urgent meeting with us. It was only after we all left the property that they arrested him. Suppose they were concerned with the blood wards on the Manor. Not even I know how they would’ve reacted if the master of the house was being arrested.”

Probably a smart move on the Ministry’s part. Harry’s read some about the types of blood wards the old families tend towards using. Under most of them, any aggression towards the current master of the wards can be punished by vicious means, even death.

“They questioned me most of the night, as well, but tossed me out at about three.”

“Do you want me to come be with you?” Harry offers. “I don’t know if there’s anything I can really do, but... At least I can be there to support you.”

Narcissa shakes her head. Her hair falls in a mild mess around her face, as if she had a fitful sleep and neglected to brush it upon waking. “No, that’s- That’s alright. I’m sure you have important things to do, and... I think I need some time alone, for now. To...process all of this. But for the summer, maybe? I’m sure Draco would be overjoyed to be able to spend time with you then. After all this... I think he’ll need it, too.”

Harry nods, offering a meagre smile. “Not to worry. I’ll be there. If you need anything until then, don’t hesitate to use the mirror. I’ll keep it with me.”

“Thank you, Sirius. I-... Forgive me for asking, but have you been in contact with your father? For all his faults, my cousin is still a good man. Not even Azkaban could change that, I think.”

The boy sighs, pushing his glasses up to massage the bridge of his nose for a moment. “I...haven’t contacted him yet. I need some time, I think. Griphook is holding him at bay for now, and please, if you choose to speak to him, to Sirius, say nothing of my location. Tell him about me if you like, but not about where I am.”

His dear aunt nods, drying her blood-shot eyes again. “Of course, dear, I would never. After all your kindness, my loyalty is the least I can give in return.”

“Thank you. Please, be sure to get some rest, alright? I know this is all really difficult, but that’s even more reason for you to be well-rested and strong. This isn’t going to break us, Aunt Cissa. I promise you that.”

“Thank you. You’re right. I’ll...go rest. Thank you for everything, dear. Your kindness is... I have no words. Speak soon, yes?”

“Whenever you need me, Aunt Cissa.”

She gives a watery smile before her image in the mirror disappears. Closing his own mirror, Harry exhales the most enormous sigh to ever be housed in his body.

Everything has become quite the mess, hasn’t it?

Harry dresses in the clothes Fila prepared for him, then exits the inn. Thankfully, the wizarding district is located in the same area of the city as the library. The mundane side of the library is nice enough, and the baroque room is a piece of art on it’s own. When approached by someone possessing magic, a book on one of the shelves in the baroque room begins to glow minutely. By pulling it halfway out, something behind the bookcase clicks and ratchets. It opens like a door. Harry enters, taking care to close it tight behind him. Hidden there, is the Prague Library of the Magical Arts and Records of Magical History. Much like the mundane library, the entry hall centres around a large helpdesk. Harry approaches one of the employees manning it with his questions.

“Excuse me, English?”

The young witch smiles up at him. “Yes, sir, how can I help you? Are you searching for something in particular?”

“Yes, actually. I’d like to read about legilimency and occlumency. Where can I find the subject?”

The witch rolls out a small map of the library, using her wand as a pointer to indicate for him. “We are here, sir. Simply follow this path here, and up the stairs near this wall, right over there, and you will find the Mind Magic section right at the top of the stairs. All the bookcases covering the topic with have this runic symbol etched on them. Is there anything else, sir?”

“Yes. Is there some distinction of reference materials or anything, that can’t be removed from the library? If so, I’ll just look at those here first.”

“Ah, yes, books with red tags on the spine must stay here. These are fragile or valuable samples specially protected by the library’s magic.”

“Right, thank you.”

“Very welcome. Sir will need these, I am sure.” The witch reaches into a drawer of her desk and withdraws a set of plain black glasses, which she offers to him. “Translation glasses. Most our books are not in English. These will help.”

Brilliant! Harry didn’t even consider that. He thanks her profusely then follows the given directions up to the second floor and his desired section. There, he awkwardly puts the translation glasses on in front of his normal glasses. They sit a bit uneven, a little crooked, but it’s better than nothing. He scans the first set of bookcases, pulling out any books that look to be on a basic level. It’ll do him no favours to try to jump in the deep end. With a number of books in hand, he finds a nearby reading area, with desks and chairs set out for public use. He picks the closest seat, happening to sit diagonally over from another young witch; she herself has a pair of translation glasses perched on her nose and stacks of books piled up on her table. Both she and the handful of other people manning the desks in the area seem quite engrossed in their research. Harry endeavours to do his best not to disturb anyone.

He sorts through his books and picks out which one to start with; The Most Simple and Natural Basics of the Art of Mind Magic, that sure sounds like square one. Harry has only read a few short paragraphs on the first page, when he hears a soft snort and a slap.

He looks up.

The young woman sitting nearest to him has her hand clapped over her mouth, and it’s obvious she’s holding back laughter. When she notices him, she quickly waves her hands at him and shakes her head. “Sorry, sorry!” she whispers. “It just- It looked funny with your glasses, I was unprepared, I’m very sorry.”

Harry smiles, shaking his head. “Don’t worry,” he whispers back. “Feels about as awkward as it looks.”

The woman titters softly behind her hands again, her dark skin creasing around her eyes when she smiles big and wide. “If you want, I can enchant your regular glasses?”

“You could? Oh, that’d be grand. Thank you so much,” he whispers while removing both pairs of glasses and handing his own set to her.

Even without his corrective lenses, he can see she doesn’t use a wand when she casts her charm over the frames. All it takes is a small gesture of her hand, before she’s offering the glasses back. He puts them on again and looks down at his book, grinning when he sees the words have turned into English for him.

“Thank you! Did you really do that without a wand? That’s amazing.”

The witch makes another gesture, this time aimed more generally around the two of them, before speaking at a normal volume. “Don’t worry, I cast a silencing charm, we can chat without bothering anyone. Yes, I don’t use a wand. Wands are a very European and Asian thing, but where I’m from, hardly anyone uses wands. It’s not really a thing in Africa as a whole. In my own country, Mozambique, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone use a wand!”

“Woah, really?! That’s incredible!” Harry awes. “I mean, it took me ages just to figure out how to cast one spell without a wand, but never using a wand? Amazing…”

The woman laughs. “I tried to use a wand for a while, when I came to Europe for my university degree, and it was so difficult! I couldn’t make it work at all! No matter how long I practiced, none of my spells came out right.”

Wow… Imagine that! For him, wandless magic is the biggest challenge; yet for her, wand magic is the biggest challenge. It seems crazy; wand magic is so easy! Just focus a bit and say the incantation and that’s it. But for her, wandless magic is what’s the easy part, just focus and wave her hand and that’s all. Harry thought wands were just the thing! The thing everyone needs, to be able to use their magic, and wandless magic was only for the most dedicated people, but to think, all over Africa, no one uses wands, not even little kids just learning their first spells! What would that be like? First day at Hogwarts, trying to cast a spell without a wand? It would’ve been chaos!

“Zuhura Abidemi,” the witch says, waking Harry from his awed thoughts, as she reaches her hand across the tables towards him. “A pleasure to meet you!”

Harry stands up to be able to reach and shake her hand. “Sirius Black, you as well!”

Zuhura grins. “What are you studying? Aren’t you old enough to be in school yet?”

Harry shrugs, sitting down again. “Mind magic. As for school, well, I’m doing what one might call a private education of sorts. Really, it’s just an excuse to travel and explore, I guess. And you?”

“Oh, I’m planning my curriculums for the next school year. I’ll be taking a position at Uagadou at the end of the summer and they want me to have my curriculums ready for approval before then.”

“Oh, you’re a teacher? That’s wonderful! Uagadou, may I assume that’s a school in Africa?”

Zuhura laughs, nodding. “Yes, in Uganda! It’s the biggest school in all of Africa! I graduated from there myself only a few years ago, and it’s been my dream to go back as a teacher. They wrote to me over the winter and offered me a position!”

Harry lights up in a smile for her. “That’s wonderful! Congratulations! What will you be teaching?”

“Transfiguration! Oh, it’s my favourite subject! I’ve adored it ever since I was little and saw my mother transform for the first time, she’s the most beautiful elephant, so wise and strong. I insisted she help me become an animagus before I even started school.”

The boy continues to awe at her. “You became an animagus so young? That must’ve been hard! I’ve read about the spell and the ritual, it seems really challenging.”

Zuhura scoffs, waving off the mere thought. “Only if you use the European method! The African method is much simpler. Uch, Europeans! They make everything so complicated!”

Intrigued, Harry leans in to listen. “Really? There was nothing about a different method in any of the books I’ve read. Is it a secret, or something?”

The woman hums, shrugging. “Mh, not really, but it is supposedly more painful, and if it’s done wrong, it can be deadly. Of course, so can the European method, but no one ever remarks on that. Typical European superiority…”

An animagus… Harry thought it sounded cool when he read about it, but the intensity of the ritual scared him off a bit. Plus, it would likely have been difficult to get it all done right while travelling as he is. But if there was a simpler, quicker way…. And he had someone to teach him…

“Zuhura, could I hire you as a tutor? I’ll probably only be in Prague for a few weeks, if even that, so it wouldn’t be a long-term thing. You would help me become an animagus, and tutor me in wandless magic and transfiguration. And I’d pay very well, of course!”

The woman is, understandably, a bit taken aback by the sudden job offer. “I-… Um. How well is very well?”

Harry considers. “Hm, let’s say we have three hours of class together per day, I’d be amenable to paying ten galleons per hour. Thirty galleons per day, two-hundred-and-ten per week. I’m open to negotiating, of course.”

Zuhura shakes her head. “No! Ten is good! Ten is very good! I’ll take ten!”

“Let’s say ten, then,” Harry says and stands up to offer his hand for another shake. “I look forward to being taught by you, Zuhura.”

Grinning in what looks somewhat like disbelief, Zuhura shakes the offered hand. “Don’t think I’ll go easy on you.”

Chapter Text

“And then the moss powder.”

Carefully, Harry sprinkles the dust of the dried and crushed up moss into his puttering cauldron.

“One slow stir, counter-clockwise.”

Harry does just so, moving his ladle with intent and determination.

Zuhura peers over his shoulder at the potion. “Very good. It’s almost finished. Now, we wait until it changes colour to a very light blue. When it does, immediately put in the shrivelfig juice and the powdered tebo tusk together, and stir four times clockwise.”

The boy nods but keeps his eyes on the bubbling concoction. Once the brewing itself is all done, the potion needs to simmer for three days and three nights, before being poured into a clay bottle and vigorously shaken for three minutes. Lastly, he must be outside, under the sun in a clear sky, and drink every single drop. When he does that, he will either become an animagus or….be poisoned to death. Zuhura promises that won’t happen, though; she has the antidote prepared and she’ll be with him when he takes his potion, and as long as he drinks the antidote within six minutes, he should survive.

Should.

He bites his lip hard when the potion starts changing colour. He snatches up his last two ingredients and stands at the ready for his teacher’s signal. Between them, she’s the only one who knows when the colour is just right. He has to be ready!

“Now.”

He pours in the juice and the powder, and grabs the ladle. One. Two. Three. Four. He pulls the ladle out to let the potion rest. He lowers the flames under the cauldron to set it to only simmer from here on out. All that’s left from here is waiting.

“What animal do you think you will become?” Zuhura asks while they clean up all the supplies and such. “What are you hoping for?”

“I’m not sure, really. I read that a person’s patronus and animagus form are often the same, but at the same time, there’s no record of animagi taking the shape of magical creatures, and well… My patronus is a hippogriff.”

“You can cast the patronus?”

“Yeah! You wanna see?”

“Please!”

Harry stuffs his handfuls of ingredient bottles into his bag, then draws his wand. A simple thought fills him with love, and the ghostly white hippogriff leaps out of his wands. It lands awkwardly in the small room of the inn, wings flicking in agitation at the cramped space. Harry lets it stay only for a few moments before releasing it. As usual, the creature dissolves into wisps of white smoke that quickly dissipate into nothing. Beside him, Zuhura smiles.

“How wonderful. Seeing someone’s patronus, it is a beautiful moment, I think. But you’re wrong, you know, there are animagi who take the shapes of magical creatures. They’re just very rare.”

“Really?!”

At his near-shout, the witch laughs. “Yes. A magical creature animagi, they’re…one in a million, if not billion! Because animagi are so rare in Europe and other parts, the odds of those animagi being that one in a million are exceedingly slim, that is true. But all over Africa, many people choose to become animagi. For many of us, it’s a way to feel more in tune with our own magic and the magic in the world around us. And because there are so many, the odds of someone being that one in a million is also much greater. In fact, in my class, when I was at Uagadou, there was a boy whose form was that of a Runespoor. Apparently, he could have quite the arguments with himself when he shifted.”

Harry snorts at the mental image; a snake with three heads and all three of them bickering with the others. “So…there’s a chance I could be a hippogriff?”

“I don’t see why not. And even if you aren’t, your form will always be what is best suited to you. The wonderful Lady Magic doesn’t make mistakes in this sort of thing. She knows us better than we know ourselves, and she gives us always what we need, not necessarily what we desire.”

The boy nods, trying his hardest to memorise that small lesson. Lady Magic gives us what we need, not what we desire. Wise words.

“Come sit down with me,” Zuhura says as she crouches down and sits comfortably on the floor. “Let’s continue with the theoretical parts of transfiguration.”

At her direction, Harry comes and sits down as well, opposite her.

Harry listens eagerly. Zuhura’s way of explaining things is fascinating! He has no doubt she’ll be a wonderful teacher to the students at Uagadou. Just like Harry’s previous tutors, Zuhura’s way of explaining things makes them simple and easily understood, even if the concept itself is complex and confusing. Harry isn’t blind to seeing that he has had an incredible amount of luck during this journey of his, to meet these wonderful people and have the chance to learn from them.

HOGWARTS ON PROBATION: DUMBLEDORE DONE FOR?

So, the Educational Office finally found Fluffy, then…

Let’s see; hm, Fluffy wasn’t the only ‘defence’ in place, huh? Devil’s Snare, a giant chess game, a potions puzzle, flying keys, a troll, and…a magic mirror? Hm. Dumbledore questioned before a full court of Wizengamot for endangering students, confesses he was protecting the bloody Philosopher’s Stone (what an absolute idiot) but chose to destroy it when the Educational Office started sniffing around the third-floor. Which, of course, lead to him being questioned on why the hell didn’t he just destroy it from the start and avoid basically luring Voldemort in and endangering hundreds of students?

Of course, Dumbledore doesn’t have a good, proper answer for that. No, he was being arrogant again, and thought he knew best and didn’t give two shits that he was putting defenceless children in mortal bloody peril!

At least the Wizengamot becomes disillusioned enough with the old bastard throughout his questioning that after a vote, a majority calls for further questioning under veritaserum. With additional dosing to compensate for the man’s skill with occlumency, this questioning apparently reveals a whole host of problematic and criminal behaviour, among them being the issue of him leaving Harry with relatives Dumbledore already knew were abusive and hostile towards wizarding kind. The court reporter was prohibited from reporting some of the nastier details of Dumbledore’s criminal history, but the salient point is this: in a vote, a majority of the Wizengamot calls for Dumbledore to serve a life sentence with no chance of parole. Welcome, Albus Dumbledore, to your new home, Azkaban! We do hope you rot!

Like the headline promised, the rest of the teaching staff has been placed under probation as well. The smallest bending of the rules and they’ll be out on their arse; good. That bloody place needs some accountability, for once.

Harry is, of course, quite rightly confused when on the same day as Dumbledore’s last questioning before the Wizengamot, he receives a package from Dumbledore himself, containing…a wand? And a small note.

Death is the only end that matters, dear boy...

That’s all the note says, except for the odd symbol drawn below the message itself. A triangle, with a circle and a line inside it. Hm… What an absolute bloody lunatic. Harry puts the note back in the box it, choosing not to bother at all with the wand, ties the string back in place, and drops the whole thing in his bag to be forgotten about until a later date. He has no patience for that old fool’s dramatics right now.

He has more important things to do.

At the direction of his wand, the now navy-blue potion moves from his cauldron into the clay bottle Zuhura prepared for him. He puts the cork in, and looks to Fila, who has his watch. Three minutes, starting…now, on Fila’s mark.

He shakes the bottle as vigorously as he can. Just keep shaking, lots and lots of shaking! When the three minutes are up, Harry’s arms are hurting and he’s drenched in sweat. Fila waves at him as a stop signal; Harry lowers the bottle with a huffing breath. Damn, that was a bloody work-out! With the potion finally complete, Harry grabs his jacket and heads out with Fila in tow to spectate. He warned her that it might be hard for her to watch, but she reminded him that it’s her duty to be there with him even at the hardest of times and especially when he’s hurting, and that’s something she prides herself on, so she wants to be there to support him, even if it’s difficult. Because she insisted, he decided to allow it. Of course, only after reminding her several times that it’s okay if she needs to look away or leave for a minute, and he won’t be angry with her or judge her, he’ll completely respect whatever she feels like she needs to do.

With both of them thoroughly reassured by each other, here they are, on the roof of the inn. Harry may or may not have paid the inn-keeper to keep the small rooftop terrace closed for a private party today. Zuhura is already there, waiting, when they arrive. Harry lets her inspect the potion before anything else happens. She sniffs it very deeply, judging the scent, and pours a few drops into her palm for a visual check, then rubs at it with her finger to feel the consistency.

“It looks perfect,” she says as she gives the bottle back. “And I’ve got the antidote with me, just in case. Remember, drink all of it. No hesitation. Yes?”

“Yes.”

He swallows dryly.

Right.

Then there’s nothing left except to…do it.

Just drink it all. One long swig, so fast he doesn’t even have to taste it. Really fast. And then, he’ll be an animagus! He’ll be able to turn into an animal! Oh, he wonders so badly what animal he might become, if he’ll really become a hippogriff. He does doubt it, to be honest; he’ll probably be a dog or a cat or maybe a bird! It would be cool to be a bird! Being able to fly with his very own wings… It sounds incredible, he hopes he becomes a bird.

Deep breath. He puts the bottle to his lips, and tips his head straight back to look up at the clear sky. The potion pours into his mouth, right down into his throat. He refuses to register the putrid taste. He drinks and drinks until there’s nothing left, and then he waits until the last little drops fall into his mouth too.

Harry lowers the bottle. Zuhura and Fila stand a few paces away, watching. In her hands, Zuhura has a small glass bottle, the antidote.

His stomach feels weird. It’s like…there’s a massive ice cube in his belly. A stab in the gut has him doubling over with a groan. Fila jumps to approach, but Zuhura stops her. Harry’s knees fold, he slumps to the floor. The ice in his stomach is melting; the cool sensation spreads outwards, all through his body, and it’s cold enough that it hurts. It feels like in the middle of winter, when the air is so cold and dry that even just feeling it on your face makes your skin burn. It’s like that, but everywhere and it’s all on the inside. The burn is inside his skin, instead of outside.

He can hear his own voice; agonized moans and whimpers, but slowly, they become strange, squawking bird-like noises. His bones feel like they’re breaking all at once, and the only sounds he can make are pained coos and squeaks.

Harry must blackout for a while. It’s the only thing that makes sense, because one moment, everything is hurting, and then… Then, he suddenly feels complete. It feels as if a part of his body was missing, and suddenly, it’s been returned, and for the first time in his life, he’s actually full and whole and complete!

“Sirius?”

Harry blinks his eyes open. Zuhura kneels in front of him, with Fila cowering next to her. He tries to speak but there comes another one of those cooing noises.

“I know, don’t try to talk, okay? Your transformation was a success! You did it, Sirius!”

He did? He did it? What animal is he? Oh, he wonders what he became! Harry tries to lift his head to look down at himself, but Jesus, his head feels ten times bigger and ten times heavier.

“You’re a hippogriff, Sirius, just like we talked about. And oh, you’re beautiful! You’re this beautiful coal black all over, but your wings have these wonderful white markings. Your feathers look amazing in the sun. Don’t try to move yet, okay? Just catch your breath. There’s plenty of time.”

Harry does as she says. He lays still, lets his eyes fall shut as he focuses on simply breathing. He twitches minutely while feeling out his new body. There’s his tail. Hooves, back there. Talons in the front. Beak clicking. Wings fluttering slightly. Deep breaths filling massive lungs.

After several long minutes, Harry feels like he’s back in control of his body. Still, it’s a wobbly struggle to stand up on four legs, and even harder to get his wings folded back in a way that’s comfortable. Like they discussed beforehand, Harry is not going to try flying yet. Zuhura mentioned several of her friends struggling with learning to fly (and possibly more importantly, to land) in bird forms, and that it took them all some practice to figure out how to manoeuvre the wings properly. Given that they’re in the middle of the city, Harry isn’t going to risk his life in any more ways for today.

Right now, all he needs to do is figure out how to turn back.

After that, they’ll be visiting the Czech Ministry to get him registered.

Um. Exactly how does he turn back again…?

It’s been nearly two weeks since Griphook’s first letter about Sirius. Since then, Harry has been trying to stay busy with his sessions lead by Zuhura as well as the private studies made possible by the library’s enormous selection of books.

However, every two or three days, there has been a new letter from Griphook. Each one details what seems like Sirius’ growing desperation to find either his sons, his biological son and his godson. He seems to know Griphook is hiding things from him. Even Narcissa wrote once, about Sirius’ attempts to press her for any information; she insisted she only told him that they had met, and did describe Harry and his demeanour, but gave no details on his whereabouts.

Harry feels terrible. He knows none of this is fair to Sirius. Harry only used his name because he legitimately thought Sirius would remain imprisoned for the rest of his life, and that none this would matter in the long run. Hell, if Harry had known he would run into the Malfoys in Paris, he never would have used the name. He never meant for any of this mess to happen like this.

Today is the worst Harry has felt about any of this, because with today’s letter, Griphook sent along a message from Sirius himself. According to the goblin, the wizard went down on his hands and knees to beg for Griphook to send the message to his son and Griphook thought Harry deserved to read it and decide on his own, what to do next.

My son,

I beg you, please, let me see you only once. I have imagined your face a million different ways, and each one is a dagger in my heart. I would die a million times just to see your face once, to hold you once, to hear your voice once. I’m so sorry I’ve been gone, I never wanted that, and being away from you any longer is killing me. I beg you please to tell me where you are. I will be there. I’ll travel the globe to see you, no matter how far I must go or how long it takes me, I’ll come to you now and I will give you everything I have to make up for everything I have missed. Please forgive me. I love you.

Your father,

Sirius

In places, the ink is smudged in circles. Tears hitting the page.

Harry feels like a monster. How is Sirius going to react when he finds out...he doesn’t actually have a son? He wouldn’t blame him, if he hated Harry for making up a lie as awful as that.

But Sirius deserves to know the truth, even if it makes him hate Harry.

He writes to Griphook and gives him the exact address of his inn, along with his room number. He instructs Griphook to share the address with Sirius.

Then, Harry waits.

Zuhura definitely notices something is off during their sessions, but she doesn’t push him to talk about it which he appreciates. He’s not sure he’d know where to even start with all of this, how to explain any of it. Fila keeps plying him with tea, promising it’ll help him feel better, and Harry appreciates her concern.

In the afternoon, two days after Harry sent his latest letter to Griphook, there comes a knock on his door.

There’s only one person it could be.

He knocks again, more urgently this time.

Fila looks at Harry questioningly. The boy takes a deep breath, and nods. Fila hurries over. The door opens. Someone steps inside. The door shuts again.

Harry takes another deep breath. He stands up from his seat at the writing desk, and turns around.

Sirius Black looks incredibly different from the old picture in the Prophet, the one from when he was sent to Azkaban. His hair is long, but neatly trimmed. His moustache curls lightly at the ends. He wears a long wine-red coat with a dark suit underneath, though he’s much too thin for the suit to fit quite as well as it should.

“I’m very sorry, Sirius, but please let me explain.”

The man’s teary eyes well over. He lets out a breathless laugh. “You’re sorry? I should be the one apologizing.”

“Please. Just...let me explain.”

Harry reaches up. He undoes the small clasp of his earring and unhooks it from his ear. The glamour fades away in a slight wash of cool magic.

He watches Sirius’ eyes widen. “Harry...?”

The boy nods. “I’m so sorry. I was so angry and I just needed to go away and hide and using your name was the easiest way to do it, and I-I’m so sorry I lied and- and I’m sorry I’m not your- your son and that you had to come all the way here and-!”

Sirius moves towards him with swift steps. When he raises a hand, Harry can’t help but flinch away from the coming strike.

It never comes, though.

No, instead, Sirius falls to his knees and pulls Harry to himself and hugs him so tight that Harry almost feels some of the hurt and broken pieces inside him glue themselves back together.

“Of course you’re my son, you silly boy,” Sirius chokes out. Harry feels the tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt. “Maybe not by blood, Harry, but by God, of course you’re my boy, oh, God, I’m so glad you’re alright, I thought I’d die when they told me you were missing! Oh, my boy, Harry, my heart...”

Oh...

Harry feels his hands shake when he reaches out and hugs Sirius back.

They stay like that for a long time. Sirius cries the whole time. Harry may also shed a few tears.

Fila gently prods them apart after a while, herding them to sit at the small dining table crammed into the corner of the room. Tea and biscuits await them there. She serves them each a healthy cup of Darjeeling and piles up the biscuits on small plates for them, urging them both to eat.

“Thank you, Fila, you’re very sweet. Why don’t you go and see if Zuhura needs any help with her work? I think Sirius and I need to talk for a bit.”

“Yes, Master. Fila will be back the moment Master needs her!” she promises, before offering a curtsey and disapparating.

Harry clears his throat. “I...want to apologize again. For lying and using your name, and everything. I just...wanted to be left alone for a while, but my face, my name... Everyone knows me.”

Sirius has the saddest little smile on his face as he watches Harry. “I understand, and there’s nothing to be forgiven. You did nothing wrong. After all that’s come out about Hogwarts and Dumbledore, I understand why you felt unsafe. Running away was probably the best thing you could’ve done in a situation like that. I probably don’t have the right to say it, but... I’m proud of you, Harry. You saw an unsafe situation and you figured out how to leave it without getting hurt.”

The boy stares into his tea. “I just... It was the way he was talking. Dumbledore.”

“How do you mean?”

He runs his finger along the gilded rim of the cup. “The words he was saying, how he said them. And...the way he looked at me. It made me feel like the dumbest person in the world.”

Sirius sets his cup down with a bit too much force; the porcelain clatters, and a few droplets of tea splash onto the table. “Oh?”

“Yeah. And I guess I just realised that... If he really cared about me, he wouldn’t make me feel like that. He was an educator, right? He should’ve made his students feel safe and seen and important, but... He only ever talked to us like we were beneath him.”

Sirius sighs. “If only the rest of us had been as perceptive as you,” he says softly. “Your parents... They trusted Dumbledore with their lives. I did too, to be fair, and we both know where that put me. I... I’m the one who’s sorry, Harry. If I’d been smarter, less impulsive, maybe... Maybe I could’ve been there for you. Raised you. Obviously your parents wanted most dearly to do it themselves, but they still trusted me to take care of you, should something happen. And when it did happen... I failed them. I failed you.”

“You tried to get justice for them. That’s why you went after Pettigrew, isn’t it? You knew he was the Secret Keeper so when everything happened, you knew he had betrayed everyone.”

“Yes, but... Well. Let’s not talk about that now. We’ll only be going in circles, I think. As much as we hate it, the past is history.”

“So, what’s the path forward, then?” Harry questions. This might be nice and all, but he’s not so naive as to think this is the happy ending of the story. “I assume you want the Black lordship? It’s technically yours by right, so I won’t argue it. I’ll pick up one of my other titles instead, but... I admit, it’ll be hard to tell Aunt Cissa and Draco we’re not actually related.”

Sirius surprises him by scoffing at the idea. “Nonsense! You’re my godson, of course you’re related! Hell, let’s go down to Gringotts right now and file a blood adoption, then you’ll be my son by blood too! And the title? Keep it! I never wanted the bloody thing anyway! I was glad to be disowned, as much as it pained me too. Back then, the whole family was- Uch. Vile people, that’s what they were.”

Wait- Sirius would-… He would actually adopt Harry? That’s-… Harry didn’t- He didn’t think that would be something Sirius would want, not after Harry lied and ran away and caused all this trouble. Even if Harry is technically an adult by law, being formally adopted by Sirius as-

As his son, of sorts…

It’s not something Harry ever considered as a possibility.

“You…want to adopt me?”

Sirius pauses in the middle of his huffing and muttering about how awful his parents were. “Harry. Of course I do. I told you, didn’t I? Even if it isn’t by blood, you are my son,” he says in a tone that is both firm and gentle at the same time, highlighting the seriousness of his words. “The moment your parents were taken, you became my responsibility and my son. I failed to live up to that responsibility for some ten years now, but I promise you, Harry, I will never fail you like that ever again. Adoption, though, that’s something I’m leaving up to you to decide on. I never want to make that sort of choice for you. If you don’t want to be adopted, that’s completely okay. If you want to be adopted, then that’s what we’ll do. Whatever you choose, I will be with you from here until the moment I take my last breath, and I’ll continue to watch over you from beyond, right next to James and Lily. Don’t you ever doubt that, Harry.”

Oh… Okay. That- That sounds really nice. It sounds nice to-… To have a father. A parent of his very own. It’s not James and Lily, and Sirius can never replace them, both Harry and Sirius know that, but… Maybe that’s okay? Sirius can’t take their places, but he can be something different, right? Something new that’s just for Harry.

That would be really nice.

Chapter Text

“Thank you, Griphook, for coming all this way.” Harry shakes the goblin’s hand firmly.

“Not at all, Lord Black, anything for our valued clients. I should be thanking you, my Lord. The pen you sent is most excellent. It’s the only one I use anymore. A beautiful specimen, yet supremely comfortable to write with. I’ve been the envy of my colleagues.”

The boy chuckles as they step into the cramped office his account manager is borrowing at the Prague branch office of the bank. “I’m very glad you enjoy it. It felt like the least I could do for all the help you’ve given me. I saw it in one of the studios and I immediately thought of you, Griphook, to be honest. I thought the silver would suit you excellently.”

Griphook takes a seat behind the borrowed desk while his guests sit in front of it. “My deepest gratitude, my Lord. But, shall we move directly to today’s matters?”

“Yes, of course.” Griphook quickly picks up the mentioned glass pen, dipping it in ink and readying to take notes. “First, I would like to have my name legally changed. As I understand, even with our mild circumventing of the rules, I’m still legally named Harry Potter, yes?”

“Indeed, it is so. Because you wished to move with discretion, we may or may not have partially fabricated the identity in question. Changing your name and moving everything over to your true identity won’t be an issue. As for any concerns you might have regarding the Ministry tracking you down, the papers are filed here and copies sent directly to the Ministry’s archival department without any inspection by Ministry personnel. As long as the documents are filed correctly by Gringotts, and I assure you they will be, there is no manual inspection, the volume of work for the Ministry would be astronomical and they have no interest in taking on such a task. For a bureaucracy, they can be, at times, quite reticent when it comes to paperwork. Their loss, your advantage, my Lord. What is the new name, sir?”

Harry glances to Sirius sitting beside him, who looks a bit lost. Yes, he’s not completely up to date on all this business. Right. “The new name will be Sirius Harry James Evans Black IV on paper, but on my ID and passport and such, have it shortened down to Sirius Harry Black IV, please.”

Griphook fervently takes notes. “Certainly, sir, it will be done. Does Mister Black III wish to take over the lordship?”

Sirius shakes his head quickly. “No, thank you. But I dunno, maybe jot me down as a steward or something? An adviser or something of that sort.”

“Steward is a good title, I think,” Harry agrees. “We can share some of the responsibilities until I get older.”

“Yeah, exactly my thought,” Sirius says, nodding. “I’ll help out however and wherever it’s needed.”

The goblin hums, noting it all down. “Very good, very good. I will have a steward’s pin prepared and delivered to you shortly. Simply wear it on your lapel or similarly, and you will be recognized as acting in place of the lord, should the lord not be present. Any further business, sirs?”

“Yes, I’d like to file a blood adoption.”

“The ritual can be performed as soon as our discussion is completed. I will have you added to the Black family registry as soon as it is done. As you have already been enjoying the privileges of a Black, nothing in particular will change for you, aside from your blood status if that is something that concerns my Lord.”

The boy’s brows furrow. “My blood status? How does that change?”

Griphook sets his pen down, hands clasping together. “Because your adoptive blood father is a pureblood, and you are accepting him as your sole blood parent, his blood status becomes your blood status. Because he is a pureblood, you are a pureblood. It would be the same as a pureblood couple giving birth to a pureblood child. The status of the parents decides the status of the child. Because Sirius Black III is your only blood parent, his status dictates yours. If there was a second blood parent, their status would also affect yours.”

“But…my mother was a muggle-born.”

“Yes. However, a blood adoption supersedes the blood status of the biological parents. While you will still be the son of James Potter and Lily Evans Potter biologically, your blood will, by technicality, be that of Sirius Black III and the Black family.”

Right… The logic there isn’t really making sense in Harry’s head, but if that’s the way it is, then there isn’t much to argue about, is there? Sirius will only ever be his adopted father, blood or not, and that’s okay. James and Lily will always be his birth parents, his biological parents, and as much as he loves them, they’re gone. Wishing for them is all well and good, but at the same time, Harry knows the truth must be accepted. Sirius is the parent he can have, here and now, and he would much rather have Sirius, than no one.

“Alright. Um, what’s going on with Andromeda? Has she come to talk to you?” Harry questions to keep things moving.

“Cousin Andy?” Sirius cuts in. “You’re in contact with her?”

The boy shrugs. “Sort of. I wrote to her and offered contact, but… I haven’t heard anything yet. Griphook?”

“She has visited me once, so far,” the goblin informs. “She wished to see the documents you asked me to prepare, my Lord, and we discussed the estate briefly. She requested nothing at the time, but did ask some questions as to what you were willing to share with her and her daughter. As you instructed, I informed her of the monetary sum she and her daughter would be awarded, and explained that any requests for specific items or personal property would have to be approved by the lord himself. Madam Tonks chose to discuss things with her family before making any decisions. I’ve yet to hear anything further, but rest assured, I will contact you as soon as I have any new information.”

Sirius sighs; he rubs at his eyes and runs his hand through his hair. “Things got pretty ugly when they disowned her. Aunt Druella, she was a horrid woman. Andy feared her like death itself. I can only imagine that she’s scared to be dragged back into all that mess our family was.”

Harry understands exactly what Andromeda must be feeling about all this. If he were in a similar position with the Dursleys, finally tossed out and set free in a way, only for someone to come along and invite him right back into the hell he just escaped, even if it appears to be done in good faith? Harry would be fearful too. He’d be reticent, and yet, reluctantly hopeful too. Harry will give her all the time she needs, and if, in the end, her answer is no, then he will respect that.

Even if he hopes the answer will be yes, he can’t blame her if it is a no.

With business finished at the bank, Sirius apparates them out of the city to somewhere quiet in the countryside, on Harry’s instruction. Apparently, he came from over this way as he was flying in from Britain.

“What are we doing out here, pup?” the man asks while being dragged by the hand into the middle of a grass field. “Didn’t you say you had a session with your tutor soon? You wanted me to meet her, right?”

Grinning, Harry makes Sirius stop and wait where he is. “We’ll go right back in a minute, I swear! I wanna show you something!”

Sirius stands back with a smile. “Go on, then! Impress me!”

Oh, Harry certainly intends to!

He starts running. Between one step and the next, Harry lets the magic well up and the transformation takes over. His hooves and taloned feet hit the ground; his night-black wings spread wide. In a flash, he’s in the air, wings carrying him upwards. He loves this so, so much! At first, it was a pain to figure out how to make all four of his legs work in sync with each other, and add the wings in on top of that; oh, it was a mess! But with Zuhura’s help and guidance, he quickly started to get the hang of it and find the rhythm. He thought flying with a hippogriff was the most marvellous thing in the world, but he was dead wrong; flying as a hippogriff is what’s truly marvellous!

Flying! With his very own wings! It’s beyond describing. The wind through his feathers, all over his body and under his white-speckled wings… It’s nothing like how it feels when he’s on a broom; it’s a million times better!

Harry hears screaming below him. When he looks down, Sirius is bouncing back and forth, waving his arms and clapping his hands and grinning like an absolute idiot. Harry lets out a laugh-like squawk and adjusts his wings. His flight path changes and he soars lower, closing in on the ground. Feeling the ground under both hooves and talons is an odd comfort too, just like flying. He gallops the distance back to where Sirius waits, and the man is already running to meet him.

“Harry! Harry, oh, Merlin, Jesus bloody Christ! You’re a hippogriff! You’re a bloody hippogriff!” the man babbles excitedly. “I didn’t even know that was possible! And when did you become an animagus?! How did you do it?! It took us years to figure it out! God, you’re bloody brilliant!” He throws himself at Harry, his arms wrapping around the animal’s thick neck in a hug. “Can I fly with you? Just once! I’ve never ridden a hippogriff before!”

Mentally grinning to himself, Harry steps around, presenting his side. Sirius gasps in awe. He actually looks like he’s about to tear up all over again. When Harry nips at his hair, he gets the hint and gets a move on. He swings himself up onto Harry’s strong back and holds on tight to his neck-ruffle. Harry adjusts his wings, makes sure it’s comfy and his range of motion is good.

Then, he starts running again.

On his back, Sirius whoops his joy.

Harry counts his manuscripts once again.

Thirty-two, and the one he just finished now makes for thirty-three! Oh, Hermione is going to love this! Harry made sure to ask for a list of all the rarest volumes in the whole library, and now he’s finally done transcribing them (with magic, of course, because he’s pretty sure his fingers would be falling off if he tried doing it by hand) for Hermione to add to her personal library. They won’t be originals, obviously, but given the fact that most of the books on the list are one-of-a-kind, Harry doesn’t think she’ll mind much. He’ll have to hold onto them until he goes back to Britain himself; he wants to see her face when he explains what they are!

“You look happy today,” Zuhura comments as she joins him in the private reading room he usually reserves for them when they’ll be meeting at the library. “Did something good happen?”

“Not really, just thinking about a gift I’m looking forward to giving a friend of mine. I just know she’ll love it!”

His tutor chuckles. “I’m sure she will! Now, do we jump straight to practice, or do you want to go over the theoretical parts again?”

“No, I’m ready to practice!”

Laughing again, Zuhura summons up a collection of objects from her purse with a gesture of her hand. The objects line themselves up neatly on the table in front of Harry. First up, a tube of lipstick.

Deep breath. Find the magic inside. Guide it to his arm, down to his hand, out to the very tips of his fingers. Clear intent. Picture the result. Harry makes the gesture with his hand just as he’s memorized it.

The tube of lipstick vibrates slightly; it jitters in place, clattering against the table. Picture the result! Clear intent! Spindly little legs pop out of the sides of the tube. Antennae pop up on one end. The body vibrates. Harry tries to guide more magic down to his hand, to his fingers, and out towards the lipstick. With another awkward jitter of the body, the lipstick turns into a beetle!

“I did it!” Harry cries, jumping out of his seat.

The bug scurries across the table; it runs in confused circles.

“Good! Now, can you turn it back?” Zuhura challenges with a grin.

Lots of magic, clear intent, picture the result, a new hand-motion. Oh, no, stop moving! Stay still! He fires off the spell as best he can, and by some miracle, he manages to strike the ugly little bug. In an instant, the bug’s legs and antennae have been retracted, the body changes colour, and when it clatters to the ground, it’s right back to being a tube of lipstick.

Harry snatches it up and eagerly offers it to his teacher. Graciously, Zuhura accepts it. “Very good. The reversals come easy to you, but the initial transfiguration is a bit harder. Why do you think that is?”

The boy sits back down as he considers it. “Maybe…because I’m having a hard time picturing the result? But when I’m turning something back, I already know what the result looks like. I mean, I know what a beetle looks like and all, but it’s hard to make the mental image become a reality.”

“A good observation. This is an issue many people face with transfiguration. Like with many types of magic, it is all about intent and the mental state of the caster. And like many types of magic, this is something that improves only by practice. I can sit here and lecture you for days and days, but this will hardly make any difference when it comes to the practical application of magic. Yes, it may help you better understand how the magic in question works, but rarely will it ever improve the actual use of this magic. For that, all you can do is practice. So, let’s practice.”

Harry shifts his focus back to the items in front of him. The next one up is a bottle of ink.

Alright, here we go…

“That’s amazing, Harry! A Seeker, in your first year!” Sirius marvels during dinner. “Oh, James would’ve killed to be in your place! He was so upset that he couldn’t play our first year.”

“But he was really good too, right? I saw his name on a plaque in the Trophy Room.”

Sirius hums, pausing to sip on his wine. “He was the best! He was first up on the sign-up sheet our second year and he got a spot on the team, and trust me, he never let anyone take it away from him. Even during the off seasons, he’d train like mad just to make sure no one could come after his spot. He bloody loved quidditch. I think, if it hadn’t been for the war and all the troubles then, he would’ve loved to play professionally.”

Harry’s cheeks nearly hurt from grinning. He never thought learning about his parents would be this amazing. “You really think so?”

Smiling, Sirius nods. “Absolutely. Definitely had the skills for it. What about you? Think you wanna go pro one day?”

Harry picks at his food, shrugging. “I dunno… Is that really something a lord should be doing?”

The man sitting across from him shakes his head. “Don’t worry about what a lord should and shouldn’t be doing, pup. Worry about what you want. No one can tell you what to do with your life. That’s for you to decide.”

“Well… I’m not sure, honestly. I’m not sure what I want to do at all, not just about quidditch. I’m still only eleven, though, so I guess I’ve got some time to figure it all out.”

“I understand. It’s not easy imagining your whole future when you still feel like a kid.”

“What about you? What did you want to be?”

At that, Sirius gets a hearty chuckle. “Ah, I can hardly remember, honestly. With a war going on, it was hard to have dreams. I think I considered becoming an auror for a while, but… As soon as we left school, we all ended up on the frontlines. Fighting, surviving, was all we could really think about. Nothing else mattered, least of all day-jobs.”

Harry nods, listening avidly and with sympathy. He can’t even imagine what it must have been like back then. Only seventeen years old, fresh out of Hogwarts, and already neck-deep in a warzone, every single one of them. It’s hard to fathom that his parents managed to get married in a time like that, managed to have a baby! All the stress they must have been under, all the fear… For anyone to live through something like that and deal with a pregnancy then a baby all the while…

His thinking is interrupted when Fila appears beside him, tugging on his sleeve. “Master! Madam Healer Sharma sent a letter!” her board reads as she frantically waves the envelope at him.

Harry snatches the letter out of her hand (remind him to apologize later) and rips open the envelope to read it.

Lord Black,

I have finally secured you permission to visit Shambhala and receive lessons in soul magic. I will not waste time on pleasantries, and say only this: on the enclosed map, I have marked an approximate location of the school and approximate coordinates. The school, like most others, is unplottable so an approximation is the best I can do. You will be able to find it, once you get close. Good luck.

Concerning Fila’s ailment, I have identified the curse but have not yet found an effective countermeasure. I will continue my research and contact you if I find anything, but it appears the damage will most likely be permanent. I have already discussed the details with Fila.

I wish you both the best.

Sincerely,

Maya Sharma

He tucks the letter back in the envelope, checking quickly that the map is there as well, then gets up, quickly stamping his signet on the check awaiting payment. “Fila, I need you to apparate us back to the inn, right now.” The elf nods curtly and holds out both hands. Harry grabs one while a confused Sirius scrambles to hang on to the other. In a flash, they stand in Harry’s room. “Sirius, grab your things right away. We’re leaving immediately.”

“Wait, wait, wait! What’s going on?!” the man questions as Harry snatches up his bag and begins stuffing his belongings inside. “Where are we going? Why are we leaving? What was that letter?”

“I’ll explain later, just hurry!”

Sirius curses but gives in; he hurries out of the room to his own down the hall to grab his things. Harry steps over to the desk to write out a short note to Zuhura. Just a quick little thing to explain about a personal emergency, he’s very grateful for all her help, there’s a Gringotts Cheque in the envelope for her full payment, please do write to him if possible, he’d love to correspond with her! He sends Fila off with it just as Sirius staggers back into the room with his backpack slung over his shoulder.

On the way downstairs, Harry hands him his Nimbus 2000. Harry can fly on his own now, and yes, he could probably carry Sirius a fair distance but most likely not all the way to India, so the broom will have to do for him. They each check-out. On the street, Sirius takes Harry’s bag as well. While he saddles up on the broom, Harry transforms himself. His hooves clop loudly against the cobble street and his talons rasp uncomfortably over the stones. Sirius casts a disillusionment over each of them, and that’s that.

They both take off and settle in for the long flight.

It’s hard to track time in this form so Harry can’t say how long they fly for, but in return for that short-coming, he seems to instead have received the navigational capabilities of a hippogriff. They, like most animals, must be excellent at navigating as they travel, especially while in flight. All he needs to do is have a vague thought of I need to go to India and it’s as if his wings steer him there by themselves. Call it instinct or magic or navigation by stars or sensing the Earth’s magnetic fields, it matters little. All that matters right now is that it works. Harry knows they’re heading the right way. He just knows it. He can feel it.

Sirius stays close but gives him a wide berth with plenty of respect for his rather immense wingspan. He lets Harry lead the way. The show of implicit trust is…strange. Adults can’t be trusted, that’s a proven fact, and Harry hasn’t trusted anyone since he left Hogwarts. He had faith in his tutors and in the knowledge they were imparting upon him; he had faith that they each loved their craft enough to act in good faith while sharing their knowledge. Adults can’t be trusted; good faith only lasts until it’s proven wrongfully given. He liked them. He enjoyed their company and learning from them, and he loves everything that he’s learned, but that doesn’t mean he has any trust in them. They’re adults, and what was that again? Adults can’t be trusted.

But to be so fully trusted that Sirius would follow him blindly across the globe… Does that warrant Harry giving some small measure of trust in return? Sirius is an adult; Harry hardly knows him, even if he has been blood adopted by him, and he certainly doesn’t trust him.

They land somewhere in Bulgaria or Turkey, by Harry’s best guess. They sit in the grass. Harry lays down and pants for breath; Christ, flying is actually sort of exhausting, especially at the pace he was keeping. Maybe he should slow things down a bit, just to avoid completely wringing himself out right before he starts his training with soul magic. He’ll need all his energy for that.

“Harry, please. Tell me where we’re going. What happened? Why did we leave in such a hurry? Didn’t you have more sessions with Zuhura?”

Harry looks at the stars.

Sirius will find out once they get to Shambhala anyway. What would it matter if Harry told him now instead? It’s only a few hours difference. Harry should tell him. He deserves to know. Harry dragged him along for all of this so Sirius has a right to know. And yet, Harry struggles to open his mouth. It all comes down to the same thing as it always has previously; adults can’t be trusted, and Sirius is an adult.

Harry looks over at Sirius, who sits a small distance from him. The boy sits up, as well. “Can I trust you?”

It’s a big question to ask but it’s a question that has to be asked. Even if the answer isn’t honest, Harry will see the truth on Sirius’ face. He’ll see it in his eyes. Spotting a liar is all about the eyes.

When the question is asked, Sirius’ eyes fill with sadness. Grief. Pain. He makes a choked noise as if he’s been wounded, eyes falling shut for a moment as he swallows and accepts the wound. He lets out a heavy breath. Then, he opens his eyes again and meets Harry’s gaze. Now there’s something harder in his eyes, something steelier. There’s still pain and grief, but it’s been hardened into determination.

“Harry. Your parents trusted me. When they asked me to be your godfather, I accepted their trust and made a vow to never betray it. Still, I was stupid. I did something idiotic and I broke the vow I made to them, and I’ve been ashamed of that every single day since then. It’s haunted me every single day. By some grace, however, I’ve been given another chance. The moment I laid eyes on you, I made that vow all over again, and this time, I would rather die than break it. I’ll swear whatever oath you want, I’ll make the Unbreakable Vow if that’s what you need. Whatever you ask of me, I’ll do it. My loyalty is yours, until death and beyond death.”

Harry is deeply shocked to read nothing but truth in the man’s face, his eyes, his body. Everything says that his words are true.

He looks away, down at his feet stretched out in front of himself in the grass. That’s…a heavy promise to make. Undying fealty, without a moment’s hesitation… Harry doesn’t know what to say. No one has ever done or said something like that, for him. He never imagined that anyone would ever want to.

“Why don’t we fly a bit more, yeah?” Sirius suggests. “Think things over. I won’t ask again. I’ll wait until you’re ready to tell me. And if that moment doesn’t come… Well, that’s that. It won’t change anything for me. Okay?”

Yes. That’s… Harry needs to think on it. He needs to…process this.

Harry gets up; Sirius follows his lead, stretching his long, lanky limbs out for a moment before saddling back up on the broom. Harry makes a running stride; he leaps into the transformation and his gallop shows no stutters. It feels bloody majestic to spread his wings and take to the air.

Sirius spoke so honestly, with such sincerity. His promise of complete loyalty was… No one has ever done that before. Harry doesn’t know how to react. How is he supposed to respond to something like that? It makes him want to put his trust in Sirius, but how can he? Truly, how can Harry ever place any trust in anyone, after what he’s been through? The first people he can ever remember trusting were Petunia and Vernon, and what did he get in return? Abuse, neglect, hate. He may not have truly realized when he was with them, but once he got some distance, it’s like everything became clear to him. The damage they’ve done to him might be irreparable. He may not ever be able to trust anyone. Dumbledore only enforced that.

And now, Sirius is here and he’s making such amazing promises and Harry can actually imagine what life might be like if he did manage to give his trust in return, what it could be like if he let them grow something close to a father-son relationship. He wants it. He really does. It’s all he’s ever wanted. A family of his own, a parent who loves him and cares for him, someone he can always depend on.

Now he just has to dare.

Harry has to dare to offer up his most vulnerable self and open himself up to the risk of being hurt all over again, and…

He’s not sure he’s strong enough to do it. He’s not sure he’s brave enough.

He may be a Gryffindor but he’s never felt so cowardly in his life.

It’s late in the night when they land for another break, somewhere in what Harry believes may be Pakistan. He studies the map Maya sent and compares the stars to some of the charts he acquired under Coco’s tutelage. It shouldn’t be much further left to fly. Another hour in the air, perhaps less, depending on the speed they keep and the wind conditions. According to Maya’s map, Shambhala lays tucked away in the Himalayas, right near where the borders of India, Nepal, and China meet. It’s supposedly one of the most secretive schools in the world, but what little information he could find about it claims the school building has been carved into the mountain itself. Supposedly, they’re reticent to accept visitors, which is most likely why it took Maya so long to convince them to let him, an outsider, come and learn from them. Though Harry hates the reason why he has to go there, he still feels quite blessed to be offered the privilege, he understands it’s not something given lightly.

“Sleeping rough or flying through the night?” Sirius asks after Harry tucks the map and charts away.

“It’s not much further to go. Probably under an hour.”

“Alright, sounds good. Rest a bit longer then we’ll keep going. You should be careful, those wings must be straining your back something fierce.”

“It’s fine,” Harry disagrees while sitting down in the grass.

He has to dare, hasn’t he? Nothing is ever going to change or get better, if he doesn’t dare. Isn’t that what bravely really is, too? It’s not being unafraid, but acting despite the fear. Harry is so afraid that it feels like he might throw up.

Harry swallows dryly. Sirius should know. If he knows, he can help, even if Harry has no idea how anyone is supposed to help with this. He pulls his knees up and hugs them. He doesn’t like thinking about it. About the thing that lives inside him. He’s tried his hardest to not think about it since three weeks ago, when Maya first told him. Harry has studied occlumency as best he can and he thinks he’s managed to put up decent walls around his mind, but even then, he’s done his best to not actually think about it.

“When Voldemort tried to kill me... Something happened.”

Silently, Sirius shuffles closer, crossing the small distance that they had sat apart. His hand comes to rest so very softly on Harry’s back, stroking him there in circles, spreading this delicate warmth through his body. Being comforted by a parent... What a novel idea.

“Voldemort’s soul... It broke, somehow. Part of it… There’s a part of it inside me. It’s always been there, ever since then.”

Sirius’ arm wraps around Harry more fully, holding him close to the man’s side.

“Knowing it’s there, it makes me feel all...weird. Like, my skin isn’t my own. But in India, at one of the magic schools there, they’re going to teach me soul magic so I can get rid it. But I still just...”

“But it’s still scary right now,” Sirius finishes for him as if reading his mind.

Harry nods. He leans into Sirius.

It’s scary to think about it. Voldemort is a really evil person who has hurt and killed who knows how many people in his struggle for power. And...there’s a part of him that lives in Harry. A nasty, sick, twisted piece of Voldemort is inside Harry, all mixed up with his own soul. What if Harry can’t do it? What if he can’t get rid of it? What if...it has to stay inside him forever? Maya said it might end up killing him one day. What if, one day, he’s just going about his life and suddenly he gets an awful headache again, and this time, it’s so bad that his body just can’t take it? What if Voldemort really does kill him in the end?

“I don’t want to die, Sirius.”

The man embraces him, arms wrapping tightly around Harry. “You’re not going to die, Harry. You’re smart and you’re strong, and you learn quick. You’ll pick up this soul stuff in a flash, and you’ll get rid of that nasty little parasite, and you know what happens after that?”

Harry shakes his head.

“Well, I’ll tell you. You and me, we’ll go back home to Britain, and you’ll see all your friends again, and Narcissa and Draco, and maybe even Andy and her family! We’ll live together, you and me, and be a family, the two of us. You’re not going to die, Harry. You know why? Because I’ll protect you.”

Even though Harry knows, logically, that there isn’t much Sirius can do to protect him in this mess of a situation, the words still bring him comfort.

Maybe that’s just the power of a parent. Harry wouldn’t know. Maybe this is the start of him learning…

They sit like that for a long time.

Harry doesn’t cry. It feels like maybe he should; he hasn’t done that yet, cried about the misery of it all. Maybe some part of him is trying to protect him in this way, too. Crying is showing vulnerability. Right now, Harry doesn’t think he can afford to be more vulnerable than he has already dared to be this evening. With Voldemort in his head, there’s no room for vulnerability.

“Come on, my boy,” Sirius urges, giving Harry another short squeeze in his embrace before beginning to let up. “Let’s ride together on the broom from here. Let that big smart head of yours rest for a bit, okay? I’ll take us the rest of the way.”

That sounds really nice.

Chapter Text

Like Harry’s minute research promised, Shambhala has indeed been carved into the side of the mountain. The steep incline makes for a staggered layout, like steps of a staircase where the roof of each previous level becomes a terrace for the one above it. At the base of the mountain, where the school lies, a hidden valley is spread open. A massive rainforest that shines likes emeralds fills most of the valley with only a smaller space left open in front of the building, paved with fine stone blocks that were no doubt taken out of the mountain as the school was being constructed. There is a number of oil lanterns and braziers on each level; they bathe the dark stone with warm orange light.

It's stunning.

The air is chilly as they approach, with spots of snow visible on the surrounding mountains, but it’s as if there’s a greenhouse dome constructed over the school valley, which from a distance makes the place look arid and snow-filled. It’s only when they get closer that the truth becomes obvious to them.

Sirius brings them in on a slow descent and a very light landing that has them touching down on the paved ground-level terrace. When Harry makes to approach the building, Sirius stops him and guides the boy to stay behind him. Sirius leads them closer with his wand drawn as a precaution, the tip lit up with a bright white light. Harry doesn’t expect to be attacked, this is a school after all, but as it is the middle of the night and there have yet to be any signs of life, perhaps it’s best to remain cautious.

“If anything happens, Harry, transform and fly away,” Sirius tells him, his voice firm. “That’s an order. I’ll catch up.”

Swallowing in discomfort at the implications of the command, Harry still nods his understanding. He hangs onto the back of Sirius’ coat.

They freeze when the main entrance, a set of stone double-doors, opens slightly. A young woman slips out, holding a small oil lamp. She smiles when she sees them and waves.

“I am glad you found your way here! I know the place is hidden quite well,” she says as she holds the lamp up somewhat. The glow of the flame makes the gilded details of her pink sari glitter. “We have been expecting you. Please, come inside. I have prepared a room for you. You will have to share, unfortunately. I didn’t know you would bring company, but that’s alright.”

Sirius puts out the light of his wand and lowers it. “Thank you. Sorry. Best to be cautious, you understand. I’m Sirius, his godfather.” He wraps his arm over Harry, resting his hand on the boy’s shoulder and holding him close to his side.

The witch only smiles and nods. “Of course. Come. You must be tired. Let me show you to your room.”

She leads them through the doors into the wide, spacious hallway inside. There, braziers are set up at regular intervals, though for the night, their flames are just low enough to glow dimly. During the day, they must burn much higher to illuminate the building properly.

“I’m Durga,” the young witch informs as she leads them through the winding hallways. “I’m a teaching assistant usually, but during your stay, Headmaster Bhattacharya has assigned me to act as your guide and translator. There are many people here, both students and staff, that don’t speak English. Many are polyglots, yes, but English is a low-priority language for most.”

“Completely understandable,” Sirius comments. “Nothing to worry about, I’m sure, with our trusty guide to lead the way.”

Durga laughs melodically just as she lifts the skirt of her sari to let her ascend the stairs unobstructed. “We will sort it all out together, I’m sure.”

She shows them up to the third floor and through some more dimly lit hallways before they reach a room tucked away in a deep corner. Though the room is small, it’s comfortably furnished with a bed, desk, wardrobe, and a comfy-looking armchair in the corner, and the stone floor is covered nearly fully by plush rugs. Durga takes the wand from the decorated holster on her hip and gestures it across the room. First the oil lamp sitting on the desk lights up to illuminate the room, and next, the armchair morphs into a second bed.

“There are some clothes for you in the wardrobe,” she says to them, then. “The heat can be tough if you’re not ready for it, so I prepared some things just in case you don’t have anything suited for the weather. The fabric is very receptive to charms, Sirius, so it should be no trouble to enlarge them for you, but I will prepare some in your size tomorrow. I will collect you for breakfast at eight, and introduce you to your teacher after.”

“Thank you, Durga,” Harry says softly. “I’m...ready to learn.”

Her smile softens to something tinged with gentle kindness. “We’ll do our best to help. Both of you should rest. I’m sure the trip was very long.”

Sirius thanks her as well as she excuses herself from the room. When the door shuts behind her, Harry finds himself embraced once more by Sirius. He leans into it for a long time.

The comfort of a parent, huh...

The dining hall is a beautiful place. The seating is divided into three sections; tables and chairs in one, lower tables with plump, plush pillows to sit on in the second, and the third has people sitting comfortably on the ground and keeping their plates in their laps, with carpets and pillows to soften the stone floors if they so wish. Students and teachers sit mingled together here and there, though it looks like most of the teachers have grouped together much like the students with their own friend groups. Sunlight streams in from the tall windows, leaving the braziers and oil lamps dark for now. The walls are covered in magnificent carvings with the most incredible level of detail.

“They are scenes from Hindu mythology,” Durga explains as she shows them to an unoccupied spot. They sit down on the colourful pillows around the low table, and within moments, a spread of food appears before them. “At first, the school only accepted Hindu students, but thankfully, this has changed with time. Now, we welcome students from all over India, Nepal, China, Bangladesh, and even more, without any type of faith or religion as requirements or obstacles.”

Sirius hums along with interest as he fills his plate from the selection of food made available. “What motivated the change, if I may ask?”

“Some decades after the school opened, the staff began to realize many young people were unable to receive a full education. People who did not go to school grew up and had their own children, who in turn did not attend any school and were taught by their parents and family, and it continued like this. The main argument was that if nothing was done, there would, in the end, be a crisis of education, and magic in this area of the world would stagnate, and perhaps even die out, simply because the knowledge was lost to time. It was agreed that admittance would be offered to every magical child in the surrounding area, to try to avoid this crisis. At first, many were hesitant to attend, but with time, it has thankfully become the norm. Of course, many more, smaller schools have cropped up in the centuries since then, so thankfully, these days, no child goes without the opportunity for education. It saddens me to think of the many children who could not live up to their full potential, simply because they had no one to teach them. Yes, I’m sure most, if not all, of them were very happy and satisfied with their lives as they were and I have no qualms with this. I only think about all the opportunities they might have missed out on, all the friends they could have made, all the things they simply did not have the chance to do or learn or see.”

“How much happier could they have been, one has to wonder,” Sirius agrees.

Durga nods solemnly. “Indeed. But it does not do to dwell on the past. Better to turn our minds to the present and the future.”

“Hear, hear,” the man says, raising his cup of tea in a small toast to her wise words. “Speaking of the present. Harry, how are you?”

The boy looks up from his plate, giving a slight shrug. “Just...nervous, I guess.”

Sirius offers a sympathetic smile, reaching out to run his hand over the boy’s head, through his hair. “I’ll stay with you the whole time, I promise. I won’t leave your side for a moment, unless you ask me to. Remember that.”

His hand comes to rest on Harry’s shoulder, then, which allows the boy to nod minutely. “Thanks. Thinking about...that being inside me is just- It makes my skin feel all crawly.”

Durga reaches across the table to gently lay her hand on his, as well, offering some small comfort of her own. “Lady Madhuri is a gifted soul mage. She has devoted her life to the art. There is no better teacher in the world, than her. With her help, there is nothing to fear.”

Harry sucks in a slow, deep breath, nodding. Right. He’s here to learn from the best, and with her help, he’ll get it all sorted out and take his body back for his own. Voldemort has taken enough from him. He won’t let the bastard take his body, his life, too.

Nerves somewhat assuaged, Harry eats until his stomach is full to bursting. Not only because the food is delicious, but also because he knows he’s going to need all the energy he can get. As Maya mentioned some weeks ago, soul magic is considered part of the Dark Arts in most of the world so there is very little written about it, but from what little Harry could find, it is supposedly one of the most taxing forms of magic a person can perform. It takes both physical and mental energy, as well as oceans of magical energy, to make use of it. Apparently, many people who try their hand at it die simply because they don’t have enough energy to sustain even the mildest uses of the art. He can only hope Lady Madhuri won’t let that happen to Harry.

As he waits for his two companions to finish their own plates, he summons Fila. She has his mail ready for him as usual. The Prophet, letters from his friends and-... One with beautiful handwriting he doesn’t recognize. Curious, he opens that one first, eyes dropping to the bottom of the page to find the sender’s name.

Andromeda!

It’s from Andromeda! She actually wrote back to him, she really did! His eyes skip back up to the top to read every single word as closely as possible.

Lord Black,

I was shocked, to say the least, to receive your letter. Reading it was both painfully and beautifully nostalgic. According to Griphook at the bank, you’re the son of my cousin, Sirius, which was quite the surprise to hear. I had no idea he had children, but I suppose that neither did he, until he was released from Azkaban. I do hope you’ve met with each other. He’s a silly boy, from what I recall, and I hope dearly that this hasn’t changed even after everything he’s been through.

I spoke to Griphook, as I mentioned. I’ve yet to actually take out ‘our share’ of the estate like you suggested, but I have considered it. I’m still not sure if I want to accept it. I’m not sure how I feel about it, really, to be honest. I’ve discussed it at length with my husband and daughter, and they’ve assured me that the decision lays with me, and they will support me either way. I do wish for my dear Nymphadora to meet you, her cousin. Ted, my husband, has no family left either, so it’s always just been the three of us. I think Nymphadora wants a big family, but that she’s hesitating to speak of it for fear of hurting me. In truth, I’m not sure how to feel about it. It’s not a burden she should have to bear.

After much consideration, I have decided that I will be amenable to meeting you, as well as your father if you feel like bringing him along. Seeing him again would be nice. My family will not be joining us for our meeting. I will meet you alone first. If I find you unsuitable to be around my family, or if it becomes too painful, things will end. If it is the latter, perhaps we may try again in the future, but it remains to be seen, I suppose.

Inform me of when you intend to return to Britain and we can discuss the details of our meeting.

In a way, I’m actually really looking forward to meeting you, despite my anxieties. I am afraid to hope too much, but I will move forward with cautious optimism.

Sincerely,

Andromeda Tonks

She wants to meet him? Truly?

“Sirius, look!” he says, shoving the letter at him. “It’s Andromeda, she wants to meet me! She said you can come too!”

The man all but throws his utensils down in his haste to accept the letter. Grinning with unrestrained glee, Harry watches Sirius’ eyes dart back and forth across the page. Little by little as he reads, his face lights up. When he finishes, he nearly throws himself across the table to hug Harry.

“Oh, you wonderful, brave, brilliant boy! God knows I’m a bloody coward, I’d never dare to reach out to her, but you, oh, you sweet boy,” he babbles even as Harry hears the tears fill his voice. “We’d all be nothing without you, you hear me? Me, Cissa, Andy, all too prideful and cowardly to take the first step, and here comes you, braver than all of us put together, you are.”

Harry giggles while Sirius cradles his face in his hands and plants a sloppy kiss on his forehead before sitting back again. “I dunno, I was just hoping for family, I guess,” he confesses while wiping his forehead on the sleeve of the airy white tunic Durga left for him in their room.

“And you have it, Harry,” Sirius tells him with a sincere tone. “I’m sorry it took so long, but I promise you, you’ll always have family, from hereon out.”

Harry smiles.

What was it Basim said? A man can’t escape his destiny, only delay it. Maybe Harry is destined for family; things just got a bit delayed, that’s all. He likes that idea. He’ll have to write to Basim soon, and thank him for his wisdom.

Sirius dives back into his meal with renewed enthusiasm, though focuses more on reading the letter again than actually getting food in his mouth. Harry unrolls the Prophet with a smile still on his face. The smile fades quickly, though, as he reads the headlines. New sightings of Voldemort, he’s scraping together what few supporters he has left, the Dark Mark lighting up the sky all across Britain, the Ministry forced to beg aid from the I.C.W, aurors and hit wizards from all of Europe flocking to Britain to assist, Hogwarts patrolled day and night, Fudge urges the people to remain calm, Azkaban security increased.

Everything is quite the mess, isn’t it?

In some way, Harry can’t help but feel guilty about it all. The reasonable, logical part of his brain knows none of it is his fault; with or without his involvement, things would come to this at some point or another, sooner or later. Voldemort is alive; he would come forth sooner or later, no matter what Harry’s involvement might be. Yet, the emotional side of him still feels like it’s all his fault. If he hadn’t brought the I.C.W down on Hogwarts, Voldemort wouldn’t have been found out and none of this panic would be going on, and the strongest wizard in the country, Dumbledore, would still be free and around to fight Voldemort when the day for it comes. But now, Dumbledore is in prison and Voldemort is on the loose with no one around to keep him in check.

Now, all there is, is Harry. He’s walking around with a piece of Voldemort’s soul trapped in his head; that has to mean something, right? There has to be a reason Voldemort tried to kill him at all, right? Harry was just a baby, why would Voldemort hunt him down on nothing more than a whim? There was a reason his parents went into hiding, and a reason why Voldemort still hunted them down, a reason why he was obsessed with killing a one-year-old baby.

Harry needs to talk to Sirius about this later, when they’re alone.

For now, he needs to focus on his new tutor and what she has to teach him.

Durga shows them to the fourth floor once breakfast is finished. There, she leads them into what looks like it might be an office, or a private study, of sorts. The room in quite large, and perfectly circular. In the centre of the ceiling, there hangs a gilded brazier which keeps the room in a low light. Books are stacked neatly against the walls, floor to ceiling, but with a narrow break in the pattern to make room for a cramped desk. Most of the floor is covered in an intricate set of carvings. Concentric circles, where each band has been etched into the stone and the space in between them filled with symbols and letters that Harry doesn’t recognize. In the very centre of the circles, there sits a person. Her long grey hair lays in a thick braid down along her spine. She seems to be wearing a sari as well, though from what Harry can see, it looks much more intricate than the light and simple style that Durga wears.

On their guide’s direction, Harry and Sirius put their hands together as if to pray, and bow deeply to the woman. Durga speaks to her softly; Harry of course can’t understand the language, but it sounds beautiful and melodic when Durga speaks it. The woman, Lady Madhuri, responds in a somewhat brusque manner. Durga directs them again. They sit down on the floor, as far back from Lady Madhuri’s circles as possible, and wait.

After several minutes, Madhuri rises up. She walks straight forward until she has crossed out of the circles, and only then does she turn around. She’s beautiful. Though her face is lined with age, she remains beautiful. Her arms are adorned in intricate red patterns, golden bangles on either wrist, and Harry can see she wears similar jewellery around her ankles too, when she briefly lifts the skirt of her sari to step out of the circles. Her ears drip in gold as well, with an ornate chain running from her left ear to the small hoop in her left nostril. Between her eyebrows, Harry recognizes the red bindi dot; he asked a girl in his class about it once, she and her twin sister both wore them sometimes, and she explained it was a religious practice sort of thing.

Durga speaks again, and gestures to the two of them; both his and Sirius’ names are spoken mixed in with lots of other words he doesn’t recognize. Madhuri studies them for many moments. She says something, waving her hand at Harry.

“She asks that you take off your mask so she may look at you properly,” Durga translates.

Mask? Oh, the glamour! Harry forgot all about that! Quickly, he unfastens the earring Griphook gave him and hands it over to Sirius, who tucks it into his pocket for safe-keeping. Madhuri moves around the circles; her bangles jingle slightly with each step, making an almost musical rhythm, until she stands over Harry. She makes the universal gesture of stand up, which he hurries to do. She takes his chin gently in her hand and leans in. Her dark brown eyes peer deeply into his own. Harry could swear she’s looking into his soul, and knowing what she’s going to teach him, she very well might be. She looks away. On her gesture, Sirius scrambles to stand up too, and receives the same deep, probing look.

The Lady walks away to scan over her collection of books. After some moments, she pulls a volume from one of the stacks. They watch her flip through the pages as she wanders back to stand with them. When she finds what she’s looking for, she turns the book around to show them.

Sirius staggers backwards against the door. Harry’s heart jumps into his throat. One of the pages is filled with lines of text, the same symbols as are used in the circles on the floor, while the other is covered by a sketch of an awful-looking creature. It looks like a black cloak that came to life with bony hands reaching out of the sleeves, and all that exists of it’s face is a hollow where a mouth should be.

Madhuri slams the book shut. Sirius’ breaths come quick and shallow; Harry rushes to embrace him. The man hugs him back desperately, clinging to him as if to reassure himself that Harry is real.

“You both have diseases,” Durga translates when Lady Madhuri speaks. “Harry, you have a parasite feeding on your life. Sirius, your soul has been worn thin by this creature, the dementor. There isn’t much left. You must heal. It will be a demonstration for Harry. She will nurture your soul.”

“Nurture my soul?” Sirius questions, and Durga passes it on.

Madhuri nods. “You are a flower that has not been cared for. You will wilt with time. Lady Madhuri aims to prune your roots, water you, shower you in sunlight, and help the recovery begin. Once it has begun, simply living your life will be enough to sustain your blooming. But first, you must be nurtured.”

Sirius swallows loudly. He nods his consent.

The Lady directs them all with firm, curt orders, though she never speaks unkindly. Durga and Harry sit at the side of the room to watch. Madhuri will explain what she’s doing as she’s doing it and Durga will translate for Harry, who will absorb as much of it as he can. Sirius is guided into the circle. He sits down in the centre, just as the Lady had when they all entered. Madhuri stands behind him. She places her hand on top of his head.

“The circles help gather energy and keep it from dispersing,” Durga translates in a whisper when Madhuri begins her lecture. “Each circle pulls energy into the centre, and into the person sitting there. With her hand on the Sahasrara, the top of the head, she is directing the flow of energy, guiding where it enters and where it travels inside Sirius.”

It doesn’t look like anything is happening, but Harry can feel something. He’s not exactly sure what it is, it’s something very weak, just a tickle at the back of his neck that makes his hair stand on end and sends goose bumps down his arms. Maybe it’s magical energy? Swirling through the air and being drawn into the circles, into Sirius on Madhuri’s command.

“The energy enters through the Ajna, between the eyes, and passes through the brain and down the throat, into the chest, where the soul resides.”

Sirius slumps forward somewhat, but Madhuri catches him by the shoulder and holds him upright. Harry has grabbed onto Durga’s hand before he even knows it; the woman says nothing about it, only squeezing his hand as if to reassure him.

“Now she is purging the weakened energy from his soul and replacing it with new, healthy energy, feeding his soul to stimulate it to begin recovering on its own.”

Harry’s mouth falls open, eyes widening, in awe when he can actually physically watch wispy white smoke trickle out from Sirius’ slack mouth. It strikes him that it looks so extremely similar to the patronus. The white light, pure energy… The patronus, is it…a physical representation of the soul, outside the owner’s body? Created and fuelled by the power of one’s actual soul… He needs to ask Lady Madhuri about it later, when he gets a chance.

“She can’t just push in new energy and leave it unattached, it would leak away or be rejected if she did, so she has to carefully braid each strand together with Sirius’ soul and its energy, connecting them together. Once they are bound together, it will be easier for his soul to draw the foreign energy in and accept it. She must adjust the new energy to match the frequency and strength of Sirius’ own, otherwise his soul might consider it an infection, an intruder, and push it out. It must be a perfect match, or else there is a risk of rejection. It has to be done very, very carefully, to avoid doing more harm than good. The new energy will stimulate Sirius’ soul into functioning on a more normal level. It may take a few treatments, but it will help him recover from the damage inflicted on him so that he may live a long and healthy life.”

Right. Long and healthy life. Harry clings onto that.

“She has completed the first treatment. Now, she is carefully slowing the stream of energy by closing the Ajna chakra back to normal. She opens the circle and allows the gathered energy to disperse back into the world.”

Durga jumps to her feet then, letting go of Harry’s hand. She hurries into the circle and helps Madhuri bring Sirius up to his feet. He slumps against them but staggers along where they lead, out of the circle over to where Harry sits. Quickly, Harry jumps into action too, receiving Sirius and helping lower him slowly to the floor again. They lay the man out on the cool stone, and Harry lets his head rest in his lap. Gently, he sweeps Sirius’ long hair away from his face.

Finally, the man opens his eyes.

“Sirius! Are you okay?”

An exhausted grin tugs on his lips. “Never better, pup. Never better…”

Madhuri crouches down beside Sirius, laying her hand on his chest. Then, she moves her hand gently to his throat for some moments, before moving it again and placing it on his forehead.

“She will confirm later once the energy has settled but for now, she thinks maybe three or four more treatments should be enough,” Durga translates. “You just need to rest now.”

Harry summons Fila to help; she absconds the man back to their room for the moment to let him recover. In the mean time, Madhuri collects a book from one of her many stacks and the three of them sit down together. She opens the book to show him an illustration of a human body, which has five flowers painted on it.

“There are five chakra centres in the body,” the second part of her lecture begins, through Durga. “Muggles believes there are seven, but this is misinformation spread to avoid muggles damaging their own souls or the souls of others. They have no traditional magic, this is true, but the soul is a magical core that exists even in muggles. The energy exists there, but muggles do not have the power to harness it like we, wizards and witches, do. Soul magic, however, in its base form, uses the core itself, not the energy inside it or around you. Therefore, even muggles can use a very base form of soul magic. Thus, we must protect them from themselves. The five true chakras are these. Sahasrara.” The crown of the head. “Ajna.” Between the eyes. “Vishuddha.” The throat. “Anahata.” The middle of the chest. “And Manipura.” The solar plexus.

Harry studies the illustration and listens closely.

“The soul resides within the Manipura. Energy enters through the Sahasrara and Ajna, moves through the Vishuddha, the Anahata filters away any uncleanliness, any imperfections, and feeds only the purest energy into the soul in the Manipura, which then pumps this life energy to the rest of the body, like the heart does blood. The soul does create energy as well, but only the minimum to sustain life. The rest is absorbed from the world around you. Some people create more energy than others, but take in the same amount, which is what gives wizards and witches magic.”

Fascinating... Harry will have to make sure to write all of this down later, and bring his writing supplies to future sessions. This is absolutely riveting information.

“Some create even more still, and these become the singularly gifted ones, those with strength that goes unmatched.”

How interesting. To think that, most likely, both Dumbledore and Voldemort have those ‘special’ souls, the ones that create more energy than those of anyone else. Harry wonders who else in the world of wizardry has a soul like that. Everyone at Hogwarts says Hermione is gifted; does that mean she has one of those souls? How does one even measure that? Is there a difference between created energy and absorbed energy? Curious about this, Harry poses these two questions to the Lady.

Madhuri actually has to consider her answer for some moments before giving it. “She thinks that describing the difference between the two energies in words is almost impossible,” Durga translates dutifully. “Created energy feels warmer in a way, thicker, while absorbed energy has a cooler, more watery feeling. It’s something that can’t quite be described, but must be felt. To measure it in someone, you would reach into their body through the Sahasrara, like she did with Sirius, the hand on the head, or through one of the other chakra centres, and gently palpate the soul. It takes many years of training to perform this on another person, but to sense within yourself is much easier because you are already perfectly connected to all the chakras and the soul itself.”

Right, that makes sense in a way, right? It would be like…the difference between feeling that you yourself are hungry and reaching into someone else to sense if they are hungry. It’s much easier to feel it in yourself because you’re already in the body in question, you’re already connected to the stomach and all that. It might be possible to learn to sense it in another person, but like Madhuri said, it would take years of practice. Incredible… This is absolutely fascinating! He can most certainly understand why Madhuri, and many others, would devote their lives to studying a subject like this; it feels like the whole world has been put in a brand-new perspective for Harry, all over again. Just like when he first got his Hogwarts letter, Madhuri’s lecture is tilting the world into focus from a whole new angle.

Of course, Harry can also understand why people might think soul magic is part of the Dark Arts, too. The very idea of being able to feel one’s own soul, and being able to literally touch the souls of other people… To someone without a teacher like Madhuri, in an actual school environment, Harry can see why it would sound petrifying. The soul is the essence of life, it’s as simple as that, and for someone to be able to play around with that how ever they please, it would strike fear into the bravest of men, Harry thinks.

“What about the patronus?” he goes on to question his teacher. “How is that connected to the soul? When you purged the bad energy from Sirius, the stuff that leaked out of his mouth looked just like the stuff a patronus is made of. They must be connected, right?”

To this question, Madhuri actually quirks her lips in a satisfied smirk; she was hoping he’d make the connection, perhaps? She flips a few pages further in the book that still lays open in her lap. The new spread is dominated by a sketch of a person, with the chakra flowers on their body, with lines leading out of the two flowers in the head, through the flower in the throat, into their arm and to the wand in their hand; the lines them re-emerge from the tip of the wand to form the shape of a bird. The illustration is surrounded in text and Harry wishes dearly that the translation charm Zuhura cast on his glasses when they first met would work on these letters as well; he’d love to read this whole book.

“So…the patronus is soul energy?”

Madhuri nods, pointing to parts of the sketch as she speaks. “The patronus is a minor form of soul magic, but not usually classified as such. The animal is a representation of the mind. The chakras in the head, what are they?”

“Sahasrara and Ajna,” Harry replies, pronouncing them as close to how Durga does as he can.

“Very good. They absorb energy. It swirls around the brain. When the patronus is cast, one draws energy directly from the Sahasrara and Ajna, through the body, through the channel of the wand, and the time the energy spent mingling with the mind is how the animal form is chosen. This is why the form of the patronus can change. Any great changes of the mind, will influence the shape.”

Harry is enraptured with the Lady’s lecture. This is incredibly interesting, Harry can’t wait to learn as much as he possibly can in the time he spends here.

Chapter Text

Harry shivers; Madhuri’s study feels just a bit too chilly when he’s only in his underwear. At least he got to put his slippers back on to save him from the cold floor.

“So, what is this stuff?” he questions while Madhuri paints some sort of paste onto his body, starting on his left arm, with a very thin brush.

“Have you ever heard of henna?” Durga asks, holding the bowl of brownish-red paste for the Lady as she paints him, to which he nods.

“It’s like a temporary tattoo thing, right?”

“One could call it that. When it is painted on you like this and left to sit for some time, it stains the skin. After washing off the paste itself, the stain remains for weeks at a time. It has many different cultural significancies in this area of the world, and in the cultural magics practiced here. For you, Lady Madhuri is painting something similar to her circles. You don’t have years to dedicate to studying here so she hopes this will act as a shortcut of sorts. Hopefully, it will help to strengthen the energy within you to make it easier for you to find and interact with it.”

Harry nods along. Interesting. He can’t wait to see what it all looks like when it’s done! If it looks anything like the intricate red patterns covering the Lady’s own arms and hands, Harry’s going to be walking around feeling like a piece of art!

As of yet, Madhuri has only painted the back of his hand, his fingers, and up his forearm with, as Durga explained, symbols and letters similar to those carved into the floor of the study. Swirling lines crawl up his arm until just near his elbow. Then, Madhuri moves over to his right arm and repeats an almost identical pattern there. Harry would have thought it would take hours just to do one side, but Madhuri’s brush is swift and precise. Still, it takes nearly an hour to do both hands. She begins on his feet just as Sirius joins them.

The man doesn’t look much different but after his second treatment this morning, he at least seems a bit more energized. After resting for some three hours, of course. It’s like there’s just a bit more light in his eyes, and he walks with just a bit more ease. Harry can only hope he’ll be fully restored within another few days.

They have been at Shambhala for some five days now, which Harry has spent mostly listening to Madhuri’s private lectures and attending some of the classes she teaches. Only the ones for the first-year students, though; he’s far from ready for anything more advanced than that. The time not spent being lectured to, he has dedicated mostly to the school’s library, particularly the section concerning souls and soul magic, which Durga has been a marvellous help with by reading to him. Apparently, translation charms aren’t quite suited for Sanskrit, which is of course unfortunate. Durga, his saving grace, she is. She may also help him pick out books to transcribe, mostly for Hermione but they also find some he thinks Ron and Draco will enjoy. He strikes a deal with Durga; she’ll help translate the manuscripts to English for him, though of course her usual duties at the school (and during Harry’s own visit there) will have to take precedent. A fair fifty galleons per book, plus three galleons per work-hour dedicated to each book. Harry has no doubt Hermione would figure out how to translate Sanskrit for herself, but he’s already giving her plenty of work with all the other books he’s collected for her (and he doubts Ron or Draco would really manage it) so he’ll save her the trouble with these ones. Plus, Durga is excited about earning some extra cash she can put aside for her hobbies and other fun stuff, so Harry doesn’t really mind any of it!

“How are you holding up?” Sirius asks.

Harry glances over to where the man sits to the side of the study. “It’s alright. A bit ticklish.”

The paste has covered a big part of his chest by now, in an intricate mandala-like pattern with letters and symbols worked into the design. Currently, Madhuri is painting his forehead. He can feel her drawing a circle around his scar, followed by what feels like lots more of those detailed embellishments all over his forehead and down to his temples. He tries his hardest to stay still for her even though the brush is really ticklish on his face.

Lady Madhuri smiles as she steps back, evidently finished with his face. “Rest a little now,” she speaks through Durga. “She only has your back left but you can take a moment to stretch. Just be careful.”

Harry nods, bowing briefly to the Lady to show his gratitude. He moves away and stretches and flexes either leg in turn, a bit stiff from standing still for so long. Of course, he takes as great care as he can to not jostle or disturb Madhuri’s carefully applied henna. With a sigh of relief, he stretches his back out and does the same for his arms, rolling his neck in circles to work out the stiffness. Sirius helps him drink from a bottle of water, holding it up to his mouth so Harry doesn’t have to use his painted fingers.

“Still good, pup?”

“Still good,” Harry assures. “Excited. It looks beautiful. Can’t wait to see it when it’s all done.”

Sirius smiles, patting his head. “You look great. Um. I-... Can I ask, the scars. How did you get them?”

Scars?

Oh. Right. Harry mostly forgot about them, really. Since he started Hogwarts, there’s only one scar that’s ever mattered. He has more of them, though. Little silver lines and dots here and there, all over his body, though mostly in places where they can thankfully be easily hidden by clothing. He’s got the Dursleys to thank for those. Dudley bullied him relentlessly so a good fair few are his work, but the others... Petunia and Vernon actually didn’t beat him badly all that often; they mostly just shoved him around, slapped him now and then. But when they did beat him, however... It was always bad. They had to get to a certain level of rage to beat him up, and when they did, they never held back. By the time they reached that point, the rage was too much to be contained. It wasn’t often that it happened. Maybe once per month or so. Maybe less. He usually had a few weeks to recover in between and that’s all that matters.

Harry stares at the pale white line on the inside of his right forearm. That was one of the worst ones. Vernon tossed him down the stairs and...the bone poked out through the skin. Harry had to crawl into the cupboard, where he passed out. When he woke up, it was healed and all that remained was the puckered red line of a fresh scar. He thought he was crazy when it happened, but after learning about Hogwarts and wild magic, accidental spells and all that, he can only assume his magic did its best to heal him while he was passed out. Either way, it earned him another beating when he arrived in the kitchen that morning to make breakfast, with a completely healed arm. Petunia made him scrub the floor and carpet in the hallway and on the stairs all day, cursing at him about making a mess with all his nasty, filthy blood. Harry was...seven, maybe?

He clears his throat. “Can we...talk about it later?”

He’s not sure what emotion it is he sees in Sirius’ eyes but it makes Harry look away because of how soft it is. Soft is...

Soft is difficult to deal with.

Harry gets back in position for Madhuri to continue painting him. She finishes it off another hour later. Harry assumes he’ll have to wait some hours for the dye to set in and stain his skin properly, but Madhuri waves her hand at him and mutters what must be a spell. The paste dries and hardens in near to an instant; oh, it makes his skin all dry and itchy! Thankfully, though, the dry paste begins to flake away, breaking off from his skin, which relieves the itchiness. When the flakes fall away, the ornate paintings show themselves to be a lively red, standing bright and vibrant against his pale white skin. He watches his hands in awe; it’s beautiful... The patterns, the colour, it’s incredible.

“That’s all for today,” Madhuri informs then. “Eat a big dinner and sleep well. Tomorrow, we begin.”

Eagerly, Harry nods; he can’t wait to start actually learning the practical parts of all this, so he can finally get this disgusting parasite out of his head. He puts his hands together and bows to his teacher. She responds simply with a small, kind smile.

Harry gets his trousers and tunic back on, then exits with Sirius.

“It looks really good,” the man says as they move down the stairs. “Red suits you.”

The boy smiles, admiring the intricate markings on either his hands. “Thanks. Can we go outside? I feel like I’ll die if I don’t get some fresh air after standing like that for so long! Durga said the valley’s completely safe.”

Sirius’ fingers run through Harry’s hair. “Of course we can. And...maybe I can tell you more about your dad?”

Oh, yes! Harry loves it when Sirius talks about James! He loves hearing about his dad, and what he was like and how he and Sirius were like brothers, and he especially loves it when Sirius talks about Lily too, how they were all family. Harry hopes and prays that once they go back to Britain, he’ll actually get to meet Remus too! Him and Sirius and James, they were the best of friends, and Remus will probably have lots of his own stories to tell about Harry’s parents!

Peter… Sirius tries not to mention him, but sometimes he gets swept up in the excitement of talking about his best friends and things about Peter just blurt out alongside the rest of it all. Harry doesn’t mind too much, really. It’s…complicated. They were all friends for so long, like their very own messy little family because none of them really had much else, and… Yes, Peter did something terrible, he betrayed all of them, not just James and Lily. But at one point, they were family. It feels wrong to discard that completely. Those good times were still good, despite what happened later. The happy memories are still happy, despite the devastation that came later. Even though Peter betrayed the family, he was family, and Harry wants to know the whole family.

On the terrace outside, students mill about in the afternoon sun, sitting on the many benches scattered around, basking in the light and chatting and studying. Harry loves the fact that the school doesn’t seem to have a set uniform for students, it makes everything looks so lively! On any given day, the student body resembles a rainbow for the spectrum of colours represented in their attire. Lots of saris in multitudes of colours, many wear simple tunics and trousers like those Harry and Sirius were offered (also in an array of patterns and colours), and so many other different styles Harry doesn’t even know the names of; he can only assume some of the garments are of Nepali style, or Chinese style, or whichever country it is the wearer originates from. The mix of cultures is a marvel to watch; Harry only wishes he had time to learn more about each of them, though he knows he needs to focus all his attention on soul magic while he’s here. That’s the only reason he was allowed to visit after all.

Once they leave the terrace and move a respectful distance away from innocent bystanders, Harry is the first to shapeshift. He stretches his whole massive body out, wings too, scrapes his hooves in the dirt, digs his talons in. Oh, he didn’t even realize how much he’s missed this shape! All those cramped rooms and hallways, no access to the sky! He’s missed it!

Sirius pets Harry’s neck-ruffle with a smile. “You know, looking like this? You make my form feel much less impressive.”

The man snorts out a laugh when Harry nips after his fingers with his beak. Sirius ducks out of the way, shifting as he goes. The shaggy black dog lands on all four, tongue flopping out of his grinning mouth. He barks loudly, then ducks his front down in a playful manner, his tail wagging. So, he wants to play, huh? Harry clatters his beak at him and kicks back his hooves. Sirius barks again, and darts into the forest. Harry pulls his wings in close to be safe and gallops after.

“Tell me again what mum looked like?”

He tips his head to the side, looking up at Sirius from where his head rests on the man’s midriff. It feels like they chased after each other in the forest for ages, and once Sirius was all drained, they found this spot with some nice shade and a cool breeze coming down from the mountains, where they decided to take a break. Sirius rests his head on his clasped hands, while Harry lays at his side.

The man chuckles. “Well, obviously everyone thought she was beautiful, me too, to be honest, but James… Oh, James, he was crazy about her the moment he saw her, and the more he got to know her, the more he adored her.”

Harry smiles to himself. That sounds really nice…

“She had this… Her hair, it wasn’t just red, according to James. It was…red and brown and orange, and a bit yellow in places, and a really dark brown here and there, and he always said that when she was in the sun, it looked almost like she was on fire. Once, he called it something like a halo of flames. She was like an angel in his eyes. As for her eyes… Well, they looked exactly like yours. James could never decide what his favourite colour was, red or green. Lily’s hair, or Lily’s eyes. When she was pregnant with you, James said over and over that he hoped the baby looked like her. Of course, when you came out with this little black tangle of hair and those big green eyes… Oh, he was done-for! He adored you from the moment he laid eyes on you, just like he did your mother. Lily was happy you had James’ black hair, though. She used to complain that she always hated her hair when she was little because people made fun of it, and she didn’t want that for you. I think, no matter what you looked like or who you took after, they both loved you with all their hearts. I think they still do, wherever they are.”

Harry thinks so too. Or, at least, he hopes so. He hopes James and Lily love him and how he turned out. Despite everything, Harry thinks he turned out pretty okay, and he hopes James and Lily are happy for him.

“Will you tell me about your scars? It’s okay if you don’t want to, or if you’re not ready.”

Right. He figured Sirius wouldn’t forget about that.

“Have you ever met Lily’s sister Petunia?”

The man sighs. “No, thankfully, but Lily said there was some…animosity, between them. Why?”

“Well… Since you were in prison, I guess I was placed with the last remaining family. Petunia. And her husband Vernon, and their son Dudley. He’s my age. They were… I guess Petunia knew about magic, and maybe she told Vernon, and… They don’t like it.”

Sirius’ hand reaches down to Harry, resting gently on his chest. “Harry, did they…hurt you?”

Harry takes a deep breath. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

He listens to Sirius swear under his breath. “I’m truly sorry that happened, Harry. That you had to go through that. I’m so sorry. I was…treated very badly by family, as well. I know how it feels. I never wanted you to have to go through anything like that. If I’d known… Fuck, if I’d known, pup, I never would’ve gone after Peter, I would’ve stayed right where I was and explained everything to the Wizengamot and taken you somewhere far, far away where you’d be safe from anyone who would ever try to hurt you.”

Harry wishes that’s what happened, he truly does, but he knows the past is what it is. No matter how much he hates it, the past is done and nothing can change it.

“How-… How were you treated? By your family? Was it really bad?”

“Do you know the Unforgivable Curses, pup?”

“I’ve read about them. The Killing Curse, the Cruciatus, and the Imperius, right?”

“Exactly right. And well, our parents, Walburga and Orion Black, didn’t care very much that they’re supposedly unforgivable. They’d use the Cruciatus on us, my brother and me. It was the standard punishment in our house. I grew quite resistant to it, actually, thanks to them. Suppose it served me well during the war.”

“And your brother?”

“Regulus. He was younger than me. He…sided with You Know Who. He died some time during the war, but his body was never found. I was just twenty-one, and Regulus? Fuck, last time I saw him he was barely seventeen. I guess I just hope that… How ever he died, it was quick. Painless. He was on the wrong side, but he was still my brother. I hope he didn’t suffer, at least.”

Harry can’t even imagine. To think that… Sirius might, if he was unlucky, have come face to face with his own baby brother again, but been forced by their conflicting sides to fight each other? Kill each other? Harry can’t fathom it. He can’t fathom being in a position like that.

And then, for Sirius to know that Regulus’ body was never found, even so long after the war supposedly ended? The grief must be consuming.

“When we go back to Britain, can we visit mum and dad’s graves?”

“Of course we can, pup. It would be nice to lay down some flowers. No lilies, though. Lily hated them. It’s the only flower anyone ever gave her and she despised the bloody things.”

Harry smiles. “No lilies. And…when we decide where to live, can we maybe put up a memorial to them somewhere in the house? Or on the property? For Regulus, too. I’m sure he’d like that.”

“Yeah. I think that’d be really nice.”

“How are you?”

Draco sighs, rubbing at his eyes. “I just want the year to be over. I wanna see mother.”

Harry fiddles with his earring. “I understand. Don’t you have Easter holidays soon? Maybe you should leave school for a bit. I’m sure no one would mind. With everything that’s going on, I’m sure lots of people are going home. Aunt Cissa’s at my cottage in Kent, I bet she’d love to have you there with her.”

“Yeah… I’ve thought about it. I need to study for exams, though.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to study at home, right now? I’m sure the whole school’s a mess. Maybe getting some peace and quiet, near your mum, would be best? Even if you’ll be spending most of the time studying.”

Draco runs a hand through his hair. The blond mop is a mess, nowhere near as neatly styled and slicked back as he usually wears it. Harry can only assume the whole situation is getting to him.

“Maybe. I’ll talk to Professor Sinistra, she took over as our Head of House after… After Snape left. I’ll see what she thinks.”

“Alright, that sounds good. And don’t forget, you can always call me, whenever you want. I’m keeping my mirror with me all the time.”

“I know. Thanks. I’ll…go talk to Sinistra right away. And it must be getting late for you by now. You should get some sleep.”

“Speak soon, okay?”

“Okay. See you soon.”

Draco’s image in the mirror fades out. Harry closes the gilded case. He tucks the mirror under his pillow, then slumps into said pillow with a mighty sigh.

He wishes he could go see Draco in person over the Easter holidays. Draco really seems like he needs it. Hopefully, he’ll at least go and stay with his mother for those two weeks and take a break from everything. Harry can only imagine what a mess the school must be right now. According to the chat he had with Ron and Hermione yesterday, everyone is growing quite anxious. There’s aurors patrolling the castle at all hours, the Ministry has some people there to oversee everything, the I.C.W still has their own investigations into the school and all going on, McGonagall is acting headmistress. Apparently, lots of kids have been completely pulled out of school because of this whole Voldemort situation. Every time they talk, Hermione reminds Harry not to say out loud where he is, just in case. With all these strangers around, who knows? All it takes is one slip of the tongue by someone, somewhere, and Voldemort will be right on Harry’s tail.

“Everything alright?” Sirius murmurs from the other side of their shared room.

“I guess. Things are tense in Britain.”

The man sighs. “I had hoped the war was over, when I left Azkaban.”

Harry sympathizes. He hopes this doesn’t lead to the war starting all over again. The way Sirius tells it, nearly a whole generation was lost to the fighting. It devastated wizarding Britain. Harry’s not sure they, as a country and community, will survive if the war starts again. How many more people would die if that happened? Another generation? All the children in Hogwarts? Will there be anything left of them at all, once it’s over?

“Sirius.”

“Yeah, pup?”

“Why did You Know Who want to kill me?”

Sirius is silent for several moments. “I don’t know the whole story, but… From what I was told, there was a prophecy that there would be a child born that could defeat him. You Know Who interpreted it to mean you, so he tried to...end the problem before it became a problem, if you understand my meaning.”

A prophecy… All of this happened, just because of a prophecy and how Voldemort chose to interpret it? Harry’s parents died because of a prophecy?

And Harry… He’s supposed to defeat Voldemort? Him? Harry? But…he’s just a kid? He’s eleven! He’s eleven, and somehow, the universe wants him to defeat Voldemort? That’s… Harry needs some time to digest that.

“What was the prophecy? Do you know it?”

“No, pup, I don’t. I’m sorry. But the Ministry, they have these…records, I guess. They save prophecies and archive them. As far as I know, only the person the prophecy is about can go see it.”

Harry swallows. He can go see the prophecy? If he knew what the prophecy is, maybe he-… Maybe he can defeat Voldemort. But that’s insane, isn’t it? Harry, an eleven-year-old boy, defeating the Dark Lord. It’s preposterous. He’ll… All it’ll do, is end up killing Harry. Voldemort failed once; Harry doubts he’ll fail again.

Harry’s going to die, isn’t he?

It’s taken Harry two days of intense meditation, sitting in Madhuri’s circles for nearly ten hours straight (with only the smallest breaks), to locate his soul.

With Madhuri’s guidance, he first found the centre of his Ajna, and after hours of focus and meditation, he began to sense the slightest threads of energy there. After several more hours, he could feel the constant stream of energy as it flows into him. It’s…amazing. To feel such pure light inside himself? It’s nearly overwhelming. It’s like seeing his patronus, fully corporeal, running wild inside his head. A ghostly white hippogriff galloping through his mind, soaring through his whole body. When he describes the sensation to Madhuri, she tells him he’s doing excellently in his visualisation.

“Picture the hippogriff as the image of the energy,” she urges him. “Follow it as it flies from your Ajna, track it to where it’s going.”

Eagerly, Harry follows her instruction. When he returns to his meditation, he finds his hippogriff again. He pictures it all. Running after it as it flies around in his head, and then…down the river of energy to the Vishuddha in his throat. There, the hippogriff pauses to drink from the lake. Harry watches from a distance. When the animal takes off into the air again, Harry runs to follow. Along the edge of the river from the lake of Vishuddha, further down. The river grows wider and wider, the water more lively, until it drops off the edge of a waterfall into the lake of Anahata. Without hesitation, Harry leaps off the edge. He lets himself fall with the water and plummet into the lake. The hippogriff flies in circles up above. It’s waiting for him! Harry swims to the edge; the hippogriff changes direction to lead the way again.

It’s not long before they reach the Manipura together.

The Manipura isn’t a lake like he expected, but instead, a meadow. A vast field of grass filled with…lilies? Snow white lilies, that glow just like the hippogriff that has now landed next to Harry. Hundreds and thousands and millions of beautiful, ghostly, glowing lilies, dotted across the meadow like stars in the night sky.

Lily…

And there are…more patronuses? Not hippogriffs, but…deer? No, wait, they have antlers, that means they’re stags, right? Stags wander the field, grazing on the grass, but wherever they go, they seem ever so careful to avoid stepping on the flowers. The lilies obviously represent his mother, but the stags… Those have to represent his father, don’t they? Maybe James’ patronus was a stag?

Harry wanders through the field with his hippogriff at his side. It feels like they walk for hours.

In the distance, little by little, something dark comes into view. The closer they get, the clearer the image becomes.

A tree. An old, gnarled tree, with bark so dark it’s nearly black. Its roots stretch out across the ground, black limbs digging into the dirt. Surrounding the trunk, the grass and lilies have wilted and died, the ground covered in the dry remains. Even stags have died here. Actual skeletons lay scattered in the grass. The skulls look horrid where they lay, their antlers still reaching up towards the sky.

This is Voldemort.

This tree is the representation of Voldemort’s soul fragment, latched onto Harry’s own soul and slowly feeding on him, sucking the life out of him day by day. If left unattended, Harry has no doubt that ugly thing would grows to consume the whole field, crush out every lily and suffocate every stag, until there was nothing left.

Harry turns around and walks away.

He’s found it. Now, Madhuri can teach him how to get rid of it.

When he ‘returns’ to reality, he reports this to Madhuri who listens intently. He describes the meadow and the tree in as much detail as he can. She promises to conduct some additional research and they can discuss how to handle the matter in the morning. Dismissed for the afternoon, Harry tracks Sirius down on the terrace, where he lays sunning himself in his dog form. Harry sits down next to him on the ground.

“Sirius, can you turn back?”

The dog barks. He gets up and shuffles a few steps away to be safe before quickly shifting and returning to sit by Harry again. “What is it, pup? Did everything go okay?”

“Yeah, I guess. It was just a lot of meditation like usual. But…I think I found my soul.”

Sirius smiles; he wraps his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “That’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!”

Harry leans into the embrace. “Thanks. It’s hard to explain, but... It looked like this massive meadow filled with lilies.”

“Lilies?”

“Yeah. They looked like how a patronus looks, you know? All glowing and smoky and stuff? There were thousands and thousands of them, everywhere, as far as the eye could see.”

Sirius cradles Harry’s head against his chest, leaning down to press a kiss to his crown. “That sounds beautiful, Harry.”

“And…there were stags. Lots of them. They looked like patronuses too, and I was wondering… Does that have anything to do with my dad?”

The man lets out a haggard breath, sounding as if he’s on the verge of tears. “Yeah, son. Yeah, it does. James’ patronus was a stag. And when we became animagi together, his form was a stag. We-… We gave each other these funny nicknames based on our forms. I’m Padfoot, because of my paws, you know? James was- He was Prongs. Peter… He was Wormtail. Remus is Moony. They were our secret. Just for us.”

Lilies and stags. His mum and dad, right there, in Harry’s soul.

Chapter Text

Harry sits in front of Voldemort’s tree. It’s strange, isn’t it? The tree has lots of thick roots that delve into the earth, but... There aren’t that many branches. It looks similar to the Whomping Willow, back at Hogwarts, actually, with its massive, club-like main limbs and the smaller, whip-like little things sprouting from those.

There are just six main branches reaching upwards, with only a handful of much smaller limbs growing from them. The other limbs, they look...too young. Too thin and frail to really be called branches. Looking around, it seems like whenever one of these little limbs grows too big it simply dies and falls away. The ground around the trunk is littered with debris mixed in with the dead grass and stag skeletons.

How strange...

Harry climbs the tree.

He digs his fingers into the thick, rough bark and plants his feet on whatever minute foothold he can find, and pulls himself up. It’s much easier than he expected it would be, much easier than climbing trees is in the real world. It feels like his body doesn’t weigh anything at all. Harry climbs up the whole trunk and crawls his way out onto one of the main branches.

When he places both his hands on the branch, the strangest thing happens.

Suddenly, he is standing in a decrepit little house, a shack might be a better description. Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust; the floorboards look half-rotted, what little furniture is left has been smashed to bits, leaving splinters of wood scattered across the floor. Where is he? Is this another part of his soul? But…he doesn’t recognize this place, or anything there. What could this place represent? Is it…maybe a part of Voldemort? A part of his soul? If the meadow represents Harry’s soul, is this shack a representation of Voldemort’s soul?

Wisps of smoke rise from the ground, seeping out from between two floorboards in the corner of the shack’s main room. It looks like patronus smoke, but black instead of white. How odd… What is this place? Steeling his nerves, Harry moves towards the smoke, even though he feels something unsettled in his chest. He kneels on the floor. He reaches for the boards; maybe he can pry them apart and find the source of the smoke under them. But…his hand passes through the wood. What the hell? He feels something cold against his fingers. It feels like how warmth feels on the skin when reaching too close to a flame, but instead of heat, the sensation is cold. He reaches further.

He hisses when his fist closes around the source of the cold; it burns his palm with how frozen it is, as if he’s squeezing an ice cube.

He collapses back, gasping for air. Sirius appears above him, Madhuri and Durga too.

“Harry! Harry, can you hear me?” Sirius questions frantically, pulling a choking Harry into his arms to cradle him from the stone floor. “You’re okay, you’re safe, I’m right here. Just breathe for me, okay? I’ve got you.”

Madhuri speaks rapidly; her warm hands feel over Harry’s face, his head, his throat, his chest.

The ice burns Harry’s palm. He whimpers at the pain and wrenches his fist open. Something clinks against stone but no one pays attention to that.

“Look at me, Harry,” Sirius pleads and Harry does his best to focus his vision on the man’s face. He’s trying his hardest to smile at Harry, even while rocking the boy in his arms. “Just keep breathing, yeah? You’re okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you. Nothing’s gonna happen to you, I’ll protect you, remember?”

It takes many long minutes for Harry’s frantic, gasping breaths slow to something closer to normal. Sirius holds him the whole time. Madhuri keeps her hand on his chest. Durga only leaves for a moment before returning with a cool, wet cloth that she lays gently across Harry’s forehead. Once his speeding heart has slowed to normal as well, the questioning begins.

“Lady Madhuri wants you to explain exactly what happened,” Durga relays. “This was very unexpected, it should not have happened.”

Harry drinks deep from the glass of water Sirius offers him. “The tree. I climbed it. I just thought… It was weird that there weren’t more branches so I wanted to see if I could see a reason. But then, when I got up there and I touched one of the branches, I was… I don’t know. Suddenly, I was somewhere else.”

Sirius frowns, holding the boy closer to his side. Durga looks confused as well while translating. Finally, Lady Madhuri looks… First, she looks upset. Then, she looks deeply disturbed. She gets up and steps away towards a specific stack of books, but- She staggers and swears loudly, even Harry can gather that much, when she seemingly steps on something. Durga hurries to her side but Madhuri shoves her back; she too, the Lady herself, backs away. Sirius and Harry both look on with curious eyes.

On the floor, there lays…a ring?

Madhuri swears again and speaks raptly to Durga, though her eyes remain fixed on the ring where it lays. Durga gasps, looking taken aback. She lifts her sari to her knees then runs out of the room. Madhuri turns to Harry and Sirius; she gestures at them to move and they quickly do as ordered, backing far away from the ring, getting as close to the opposite wall as possible. Then, she collects a scroll of parchment from her desk and…uses it to nudge the ring further away, nearer to the wall there. Finally, she joins Harry and Sirius where they stand, placing herself between them and the object as if to shield them, keeping as much distance between them and it as is physically possible in her study.

They’re both dying to ask what’s going on, of course, but obviously they can’t; the Lady wouldn’t understand them even if they tried, and just the same, they wouldn’t understand if she explained.

Thankfully, Durga returns only minutes later. With her, though, come a whole host of the school’s staff. They pour into the room and Madhuri quickly begins to explain to them. Durga, however, pushes Harry and Sirius to leave the study with her. In the quiet of the hallway, she finally explains to them what’s going on.

“Lady Madhuri felt the same foul disease as in your soul, on that ring,” she tells them concisely. “Right now, she is assuming that You Know Who split his soul into many pieces, an act much more foul than doing it even just once, and that ring is one of his receptacles, just like you are. Harry, how many branches does the tree have?”

“Six.”

“Counting you, that’s seven pieces. Oh, this is not good… Wait here.”

With that, she rushes back into the study and the door slams behind her.

Sirius sags against the wall, leaning his forehead on the cool stone. Harry stares at the door, clenching his still-aching fist tight.

Seven pieces?

It’s not just Harry and Voldemort, but five more pieces after that too?

After some moments, Sirius pulls away from the wall, ostensibly having collected himself, and pulls Harry into a tight hug.

“There’s no need to worry, okay? Lady Madhuri and all those other teachers, they’re the experts and they’re gonna figure out what to do. They’ll decide on a plan and we’ll get all of this all sorted out. I promise you, Harry, we’ll get everything sorted.”

Harry nods against the man’s chest. Right. They’ll…solve this. They’ll figure it out. Lady Madhuri is the best soul mage in the world, she’ll know what to do. She’ll know how to handle all of this, and she’ll help Harry. Nothing has changed; Harry still just needs to pull that stupid tree out by the roots and that’s all.

They wait for a long time. After a while, Harry sits down on the floor instead. Sirius shifts, and in his dog form, he bullies his way into Harry’s lap. Harry hugs him tightly, burying his face in all that soft, shaggy fur, but keeps his injured had closed; he’ll deal with it later, once everything else has been sorted, it’s probably just a remnant of the pain from before anyway rather than an actual wound. Sirius only sits with him, letting Harry cuddle him. It’s exactly what Harry needs, really. Maybe they should get a dog once they’re back home in Britain. That would be nice. Harry has never had a pet of his own, except for Hedwig. Oh, Hedwig... He misses her so much. He’s been so busy he’s hardly had time to miss his friends most days, least of all Hedwig. He hopes she isn’t mad at him for leaving her. He’ll make sure to feed her lots and lots of treats when he gets back, and spend loads of time with her. Maybe they can even fly together! Harry has his own wings now, after all.

Finally, after their long wait, the door opens and the staff parades out. Durga calls for Harry to follow. Sirius shifts back and scurries after as well. Their procession moves raptly through the school to another office. There, an elder man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a dark blue turban sits behind the large, ornate desk in the centre of the room. The headmaster, perhaps?

“This is Anupam Bhattacharya, headmaster of Shambhala,” Durga confirms for them.

The old man smiles. He thanks Durga softly, to which she bows minutely before stepping back. “Please, come. Sit with me,” he says to Harry and Sirius, gesturing them to the chairs in front of his desk.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry mumbles as he sits, which Sirius echoes.

Bhattacharya clasps his hands on the table. “I will get straight to the point. The situation is this. Lady Madhuri and Durga hypothesize that You Know Who has split his soul into seven pieces. One is within you, Harry. A second is within the ring. A third is in the man You Know Who currently possesses. The remaining four are hidden, like the ring was. Lady Madhuri believes that you were able to project your soul and consciousness to this other place through the thin connection between fragments, and because of this, you were able to bring the second fragment, the ring, with you when your consciousness returned to your body. She also believes that you may be able to do this with the remaining fragments. She believes she knows of a way to purge and destroy the fragment in the ring, and she has requested that you assist her in accomplishing this. If it can be accomplished, she then wishes for you to find and retrieve the remaining fragments residing in objects. Once all fragments have been destroyed, the last fragment, and the man hosting it, Quirrell, I believe, can be slain like any other mortal.”

Sirius jumps in before Harry can even begin to process what he’s hearing. “Hold on a moment! You want my son to go through all that again?! And you’re asking him to kill You Know Who?! He’s just a boy! You can’t ask that of him! He’s a child, and you’re asking him to challenge the Dark bloody Lord?! Are you crazy?! How can you even think something like that?!”

Bhattacharya accepts Sirius’ anger very calmly, hearing him out in full before speaking again. “I understand that you are upset. Trust me, I have children of my own, I understand your anger, and I would never ask this of someone, much less a child, if there was another way. A horcrux, this is the English word for what the ring is, the receptacle of a soul fragment. A horcrux is extremely difficult to destroy. The only currently known weapon is a basilisk, and this was discovered by Herpo the Foul during his studies many hundreds of years ago. For a soul mage, however, Lady Madhuri believes this destruction can be easier. If one can reach into the horcrux and interact with the fragment inside, it could be purged. It would still be extremely difficult, likely something only accomplishable by a master of the art. This is why we must do this. Harry, you can bring these horcruxes to us here, simply by projecting yourself through the tree in your mind. Once they are here, Lady Madhuri can destroy them. Harry is the only one with this ability, the only one with this connection to You Know Who. I am not asking you to face the man himself, I would never ask something like that of anyone, and most certainly not a child. But if we can destroy the horcruxes, someone else can slay You Know Who. Anyone should be able to do it. He would be as mortal as you and I.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Harry!” Sirius barks.

“No!” the boy shouts, his eyes glued to the floor between his feet, his injured fist still clenched. “I’m not facing him, but if I’m the only one who can make it so someone else can face him, then I will! I just have to bring the horcruxes to Lady Madhuri. I’ll be fine.”

“Sir, Headmaster Bhattacharya, can we please have a moment?” Sirius requests firmly. “It seems I need to speak to my son. Harry. Hallway. Now.”

The boy sighs but gets up and shuffles out of the headmaster’s office. Here it comes; Sirius is going to yell at him, probably call him stupid or something, might even hit him for acting out like that in front of people. Harry crosses his arms; more to shield his soft midriff than anything else.

Sirius lets out a heavy breath. “Harry. I can’t let you do this. You know that, right?”

Harry shrugs. “I’m the only one who can.”

“You’re a child!” the man nearly shouts, raising his hands in some gesture or other.

He freezes, though, when Harry flinches away from him.

Sirius lowers his hands slowly. He sinks to his knees, sitting back on his heels to look up at Harry.

“I’m sorry I frightened you, pup. I’d never- I-... I would never hurt you, Harry.”

The boy shrugs.

“Can you please tell me why you insist on doing this? What happened earlier, it was-... God, I thought I’d die when I was holding you back there, I was so afraid. Why are you agreeing to this so readily? What if something happens to you?”

Again, Harry shrugs. “It has to be me, doesn’t it? There’s the prophecy, the soul fragment inside me, this connection I have with him... Who else can do it?”

Sirius runs his hands over his face. “That doesn’t mean it has to be you, Harry. You’re just a child. None of this is on your shoulders.”

“Then, who else?”

“What d’you mean?”

“Who else’s shoulders is it on? Yours? You’re not connected to You Know Who like I am. Lady Madhuri? Durga? Bhattacharya? None of you can do it. It’s just me. But that’s okay.”

At that, Sirius looks absolutely stricken. “Harry, no, it’s not okay.”

“But it is,” Harry tells him. “Because you’ll protect me, like you said you would. Right?”

His godfather deflates. His shoulders sink and his head slumps forward in defeat.

Yet, after a moment, he takes a deep breath and lifts his head up again to meet Harry’s eyes. Though he looks like he hates every moment of this, there’s determination in his gaze again.

“Yeah, Harry. I’ll protect you. I’ll always protect you. Come here. We’re gonna need some ground rules before we do anything else, and I’ll not hear any arguments on that. Gimme your hands.”

Smiling mildly, Harry shuffles towards him and takes the man’s outstretched hands.

However, when his right palm brushes Sirius’ fingers, a sharp pain lances up Harry’s arm. He hisses unbidden at the sting, snatching his hand back on reflex. Sirius catches his wrist gently, though, his grip moderate but far from forceful. He turns Harry’s hand over. Even Harry’s eyes go wide at the sight of the mottled burn in the centre of his palm.

“What’s this? What happened?!”

Harry shakes his head. “I-I don’t know! When I grabbed the ring, maybe? It hurt but I didn’t think it was real?”

Sirius jumps to his feet and dashes back to the headmaster’s office, bursting through the door. “Durga! Durga, where’s the Hospital Wing?! Durga! Harry’s hurt!”

There’s a commotion in the office before Sirius runs back out, followed by Durga and several others (including the headmaster himself). He sweeps the boy, who yelps in surprise, up in his arm and with Durga in the lead, the whole parade of them run through the school hallways.

Oh, God, everyone’s staring! Classes must have just ended because the hallways are brimming with students of all ages, as well as professors, and they all watch in confusion as Durga mows a path for her tail of people, shouting in multiple languages for people to get out of the way. Harry’s face feels beet red with an embarrassed flush. It’s just a little burn, it’s not like he’s dying! Is all of this really necessary? He’s fully capable of walking on his own; at least then no one would be staring like this!

They burst into a Hospital Wing that looks quite similar to the one at Hogwarts, with the rows of beds and all, and Durga calls for a healer while Sirius deposits Harry on the closest bed. Everyone flocks around him for a minute, but thankfully, the healer seems to be the no-nonsense type of person who quickly shoos away anyone not strictly necessary and shuts them out by closing the privacy curtains with rather some gusto. Harry is left with only Sirius and Durga to deal with, which is a blessing.

The healer, a youthful-looking man, pulls up a stool and sits down next to Harry’s bed. “Hello, I am Healer Zhou. You must be Harry. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

The boy nods, quickly offering his injured hand out, which the healer immediately begins to inspect. “I’m not sure, to be honest. I was projecting my consciousness or whatever, and it just...happened, I guess?”

Healer Zhou hums. Durga helps out by explaining the situation in a bit more detail while Zhou summons over a small rolling cart with baskets and drawers which are filled with basic first aid supplies. He has Harry drink a violet potion from a tiny phial, then gently applies some kind of ointment to the burn. Next, he casts a mild healing charm, before finally wrapping Harry’s hand with a bandage.

“This looks like a simple contact burn, but based on the situation, I would say it was caused by the adverse interaction of soul energies. The soul didn’t like being touched so it burned you as a sort of defence mechanism,” Zhou explains as he fastens the bandage into place. “Unfortunately, I don’t know of a way to prevent it from happening again, but of course, I’m not specialized in soul magic. I think if anyone would know, it would be Lady Madhuri. But in case further injuries of this nature can’t be prevented, please don’t hesitate to have me summoned. It would probably be best if I was there while the process is underway so I can administer treatment immediately. For normal burns, there exists an ointment that can minimize damage if said ointment is applied before the burn happens, usually used in situations where the risk of being burned is known to be high. I don’t know if it would be any help with this kind of burn, but I’ll prepare some and we can give it a try. If we can in any way minimize possible damage, that is of course always best. For now, just let that hand rest. Come by in the morning and I’ll check on it. Any questions?”

Sirius squeezes Harry’s shoulder. “Yes, will it heal completely? Any scarring? Any lasting effects?”

“It should heal perfectly well, with no lasting effects or damage. As for scarring, it’s hard to say right now. Once I see the healing progress in the morning, I should have a better idea, but even if any scarring remains, it shouldn’t impede the use of the hand or range of movement, or anything of that sort.”

Harry flexes and relaxes his hand and fingers, settling into the bandage and getting comfortable with it. “Thank you, Healer Zhou. We’ll talk to Lady Madhuri about everything, and I’ll come by right after breakfast tomorrow. It feels okay. The pain is almost completely gone.”

Zhou smiles. “Good, I’m glad. If the pain gets worse during the night, don’t hesitate to come see us. We have staff here around the clock, so we’re always ready for you, okay?”

Harry nods. “Thanks. I’ll remember.”

“Alright. Is it okay if I share information about your injury with all those people out there?” Zhou asks gently, nodding his head towards where the rest of their company most likely waits. “I’m sure they’re all worried about you.”

Harry shrugs. “Sure, that’s fine. Can I stay here for a bit, though?”

Zhou chuckles. “The bed’s all yours. And don’t worry. I’ll kick them all out in a minute.”

Grinning, Harry watches the healer exit his ‘room’ and Durga excuses herself to follow him. Thank God he’ll get rid of all the people! Harry really can’t stand it when everyone’s all fussing over him like that. And resting here for a minute, that will probably let things calm down out in the hallways too, and save him from being stared at on the way back to their room. He hears the murmur of voices outside the curtain but there must be some kind of privacy charm in place because while he can hear the voices, it’s impossible to actually make out any words. Everything is all muffled and fuzzy.

Harry lays back on the bed with a sigh. The bedsprings creak when Sirius sits down next to him.

“Harry. Could you look at me, please?”

Reluctantly, he does so; he’s ready to be yelled at for being stupid and hiding an injury, but it’s not his fault, is it? It’s not like he’s ever had anyone who cared before! The people he did have were always the ones causing the injuries and telling him to hide them from other people. It’s not Harry’s fault. It isn’t.

“I need you to promise me something, pup. Can you do that?”

Harry shrugs. He wants to look away but he knows Sirius will just wait him out and that won’t be good for anyone.

“I need you to promise me, Harry, that if you’re hurt, or sick, or in pain, that you’ll tell me right away. I’ll never be angry at you for being sick or injured, but I need to know so I can help you get better. Please, Harry. Can you promise me that?”

He swallows. He looks away. It was easy to have Fila make a promise like that; it’s a lot harder to make that sort of promise himself. “I-... I’ll try. It’s just... No one’s ever cared before.”

Sirius lets out a deep breath. His hand lands softly on Harry’s arm, simply holding him there. “I know. Trust me, I know. I was the same for a long time. It’s still hard sometimes. Honestly, I think it’s probably harder now than ever before, with all those years in Azkaban. But…as long as you promise to try, Harry. That’s all I need. And you know what? I’ll promise you the same thing. How’s that? And we’ll both give it our very best effort, yeah?”

Well… Yeah, maybe if Sirius promises too, it might be easier. If Harry knows that he’s not…the only one having a hard time with it. It’ll be easier if they try together, right? They’ll get better together. Yes. That’s… That sounds nice.

“I promise to try my hardest.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a small smile spread over Sirius’ previously worry-worn face. “I promise to try my hardest, too. And whatever happens, we can always figure it out together, pup. Remember that.”

Chapter Text

Voldemort’s ring lays in the centre of Madhuri’s circles, with the woman sitting near as well. Harry spectates from a distance. He won’t actually be involved in the purification process but he’s eager to watch and learn what little he can. Soul magic isn’t exactly the showiest of the magic arts, there isn’t much to watch, but Harry doesn’t care. He’ll do his best to absorb as much knowledge as possible from any demonstration Madhuri gives him. Healer Zhou is in the room, as well; Harry will be attempting to collect another horcrux once the circle has been vacated, so the healer is on standby.

Madhuri meditates for many, many long minutes. Harry waits with bated breath. The room is as silent as the grave. Absolute concentration is needed; there can be no disturbances.

Madhuri lifts her hands from where they previously rested in her lap. Her motions above the ring are slow and intentional as she carefully guides Voldemort’s soul fragment out of its prison. She urges it, coaxes it, teases it out of its hiding place. Harry watches in awe as a ball of something black seeps out of the gold of the ring, rising into the air under Madhuri’s guidance. It seems to glow with light, yet it’s completely dark and emits no light; how is that possible? It glows, but there’s no light. How strange… It looks like a hole in the fabric of reality. It’s like someone took a knife to the very fibres of all that’s real and cut them open, to reveal an infinite, perfect void on the other side.

Looking at it makes Harry’s skin crawl but he finds himself unable to look away.

The Lady closes her hands around the fragment as if caging a butterfly with her fingers. Harry is forced to look away, when the pure white light of Madhuri’s own soul fills her hands as well as the room. He’s nearly blinded by the brutally sharp light. Woah… How strong must her soul be, for her to be able to do something like this? Using her own soul to purify Voldemort’s? Harry was in awe of her before, yet it seems his awe can only grow.

When the light begins to fade out, Harry can open his eyes again and look back to see what’s happening. There’s nothing. There is simply Lady Madhuri awakening from her deep meditation and the same old ring as before laying on the floor in front of her.

She speaks, and Durga translates. “The fragment is gone. By channelling pure soul energy into it, the fragment was overwhelmed and faded out. This part of You Know Who’s energy has returned to the world and it will do the rest for us.”

“How do you mean?” Harry questions like the curious student he is.

Madhuri smiles. “Everything is energy. She broke down the walls that kept the soul fragment in the shape of a soul, and when they disappeared, the energy scattered into the world. Soon, the mountain will absorb it, we will absorb it, the air will absorb it. And once it has been absorbed, the thing that it was will cease to be, because it has become something else.”

Harry considers her answer. Guess that sort of makes sense… If the fragment was just a collection of energy and now all that energy has been split apart and scattered all around, then…it’s like crushing rocks into sand. It was a rock, but now it has changed shape and become sand, but the constituent pieces are still the same, even if they have taken a new form and become something different. Voldemort will become nothing more than a breath of air; existing in Harry’s body for one moment, then completely gone and forgotten in the next.

Harry can live with that. That sounds really, really good.

Madhuri gets up and stretches her arms while Durga uses tongs to pick up the ring and place it on a golden plate. Another member of the staff examined the thing during their whole conference after it appeared and determined that it apparently has some nasty curses on it, most likely Voldemort attempting to keep his horcrux safe. While Harry and Madhuri work to collect and purify the horcruxes, this other professor is endeavouring to break whatever curses may be on the objects remaining afterwards.

Right now, though, it’s Harry’s turn to work.

He gets comfortable in the centre of the circles and settles in, his skin just a bit tacky from that ointment Zhou mentioned. He shuts his eyes and allows his breathing to even out as he sinks into the quiet mind-set of his meditation.

When he opens his eyes, Harry sits in his meadow, just outside the circle of drought and death that surrounds Voldemort’s tree. One of the large, thick branches has fallen down. It lays discarded in the dry grass, looking as if it was physically ripped off the tree. Both ends of the wound are jagged and sharp with splinters and shrapnel, but inside, Harry can see the rot. The whole thing, the whole bloody tree, it’s all rotted, isn’t it? It looks healthy enough on the outside but peal away the bark and there’s nothing left but rot and dead wood.

Harry looks down at the palm of his right hand. It’s been two days and his burn is almost completely healed. It’s going to suck to get a new one right now, but honestly, Harry rather get this all over with as soon as possible. He would’ve been doing this much sooner, but Sirius acted appropriately parental and forbade even the mere mention of ‘work’. It was only because Harry pleaded with Durga to convince Sirius for him that Sirius finally agreed. Even now, though, the man paces anxiously outside Madhuri’s study; he tried to pace inside the study, but Madhuri kicked him out on his ass the moment he so much as looked like he was going to attempt it; no distractions!

The boy smiles when one of the stags wanders closer to him. The animal buts its nose against Harry’s cheek, which makes the boy laugh. He feels warm inside. It’s like James is there, cheering him on, reassuring him he can do it.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Harry stands up. He gets to work climbing the tree again. He picks a branch at random to then crawl out onto. Once he’s found a steady place to sit, Harry puts his hands on the branch and lets the other place draw him in.

When he opens his eyes, he finds himself in…an office? The place is nearly pitch black, but Harry can only just make out a very large desk and a very fancy chair behind it. Behind those, the wall is covered in bookshelves. The odd, black smoke is hard to see in the darkness but it’s like Harry can sense it despite that. The foul, nasty energy of Voldemort’s soul, pulsing from among the books on the shelves. Harry holds his hand up to the bookcase but is careful not to touch any of the spines yet. Where is it, he can feel it, it’s close…

There!

Inhaling another deep breath, Harry snatches the tainted book off the shelf and lets himself be whipped back to reality.

He cries out in pain as he tosses the book aside, slammed back into place in his body; oh, God, his hand, his hand is burning! It’s like he dipped it in acid, fuck, oh, God!

Sirius appears out of thin air. He pulls Harry into his lap, into his arms, holding him close. Harry feels other hands on his right arm and his dazed mind only barely recognizes Healer Zhou’s face.

“Hold him steady! Good, like that! Alright, it’s not that bad, he was quick, he’ll be okay.”

Sirius smiles down at Harry. “Hear that, son? You’ll be okay. Zhou here, he’s gonna take care of all that nastiness for ya, get ya sorted out right quick. You just keep looking at me, okay? You just keep those sweet green eyes on me, pup, and we’ll have it all wrapped up in a jiff.”

Harry gasps for air; it feels like his lungs are expanding and contracting but there’s nothing inside them. “Prongs! He- He was- He was there, with me, he was there.”

Tears stream down Sirius’ face even as he smiles. “Yeah? Did he look like a right prick like he usually does, eh? Smart lil’ smirk on his face, mh?”

Harry grins even as he struggles to catch his breath properly. “He- He touched my face and- and he looked at me.”

His godfather laughs, stroking Harry’s hair. “That’s amazing, pup, incredible! You get some rest for now, yeah, and you can tell me all about it later, okay? You can tell me everything, as many times as you want.”

Still dazed, Harry tries to nod. “Okay…”

And then, he’s quite certain he passes out, but who’s to say, really?

It’s another three days before Harry gets to do anything proper again. It’s stupid; he only fainted for a few minutes, it’s not a big deal!

But no, Healer Zhou insists he spend the rest of the day tucked into bed in the Hospital Wing, and the following night. Of course, Harry planned to sneak out during the night and at least find somewhere out of the way to study a bit, but Sirius had him beat from the start. After Harry woke up and got tended to and they could have a bit of a talk, Sirius shifted into his dog form and spent the rest of their time in the Hospital Wing playing guard dog to one unwilling patient. Harry couldn’t so much as twitch his nose without Sirius waking up from his snoozing to check on him.

Comfort of a parent... Slander. Libel! Where’s Sharpeye, Harry needs to sue for custody of himself!

Even when Zhou lets him go the next morning, Sirius adamantly refuses to let Harry go back to work. That snitch, he even gets Lady Madhuri herself to come and scold him, and while Harry may not understand her words, he’s been scolded enough times to draw conclusions based on the vibe alone. Basically: don’t you dare, I’m locking my study down, you’re in for a world of trouble if you try sneaking in, you’re injured so you should be in bed resting, go eat something, and if I see you skulking around anywhere near my study, you will not like the very harsh lecture I will have Durga translate for me.

So... Harry studies instead. According to Basim’s letters, his son will be finishing his apprenticeship by summer and will most likely need the family recipe book by then too; Harry might as well take this unexpected window of free time to study it as closely as possible. With Basim’s permission, Harry copies down the recipe for the sleep aid (with Sirius’ help, because writing with his hand all bandaged is a bit difficult), but consciously does his best to not memorize any other recipes; they’re the life-blood of the family business, Harry would never think of trying to take that away from them. Basim was the one to suggest Harry save the sleep aid recipe and that’s the only reason Harry did it; he was perfectly satisfied paying for the product over owl order but Basim insisted he think of it as a gift from a teacher to a student, and honestly, Harry was honoured to be offered it and accepted it with many words of gratitude. He promises himself to keep the recipe secret; he won’t betray Basim’s trust and kindness, he won’t.

“How are you, pup? Any pain?”

Harry shrugs. “It’s fine. Bored, mostly.”

He resists picking at the bandages wrapped around his right hand. The healing has gotten to that stage where it’s just itchy all the time, and he hates it.

Sirius smiles, sitting down on his own bed. “I know you’re not happy, but you have to understand it’s for your own good. You need to let the burns heal properly.”

“I know. I just... I wanna be done with all of this.”

“I know you do. Trust me, I want it to be done too, I hate that you have to deal with any of this. All of this, it should’ve ended a long time ago. You should never have been involved in any of it.”

Harry gently shuts the book of Aziz family recipes and sets it on the nightstand beside his bed. “It is what it is. You can’t escape destiny. At least now, I have help, right? I know what I’m doing, I’ve got people on my side, I’m not in it alone. I guess that’s better than how it was before. I’m just eager to get it over with.”

“I understand. We’ll go see Zhou in the morning and if he’s okay with it, then we can move on to the next horcrux. Okay?”

That sounds good. It’s only about noon now, but at least Harry has an idea of how long he has to wait. He’ll study a bit more, get a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow morning, he can hopefully start this whole cycle over again. He’s not looking forward to the bedrest that comes after the retrieval, but he’ll feel much better with one more horcrux crossed off the list.

Fila potters around the room, dusting here and there with a rag. Harry is happy to see a smile on her face; he’s glad she’s happy. He hasn’t seen her much lately with how busy he’s been. He suggested she see if there was anything she could do to help out Shambhala’s own staff of elves since she can really only clean their room so many times. She seems delighted to be busy and have things to do; guess they’re not very different, he and Fila, both of them having a hard time with doing nothing and being unoccupied. Fila bustles over and picks up the Aziz recipe book, which she then gently tucks away in Harry’s bag for safe-keeping, bringing him a different volume he’s in the middle of studying.

“Thank you, Fila. Could you get us some tea, please?”

She raises her board to reply but stops herself short when there comes a knock on the door; instead, she gives a small curtsey and hurries over to answer it, allowing Durga inside.

“How are you, Harry?” she asks kindly. She takes the chair from near the desk and moves it close to his bed, where she sits down with him. Sirius wanders over as well, taking a seat on the floor to join them.

“Fine, but bored,” Harry responds.

Durga smiles, nodding. “I can only imagine. I came to deliver these to you.” To Harry’s surprise, she offers him Voldemort’s ring and book. He thought dispelling whatever curses lay on them would take much longer, but he accepts them, still. “It was agreed that you are the closest thing to a rightful owner we will be able to find, so it was decided that they would be returned to you, once they were determined to be safe.”

Harry sits up; it’s still a bit of an awkward shuffle with his hand all wrapped up as it is. He studies the items one by one. The book is a fine, leather-bound thing, with brass caps on the corners as decoration. When he flips through the pages, they’re filled to the brim with neat, careful cursive handwriting. 1942... Each page and entry is dated. A journal? He flips to the start; the first entries are dated to the middle of September, 1940. And...the last is in June of 1945. The journal is just over fifty years old, then. According to the name on the first page, it belonged to T.M. Riddle. Who on earth could that be? It would have to be someone closely connected to Voldemort, if the supposed Dark Lord chose to use their journal as a horcrux. Could-... Hm. Could T.M. Riddle be Voldemort’s real name? Based on Harry’s reading, there has been much speculation that Voldemort was just a pseudonym of sorts, but no one has ever reliably proved what his real name might be. Harry will have to read through the journal during his bedrest; whatever clues the writings hold will certainly be helpful, no matter what they turn out to be.

As for the ring, it’s… Well, it’s an oddly designed and clumsily fashioned gold band with a strange black gem set as its centrepiece. The stone itself has some kind of etching on it, or- In it? The mark doesn’t look to be on the stone’s surface, but somehow, actually inside it, as if the gem was built around the mark. Strange. A triangle, with a circle and a line inside it. Harry could swear he recognizes it from somewhere, but nothing comes to mind. It’s on the tip of his tongue but he can’t form the words.

It’s a fairly ugly old thing, to be honest, both the ring and the symbol. The gem is interesting but doesn’t look very valuable either. He’s never seen a precious stone that looks like this; to be fair, though, he’s only very recently been in contact with precious stones at all, and most of them have been antiques he looked at for work, so fair enough, he’s not exactly an expert. Maybe he should ask Fila to take it to Griphook and have him and his colleagues take a look at it. Goblins are master craftsmen after all, and do a lot of work involving gems and precious stones; if anyone can identify this stone, it would be a goblin. They might even have some knowledge on the symbol in the stone.

Fila arrives with the tea tray; she happily serves them each a nice warm cup and a massive plate of cookies. They chat for some time but soon enough, Durga excuses herself to return to the translating work she’s doing for Harry, and Fila disapparates with the tea set and such to re-join the elves and see what else she can help with.

Once he and Sirius are alone, Harry summons his bag to him while Sirius lays down for a nap. Harry knows he’s seen that symbol on the ring somewhere before. He knows he has! He’s certain it’s on something he owns, he remembers seeing the symbol then putting it away in his bag, so he must still have it with him somewhere. He just needs to find it. Triangle, circle, line. Triangle, circle, line. Triangle, circle, line. Where has he seen that before?

A smile fills Harry’s face when his hand brushes against the soft cloth of his father’s invisibility cloak. He hasn’t had any use for it really, so he just about forgot he had it, but Sirius would probably love seeing it! If they were as inclined towards pranks and mischief during their school years as Sirius has lead Harry to believe, he’s probably quite familiar with the old thing.

“Sirius, come look.”

The man sniffs; he yawns as he sits up, rubbing at his eyes. “What’s up?”

Harry pulls the cloak out of the bag, shaking it out and holding it up. “Look! It belonged to dad!”

Sirius squints at it. “Really? I’ve never seen it before. Where’d you get it?”

Wait, Sirius has never seen it before? But… If it belonged to James, then surely he would’ve showed it to Sirius if anyone, the man who was as close to him as a brother. Hm. Dumbledore did say it was a Potter family heirloom; maybe James didn’t have it while he was at school. Maybe it was still with his parents at that time, it hadn’t been passed to James yet.

“Sirius, when did dad’s parents die?”

The man frowns, honestly probably confused by the sudden change of topic. “Um, 1980. January. Both of them. They caught Dragon Pox and that’s never goes over easy on the older folk. Fleamont and Euphemia. The kindest people, those two. Treated me like I was their own son. They died within days of each other. It…hit James really hard. Lily was already pregnant by then, and they were hoping his parents would be around long enough to see you at least once, but… They just couldn’t mount the strength for it, I guess.”

And when they died, everything in their possession passed to their only son, James, and the cloak must have been among those things. Then, at some later time, James lent it to Dumbledore for some reason, and before Dumbledore could return it, James and Lily were slain by Voldemort. It makes sense. It’s a reasonable timeline of events.

But why would Dumbledore want to study an invisibility cloak? They can’t be that rare, can they?

“Are invisibility cloaks an uncommon thing?” Harry questions.

Sirius hums, again seeming somewhat confused by the change in topic. “I suppose. You can find lots of knock-offs and such, but real invisibility cloaks, those are pretty rare. I mean, catching a Demiguise is a rare enough thing on its own, but then you have to use up the only pelt you have to make the cloak, you know? It’s hardly a worthwhile effort, even if a cloak can sell for a decent price. Heard the things turn opaque anyway, after a few years.”

They…turn opaque. Even a ‘real’ invisibility cloak turns opaque and fully visible after just a few years. Based on the timeline, though, James would have received this cloak in early 1980, and Harry didn’t get it until just before winter holidays in 1991. That’s eleven years, not even counting however long the thing was in the possession of James’ parents, and the cloak can still become perfectly invisible.

Meaning, this isn’t a cloak made out of a Demiguise pelt, nor a common knock-off.

That’s why Dumbledore wanted to study it! Because it’s a real invisibility cloak, one that doesn’t deteriorate or lose its capabilities over time.

Speaking of Dumbledore, though, Harry remembers where he’s seen that symbol before!

He digs into his bag again and searches until he finds the long, slim box Dumbledore mailed to him. Inside, the wand and the card still both lay, just the same as when Harry first received the package. There it is, on the card, the very same symbol. Triangle, circle, line. He puts the card back in the box with the wand and puts the lid on; finally, he places the box, the journal, and the cloak in his bag. Ring in hand, he shuffles across the room to where Sirius sits on his bed and sits beside him.

“Sirius, do you know this symbol?”

Sirius takes the ring and peers closely at the black stone. He frowns. “Wait… I do know that symbol. But from where,” he mutters to himself as he thinks, giving the ring back. “Bloody hell, I know I know that symbol!”

So it’s not something Dumbledore or Voldemort just made up, then. If someone else knows it, it can’t be, can it?

Harry startles when Sirius suddenly claps his hands together. “I know! I remember!” the man exclaims with delight. “I know where I know it from! It’s from a book, a children’s story! I used to read it to Reg when he was little, he always loved it, it was his absolute favourite!”

A story? That...could possibly make a strange sort of sense. If it’s anything like many muggle children’s stories, it could be based on real events or folktales and adapted into some kind of moral lesson for kids in the more modern ages.

“Will you tell me the story?”

Sirius smiles. He wraps his arm around Harry and pulls him close to his side for a moment. “Of course I will, pup. Come on. Hop in bed and I’ll tell you. You could use a nap, yeah?”

Grinning, Harry jumps up and dives into his own bed, shoving his bag onto the floor and getting comfy. Sirius comes over to sit on the chair Durga previously used. He straightens the blankets for Harry and even tucks him in! Harry’s never been tucked in before! No one’s ever tucked him in and read him a story to help him sleep, before. It feels silly to be this excited about it when he’s almost twelve years old, but he really couldn’t care less! Sirius is tucking him in and is going to tell him a story!

“Alright, here we go. Fingers crossed I remember the whole thing,” Sirius comments before clearing his throat and starting the story. “There once were three brothers, travelling along a lonely, winding road at dusk. On the path, they reached a wide, rapid river, which was much too deep to wade through and much too dangerous to swim across. However, the three brothers were all students of the magical arts, and with a few flicks of their wands, they simply conjured a bridge across the river. Together, they began to cross.”

Harry watches Sirius with excitement as he tells the story, and listens just as intently.

“But, halfway across the bridge, a hooded figured appeared before them. It was Death, enraged at being cheated of the souls of the three brothers, who should have died trying to cross the river just like everyone before them. Yet, Death was clever. In his cunning, he pretended to congratulate the brothers for passing his test, and allowed each one a prize of their choosing. The eldest of the three, he was a vengeful, combative sort, he asked Death for a wand more powerful than any other in existence, that could defeat any opponent. Death granted this wish by fashioning the Elder Wand out of a nearby elder tree standing on the riverbank, and offered it to the brother.”

A wand crafted by Death itself... Woah...

“Next, the middle brother, a most arrogant and prideful man, wanted to humiliate Death, and wished for the power to raise the dead and recall their souls from Death’s embrace. Death did not argue. He simply picked up a pebble from the riverbank and imbued it with the power of life, then gave it to the middle brother.”

A stone with the power of life…

“The third brother was a humble young man, and wise far beyond his years. He did not trust Death’s claims nor his prizes, and feared what might happen if he followed in the footsteps of his brothers. After thinking deeply, the youngest brother asked of Death, Give me something that will let me leave here without you being able to follow me. And while Death was reluctant, he knew he could not go back on his word. He cut a length from his own cloak, and gave it to the brother. When the brother draped it around himself, he was amazed to find that it rendered him invisible.”

An invisibility cloak cut from Death’s own robes…

“Death left them then, and the brothers crossed the bridge and went their separate ways. The eldest brother travelled to a nearby village where he challenged another wizard to a duel, as they had quarrelled previously and he wished to test the might of Death’s wand. Instantly, he slew his foe, and drunk on power, he boasted to everyone near about his might and his incredible wand. Filled with wine and good food from his celebration, the brother then rented a room and went peacefully to sleep. However, in the night, a third wizard, he too greedy for power, snuck up on the sleeping brother and slew him most viciously, stealing away with the wand. And so, Death took the first brother for his own.

The middle brother returned to his home with Death’s stone in hand. There, he thought deeply of the woman he had once hoped to marry and turned the stone over three times in his palm. To his delight, the girl appeared to him, resurrected from her untimely death to be at his side once more. Yet, they were separated from each other, as if by a veil. The girl was distant from him, cold and sad and no matter what he did, he could not bring a smile to her face. He could not make her love him as she had before. She had returned, yes, but she did not belong among the living, and this caused her to suffer deeply within her soul. After many days of desperation, the middle brother was driven mad by his hopeless longing and chose finally to commit suicide, so that he and his beloved could truly be together once again. And thus, Death took the second brother for his own.

As for the youngest brother, Death searched all across the land. He searched for years and years, without pause, and yet, Death could never find him. It wasn’t until many, many years later, when the youngest brother had grown old and tired, and had lived out a happy, humble life, that he chose to take off his cloak of invisibility and pass it to his son. Having gained much respect for the brother after these many years of evading him, Death waited patiently as the brother said his farewells. The brother kissed his wife and told her how much he loved her. He went down on his knee and offered the cloak to his son, and told him, Wear this, my son, and even Death cannot find you. Yet still, you must be humble and kind, and never give Death a reason to search for you. And when the brother had said all his farewells, he greeted Death as he would an old friend, and they departed this life together, as equals.”

Like Harry thought, a moral tale of sorts; be humble, and Death will let you live a long life.

“That symbol, Harry, represent those three gifts. People call them the Deathly Hallows. The triangle is the cloak, the circle is the stone, and the line is the wand. A lot of people say that if you can find all three, you become the Master of Death, and that you can never be slain, not even by old age, but only die if you yourself choose to let Death find you.” Sirius smiles. He reaches out and runs his fingers through Harry’s hair, petting his head. “Did you like the story?”

Harry nods. It was…interesting. A bit morbid, perhaps, but fair enough.

“Regulus loved it. He went through this phase when he was about ten, where he was absolutely certain the story was true and the Hallows were real, and he bought all these books and did all this research. God, he wouldn’t shut up about it,” Sirius reminisces with a melancholy smile. “He kept saying everyone thought the brothers were from this family called Peverell that went extinct ages and ages ago, and he thought if he could just track the Peverell line, he would be able to find all the Hallows on his own.”

Peverell.

“Sirius?”

“Yeah, pup?”

“I’m the Lord of the House of Peverell.”

Sirius frowns. “What? No, you’re not, you’re Lord Black, aren’t you?”

“I’m both! I’m the lord of lots of families apparently. Peverell married into the Potter line before they went extinct, so technically, I’m a Peverell and so was James.”

“But… What?”

Harry sits up. He snatches his bag up from the floor. The ring, the gem, that’s the stone! The stone from the story, it has to be. And the wand Dumbledore sent, he gets the box out of the bag again, that’s the Elder Wand, why else would Dumbledore send it? And the cloak! Harry straightens out the cloak in his lap and searches over its inside lining. There has to be a mark, right? If it’s the cloak of invisibility, it has to have a mark, just like the stone. There! In one of the corners, stamped into the lining, is that same symbol again, no bigger than Harry’s thumbnail.

“Sirius?”

“Yeah?”

“I… I think I have all the Hallows.”

“Wh-What?”

“The cloak.” Harry shows him the mark. “The stone.” He holds up the ring to show the etching. “And the wand.” He opens the box and takes the card out, offering it to the man. “Dumbledore sent me this, right before he went to Azkaban.”

Sirius stares at the card. Then, he stares at the wand and the ring and the cloak. Finally, he stares at Harry.

“You’re the Master of Death, pup.”

Chapter Text

Harry climbs the tree for the third time. Two branches have now fallen down. He selects the branch that looks easiest to traverse, then does so, shuffling himself along the limb.

This time, the other place is... Is this a Gringotts vault? It reminds Harry of his vault; the floor, walls, and ceiling all look much the same, and it’s filled with precious bits. There’s a collection of tall stacks of galleons in the centre, with boxes and chests in cubbies on the walls, ornate pieces of furniture, and so on. Harry can feel some kind of darkness emanating from each item. Curses? Yes, Griphook mentioned something like that, ages ago now; in some of the more secure sections, the items in the vaults are protected by powerful curses, which must be removed by the bank’s employees before even the owner can touch the items safely. Harry’s quite sure he has a vault somewhere in this section too, to be frank.

In the fog of dark, cursed energy, Harry can’t sense the horcrux clearly enough to find it. He shuts his eyes and breathes deep. When he exhales, he lets his soul energy seep out. He feels the dark thread of Voldemort’s soul tugging him forward, as if having him hooked by the ribs. The fragments are drawn to each other, even if their meetings cause intense clashes of energy. Harry follows where he is lead. He moves deeper into the vault.

In the back, high up on a shelf, the horcrux now calls to him, clear as day. A golden cup, with prancing badgers decorating it. He reaches his hand out, but he’s much too short. His feet lift off the ground. He rises into the air until he comes level with the cup. He reaches out again.

Oh, this is going to suck!

His whole palm burns when he wraps his hand around the cup, as if he placed it on a hot stove.

Harry comes screaming back into his body. The cup clatters and clangs against the stone floor when he throws it aside. Oh, God, he can smell burning flesh! Bile rises in his throat.

“He’s throwing up! Turn him over! On his side!”

Vomit erupting from Harry’s mouth is the last thing he remembers before everything goes dark.

Reading Riddle’s journal is disturbing.

The journal starts with him just beginning his third year at Hogwarts, meaning he’s about twelve or thirteen, and yet, his language is advanced, to say the least. He speaks deeply on politics, both muggle and wizarding, and shows great understanding of the subject, enough so that it leaves Harry completely lost and confused at times. It’s not just world politics, either, though; it’s Hogwarts politics too. It very quickly becomes evident that this Riddle fellow is an avid blood supremacist, despite the fact that he himself is a half-blood. He refers to it as his greatest shame and expresses enormous disgust against his muggle father.

Riddle writes about his violent thoughts. He talks about wanting to purify all of Hogwarts, and rooting out ‘every filthy mudblood within these sacred halls.’ And then, he gets his wish. Partly, at least. The Chamber of Secrets, the Heir of Slytherin, a basilisk, the murder of a fellow students, framing Hagrid for his crime... When Harry returns to Britain, he will need to sit down with McGonagall, the Ministry, and the I.C.W to inform them of all this; if nothing else, to make sure Hagrid’s name is cleared.

Yes, keeping an acromantula around other vulnerable students was wrong of him, but given that acromantulas are considered to be untameable, shouldn’t Hagrid be commended as the first person known to have ever had any type of positive relationship with one? He’s the first person in history that has ever come anywhere close to taming such a dangerous creature; that should be praised! Moreover, he managed it when he was just a teen, too! If it weren’t for this Riddle fellow, who knows what incredible things Hagrid could have accomplished as a magizoologist? Yet, Riddle robbed him of it all...

It comes as no great surprise when, much later in the journal, Riddle coins his new name; Lord Voldemort. Harry began to suspect only shortly after he started reading the bloody thing but he’s not sure how he feels about having confirmation.

It’s bizarre to think; at one point, Voldemort was a harmless baby. He was a child once. He grew up and went to Hogwarts and was a child. At one point, he was Harry’s age. This untouchable ideal of evil was once nothing more than an innocent child. Bizarre. How does a child become someone like Voldemort? How can a child sink so deep into darkness without anyone noticing, or helping? Why did the Hogwarts staff not help him? He was just a boy and they should’ve been there for him, helped him, guided him, and yet, every sign that pointed to Riddle needing someone was ignored...

Can a man be blamed for being evil, if he was never taught how to be good?

Yet, a man cannot escape his destiny, only delay it.

A man cannot escape Death, only delay him.

Thinking of destiny in this way, it’s hard. It’s difficult to come to terms with the idea that there was nothing anyone could have done; Riddle was always destined to become Voldemort, he was destined for evil, he was destined to kill James and Lily, Harry was destined to be left alone, Harry was destined to end up exactly where he is at this moment from the very start and nothing could ever have changed that.

It feels hopeless to know that this was all planned from the start, since long before Harry was even born. What’s the point of doing anything, thinking about anything, if everything will still happen just as destiny has it planned?

Destiny is the only one who knows the plan, though. It’s up to Harry, and everyone else, to figure it all out on their own. There might be a plan behind it all, but until destiny herself comes down and shares that plan, Harry will need to manage on his own.

This isn’t hopelessness; it’s...determination. If everything has already been decided, then Harry can make no true mistakes. No matter what he does, it’s all according to the plan in the end. Even if something seems like an awful, horrible mistake, it isn’t, because destiny designed it all to happen exactly the way it’s happening.

Good. There are no mistakes. Every choice Harry makes is the correct choice.

Leaving Hogwarts was the right choice. Everything that happens, happens for a reason. Even the most painful moments of Harry’s life will happen, and have happened, for a reason.

Harry’s not sure if it can be called a comfort to know this, but...it’s certainly something.

The last entry of the journal takes place some scant weeks before Riddle’s graduation from Hogwarts, in 1945. He spends several paragraphs narrating his plans but what Harry notices is that... There really isn’t an obvious starting point. Yes, Riddle’s plans are grandiose in nature, he fancies himself some sort of revolutionary, for God’s sake, but he makes no mention of where his ‘work’ is meant to begin. What is he planning on doing after leaving Hogwarts? All his plans require him to already have a certain level of renown established, and that’s hardly something he will have as a freshly graduated seventeen-year-old.

According to Harry’s research, Voldemort didn’t become known until sometime in 1950. One has to wonder what Riddle spent those five years doing. By his own admission, he had no money and nowhere to go; yes, he had his so-called Knights of Walpurgis during the school years but by the way Riddle reads, Harry doubts he would be the type to accept anything he deemed as charity, even from his loyal school-yard lackeys.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about, pup?” Sirius wonders as he all but sashays into their room, newly purified horcrux in hand.

Harry looks up from Riddle’s journal. “Nothing, I guess. Reading this stupid thing again.” He closes the leather cover and drops the book into his bag, which sits on the floor next to the desk. “Why?”

Sirius sits on Harry’s bed, which is closest to said desk where the boy sits. “Just wondering if you’re in the mood to hear an old Hogwarts rumour.”

Hogwarts? Does that mean more stories about James and Lily? Eagerly, Harry shifts in his seat to somewhat face his godfather. He cradles his ever-bandaged right hand close.

“Always!”

Sirius smiles. “Well! When we were all third-years, Prongs heard this story about the Sorting Hat, that it used to belong to Godric Gryffindor himself!”

“Really?! That old thing?”

The man chuckles. “We couldn’t believe it, either! So, Moony suggested we try to find out if the rumour was actually true or not. And, well, after some pressing, we squeezed the story out of good old Minnie. She said that the founders knew the school would need a way to sort students into the houses even after they themselves were gone. So, all together, they enchanted Godric’s hat, put into it pieces of their own minds, so that the hat itself could do the sorting!”

Harry wore Godric Gryffindor’s hat? Every student at the school got to wear his hat! That’s incredible! And it contains pieces of each of the founders, their values and ideals to help the hat decide where each student will be best suited. Hermione’s going to love hearing this! Harry bets she’ll be begging McGonagall for a chance to question the hat about the founders!

“But the hat isn’t all that’s left of the founders, you know.”

Harry focuses back on Sirius. “Really? What else is there? Is there lots of stuff? Is it all at Hogwarts?”

“Well, we all had those same questions, of course, and Minnie folded like a house of cards, told us everything she knew! Mh, honestly, she probably only told us so we’d spend at least one detention somewhat focused on not messing about. Anyway! She said there are five known artefacts from the founders. The first two, Gryffindor’s hat and his sword, are both stored in the headmaster’s office.”

A sword? Why would a wizard need a sword?

“The third is the Lost Diadem of Ravenclaw, which went missing just as Rowena herself was dying and her daughter Helena disappeared. Some people think Helena stole it and ran away, but since the thing’s been lost all this time, no one can say for sure. The fourth was a necklace that Salazar Slytherin used to wear, with some kind of pendant. It supposedly passed on to his descendants, but it’s been missing for ages and ages too. His descendants were apparently just as secretive as old snake-tongue himself, so who knows where the thing ended up? If it even exists anymore!”

Now, though, Sirius does something odd. He offers the gilded goblet to Harry. The boy takes it, a bit uncertain, and turns it over and around, studying it for a moment. Before he can ask, however, Sirius goes on.

“The fifth and last artefact is a golden goblet, adorned with badgers, crafted and enchanted by Helga Hufflepuff herself.”

Oh.

A golden goblet, adorned with badgers.

Just like the one Harry has in his hand at this very moment.

“Look at the bottom of the base.”

Harry swallows. He turns the cup over to inspect the underside of its foot.

H.H

Helga Hufflepuff.

“This is-...?”

Sirius nods. “I think so.”

Woah... Harry is holding what could probably be considered a priceless piece of British wizarding history. An item created by Helga Hufflepuff herself.

Where did Riddle get it? How did he find it? How did he get his hands on it? He wasn’t rich by any means, according to his journal, so he couldn’t possibly have bought it. Something like this would probably run you several hundreds of thousands of galleons, if not more! So, how did he get it? Did he steal it? He must have! But from who? And when? And how did it end up in someone’s vault at Gringotts? Riddle wrote that he wished to have a vault of his own with them, but the contract fee was far beyond his means; Harry hesitates to think he’d let someone else pay it for him, either. As narcissistic as Riddle reads as being, it would be something he could only accomplish on his own, with nothing resembling help from anyone ‘lesser’ than him (meaning, everyone).

Harry doubts Griphook will tell him anything about the bank’s other customers but he has to ask, right?

“Sirius, can I dictate a letter to you?”

He shrugs. “Sure. C’mon, let’s switch seats!”

They do just that, and with Sirius at the desk, they write out Harry’s inquiry together. Sirius wonders about this line of questioning as one might expect, to which Harry explains it all from the start. The cup was in a vault that resembled those at Gringotts, Riddle’s writings in his journal, Harry’s reasoning, and so forth. Just like Harry figured, Sirius comments about Gringotts strict code of confidentiality, but agrees that it doesn’t hurt to ask. Even declining to answer can be answer enough if it’s worded the right way.

After Fila takes the letter away for delivery, Sirius urges Harry to follow him. “Bring both your wands.”

Harry hesitates only for a moment, but collects his wand as well as the box containing the Elder Wand. Together, he and Sirius leave their shared room.

“Where are we going?”

“Well, I thought that, even if we’re planning for you to not face You Know Who, that doesn’t mean You Know Who won’t try to come after you,” Sirius explains as they walk. “And while I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you never have to fight him, it would be stupid to assume anything when it comes to dealing with that bastard. We all learned as much during the war. You need to practice duelling. I was hoping to teach you what I know.”

Sirius teaching Harry to duel?

It’s true, Harry has some experience; he sat in on classes at Beauxbatons and practiced with a dummy, but that was just basic form work, really. Harry played around with Draco too (under Narcissa’s close supervision) but that was just that; playing around. They really only practiced duelling etiquette and some basic spells, mostly the defensive sort, but if Sirius could teach Harry proper duelling? That would be amazing! Honestly, he’s probably right, too; there’s no guarantee he won’t end up facing Voldemort, despite their best efforts to avoid it. Learning to properly fight and defend himself, that will always be a good thing. Even if he doesn’t end up fighting Voldemort, who knows what other situations may come up in life, now or later?

As for teachers, Sirius literally fought in a war! Other teachers might be able to help Harry learn spells and etiquette and so on, but when it comes to teaching him what to expect from a real fight, there really is no one better than a veteran who’s been through plenty of battles himself.

“But why am I bringing both wands? I already have my wand.”

“True, but is there a bigger fool than the one who doesn’t use all weapons available to them?” Sirius poses to him with a cheeky smirk. “Plus, with that wand, if it’s anywhere near as powerful as the story makes it out to be, is there any better tool to defend yourself with? If you square off with You Know Who, he won’t be expecting that kind of power, will he?”

Hm, he makes some very good points, that’s for sure.

Sirius leads the way into a large, spacious room, where bleachers take up nearly all the space against the walls. In the corner, there stands a number of stone statues, modelled to appear vaguely humanoid but otherwise blank in design.

“Durga said we’re free to use it as much as we want, unless class is in session or the Duelling Club is meeting,” Sirius informs. “We should be able to get in some good practice, I think!”

They have classes dedicated to duelling here too? That’s so cool! Oh, he’s so jealous! All these students get actual classes on how to fight, that’s amazing! He wishes he could’ve gone to school here or at Beauxbatons, they’re way better than Hogwarts from what he’s seen and heard!

“Try out the Elder Wand first,” Sirius instructs. “From what I recall, Regulus always said there was something about wands choosing their masters and that that’s especially true for the Elder Wand. If you can’t make it work with you, at least we’ll know right away and we can focus on your own wand.”

Harry nods, listening closely to his teacher’s words. He sets his wand and the box down on the closest bench, then opens said box. The Elder Wand is a beautiful thing, to be truthful; it’s a bit longer than Harry’s wand, with these decorative little bulbs all along its length. He wonders what the rune carvings on it say.

Alright. Fingers crossed it chooses him, then.

Using his unbandaged left hand, Harry picks up the Elder Wand.

When Harry chose his wand at Ollivander’s shop, there was this strange rush of magic that flooded over him, warming him from the inside out, electrifying the air around him. When he grasps the Elder Wand, he feels that exact same thing but multiplied by a hundred. His body feels fever hot in a flash; around him, the air seems to actually crackle with wild electricity.

“Bloody hell, even I felt that!” Sirius says, seeming rather gobsmacked by that very fact. “Guess little Reg was right about that thing being crazy powerful...”

It sure seems like he was.

Harry can’t wait to try it out.

On Sirius’ orders, Harry takes up position on one side of the duelling court marked out on the floor while the man himself summons over one of the statues to take the other side. Oh, they’re training dummies! That’s brilliant! The statue gets into position opposite Harry and raises one of its arms, which has a wand-like protrusion attached roughly where its hand should be.

“Alright, let’s start with something harmless, yeah? Just ‘til you get a feel for the wand,” Sirius suggests from courtside. “Do you know any of the sparks charms?”

“I’ve practiced all of them!”

“Good! Distraction spells are one of the most important parts of duelling. If you can distract the opponent, that gives you room to act! Get to cover, retreat, assist your friends, set up for new spells. Whatever it might be, a distraction is what buys you time to do it. Let’s see one of them, pup!”

Harry holds his injured right hand close to his chest while raising the wand in his left. It feels a bit off to be using his non-dominant hand to wield it but needs must until his right hand recovers.

Blavillious.

Where usually the charm would fire thin, concentrated beams of light that would shatter into sparks as they approached their target, what comes this time is more akin to a mass of out-of-control fireworks of bright blue sparkles that shower the entire other half of the room, instead of just the training dummy. Harry staggers backwards from the force of it, and before he knows it, Sirius is shouting his name and Harry finds himself shielded from the onslaught of light by the man, cradled against his chest. He truly doesn’t quite dare to open his eyes until he feels Sirius back away slightly to let him inspect Harry’s condition.

“Harry, pup, are you okay? Are you hurt?”

He shakes his head rapidly. “I’m fine, I’m okay!”

Sirius lets out a soft breath of relief while Harry rubs at his eyes trying to get rid of the bright colourful spots in his vision those ‘sparks’ created. “Good, good, that’s good, thank God... Well. I think we’ve confirmed the wand’s power, wouldn’t you agree?”

Harry snorts. “Maybe I should practice some restraint before anything else?”

“I completely agree, pup. Let’s see what we can do about turning down the intensity on that thing, eh?” Sirius suggest with a chuckle, patting Harry’s shoulder.

It’s not going to be fun re-injuring his hand again, but to be honest, Harry is curious to see what the results might be for a healing charm cast by the Elder Wand if he puts his full effort into it.

“Lady Madhuri will not be cleansing the fragment this time,” Durga informs as Harry is settling in, in the Lady’s circles. “She is hoping to teach you how to do it. It’s an incredibly difficult thing to do but she thinks that given your special connection to the fragment, it may be possible for you even if you have not mastered the art. If you can’t manage it, she will do it, of course, but she feels it may be a good exercise for you, even if you do fail.”

“Okay! I’ll be sure to come by as soon as I’ve recovered after this part and we can give it a try!”

Durga steps back to join Madhuri on the side-lines, where Harry hears them hold a short, whispered conversation as his response is conveyed. Once silence falls again, though, he returns his focus fully to his task.

Eyes closed. Deep breaths. He extends his magic outwards to fill the circles around him, sensing the energy flooding in from all around. Flowing into his Ajna and his Sahasrara, circling his head, down his throat through the Vishuddha, passing the Anahata in his heart and travelling only slightly lower to the Manipura, where he lets himself fall into the vortex of pooling light.

When he opens his eyes, the meadow of lilies and stags spreads out from horizon to horizon. Even with the dark blemish of Voldemort in its midst, that place feels peaceful beyond measure. Speaking of the blemish, Harry has no desire to waste time. He gets up and crosses the field of death separating him from the tree, and begins to climb it once more. There are only three more branches remaining. Harry can only hope that he doesn’t accidentally pick the one that leads him directly to Voldemort himself.

Well, he’s been lucky so far, so why mess with success? Harry picks a branch at random and scales it.

Again, the other place is…not what Harry expected. Honestly, all these places have been all over the place, really. A Gringotts vault, a shack, a big fancy office of some sort, what the hell is the common denominator in all these locations? Why did Voldemort choose these places? Either way, this place is just about as decrepit as the shack, as dark as that office, and as filled with fancy stuff as the vault. It looks like a rundown old house of some sort; everything is covered in dirt and dust and cobwebs, the wallpapers are all tattered, the floor is scuffed and dirty, the air smells musty. Harry wonders who might have lived here once. Clearly, they must have been super rich at some point, but now, the place looks like it’s been abandoned for years and years.

Harry wanders through the narrow hallways of the house and it’s cramped, yet opulent, rooms. He can feel the faint draw of the horcrux but where is it? It leads him down the stairs, through the dining room, and into a large living room. There’s a dusty grand piano in the corner, and two mouldy-looking couches; beyond the couches, there are two very large display cabinets which are filled with all manner of odds and ends. Harry looks around.

Oh.

That’s-… That’s Sirius. He looks a lot younger but those eyes can’t be mistaken. It’s a family portrait hanging up on the wall, which contains two older people (the parents, of course) and two young boys. The older is Sirius, and that’s- Oh, it’s Regulus… Oh, he’s so young. Sirius looks like he might only be eleven or twelve, so Regulus must have been under ten when this picture was taken. He looks so much like Sirius, and both of them resemble their parents closely as well. Orion and Walburga. They might look all regal and noble here, but based on Sirius’ stories, they were far from having any of those qualities in real life. No, they were more like torturers masquerading as parents. Walburga was actively vicious in showing her disdain for her children, and did her best to break them both mentally and physically so that they could become her little puppets and follow her every whim and wish. Most of the time, Orion ignored all of them, his wife included, but when they did draw his attention, he was somehow even more venomous than Walburga.

Sirius may hate his mother, but he fears his father.

When they return to Britain, Harry is going to find this bloody house and he’s going to burn it to the ground!

If Sirius agrees, of course. At the very least, they might take the opportunity to collect whatever mementos remain of Regulus, before they set the building ablaze.

At first, Harry wondered how a seventeen-year-old could so eagerly join Voldemort’s ranks, but after hearing more and more stories from Sirius, Harry knows Regulus most likely only did it because he was afraid. Sirius managed to run away, leave their godawful parents and everything else behind and find a new home with James and all the rest of their friends, but Regulus… Regulus seems like he had no one to turn to, so he did his best to survive on his own, despite the awful things he was forced to do.

Harry turns away. He wonders how he’s going to tell Sirius there was a horcrux in his home.

Focusing on the draw again, Harry crosses the room to the other end, where the cabinets stand. The wisps of smoke begin to emanate from one of the cabinets, seeping through the glass itself. On the lowest shelf, there lays a necklace half tucked in behind an ornate silver box. The big pendant reeks of darkness and has an ornate S inscribed on its front.

S.

Pendant.

Wait, Slytherin’s pendant? The logical leap may be premature but Sirius mentioned such a thing existed and the Hufflepuff cup is proof enough that Voldemort was able to track down artefacts of that nature.

Hm, well, suppose the only way to truly find out is to carry on with the mission, as it were.

Harry reaches through the glass and picks up the pendant.

As usual, the burn of pain in his hand seems to be what whips him back across the world into his own body. Harry slumps to the side on the cool floor, the pendant slips out of his grasp and bounces across the stone. At least this time, Harry doesn’t pass out immediately, though his breathing is as laboured as ever. Sirius and Zhou flock to either his sides; Harry leans into Sirius’ embrace while Zhou immediately begins administering first aid on Harry’s hand. Cool salve quickly eases the pain.

“You’re okay, pup, I’ve got you,” Sirius tells him just like all the previous times they went through this. “I’m right here with you. Just breathe through it, Zhou will have you fixed up in a minute.”

“Sirius, Sirius, it was- The place, it was, it was your house,” Harry gasps out. “There was, in the room, a-a por-portrait.”

Sirius looks like he’s trying not to frown. “What portrait, pup?”

“You and Reg, a-and your, your parents, by the pian- piano?”

The man’s eyes widen. “What? It was-… It was at Grimmauld Place? But…I was there. I was there, right when I got out of Azkaban, that’s where I stayed. It was right there?”

Harry nods against Sirius’ shoulder. “I-In the cabinets, by the couches?”

Sirius lets out a deep, heavy breath. He hugs Harry tighter.

Chapter Text

“It was really right there in the house?”

Harry nods. “Sorry.”

Sirius sighs, shaking his head. “Don’t be sorry, pup, it’s not your fault. I’m glad you found it, of course, and I’m glad it’s not there anymore, but… Well, can’t help but feel like I should’ve noticed. I was right there, in that bloody room, God knows how many times.”

“If it’s not my fault, it’s not your fault either.”

Again, the man sighs. He reaches out to pat the boy gently on the arm. “Right. Anyway. More importantly. How are you? Any pain? Do you need anything?”

“I’m okay, I promise. No pain, really, just a bit sore, I think. Speaking of, can you hand me my wand? I was thinking I’d try out casting a healing charm! Since the wand’s so powerful, I figure, the healing charms should be too!”

Sirius leans over to the nightstand, where the Elder Wand lays set aside when not in use, and offers said wand to its master. While Sirius carefully undoes the bandages, Harry considers which charm to use. Episkey is the most basic one he knows and the obvious choice for most minor injuries, but these burns were inflicted through magic, meaning episkey may not be the best choice. Reparifors is what’s usually recommended for injuries of a magical nature; perhaps that will be best, yes.

Harry’s hand looks to be in quite the sorry state by now. Being repeatedly burned like that, with only the most minor healing periods in between… Zhou said he didn’t think there would be much scarring, but he looks to have been disproven. Harry’s palm is mottled and uneven, as if small burn-blisters have healed over into to scars themselves, and the inside of his fingers are streaked in pale white and pink burn lines that look almost like stretch marks. Hm… Harry’s never thought much about scars, one way or the other; they simply are what they are and not much can be done about them, so why spend too much time thinking on something that can’t be changed? These scars, however, Harry finds them…distasteful. He hopes he can find some sort of treatment to minimize them. Maybe Basim knows something; Harry will have to ask about it in his next letter.

Harry taps the Elder Wand to his palm. “Reparifors.”

It feels momentarily as if a silk sheet whispers across the skin of his palm. He watches, in awe, as the most recent burns heal in close to an instant.

“I had a thought,” Sirius says some short minutes later, while they’re walking to the Hospital Wing to have Zhou inspect Harry’s work. “There’s an old elf living in that house.”

“Really?”

“Mh, yes. Didn’t see much of him when I was there, though. Not fond of me, really, with me being disowned and all that mess, but I spotted him now and then. If anyone knows anything about that house, it would be him. He’s been around since before I was born, and even after I was thrown out, after my parents died, after Regulus died, he was still there, managing the place. Seemed a bit obsessed, if I’m to be honest, but it could prove useful. Maybe he knows something. I doubt he’d come if I were to call, but if you call, he’ll be there in a flash, with you being the lord and all.”

It sounds like the best lead they’ll get, honestly. After such a long service, that elf would probably know that house and all its contents like the back of his hand. If nothing else, he might at least be able to tell them who brought the pendant there. Something to keep in mind for later. Harry figures they should at least get the pendant purified first; they can worry about everything else after that’s done.

In the Hospital Wing, Zhou gives them the all-clear regarding Harry’s hand. He is a bit displeased that Harry experimented without proper supervision, but he’s choosing to let it go this one single time; just don’t do it again. Harry submits to the lecturing because yes, he knows Zhou is right on this one. Healing charms can end disastrously if they’re done wrong or by inexperienced hands, and practicing them should always be, as Zhou said, properly supervised by a certified healer or other suitable instructor, and Harry was lucky he didn’t end up just recklessly making things worse for himself.

With the matter settled, and one last disapproving look from Zhou, Harry and Sirius scurry down to the dining hall for breakfast. Durga joins them, as usual. The conversation is pleasant as ever, as is the meal itself. Stomachs suitably filled, the three of them then return to Lady Madhuri’s study.

Sirius occupies himself with flipping through one of Madhuri’s many books while the remaining three sit together. Madhuri lectures in more detail about how the purification process works, each step of the process and how to handle them; Harry asks what seems like hundreds of questions; Durga translates between them. It’s only after some two hours of study that they move on to the activity itself.

Harry sits in the circles, though the chain and pendant lays on a golden plate in the centre. Madhuri and Durga sit just outside the circles, in front of him.

He begins his meditation. Magic and energy fills the circles. He locates the energy centre in his Manipura, but avoids falling into it as he usually does. Instead, he takes hold of the energy pool and moves it. He imagines the hippogriff, his patronus. It rises out of the pool with its wings spread. Harry lets the energy follow the line of the wings. Outwards, outwards, outwards. Shoulders. Down his arms. Into his hands. Energy pools in either palm, while the hippogriff springs out of Harry’s chest. He lets the energy flow from his hands and follow the creature. He lifts his hands from where they rest in his lap and reaches out to the pendant. He moves his hands just like Madhuri instructed. He feels the dark, black smoke of the fragment in the pendant. Come, rise, higher, come to meet me, let us merge, let us join. He draws it out, out, out. Come to me.

Harry’s hands close around something ice-cold, something with sharp, razor-like edges and venomous, needle-like points. He feels the icy burn but he ignores it. Energy pours out of his hands. He’s sure it must look exactly like how it did when he watched Madhuri do this. More energy, more, more of him, more of his soul.

The object shatters like glass in his hands.

Harry pulls back. His soul, his energy, withdraws. It pulls back from his hands, up his arms, back into his chest, flowing into his Manipura and filling his pool back up to the brim.

He awakens from his meditation and opens his eyes. In front of him, Durga looks as proud as a parent might, while Lady Madhuri has the look of a teacher most satisfied with her student. Sirius hurries into sight as well, from where he was sitting somewhere behind Harry, and he looks just as proud as Durga, and probably even more so.

Harry picks up the plate and offers it to Madhuri. “Please. Did I do it right? Is it gone?”

Durga whispers to her. Smiling, Madhuri takes the plate. She holds her hand above the pendant. Tense moments pass as she evaluates the object.

Then, she nods.

Harry jumps to his feet. When he runs to Sirius, the man catches him with a laugh and hugs him tight, swinging them around together. Harry laughs with him, clinging to his godfather as tight as he can. He hears Durga and Madhuri laugh along with them, too.

Harry did it! He actually did it all on his own! He purified a horcrux all on his own when they said it was something only a true master of the art could do, and Harry really, truly did it on his own! Incredible, incredible, incredible! All on his very own! He can’t believe he really managed it, and on his first try, too. He can only guess that these henna paintings Madhuri gave him were an incredible help, of course, but he still did it on his own!

“That’s my brilliant boy!” Sirius shouts with pride as he swings Harry around in his arms. “What an absolute genius! You got all of Lily’s brains, I swear, pup, all of it! You’re just as brilliant as her, and they’d be so, so proud of you, Harry, I promise you!”

He almost wants to cry with joy. He’s really brilliant? Sirius really thinks so? He really thinks Harry’s just like his mum, just like Lily? And they’d be proud of him? They’d be proud of him! They’d be proud of him! Harry’s mum and dad would be proud of him! Him! Harry!

Sirius sets him down after many moments, but only to hug him again and press a whole row of kisses on Harry’s head, which has the boy giggling when his godfather’s now somewhat wild-grown moustache tickles his forehead.

“I did it, Sirius! I really did it!”

“Yes, you did, pup! Yes, you bloody did, you brilliant boy, you! Oh, Merlin, I love you so much, I’m so proud of you!”

“I love you, too, Sirius!”

They’re prepared to summon Kreacher. Harry has the Black signet on display on his finger, while Sirius has the steward’s pin on his shirt. Fila, dressed in her finest livery, is with them as well.

“Kreacher, come to me, please,” Harry says firmly.

A moment passes.

The elf appears before them. Oh, he’s a pitiful old thing, isn’t he? His pointy little face is filled with wrinkles, which surround his large beak-like nose that droops almost as low as his large, floppy ears. He’s much too thin, as well; he looks as malnourished as Fila did when Harry first met her. There’s hardly anything but skin and bones left of him. Sirius explained that Kreacher’s attitude has always been somewhat foul, but Harry has made his decision; as long as Kreacher is able to be respectful, even if he can’t manage kindness just yet, and willing to accept Sirius as a member of the family, then Harry is fully prepared to let him stay with the Black family.

Kreacher eyes them suspiciously for some time, though his nearly wrinkled-shut eyes make it hard to really tell quite where he’s looking, but he bows finally. He bows so deeply that his head nearly touches the floor.

“Kreacher greets the Master, Lord Black, he does,” he says, his voice a bit raspy and worn down. “Kreacher also greets the Master, Steward Black.”

“Thank you, Kreacher. You may stand. Allow me to introduce us all properly,” Harry offers with a smile as gentle as he can make it. “I’m Lord Harry Black. This is my adopted father and steward, Sirius Black. And this, is my personal elf, Fila. Due to some unfortunate circumstances, she’s unable to speak, but this enchanted board lets her communicate. You may call me Harry.”

Kreacher bows again, though thankfully not as deeply this time. “Kreacher appreciateses the introductions, Master Harry, very kinds. How can this Kreacher serves the Lord and Steward?”

“There’s a lot to discuss, I know, but before anything else, there are some questions Sirius and I need to ask you. It’s something very important and I need you to tell the truth, Kreacher. Can you do that?”

The elf wrings his hands together but nods. “Yes, Master, always, Master. Kreacher wills give all answers he knowses, Master.”

Harry glances at Sirius. The man nods. He takes the necklace out of his pocket and holds it up, showing the pendant. Kreacher gasps, his bony-hands coming up to hide his face as he staggers backwards. He shakes his head rapidly and begins muttering to himself.

Well, suffice it to say, he recognizes the bloody thing.

“Kreacher, I need you to calm down, you did nothing wrong. I’m not angry at you.”

The elf whimpers but nods rapidly. He keeps his hands covering his face.

“So, you recognize it?”

“Yes, Master, Kreacher knows it! He knows it well, sir Lord!”

“That’s okay. Can you tell me how you know it?”

Again, the elf whimpers. He sinks to the floor, crouching down, and hugs his knees tight. “Master Regulus, Master Harry.”

Sirius chokes on a breath. Harry reaches out. He grabs Sirius’ hand and squeezes it. Sirius squeezes back. “Please explain everything, Kreacher. I need to know it all.”

Though the story is told in a somewhat jumbled manner, the details come through clear enough to make sense of it all.

Voldemort wanted to hide his horcrux. He requested to borrow Kreacher. Regulus allowed it. Kreacher helped hide it in a cave somewhere. Afterwards, he reported back to Regulus. The two of them went to the cave and switched the horcrux out with a fake. Then-

In the process of the switch, Regulus was forced to drink poison. Something debilitating, something that rendered him all but hysterical. He tried to drink water from the lake in the cave but when he touched the water, inferi reached out and they-

They dragged him in.

Kreacher tried to save him but it was over too quickly. Before he knew it, Regulus was gone, disappeared into the water with the monsters. Though crushed by despair, Kreacher followed the final orders given to him. He returned home and tried everything he could to destroy the pendant, but nothing worked. Instead, he hid it away in the cabinet, which is where Harry then found it.

When Kreacher has finished the story, Sirius… He-… He doesn’t collapse, really. It’s more like he completely deflates. All the air seems to leave him and his knees slowly give out and he sinks to the floor and just a second later, he’s sobbing into his hands. Tears roll down Harry’s cheeks, too, though far from as intensely. He grieves for Regulus, of course he does, but he never knew him; he can feel the loss, but for him, it’s nowhere near as consuming as it no doubt is for Sirius. Harry wraps his arms around his godfather. He holds him. Sirius holds onto him so tight Harry feels like he might bruise. Usually, his skin would crawl with discomfort and disgust at the thought of being bruised by someone he is supposed to trust, but on this one… This time, he’s not upset about it. He doesn’t mind it this time. In truth, he allows it. He welcomes it. Sirius needs to let his grief out and Harry is helping him do that. Some accidental bruises can be forgiven this time. Harry forgives it before it even happens.

Harry wants to get this all finished as quickly as possible and there are several motivators for it.

The main one is of course Voldemort. Harry wants to get rid of every trace of that vile bastard from within him and he’s so close to getting there. There’s only a little bit left, then it will all be over.

The second motivator is instigated by the first; the situation in Britain is getting more and more tense by the day. Voldemort seems to be biding his time, for now, working behind the scenes. There are incidents here and there, but nothing to indicate a larger, overarching plot as of yet. Communications from Harry’s friends at Hogwarts are increasingly tense, as well. Students easily pick up on the troubled spirits of the adults surrounding them, and Hermione believes things may be nearing a breaking point. They’re just kids; they can’t carry all this fear and anxiety forever. Sooner or later, something’s going to give out and when it does, all of them will crumble the same.

A lower priority reason, but an important reason nonetheless, is visiting Grimmauld Place. After some discussion, Sirius and Harry agreed (on Sirius’ suggestion) that they clean out the old house and see what can be done about selling it. Harry himself has no real ties to the place, and therefore left the decision for Sirius to make; it’s his childhood home, after all. After some thought, Sirius decided he’d be glad to see the old place go, as long as he can collect whatever mementos and personal affects he can find. According to him, the house itself might not sell for much, as run down as the place is, but the family has apparently been avidly collecting interesting heirlooms and artefacts through the years, a large number of them of a darker nature; selling off all that junk should earn them a decent profit, even if the building itself doesn’t.

As for other reasons, there are plenty, really, not least of all being the fact that Harry wants to live his own bloody life as he very well bloody wants to, for once. He’s so sick of being mistreated and abused and manipulated and controlled. He’s sick of it and he’s is beyond ready to move on and live his life freely. He explained as much to Sirius, who was obviously immediately on board and ready to do whatever needs doing; honestly, it’s a weird feeling, knowing he has someone so staunchly on his side, someone who is very ready to physically fistfight the world on Harry’s behalf (Sirius’ words).

So, here Harry is, back in Lady Madhuri’s study promptly at eight o’clock in the morning, ready to collect the last horcrux.

Climbing the tree is old hat by now and is done with ease. Two branches, two options; horcrux, or Voldemort.

This one!

Harry opens his eyes and-

Wait, Hogwarts?! Voldemort hid a horcrux at Hogwarts? How the hell did he manage that? When? Did he place it here at the beginning of this school year, while posing as a professor? During his own school years? Did he somehow gain access in the years between?

Harry shakes his head, shaking the question away. He can think about all of that later. Right now, he needs to focus on finding the horcrux itself.

Right, well, he’s in the entrance courtyard, where does he go from here? He reaches out with his soul, feeling after any trace of the horcrux’ vile, dark energy. Where is it? Where? He feels it, there, in the distance, but it’s vague, it’s too far away to feel clearly. It’s inside the castle somewhere. He’ll have to search for it inside, but… It’s still really early for them here, probably near two or three in the morning if he remembers the time difference right, which means his friends must still be in their beds.

Could he…see them? They would be asleep most likely but it doesn’t matter; just laying his eyes on them, even if they can’t see him, it would be incredible. All this time, he’s only communicated with them through letters and small mirror conversations here and there. Actually seeing them…

Harry runs. He runs for the doors and once he’s inside, he’ll go down to the dungeons and sneak in and find Draco’s dorm room first since it’s closest, then up to Gryffindor tower-

Harry runs into a solid concrete wall, which then somehow seems to pick him up and toss him away as if he were nothing more than a used napkin. He cries out in pain and fear as he sails heedlessly through the air. He crashes into the cobblestones some distance away.

What- What happened? Why- It should have worked, right? When he’s like this, he can pass through walls like a ghost and go wherever he wants completely unseen. He should be able to get inside! Why couldn’t he get inside? What happened? Why did it keep him out? Groaning, Harry struggles over onto his hands and knees. He staggers to his feet. Holding his aching left arm, he shuffles to the doors again. He reaches his hand out.

A handful of centimetres away from the door itself, Harry’s hand touches an invisible wall. What- What is this? Why won’t it let him in?

Wait… Hogwarts is the safest place in Britain. This must be one of the barriers! One of the wards that’s been in place over the school for hundreds of years. Of course! Of course Harry can’t get in! The school is protecting itself from what it thinks is a threat, an outside attack.

But if he can’t get in like this, then what is he supposed to do? He has to get to the horcrux!

Oh, it’s obvious, isn’t it?! He just has to actually, physically go to Hogwarts! If he’s there in person, he’ll be able to go inside and move around as he pleases!

Harry shuts his eyes. With some effort, he withdraws back to his meadow. From there, he awakens normally again. Everyone stands tense around the circles, waiting. Zhou has his first aid supplies at the ready; Durga waits with tongs and a golden plate to collect the horcrux. They all look quite surprised at his anti-climactic return. Harry gets up and joins his godfather and instructors, after thanking Zhou for his time.

“It’s at Hogwarts, the horcrux,” he says, plain and simple. “The wards wouldn’t let me enter the building. I think I have to go there in person.”

“At Hogwarts? How did he manage that?” Sirius questions, seemingly mostly to himself, while Durga explains to Madhuri.

The Lady sighs; she strokes her chin and considers, before speaking on the matter. “Lady Madhuri believes you will be able to find the horcrux in person, and possibly purify it even without the circles. Given your connection to the fragment and the paintings she gave you, it may be possible. If you cannot, write to Lady Madhuri and she will travel to meet you immediately. After it’s been purified, you must rip the tree out by the roots inside you. After that, when You Know Who is slain, his death will be permanent.”

Right, then.

Well.

Suppose they should begin preparing to return to Britain.

“You’re really coming back soon?” Ron asks for the fourth time.

Harry laughs. “Yeah, I promise! I’m leaving in a little while, maybe a day or two. I have a meeting with the headmaster and I need to pack, and all that sort of stuff. After that, I’m not sure how long the trip itself will take, I haven’t decided yet how I’m going to travel.”

“You could probably get someone at that place to make a portkey for you! I’ve heard it’s really not that hard but you have to be careful setting the destination and all that. I’m sure one of them could manage it easy!”

Portkey, huh? Hm, well, that could be a fun experience! Harry hasn’t had a chance to use a portkey yet. He makes a note to ask Durga about it later. “I’ll ask around later. How are things at school? Is everything still tense? Is Malfoy being weird still?”

Ron scoffs, shaking his head. “Malfoy’s…weird. Yeah, that’s probably the word for it. He’s not hanging out with his usual crowd anymore, really, those knobheads Crabbe and Goyle or Pug-face Parkinson. It looks like he’s made some other friends in Slytherin and, I didn’t believe it ‘til I saw it with my own two eyes, he’s hanging out with some kids from Ravenclaw. Seen him chatting with some Hufflepuffs too, even some Gryffindors, but he’s sticking mostly with the Ravenclaws, I guess. Rumour has it, they spend all their time in the library studying, for fun. For fun! Who studies for fun?!”

Harry laughs at that. “Well, I do?”

The red-head frowns. “What is this?! I’m surrounded by nerds!”

Harry’s laughter grows louder; he clutches his stomach as it pours out of him. Ron laughs along with him.

“To be honest, though, those books you’ve been sending me are really interesting,” the boy confesses once their laughing spree has calmed. “I love the ones on herbology the most!”

Grinning, Harry chides, “Sounds like you’re a nerd, too.”

Ron groans, rolling his eyes. The both of them laugh again.

After their call is finished some minutes later, Harry tucks the mirror into his bag.

Well, no point in lazing about here, Harry decides and gets up from his bed, might as well look into that portkey idea! He scurries through the school with the flood of students, giving pleasant greetings here and there and, surprisingly, being stopped a few times to exchange mailing information. He’s actually managed to make a few acquaintances here! He never approached anyone himself, he didn’t want to bother anyone or anything of that sort, but after the first week, a few were brave enough to approach him. Of course, he explained himself, he didn’t want to be a bother and obviously he had no idea who does or does not speak English, and all that, and they all had a laugh about it. Their interactions were mostly chit-chat during meals, greeting in the hallways, things like that. Now, however, it seems word has spread he’ll be leaving soon, and a few of his new friends are hoping to become pen pals! Obviously, Harry agrees, and gladly collects slips of parchment with names and addresses and such details jotted down.

How fun! He’s never had proper pen pals before! Sure, he’s been communicating over letter in the past months since he’s been travelling, but to have actual pen pals? A few from here, and maybe even some of his acquaintances from Beauxbatons... Harry promises himself to write to all of them as soon as this whole mess with Voldemort is over and done with.

He reaches Durga’s quarters finally, and knocks on her door. She opens the door for him after some moments, smiling when she sees him. “Hello, Harry. What can I do for you? Eager to see the books I’ve finished?”

Harry grins. “Sure! I’d love to see them!”

She shows him inside, through her small living room to the nook where she keeps her desk. There, she presents him with three simple leather-bound volumes. Harry flips through the pages of the first, and smiles even wider at seeing her neat and tidy handwriting filling each sheet. He immediately summons Fila and has her fetch his bank book for him, upon which he writes Durga a Gringotts cheque for the appropriate amount and a small little bonus for all her hard work and help. She is of course delighted to accept it and tucks it away safely in a desk drawer. They discuss the list of titles Harry requested, as well as the potential timeframe for the work, before Harry poses the question Ron suggested.

With that in mind, they walk together to see the head charms professor who happily accepts the small break from his paperwork. Minutes later, Harry leaves with a portkey in the form of a pale pink flamingo feather quill, which will deliver the passengers to Oxford (where the professor in question was proud to inform he spent some time during his graduate studies in England). All Harry has to do is say the password and off they go! Perfect. Once they’re in Oxford, Sirius can apparate them to their next destination, or Harry can fly them in his hippogriff form.

He has Fila deliver the quill to their room for now, and Harry hurries to his second objective after checking the time. As expected, Sirius can be found sunning himself on one of the terraces; this time, he is, surprisingly, in his human form. Usually, he does his sunning as a dog, so this is quite unexpected! Harry sits down next to him on the ground, the noise of which has the man waking from his light dozing.

“I got us a portkey to Oxford!”

“That’s perfect, pup, that’ll make things easy,” Sirius agrees. “What’s the plan when we get there, though? To Britain, I mean.”

Harry sighs. He lays down next to Sirius, removing his glasses and closing his eyes from the sun. “I thought maybe…we could see Moony?”

Beside him, Sirius smiles. “That sounds like a great idea. I’ll write to him, let him know to expect us soon. Should you write to Andy, perhaps? Maybe we can meet her as well? And if she lets us, maybe we’ll get to meet Ted and Nymphadora, too. And Cissa will probably be glad to see you for a bit, as well.”

All very good suggestions. Hm, and maybe it’ll be a good opportunity to explain everything to Narcissa. She still doesn’t know he’s Harry Potter, after all; the few times they’ve talked through the mirrors, Harry has been careful to wear his earring. Oh! That’s something he needs to handle too; he should see Griphook at the bank. He needs to give the earring back, and look through his portfolio of properties to find a place to live. He needs to discuss the sale of Grimmauld Place, as well. Would Gringotts be interested in any of the old artefacts stockpiled at the old Black family home, perhaps? Maybe they could let Gringotts handle it all and save them the bother of it.

He makes these suggestions to Sirius, who agrees as well.

“Alright, bit more sun, then we’ll get those letters sorted. How about that?”

Harry grins to himself. “Sounds good to me.”

Chapter Text

A crowd of people has gathered on the ground-floor terrace to see them off. Durga and Madhuri are among them, of course, but so are Zhou and Headmaster Bhattacharya, as well as the new friends Harry has made among the students, and many others.

Harry is glad to be back in a suit and tie, which is a big surprise. They’re actually quite comfortable to wear, and he feels his confidence grow whenever he wears one. It makes him actually feel like the lord he is. He has his Black signet on his right hand, the Gaunt ring (as Riddle dubbed it in his journal) on the left, and the Slytherin pendant around his neck. The chain is tucked in under the collar of his black button-up, with the pendant itself resting on top on his tie in the middle of his chest. Sirius is dressed up too; suit and all, with his fancy wine-red coat and the chain of his pocket watch to decorate him, and the steward’s pin on his lapel. The suit fits him much better by now; he’s been able to gain back some weight, and over all, he appears in a much healthier state, which is to a great relief to Harry.

Sirius’ hair and moustache have been trimmed, and are now neatly styled again. The curly moustache makes Harry want to giggle every time he sees it; it seems like it should look silly, but honestly, it quite suits the wizard.

They’re all dressed up for a fight.

They’re ready to face wizarding Britain, and kick its arse!

They say their heartfelt farewells to all their friends here, then let the portkey whisk them away.

Travelling by portkey is… It’s similar to apparating, except with a portkey, they free-fall out of the bloody sky, dive-bombing at the ground. Sirius has some experience with it, though, which is a blessing, because he pulls Harry into his arms and walks them down to the ground as if he were ascending a grand, invisible staircase out of the sky.

They land in a quiet part of a park, and Harry is glad for it. It gives him plenty of privacy to retch into a bush without worrying about being disturbed. He’s happy to inform that he manages to not vomit, only coughing and spitting up some mild bile before the nausea calms down again.

First stop, Yorkshire!

With ease, Sirius leaps them across the country with a simple apparation, landing them in the overgrown garden of a half-derelict little hovel of a cottage that sits far away from the nearest visible neighbour. Leading Harry by the hand, Sirius crosses the garden with a smile and doesn’t hesitate to pound his fist on the front door.

The door flies open after only a second, as if the occupant was waiting just on the other side. A tall, gangly man with a bushy little moustache throws himself out of the house and at Sirius, long lanky arms wrapping around the man. Sirius laughs and lets go of Harry’s hand to hug him back. Harry smiles as he watches them embrace.

A while back, Sirius confessed he didn’t visit Remus after getting out of Azkaban; there had been some bad blood between them during the war, and a lot of it was Sirius’ fault, and he was just too ashamed to approach the man. After meeting Harry, however, Sirius soon began to correspond with Remus, mostly concerning the boy himself. Harry doesn’t know the contents of any of their letters but he can only hope that they were able to move past it all, and based on how this reunion is going, it seems like they have.

And then they kiss.

On the mouth.

Oh. Well, now Harry just feels like he’s intruding! He quickly looks away, slapping a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing and interrupting them. Unexpected, yes, but hey, if they’re happy, Harry’s happy!

Thankfully, they don’t forget they’re not alone and part from one another before too long. Remus turns to Harry, and the smile on his face as he looks at the boy is melancholy to say the least.

“You...look just like them,” Remus says, finally. “I-... I’m sorry. Pads didn’t give any details but he said things were hard for you with your aunt and uncle. All this time, I... I could’ve-” He stops himself, sighing, shaking his head at his own foolishness. “I’m so sorry, Harry.”

The boy only smiles. He steps closer and wraps his arms around the man’s thin midsection, hugging him. Remus freezes, as if in shock. It takes him a moment, but in the end, he hugs Harry back, squeezing him close and tight, cradling his head gently.

“It’s okay, Moony. We’re all together now. That’s what matters.”

Remus lets out a choked noise and hugs Harry even tighter. Sirius joins them, wrapping his arms around both of them together. Harry smiles so wide it feels like his face might start to hurt soon. Is this a family? Does he have a family now? A family… Harry’s very own, extra-special little family.

With the reunion/first meeting completed, they all shortly jump into action again. There’s no time to waste; there’s lots to do! All three of them together, make the leap to Kingsdown, Kent. When they land, Harry slips his earring into place and shivers when the wave of magic washes over him to settle the glamour in place. They walk the rest of the distance to the cottage on the edge of the small town, where Narcissa awaits them. After checking with both Andromeda and Narcissa, the latter will be accompanying them to meet with the former, so this will only be another short stop to pick up an additional passenger.

Much like Remus, she seems to have been waiting by the door for them, as it swings open only a mere blink after Harry knocks. She looks like she’s doing better; after Lucius’ arrest, she was a mess, for good reason, but Harry knows she’s been recovering from the ordeal little by little in the past weeks. By now, she looks quite healthy again, her long hair framing her face, though it’s now fully blonde, and her cheeks just a bit rosy.

“Sirius, dear boy, come here, let me see you,” she says, her eyes on Harry. The boy gladly steps to her. She cups his face in her hands, puts a few wild strands of his hair to order. “Oh, you sweet boy. You look well.”

“You, too, Aunt Cissa,” he replies. “You look much better. How are you?”

She lets her hands move to rest on his shoulders instead. “I’m alright, I think. It’s still difficult, of course, and I miss Draco more every day, but…I’m managing. Being here has been such a help. I can’t thank you enough.”

He shakes his head. “Not at all, Auntie. There’s no thanks needed. Anything for you.”

She smiles again; she presses a kiss to his forehead, then pulls him close for a hug. Harry hugs her back just the same. This is wonderful. Harry’s never gotten so many hugs before in his life, and he loves it! Hugs are the best; how did he not know this before?

After she and Harry part, there is a somewhat awkward reunion for the cousins.

“Narcissa. It’s…good to see you.”

“You, as well, Sirius. You look well. I’m glad. I can’t imagine-… You look well. And this must be Remus, then. Sirius, the younger, mentioned you.”

Remus bows his head momentarily in greeting. “I’ve heard much about you too. I’m honoured to meet you.”

“Auntie, can we go inside for a minute?” Harry requests. “There’s something we need to talk about before we go.”

“Oh, yes, of course, dear. Come on inside. The sitting room is just this way.”

The three of them follow her as bidden, to the small sitting room just off the vestibule. Harry makes certain to sit next to Narcissa on the couch to facilitate their conversation. After asking her to steel her nerves, he removes his earring again. Narcissa’s eyes widen in shock; her mouth actually falls open. While she is shocked about it all, she does accept Harry’s explanation quite readily, as well as the fact that the small lie he told for his own safety did sort of spiral out of control by pure coincidence; obviously, none of this would really have happened the same way, if Narcissa and her family hadn’t gone to France for the holidays, and visited that specific restaurant for dinner on that specific night. No one could have predicted things would turn out like they did; Harry didn’t intend to lie to them. It is what it is, no one is to blame, such is life, they all agree. But aren’t they blessed that it did happen? Draco got a cousin, Narcissa is reuniting with her family, Harry gets to actually experience family; it all seems like the most incredible stroke luck, doesn’t it? As if destiny had it all planned…

All that settled and done, the four of them pack up to head out yet again. This time, their stop is Clapham Common, a park in London.

This is where they will be meeting Andromeda. Right by the bandstand, as she said in her letter.

Remus decides to fall back and give them some space as they begin to approach the bandstand on foot. To start with, it’ll be just the four of them, and if things go well, then they can call Remus over and introduce him as well.

Harry walks between his godfather and his aunt, holding either hand. Honestly, to anyone looking at them from the outside, they might look like a young son, out with his mum and dad; a funny thought, that is. Really, given the Black family’s propensity for incest, that could very well have happened; a less fun thought.

They approach the bandstand. A woman waits in the large pavilion. Long, beautiful chestnut locks fall down her back, matching well with her woodsy green coat. It’s her. Andromeda. She wrote in her latest letter; she would wait in the bandstand wearing a green coat. It’s really her. She’s really here. She hears them approach, probably the light clack of Narcissa’s heels, and turns around. She’s beautiful. With a sculpted, chiselled face, and wide, kind eyes, and plush lips painted red quirked in a small smile. She looks like marble come to life.

“Hello,” she says softly.

Narcissa lets go of Harry’s hand. She hurries across the distance between them to meet her big sister, and their embrace is even more long-awaited than any they have seen today. Harry and Sirius afford them a few moments to themselves, making their approach at a sedate pace.

“Sirius, it’s so good to see you,” Andromeda says when she hugs her cousin, a minute later. “You look great. I’m so happy you’re alright.”

“You, too, Andy. God, I’ve missed you. Even before I went away, I was such a coward, Andy, and I’m so sorry. I should’ve been by your side, I should’ve reached out, if anyone, we were in the same position you and I. I should’ve-… I’m sorry, cousin.”

They part, and Andromeda squeezes his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Si. I never blamed you. Or you, Cissy. I never blamed anyone but mother and father, that’s all there is to say on it. I just missed you both so much.”

Sirius nods. “Thank you, Andy, that’s… It’s a relief to hear. I missed you too.”

“Me, as well,” Narcissa agrees. “I was a mess for so long after everything. The only way I survived was by locking it all down, I think, repressing it all.”

“I understand, Cissy. It was the same for me. For a while, it took all my strength just to make it through the day. Burying it was the only means of survival. But now, I guess we have someone very special to thank for all of this.” All three of them turn their smiles to Harry, and the boy can feel himself blushing. Andromeda steps away from her sister and cousin, to meet Harry. “Thank you, for being brave enough to do what none of us dared. I think we really needed you to give us all a push in the right direction.”

Harry shakes his head. “It’s okay, Aunt Andy. I’m just glad everyone’s happy.”

The woman’s face softens immeasurably. “Aunt Andy! Oh, my heart, you sweet boy… I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished I had someone to call me that.” She pulls the boy to him, giving him the hundredth hug of the day and Harry doesn’t mind it all. He’s more than happy to hug her back, now and every time after this. “I do wonder, however,” she says when they part after a minute, though with a wink and a grin, “-why Harry Potter claims to be the son of my very homosexual cousin.”

Sirius makes a scandalized noise. “Excuse you! I had women! Not my preference but I tried it! I was wild in my youth, I assure you!”

Andromeda rolls her eyes, shaking her head. “Oh, please, Si, everyone knew you were gay from the moment you were born! Such fabulousness simply can’t be hidden.”

Harry is shocked to hear Narcissa let out a quite unladylike snort. “She’s not wrong, Si!”

“Where’s that boy you were so obsessed with? There’s no way you’re out of prison and you’re not back together with him. What was his name again?”

“Remus? Oh, don’t worry, Andy, he’s hiding behind that tree over there,” Narcissa comments, pointing.

Everyone looks over just in time to watch a startled Remus duck back behind the tree in question.

Harry laughs so hard he can’t quite breathe.

“Teddy bear! Dora!” Andromeda calls into the house as she opens the door, the rest of them on her heels. “Come meet the family!”

“Coming, dear!” a man shouts from upstairs, while from deeper in on the ground floor comes, “They’re really here, mum?!”

A young woman bursts out of the kitchen, running through the living room and laser focuses on Harry. The boy yelps in shock when she scoops him up in a massive bear hug.

“I’ve got a cousin, I’ve got a cousin!” she chants to herself, bouncing with him in her arms.

Harry laughs uproariously and squeezes her tight in return. “Just wait ‘til you meet Draco, too!”

The girl nearly shrieks with excitement as her sunflower yellow hair shifts quickly to bright pink. “I’ve got two cousins!” She finally sets him down, only to flit over and hug her mother just as excitedly. “Mum, I’ve got cousins!”

Andromeda chuckles. “Yes, you do, my love, and I’m so glad you can finally meet them.”

“Me, too, mum! Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

A man’s delighted chuckle draws their eyes to the top of the stairs, where a somewhat portly middle-aged man stands watching them with a kind smile. He quickly descends the steps however, to embrace his wife and daughter.

“I’m so happy for you, loves,” he tells them, kissing either their heads. “How about we get the introductions over with, so we can all have a sit down for some tea? I’m sure there’s lots to catch up on.”

The three of them part, though Nymphadora keeps one arm wrapped around her mother’s shoulders.

“Allow me,” Harry says. “I’m Harry. Born Harry Potter, but I’ve chosen to change it to Harry Black. I’m sorry I lied, and I can explain everything, but that’s the state of things. Sirius has blood adopted me, so suppose he’s like my father now.” Harry smiles when he feels the man’s hand come to squeeze his shoulder. “Sirius Black, of course, is Aunt Andy’s cousin, and that’s Remus Lupin, Sirius’ boyfriend.” Both Sirius and Remus splutter at that, but Harry moves past it with a grin. “And Narcissa Malfoy, née Black, Aunt Andy’s younger sister, and she’s got a son, Draco, who’s at Hogwarts right now.”

“My turn, then,” Andromeda goes on. “This is my husband, Edward Tonks.”

“Ted, please,” the man requests good-naturedly.

“And our darling daughter, Nymphadora.”

The girl groans, though still smiling. “I prefer just Tonks, but Dora’s fine, too, I guess. Anyway! Come on! Let’s sit! I wanna talk to my cousin!”

The lot of them all bustle into the living room where the ‘adults’ squeeze in on the couch and the armchairs, while Dora drags Harry over to sit in the nook by the bay window. Ted disappears into the kitchen but shortly returns with tea and biscuits for everyone.

Talking with Dora is… It’s amazing, really. After Dudley, Harry was happy enough to just have one good cousin in Draco, but to think he gets to have two good cousins! Incredible! And Dora’s so cool, too! She’s working to become an auror! Harry’s cousin, an auror! How amazing is that?!

“His name’s Alastor Moody, and he’s like, the greatest auror of the century,” Dora chatters excitedly, and Harry listens as if enraptured, eager to learn everything about her and her life. “During the war, he had the highest Death Eater arrest numbers for, like, five years in a row! He’s filled half of Azkaban on his own! He’s technically retired now, but he agreed to mentor me! Me! How awesome is that?!”

“That’s so cool! I can’t wait to meet him, he sounds amazing! And of course he’d want to mentor you! Someone’s gotta pick up where he left off, right? He’s passing the torch to the next generation, and he chose you!”

Dora squeals her excitement, clapping her hands together. “I know! I still can’t believe it, it’s so cool!”

Harry loves listening as she goes on about her training and studying with Moody; it’s always amazing, isn’t it? Listening to someone talk about something they’re so deeply passionate about? He has plenty of questions for her and she delights in answering each and every one.

She doesn’t dominate the whole conversation, though, and easily transitions them to talk about Harry himself and eagerly asks him questions about his few months of travel and such. Just like she did, Harry delights in telling her about all the places he went and the people he met. They go through his now massive collection of photos together, and Dora nearly cries when she gets to look at a picture of Harry and Draco together with big grins on their faces, exhausted from one of their duelling training sessions, even if Harry’s wearing the wrong face.

“I wish you had your real face in this one,” she says timidly, her eyes still locked on the photo. “I’d love to have a picture of you two.”

Harry reaches out, resting his hand on hers. “Don’t worry! We’ll all be together soon, and we’ll take lots of pictures with all three of us!”

Dora’s hair shimmers in yellow and pink as she puts the photo back on top of the pile spread out between them. “I’d really like that.”

“Oh! I’ve got a present for you in the mean time!” Harry recalls and digs into his bag again.

He pulls out the neatly wrapped gift box with her name tagged on it, which he hands over to her. Dora looks a bit surprised to be suddenly receiving a gift out of nowhere but accepts it with sincere gratitude and rips into the wrapping paper. When she can finally open the box a moment later, she gasps.

“It’s glass,” Harry explains. “I bought them in Murano, in Venice, in one of the big glass-blowing studios I visited. I wasn’t sure what you’d like, but...I thought about you when I chose it. I hope it’s okay.”

The girl sets the box down and quickly begins to remove the necklace and stud earrings she’s currently wearing. She exchanges them for the pieces in the set Harry gifted her, as well as slipping the ring onto her right ring finger. She touches the pendant, a delicate glass heart, with something near to reverence.

“Thank you, Harry. They’re beautiful,” she tells him, taking his hand in hers and squeezing it tight. “Can I go show mum and dad?”

“Of course! I got presents for them, too!”

Excited, Dora jumps up from her seat and runs over to where the others sit chatting and catching up, barrelling her way into the conversation. “Mum! Dad! Look! Harry got me a present in Italy and he said he got something for you too!”

“Oh, darling, they’re beautiful. Look at those earrings, Teddy, aren’t they stunning?”

“Lovely colours. Is it all a set?”

“Yeah! Look, there’s a ring, too.”

“Oh, that’s so pretty, dear.”

Harry follows, after gathering up his photo collection, and sits down on the floor by the coffee table as there aren’t any other available seats. He digs in his bag again and finds the aforementioned gift boxes. “Here! That’s for Uncle Ted, and this one’s Aunt Andy! Oh, and this one’s for you, Aunt Cissa! I’m sorry, Sirius, Moony, I don’t have anything specifically for you, but I’ve got lots and lots of beads! I can make you charm bracelets later and they can even match, if you want them to! And if you want, you can have something from all the other stuff I bought, too!”

Sirius shakes his head. “That’s alright, pup. I think we’d both love it if you made charm bracelets for us. Right, Moony?”

Remus nods. “Definitely. That sounds lovely.”

Grinning, Harry nods. He looks around at his family, and watches with such joy as they open their presents. A simple, stylish bracelet for Ted, with black beads and a centrepiece in red and silver; a beautiful set of necklace, earrings, and bracelet for Andromeda, in shades of blue and glittering silver. For Narcissa, Harry selected a set with the same type of pieces as Andromeda’s, but in a vastly different style. As he knew Narcissa to be a very classically stylish woman, he selected the set to match that; with simple black and gold, to let her easily match it with a wide array of outfits and such.

“What’s the plan now?” Remus questions, directed at Harry, while the giftees all put their new jewellery on. “Pads wrote that there was a lot you needed to do.”

Harry exhales a deep breath. Right. Back to work. This has been amazing, of course, but they need to finish things. Once it’s all over, then they can fully enjoy all of this.

“Quick stop at the Ministry, then I need to visit Gringotts. There’s some business I need to handle with my account manager. I’d like to visit Little Whinging briefly and pick up what’s left of my stuff there, and after that, we need to go to Hogwarts.”

“What’s in Little Whinging?” Andromeda asks innocently before sipping her tea.

The boy hesitates to speak. Sirius, however, does not. “His bitch aunt and uncle, on his mother’s side. Lily, she was a bloody saint, but her sister? Demon. Her husband’s just the same, too. They beat him! They made him sleep in a cupboard under the stairs! He is covered in scars from their vile abuse. And their son? He tortured Harry on a daily bloody basis and they bloody praised him for it. The only reason they’re not in prison right now is because no one can actually prove they did anything wrong! At least, not until Harry gives a proper testimony about everything.”

All around the room, every face has turned to cold, hard stone. Narcissa sets her tea cup down with some force; the saucer clatters. “They did what to my darling nephew?”

When they leave the Tonks home, it is with the entire family in entourage, making for a company of seven.

Their first stop is the Ministry of Magic. A majority of the family chooses to wait outside rather than take turns squeezing into the phone box that makes up the visitor’s entrance. Harry is accompanied solely by Sirius. In the main atrium, a nervous little clerk rushes to meet them, no doubt notified that a noble is coming in to visit by some automated magic system or other. Reluctantly, the young witch summons someone from Department of Mysteries, who then leads them to the Hall of Prophecies. There, Harry is shown directly to the prophecy regarding himself and Voldemort. It seems the owner of a prophecy cannot be prohibited from viewing said prophecy, which is of course quite convenient. Harry will admit, he was a bit worried they would try to forbid him from seeing it, but this does make things easier.

Hm.

The prophecy itself is…upsetting. It changes Harry’s plans somewhat. He has another matter to bring up with Griphook when they meet shortly.

With that little matter quickly and smoothly resolved (thank God), they find their way back to the family. They move on to their next stop.

When they land in Diagon Alley, apparating in one company of four and another of three, it only takes the briefest moment before people begin to recognize both Harry and Sirius. They are both somewhat celebrity-like after all, in their own ways (however unfortunate those ways might be). All those eyes make Harry feel like he needs to shrink down in size, away and out of sight.

Sirius pats Harry on the back, his usual cheeky grin filling his face. “Lead the way, Lord Black. Your family’s right behind you.”

That’s right. Sirius is completely right, isn’t he? Why should Harry be embarrassed about being stared at? Why should he try to hide his scar or his face? Why should he ever try to avoid anyone’s eyes? He’s the Boy Who Lived. He’s the Lord of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. He’s got family to back him up. There is no need for him to hide from anyone. Contrarily, he is perfectly within his rights to hold his head up high, with pride. He’s done nothing to be ashamed of, and if anyone tries to tell him differently, they’re wrong.

Harry walks into the crowd with his head high and his chin up. Sirius walks a step behind him, at his right side. The sea of people parts for him as Harry approaches. They clear the path for him. He can hear people whisper, but their tittering is of no consequence. If anyone has anything to say, they can come say it to his face. They move all the way through the Alley to the bank and up the steps. In the atrium, an assistant comes to meet them, bowing respectfully to the lord and bidding him to follow. At Harry’s request, everyone waits behind, including Sirius. The goblin leads Harry through the bank’s hallways to Griphook’s office, who welcomes him with a toothy grin and offers him to sit.

“Welcome back to England, Lord Black. How may I be of service today?”

As planned, Harry offers the glamour earring back to him. “Thank you very much for the loan, Griphook, it was a great help, but it’s no longer needed. As such, it’s going back to its rightful owners as we discussed.”

He places it in the hand Griphook holds out. The goblin puts it away in one of the drawers of his desk. “My gratitude, my Lord. You are among the few wizards to actually adhere to such agreements, I must sadly inform. After all, even your own ancestor, Godric Gryffindor, failed to uphold such an agreement just before he passed away.”

“Do you mean the sword?” Harry asks. “I didn’t know it was of goblin make.”

Griphook nods. “Not many do. We have requested its return many times over the years, but first the Gryffindor descendants refused, and after them, the Hogwarts headmasters have refused just the same.”

Harry considers. “But by wizarding standards, I would be the rightful owner, correct?”

Griphook’s smirk grows; he easily recognizes where Harry is taking this point. “Yes, Lord Black, you would be. As the only known remaining heir of Gryffindor, the sword would fall under your ownership.”

“And if I were to demand its return, Hogwarts would have no legal recourse by which to refuse me, correct?”

“Correct, indeed.”

Harry nods. “I’ll discuss it with Headmistress McGonagall, then. For now, though, I was wondering about the inquiry I mailed you about.”

“While I can’t speak in detail to other clients about our clientele, as you are a fellow employee of Gringotts, no such restrictions forbid us from discussing the topic.”

Harry was hoping for that to be the case.

Griphook goes on, “But I must regretfully inform you, I could find no records of a Tom Marvolo Riddle ever renting a vault with us, nor any other person by the name Riddle. Tom Marvolo Riddle did have a basic bank account with us between 1945 to 1956, but there was no vault ever rented.”

Hm. So that vault belonged to someone else, then. Most likely one of his followers. Unfortunately, there isn’t much Harry can do to pursue the matter further from here. Hm... He’ll think on it, but for now, suppose the matter is done and dusted.

Instead, Harry moves on to the next order of business. “Could we have a look at my property holdings, please?”

Griphook summons up a thick folder, and offers a copy of it to Harry to browse alongside him. Fourteen parcels of land, eight of which contain some form of manor or house. Grimmauld Place and the cottage in Kent are on the list of course, but Harry dismisses them. They’ll discuss the sales arrangements of Grimmauld Place at a later date, once Sirius has had a chance to look it over; the Kent cottage was a nice little place, but it was much too small to suit their needs. Hm, a shack in Little Hangleton, from the Gaunt family… Interesting. Could that possibly be where Harry collected the Gaunt ring from? No matter, at the moment.

After some consideration, Harry selects a property from the list. It is agreed that all items Harry has collected that are not of interest to Gringotts will be delivered to the home in the coming days, both from his vault and from the load he intends to hand over today. It would be lovely to see some of the stuff be put to use in the home, like Harry imagined, even if not everything fits in. According to Griphook’s papers, the manor in question has an extensive library, which delights Harry. Plenty of new (old) books for Harry to devour, and lots of room for all the books he collected during the last some months.

Last of matters to handle, Harry lends Griphook Voldemort’s journal, with detailed instructions. As Griphook always does, he promises to serve his client to the best of his abilities.

Very good.

Some forty minutes after the meeting begun, Harry meets back up with his family; Harry’s bag is now emptied of several hauls of antiques, and he has the keys for a lovely home in Warwick where he plans to move in after all this bothersome business is finished. Everything is in order, then.

Now, on to the last stop before the main event.

Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging.

Chapter Text

The group waits at the end of the garden path. Remus approaches the house and rings the doorbell.

Even hidden behind Sirius, Harry can make out the fury-red face of Vernon when he throws the door open.

“No solicitors!”

Remus smiles in his most cordial manner. “Of course, sir, but I assure you, I’m no solicitor. I represent the company of the honourable Lord Sirius Black IV, who wishes to visit with you and your family.” He gestures to the company, and Sirius who stands in the front.

“Lord? Did you say...lord?” Vernon splutters.

“Yes, sir. Sirius Black IV is the honourable Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. He has come here today to converse with yourself, Mister Dursley, and your wife, the Mrs Petunia Dursley. The Lord hopes he is not intruding?”

The rotund man splutters some more before choking out something about speaking to his wife and the company is welcome inside. Harry watches from a distance as he toddles off into the house to track down Petunia to, no doubt, give her the wonderful news and have her break out the finest porcelain.

Remus joins the group. “The honourable Lord Black may enter at his leisure,” he informs with quite a boyish, mischievous little smirk.

“I must say, Sirius, dear,” Narcissa says, completely stone-faced. “You do have ever such good taste in men.”

Dora chokes back a laugh, masking it poorly with a cough, while both Sirius and Remus blush bright red. Harry bites his cheek to keep from laughing.

He straightens his tie and checks his cufflinks. Deep breath. He leads the procession up the path and into the house.

When he steps into the living room, the Dursleys curtsey and bow without even looking, and Harry never thought he’d see the day when they stooped low for him. Even Dudley is bowing like a good little boy. Harry sits down on the ugly flower-upholstered couch, unbuttoning his jacket as is the etiquette. He crosses his legs neatly and clasps his hands together, displaying both his signet and the large gem of the Gaunt ring. In his ear, there now hangs a large silver earring shaped like a star, studded with diamonds, with a pearl drop dangling from it as well. Sirius stands right behind him, behind the couch, with Narcissa on his left and Andromeda and Dora on the right, with Ted and Remus behind them.

When the Dursleys lift their heads, their faces fill first with confusion, then disgust.

“May I introduce to you,” Sirius speaks before they can, gesturing mildly to Harry, “-Lord Sirius Harry James Evans Black IV, the honourable Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, as well as the honourable Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter.”

Harry smiles as the utter dismay fills the faces of the Dursleys. “So good to see you again, Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon. Cousin Dudley.” Dora scoffs. “Now, now, Nymphadora, you know the only cousins I love are you and Draco. No need to laugh at the poor little fool.”

Dudley looks as pale as a sheet, eyes darting back and forth between his parents and Harry.

“Now. Aunt Petunia. Anything to say for yourself?”

“I-... Dress yourself up as you please. A freak is still a freak.”

“She’s right!” Vernon shouts, pointing his sausage-like finger and waggling it all around. “Call yourself whatever you like! You’re still the same worthless little pest as ever! We were glad to hear you were missing! We hoped you’d never return!”

As Harry instructed before their arrival, no one moves to respond to the cruel words thrown at him, even though he knows they want to. They’re not here to fight. The Dursleys aren’t worth fighting. It won’t do any good. They’re too bigoted and narrow-minded to let anything change their opinions. Their twisted-up minds simply won’t accept a reality where they, and their opinions, are not right.

Harry takes a deep breath. Right. He expected this. All of it. This is all playing out just about exactly as he suspected it would. He stands up. He buttons his jacket up again.

“All I ever wanted was to be loved by you, even if only a little.”

The sour, mean faces of the Dursleys don’t change.

They’ll get what’s coming to them, soon enough. He wonders what Vernon and Petunia will think of prison. How many birthday presents will Aunt Marge give Dudley this year, he finds himself pondering as well.

Harry walks away. He goes back out to the hallway where he crawls into his dusty little cupboard. There isn’t much there. A small pile of Dudley’s hand-me-downs, a handful of his old, broken toys, a storybook that’s barely in one piece anymore, and forgotten old things like that. The little bits and pieces he scrounged together for himself over the years, while he tried his hardest just to cling to life. Harry collects everything but the clothes. He doesn’t need those anymore.

His family awaits him with sombre faces in the hallway. Remus offers the open messenger bag. Carefully, Harry tucks his fragile treasures safely inside.

“There’s-... There’s a latch on the door,” Andromeda comments, her tone flat.

Yes. Yes, there is.

“It was put to plenty of use.”

Remus hangs the bag on his shoulder again; he insisted, and Remus is a lot better at arguing than Harry is, so he got his way. Harry can only imagine he might be trying to make up for something? Show how sorry he is? There’s nothing to forgive, though, so Harry isn’t sure what to do, really. He figures he might as well let Remus carry it if he wants to, for now; they can talk about everything at length later and clear up whatever misunderstanding is going on. Unfortunately, there are more pressing matters to attend to right now.

“What time is it?” Harry asks as they make their way down Privet Drive, leaving the Dursleys far in the past.

“Goodness, look at that! It’s nearly five already!” Ted exclaims.

Nearly five...

“How long will it take us to reach Hogwarts?”

“We can apparate to Hogsmeade but that’s still a good far walk,” Andromeda suggests.

“We could use Greg’s passage,” Sirius adds. “It’ll take us straight into the school, too. The tunnel was in better condition than most back in our day so it might still be useable.”

“What’s Greg’s passage?” Dora questions curiously. “Never heard of it before!”

Remus chuckles, patting the teen on the back. “Secret passage. Hogwarts is full of them. Remember the statue of Gregory the Smarmy on the first floor?”

“Yeah?”

Hm, Harry thinks he remembers that statue, too.

“Well, tap his feet with your wand and say the password, and he’ll open right up like a door. The tunnel leads straight to an empty mausoleum in the Hogsmeade graveyard.”

Dora gasps. “Really?!”

“Don’t forget the one in the Honeydukes basement!” Sirius comments jovially.

Harry laughs when Dora stops short, gasping so deeply he almost fears she might faint. “Why did no one tell me these things while I was in school?!”

The whole family laughs together at her truly scandalized expression. It feels good to...be like this. Have moments like this. Harry never...

He never thought he’d have anything like this.

The group splits up, apparating one after the other. They land scattered around a large fountain in a small town square, which is surrounded by quiet little cottages, whimsical buildings. People mill about here and there, yet the atmosphere feels tense. Most of them move just a bit too quick to be called casual, heads down but eyes darting around. Not even Hogsmeade escapes the anxiety caused by Voldemort, it seems.

In the distance, Harry sees Hogwarts up on the hill.

Sirius and Remus lead the way. The graveyard is a neatly tended plot of land a short distance away from the edge of the village, with orderly rows of headstones, and decently sized mausoleums gathered towards the back. In the second row of tombs, the company pauses in front of one that has no name marked on it. Sirius feels around the edges of the sealed door and all over the front facade.

“Where’s that bloody switch,” he mutters to himself over it.

Remus rolls his eyes. He shoves Sirius out of the way, much to the man’s scandalization (looks like it runs in the family), and easily reaches for the aforementioned switch hidden atop the door frame. A loud click echoes inside the stone building before the door begins to slide to the side, opening for them. Sirius lights his wand and heads in first, with Harry close on his heels. The others follow as well while Remus takes up the back to seal the door shut again behind them.

Just inside, they descend a short staircase which leads them underground and to the hidden tunnel itself. The path is filled with dust and cobwebs, and Harry spots more than a few rats, but they proceed undisturbed.

“This is so cool!” Dora comments from right behind Harry. “I can’t wait to tell Moody about this!”

The walk, at a comfortable pace, only takes them just under an hour to complete, though the last leg is a bit more troublesome than the rest. Lots of twists and turns and awkwardly placed stairs, all to bring them up level with Hogwarts and its first floor. By some ten past six, Sirius gets Gregory’s statue to slide open and away from the wall to let them out. Just in time for a grand entrance during dinner, Harry thinks. The hallways are nicely deserted with everyone gathered in the Great Hall, offering them no obstacle in making their way there.

Hm, not even any aurors posted at the secret passages, or in the internal hallways; one would think they would ensure such a horrid oversight was not permitted, but then again, this place has been the mother of all disappointments for Harry ever since he first got here back in September. Suppose it’s just one more thing to discuss during his meetings.

“Here’s the plan, pup, listen up,” Sirius says as they walk swiftly through Hogwarts’ quiet hallways. “This is basically gonna be your introduction as a noble, and this sort of thing, it’s gotta be done right or you’re not gonna get any respect whatsoever. Moony’s gonna announce you, and you cannot enter until he’s listed all your titles. Back me up, Cissa.”

“He’s right, unfortunately. Especially since you’re still a child. You need to show you know what you’re doing and that you’re in charge, or they’ll dismiss you immediately and you’ll never earn their respect,” Narcissa confirms raptly. “Fake it through this, and I’ll coach you on all the etiquette and such once this is all done. A noble needs to act like a noble, because if you don’t, you’re nothing. It sounds harsh, but that’s the way it is.”

Andromeda scurries up to walk beside Harry, quickly helping adjust his posture. “Back straight, shoulders back but don’t strain it. Chin up but not too much, just like that. Never put your hands in your pockets. You own the room. Remember that. The only way you get respect is if you demand it.”

They reach the hallway just outside the Great Hall, where they pause. Narcissa fiddles with Harry’s hair and straightens his glasses; Andromeda tightens his tie just a pinch and dusts the cobwebs of the tunnel from his suit.

“You look wonderful, darling,” Andromeda says quickly before stepping back.

Narcissa places a brief kiss on his cheek. “There you go, love, all ready.”

Is this what it feels like when your mother fusses over you? If so, Harry…really kind of likes it. It’s...nice, to be fussed over like this.

Everyone gets in position. Remus flicks his wand. The massive doors of the Great Hall swing open, flooding the hallway with the noise of students talking and eating. The group stands right in the centre of the doorway opening, some short metres back, right in the perfect spot to be seen and anticipated. Remus steps through first, placing himself to the side of the opening.

With his wand to his neck to amplify his voice, he speaks. “May I have your attention, please!”

The Hall seems to quiet in just a blink as all eyes look over to find the disturbance.

“You are to be graced with the company of the honourable Lord Sirius Harry Black IV, Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black and Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter, as well as Lord of the Houses Fleamont, Gaunt, and Peverell. The Lord and Heir of Gryffindor. The Lord and Heir of Hufflepuff. The Lord and Heir of Slytherin.”

That’s his cue to enter. Harry begins the walk down the centre aisle with his head high and his eyes fixed on Headmistress McGonagall. The head table has been multiplied, to his mild surprise, additional tables placed behind the first which seats the teachers and regular staff, while the others seat what is no doubt the crowd of Ministry employees and I.C.W investigators.

“Steward of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, Sir Sirius Orion Black III. The Lady of House Malfoy, Lady Narcissa Lucretia Black Malfoy. Dame Andromeda Cassiopeia Black Tonks. Dame Nymphadora Arista Black Tonks. Sir Edward Tonks.”

By the time Remus has finished introducing everyone, Harry has already reached the somewhat raised area where the head table sits and stopped there. However, he has chosen not to speak yet. No, he is waiting until his court is fully assembled around him. He tracks them each by sound. One, is Sirius. Two, is Narcissa. Three, four, five; Andromeda, Dora, and Ted. Lastly, six is Remus.

“Good evening, Acting Headmistress McGonagall. Ever so sorry to interrupt the meal, but I’m afraid I must insist on speaking with you.” His voice is firm and even, surprising even himself. He does not shy away from meeting McGonagall’s cool gaze. “Do bring the cronies from the Ministry and the I.C.W. I have plenty of words for them, as well. Feel free to finish your meal.”

Harry turns around. His court parts to let him through, allowing him to look out over the Great Hall and all the students gathered there. At the Slytherin table, Draco is standing up, watching with such a look of confusion on his face. At the Gryffindor table, Ron and Hermione look much the same.

“Good evening. Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, and Draco Malfoy. Once you’ve finished your meal, my dear cousin over there, will show you where I will meet you once my meeting has concluded. Dora?”

The girl grins. “My pleasure! I’ll wait in the hallway!” she shouts to the three, waving eagerly at them.

Harry steps down from the raised seating area and begins the walk back out of the Great Hall. As mentioned, Dora splits off from the group to wait there, while the rest of them relocate to the hallway holding the griffin statue. Thankfully, they need only wait a scant handful of minutes before a whole crowd of people floods down the hallways to meet them, with McGonagall in the lead.

“Shall we save the greetings for inside?” she asks primly.

Harry offers a placid, polite smile. “If you insist, Acting Headmistress.”

She purses her lips and turns to the griffin. “Rumbledethumps,” is the password she speaks, which sets the griffin spinning to reveal the staircase.

She steps on first, and Harry follows. Within another few minutes, the whole congregation is assembled in the headmistress’ office, which now looks only slightly different from how it did during Dumbledore’s time. While the previous headmaster focused on an austere and somewhat dated feeling, McGonagall seems to lean more towards the warm and homely. Dumbledore’s massive desk and chair have been replaced by a smaller, neater thing, and a much more comfy-looking armchair to match. The rest of the décor runs in the same vein, with flairs of a particular tartan pattern and a Scottish flag hanging in a place of honour on the wall.

Harry is swift enough to snatch up the lone chair placed in front of her desk, forcing the others to stand somewhat awkwardly around the circular room.

“So, Harry-” McGonagall begins after sitting down opposite him.

“Acting Headmistress McGonagall, you may address me as Lord Black,” he interrupts with a curt tone. “Or you may not address me at all. The choice is yours.”

McGonagall clasps her hands on the desk, looking appropriately chastised. She clears her throat primly. “Lord Black. I’m very pleased to see you in good health. When you…ran away, everyone was quite worried. Myself, among them.”

“If you hadn’t let this school be run by a criminal, I wouldn’t have needed to run away.”

“Yes, I-… I was among the many enchanted by Albus’ manipulations. For that, and all the harm I had part in doing to you, you have my deepest apologies, Lord Black. I completely understand your outrage, and I do not fault you for it.”

“And while I do accept your apology, I do not forgive you, but that’s a matter for another occasion. Today, we’re all here for a much more important reason. Voldemort.”

A murmur runs through the crowd of Ministry and I.C.W people. Several of them physically flinch at the name. Harry’s own people remain steadfast and silent.

“Lord or not, you are a child,” McGonagall says quite firmly. “I cannot allow you to get involved in matters pertaining to that man.”

To that, Harry scoffs. He shakes his head to himself, smiling at how ridiculous she sounds. “It’s funny that you think you can stop me from doing anything. I’m going to lay out the facts as they are, and for once, Minerva, you are going to listen. The rest of you, as well,” he adds, glancing at the crowd on McGonagall’s side of the room. “Once I’m done, you can decide whether you want to help, or not, and if you chose not to help, I’ll make sure the entire world is aware of your decision to let Voldemort continue to run free and threaten not only Britain but also the world as a whole. Yes?”

The crowd murmurs again. A woman leans down to whisper to McGonagall. Her lips purse tighter at whatever it is they tell her. “Go on, Lord Black.”

“Voldemort learned how to create objects known as horcruxes. A horcrux is created through an extremely foul piece of magic which includes literally splitting your own soul in half and placing one of the two fragments into an object. The object is then known as a horcrux, and this splitting of the soul leads to a twisted type of immortality. Voldemort created five horcruxes, and counting the soul fragment that remained in his own body, his soul was split in total of six pieces. However, when Voldemort tried and failed to murder me, his soul was accidentally split once more, placing a fragment inside me while his body was destroyed and the fragment housed there was unleashed upon the world to find a new host. The host then at some point became Quirrell. While soul magic is often considered dark magic, it’s not considered such in India and the surrounding area, which is why I went to a magical school there, Shambhala, and received tutoring in soul magic from their foremost master at the subject. Because of the soul connection I apparently share with Voldemort and all his horcruxes, I’m able to find them and bring them to me, through the use of soul magic and astral projection. So far, I’ve found and destroyed four horcruxes. Three fragments remain. The last horcrux, Voldemort, and me. Once no other fragments remain, Voldemort will be mortal again. The last horcrux is located somewhere here, at Hogwarts. I’m here to find it and destroy it, because the school’s wards wouldn’t allow me to do so using the methods I had for the previous ones.”

Everyone is staring at him. Of course, Sirius is the only person other than Harry who already knew all of this, so yes, some shock and awe is to be expected from the remainders.

“Oh, and while I’m here, I’m taking my sword,” he adds, nodding over at Gryffindor’s sword displayed on a shelf.

McGonagall clears her throat again. “Lord Black, that is no one’s sword, it belongs to the school.”

Harry hums. “Except, that’s my name on the sword. Remember all those titles Moony listed off? Lord and Heir of Gryffindor. Therefore? My sword. I’ll let you keep the hat, though, because I’m feeling quite generous today. Sir Black, would you, please?”

Smirking, Sirius heads for the display case. “My pleasure.”

While he collects the sword, Harry stands up, buttoning up his jacket. “Now, I’m going to go see my friends and my cousins, and give you all a chance to think things over. Let’s chat after breakfast tomorrow, hm? I’m sure you can find us some decent rooms for the night, Minerva.” He walks away, but pauses where Sirius stands to accept the sword offered to him. He grips the handle tightly, holding the blade up. “Beautiful piece of work, this. Nighty-night!”

Harry exits the office and his family follows.

On the way down the stairs, he hears Sirius behind him cast, “Accio Marauder’s Map!”

By the time they step out of the narrowly spiralled staircase, a large sheet of parchment comes flying at them all like a bat out of hell. Harry ducks out of the way just in time to avoid getting slapped in the face, but Sirius manages to catch it somehow, laughing all the while.

“I can’t believe it’s still here!” he says as he begins folding it in on itself. “Check this out, Harry! It’s from our old school days!”

Undyingly curious about anything remotely involving his parents, Harry hurries to Sirius’ side. He watches Sirius tap the now folded parchment with his wand. “I solemnly swear I am up to no good.”

A smile of absolute awe fills Harry’s face as he watches a map begin to take shape. A map of Hogwarts! And on the front…

Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs
Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers
are proud to present
THE MARAUDER'S MAP

They made this? They all made this map of Hogwarts together? Sirius unfolds it to show it more properly. Wow… Not only does it perfectly display the layout of the school, but also tracks everyone in it! Each person is represented by little footsteps and a nametag floating above them, and look! There they are! Sirius Black III, Sirius Black IV, Remus Lupin, Andromeda, Narcissa, Ted, they’re all here, clustered together. Sirius unfolds the map further and scans over it.

“Aha! There we go! Dora and the kids are over in one of the classrooms near the Great Hall.”

They swiftly make their way there, no one walking faster than Narcissa. While she doesn’t run (Harry can almost hear her making a comment of something to the tone of a lady does not run), she does walk incredibly quickly, heels clacking furiously against the stone. No one speaks on it. Surely, they can all guess about her desperation to see her son.

As they move, Harry puts the sword away in his bag with Remus’ help; best to avoid students seeing it as much as possible. No need to start a riot, or something such, and knowing how Gryffindors are, they probably would start a riot about it.

Finally, they find the classroom Sirius indicated on the map. Narcissa is first through the door. By the time Harry makes it inside, she and Draco are already hugging each other tightly, the mother cradling her precious boy close. Hermione and Ron jump out of their seats around one of the desks, leaving a laughing Dora behind, each calling out for Harry as they cross the room in a run. Harry gladly welcomes the shared hug with both of them and hugs them just as tight as they hug him.

Oh, how Harry missed them! Letters were all well and good, and the mirror conversations were even better, but nothing can beat this.

“We missed you so much, Harry!” Ron says.

“And we were so worried about you!” Hermione adds. “We’re glad you’re okay, it’s good to see you!”

“I missed you, too! I’m so, so sorry I left like that, and I can explain everything, I promise, and I swear I’ll never do anything like that again!”

They hold each other for a bit longer before parting, upon which Draco surprises Harry by taking his turn to ambush him with a hug.

“You’re such an arsehole! I can’t believe you lied to me, you bastard,” the boy complains even as he hugs Harry. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Harry smiles to himself, hugging his cousin close. “I’m glad you’re okay, too. You met Dora, right?” he says as they pull away. “She’s our cousin, too! And she’s so cool! She’s training to be an auror!”

Draco nods excitedly. “Yeah, she said! That’s so cool! And she told me about her mentor, too!”

“He sounds awesome, right?!”

“I know!”

“Come on, let’s go over here! You too, Hermione, Ron! I’ve got lots to tell you!” Harry says, dragging his cousin by the arm and pulling Ron along as well. Hermione hurries after, laughing.

He can hear the adults cooing over how cute they are, and Harry very much agrees; they’re bloody adorable.

Chapter Text

“My name is Greta Gjutberg, and I am the lead representative of the International Confederation of Wizards here at Hogwarts. After discussing with the Ministry’s representatives, they have agreed to let me take the lead on this situation,” the white-haired old witch at the head of the table explains. Harry sits at the opposite head. “Lord Black, we have discussed the information you provided and as you stated, there is, in truth, nothing we can do to stop you from doing what you wish. All we could do is throw you out of Hogwarts as unwelcome guests, but given the situation concerning You Know Who, we know this would be, as one might call it, a bad move. We will support you in finding and destroying the remaining horcrux. After that has been accomplished, we will discuss the next step. Is this a fair agreement?”

Harry considers. “This is agreeable,” he decides finally. “I can do it right away, if you wish, but I will require Madam Pomfrey to be present. Perhaps we can move to the Hospital Wing? The interaction between soul energies can be expressed in unfortunate ways. As for who may be in attendance, I require my steward. The rest of my family may attend if they choose, as may Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. You may attend, as well as Madam Pomfrey as I mentioned. I would, however, prefer this to be the limit. Agreeable?”

Gjutberg thinks it over; she scans her sharp blue eyes over Harry’s side of the table, where he sits with Sirius and Narcissa and the others stand behind him. Then, she glances at McGonagall sitting next to her. “I request that Acting Headmistress McGonagall attend as well, as we will be using her facilities, but otherwise agreeable.”

“Approved. Shall we move to the Hospital Wing, then?”

“After you, my Lord.”

Harry and his two advisers stand up. God, it seems like all Harry has been doing these last few days is lead a whole bloody parade of people around. Hopefully, with this, it won’t be much longer until it’s finally all done. They pick up Ron and Hermione in the hallway where they waited; Harry never thought he’d see the day Hermione would skip classes, nor the day when no teacher they pass dares to chastise neither her or Ron, nor Draco, for it. The Hospital Wing is quiet and empty of patients when they arrive. After being updated briefly on what’s going on, Pomfrey leads them to a side chamber for some privacy, and prepares her supplies at Sirius’ request. She also gives Narcissa a set of tongs and a tray, upon his wish.

Once everyone has streamed into the room, Harry begins to undress. He hands over his jewellery and glasses to Remus, and Andromeda offers to hold his jacket, shirt, and tie. He takes off his belt and shoes as well. The red henna paintings still cover his body, having only faded to a slightly lighter red even after so long.

“Listen up!” he calls, drawing attention to himself, and begins handing out instructions. “No one can touch me. Not while I’m meditating. It might disrupt me, and God knows what consequences that might have. I need complete silence. Madam Pomfrey, when I wake up, my right hand is going to severely burned, likely first to second degree. I may vomit, I will pass out. Be prepared. Sirius will hold me while you treat my hand. Narcissa, when I drop the horcrux, use the tongs to pick it up and take it aside. No one touches it with their bare hands. We don’t know what curses may be on it. Unless your name is Sirius Black, Narcissa Malfoy, or Poppy Pomfrey, you stay exactly where you are. If you can’t do that, you need to leave now. Any questions?”

No one speaks.

“Very good.”

Harry's taking to this whole take charge thing quite well, isn't he?

He sits down on the floor in the middle of the room just like he did in Lady Madhuri’s circles at Shambhala.

Deep breaths. All the way down to the stomach. He focuses on the Ajna and the Sahasrara. It’s harder to find the energy stream here than it was in the circles, but he finds it after a few minutes of deep meditation and focus. The hippogriff soars through his head. Down through the Vishuddha, to the Anahata, and pooling into the Manipura low in his chest. Harry falls into the vortex and lets it pull him down into himself.

The meadow welcomes him, like always. The faint smell of the lilies, a herd of stags running through the grass. The peacefulness is… He can’t even describe it in full. It just feels like home.

He stands up and begins to wander. He searches the meadow for Voldemort’s tree, and he finds it, like always. Harry climbs to the top and selects the same branch as last time, letting it flash him to somewhere else. It’s not really somewhere else now, though. No, when he opens his eyes, he’s standing over himself in that small side room of the Hospital Wing, with everyone crowded around him wearing anxious, concerned looks on their faces. They can’t see him; not the him standing there, anyway.

Harry reaches his soul outwards. There! It’s distant, and vague, but he feels the pull of the horcrux’s darkness. He follows it. He’s too far down. He needs to go higher. Harry runs up the stairs. Not this floor! Not this one! Not this one, either! He keeps going. How far up is it?

Here!

Seventh floor. And now?

This way.

The draw gets stronger the closer he gets. He can feel the darkness more clearly, more vividly. He runs through the hallways all but blindly, going only by the pull in his chest. Until he stops in front of a set of doors. Wait… He can’t remember ever seeing these doors before. He hasn’t spent much time on the seventh floor, true, but from what little time he has spent there, he can’t remember these doors. How strange. There’s no use questioning it; he walks through the closed doors into… What is this place? It’s filled with…stuff? It reminds him of that little room at Beauxbatons, that Madam Maxime showed him, where they stored old, unused décor items, but this is much bigger. Hm, well, considering Hogwarts’ age, suppose it isn’t too strange they’ve ended up with a storage closet like this too, even if it is quite a bit bigger than a closet.

He follows the draw, still. He finds his way through the snaking aisles created by piles and piles of discarded stuff, until-

There. That’s it.

A silver circlet with some swirling designs and a sapphire as its centrepiece. That’s it. That’s the horcrux.

Harry takes a deep breath. He hates this part.

Time to put on a show!

He grabs the circlet tight in his fist.

Like usual, he snaps back to his body so fast it feels like he might get whiplash. He collapses backwards fully onto the floor, gasping for air that burns in his lungs; the room smells like burned flesh and he struggles to let go of the circlet. His body convulses. Sirius appears. He scoops Harry into his lap, cradling his head and trying his hardest to smile down at the boy.

“Cissa! Get that thing away!” he shouts before smiling at Harry again. “I’ve got you, pup. You’re okay. Deep breaths for me.”

The circlet is wrestled out of his hand, finally. Madam Pomfrey swoops in to do her part.

“You’re alright, Harry, you’re doing great, pup. Just keep breathing like that for me, yeah? You got it all done.”

Bile bubbles in Harry’s throat. “I’m gon- I’m gonna-”

Sirius understands him; he helps get Harry onto his side, and it’s just in time let Harry throw up his breakfast onto the floor rather than into his lungs. His bleary eyes swim over his friends and family who watch on in horror.

Harry manages something that at least feels sort of like a smile, hoping to reassure them, before everything fades out to black.

“Is it....a dog?”

“No.”

“A cat?”

“No.

“Hm. A bear?”

“Nope!”

Draco groans, slumping back in his chair with a sullen expression on his face. “There’s millions of animals! How am I supposed to just guess?”

“I dunno, Draco, I already gave you a massive clue!”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Oh, yes, it can be found naturally in Britain, that really narrows it down!”

Harry snorts. “It does! I mean, it rules out things like lions, tigers, elephants, penguins, there’s a million things it can’t be.”

They both look up when the Hospital Wing doors open. Ron and Hermione hurry inside and flock to Harry’s bedside. Today’s last class is a bit longer for Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, while Draco’s last session ended a half-hour previous.

“Still haven’t figured it out yet?” Ron teases as he discards his book bag.

Draco chuckles. “Shut up, Ron, it’s not like you’ve figured it out either!”

Ron sticks his tongue out at him.

“How are you, Harry?” Hermione asks, leaving the playful arguing to the other two boys. “Do you need anything?”

Harry shakes his head, smiling. “No, I’m alright. Doesn’t even hurt, promise.” Fila nudges past the girl for a moment to offer Harry his mail. “Thank you, Fila. Why don’t you and Kreacher go and help clean up the house? You both must be bored with nothing to do around here.”

Fila nods rapidly, holding up her board. “Yes, Master! We will go help the sirs goblins and prepare Master’s bedroom extra special!”

“Thank you, Fila, I’ll call if I need you.” The elf curtseys then disapparates. Harry offers the Prophet and his two letters to Hermione. “Could you break the seals on these, please? I’ve learned by now not to try it with my hand like this.”

The girl sighs, but does as requested. “You know, I’m still really upset at you,” she says while unrolling the Prophet for him. “I just hate the idea that you’ve been through that several times already. What if you were seriously hurt?”

Harry scans the headlines but sets the paper aside for the time being as there was nothing particularly urgent that requires his attention. He moves on to the letters Hermione hands him, seals broken and freed from their envelopes for his ease.

“It is what it is, Hermione, and that part’s done now, I promise.”

The first letter is a reply from Isabelle, the witch who acted as his guide in Paris. Hm, very good, she is eager to accept his offer of a position as his secretary; she’ll need a week or so to make preparations, but she will be at his side in no time! Good, he was his first choice when it was suggested to him to hire an assistant to help manage all the lordly business he'll be handling after all of this; she was clever, resourceful, and quite pleasant company, so yes, definitely the first choice. He's glad she's giving him a chance! He’ll write to Sharpeye and request an employment contract to be drawn up, and to have all the visas and other such paperwork prepared for Isabelle to be able to live and work in Britain.

The second letter is the report from Griphook concerning the haul of antiques Harry handed in yesterday. Very good, that’s a neat profit of almost forty-thousand galleons; the appraisals of the items he gets to keep are looking good, as well. He can make another nice profit by selling them himself, at some point.

“Good news?” Ron asks, nodding to indicate the letters.

Harry smiles. On his request, Draco takes the letters and tucks them away in Harry’s bag, which sits on the floor beside the bed. “Yes, actually! I was able to court an employee I wanted, and I managed some good results with work, so yes, quite good news, I’d say.”

“And when are you coming back to school? The whole class misses you!”

The smile droops just a little. “Um, well... Actually... I’m not coming back.” Hermione sighs dejectedly. Ron and Draco look equally disappointed. “I’ll probably spend the summer here in Britain then go out travelling again. My tutor at Beauxbatons said she’d love to have me back whenever, and I think some of the other teachers were interested, too. Then there’s Zuhura at Uagadou! She said she’d show me around the school and introduce me to all her colleagues. Even then, there’s lots of other places I wanna visit, too.”

To his surprise, Hermione is the one who seems to swallow the news with the most ease; he was worried she might get on him about how important school is and all that, which, of course, she’s not wrong, he knows that. It’s just that... Harry can’t stay at Hogwarts. He can’t just go back as if nothing’s happened. He’s been through so many interesting things and met so many amazing people since he left here that, going back? It’s just not an option anymore.

“Then I guess we’ll just have to spend lots and lots of time with you during the summer,” the witch decides with a somewhat ambivalent smile. “So we won’t miss you as much during next term.”

Harry’s smile returns as the other boys regain some of their excitement, as well. “Best idea you’ve ever had, Hermione.”

They spend almost the entire afternoon gathered around Harry’s bed in the Hospital Wing, talking and laughing together. It’s…amazing. Harry loves how easily Draco seems to fit into the dynamic with the three of them. He can only hope that once he leaves, the new trio will be able to maintain their inter-house friendship.

Coming up near dinner time, Harry has to all but throw the three of them out on their arses just to make them go eat something; he forbids them from coming to visit again, too. They probably have loads of homework they need to do and they’re not going to get any of it done if they’re loitering in the Hospital Wing. Hermione reluctantly has to agree with him and drags the boys out by their collars to make sure they actually leave. Madam Pomfrey serves Harry his own dinner just a short while later; thankfully, she helps cut things up for him, before offering him his fork with a motherly smile.

Sirius returns just in time to snatch the last morsel of meat right off Harry’s plate, plopping it in his mouth as he throws himself down on a neighbouring bed. “Now I understand why all those professors always lectured us on our behaviour all the time! Telling people, in detail, exactly how badly they screwed up is kinda fun.”

Harry snorts. Oh, yes, how could he forget? Sirius was looking forward to this with an almost sadistic amount of pleasure. He got to spend hours lecturing the I.C.W, the Ministry, the aurors, and the hit wizards on every single hole in their security, and gave them all a personal tour of all the hidden passageways of the castle. Harry can only imagine he ran them all ragged and had a good laugh about it, too.

Pomfrey bustles over to Harry’s bedside and gives a tired sigh when she sees Sirius making himself at home, too. “Mister Black, these beds are for patients. You are not a patient.”

Sirius grins. “I’ve got a tummy ache.”

Pomfrey sighs. “Merlin give me patience... Lord Black, your hand, please. Let’s see how that burn is doing, shall we?”

Grinning just like Sirius, Harry offers up his right hand. Pomfrey carefully unwraps the bandages and vanishes them. She inspects the damage closely. “Hm, very good. A new wrapping and plenty of sleep should see this well sorted come tomorrow. About these scars, however...”

“I have an apothecary friend. He sent me some ointment that’ll help lessen it but he said not to start using it until about a month after the injury heals completely, so the scar tissue can fully form before I start messing with it.”

Pomfrey nods while applying another type of ointment, this one with some pain relief and regenerative boosting herbs. “Very good. Remember to follow the instructions to the letter, alright? That’s the only way to get the best results. Between the healing and the scar treatment, remember to use your hand as much as possible, as close to normally as you can. If you don’t, the scarring might get tight, which could limit the use of the hand in the future.”

“I had some light exercises suggested to me by the last healer I saw. I’ve been doing them every day, promise.”

“Good, good. Alright, then,” Pomfrey hums as she gets the bandages fastened into place. “There we go. Now, like I said, a good night’s rest, yes?”

Harry nods. “Yes, Madam Pomfrey.”

With that, she leaves them both be, whisking away Harry’s now empty food tray as well while she goes. Harry settles into bed for the night with one of his textbooks.

Tomorrow, he’ll purify that circlet horcrux. After that, he’ll talk to McGonagall about buying up some of the stuff in that old storage room.

Hm, he needs to discuss Voldemort’s journal with her and Gjutberg, as well. He described in detail how to get to the Chamber of Secrets and how to wake the basilisk hibernating there; since Harry is now the only known remaining heir of Slytherin, it feels like his responsibility to make sure the basilisk won’t be able to hurt anyone else ever again. He inherited everything that belonged to Slytherin; that means he inherited both the basilisk and the Chamber of Secrets, too. Hm, maybe he has something to be grateful to the Riddle journal for. At least now he knows why he’s able to talk to snakes. Before, he thought it was just something some wizards and witches could do, like being a metamorphmagus like Dora or being a werewolf like Remus, but after reading the journal, he knows that somehow, he must have absorbed part of Voldemort’s Parselmouth ability along with that soul fragment. Being both a Parselmouth and the heir of Slytherin, maybe he’ll be able to subdue the basilisk peacefully. Supposedly, they’re highly intelligent creatures, so if he’s lucky, maybe he can convince it not to hurt anyone? It served Voldemort because he was an heir, maybe it would be interested in serving another heir?

Either way, they’ll need to prepare to slay the basilisk in case his persuasion doesn’t work.

Just like yesterday, everyone assembles during the morning. Thankfully, Harry has been discharged from the Hospital Wing by then, so they can use a slightly bigger room this time around. Harry’s whole family is there to support him (and everyone is fretting about Harry and pleading with him to be careful), as well as Ron and Hermione, and lastly, McGonagall and Gjutberg.

Harry’s first purification was definitely a fluke. This time, without the circles, it’s much harder. Finding and following his soul energy is tricky enough on its own; then he has to actually channel the energy out of his body, at the same time as he draws the fragment out of the circlet. That’s the hardest part.

He’s exhausted when finally manages it. He feels drained. Like all the strength in him has been syphoned out. Shit… This must be what the books meant when they said soul magic could be dangerously draining. Without the circles to draw in and concentrate copious amounts of extra outside energy, and flood it into his body to support him and make up for the drain-rate, the magic had nothing to draw on except for his own soul. If he kept at it for much longer, he might actually have been in danger of being completely drained of life force. Hm. Maybe it’s best not to tell anyone about that; they’d all just be worried about nothing. No need to start that sort of trouble for himself.

According to the appraisal by Gjutberg’s people, the circlet isn’t actually cursed in any way. There is some kind of magic on it, but nothing of a curse-like nature. Harry takes the circlet with him as he stands up, handing it to Remus in passing before Narcissa helps him put his jacket back on.

“What about the tree, pup?” Sirius asks while Remus puts the circlet in Harry’s bag for safe-keeping. “Is it done?”

Harry straightens his cuffs and his collar. “No, it’ll have to wait a bit longer. Without Lady Madhuri’s circles, everything is much harder. I need to fill back up with energy before I take on the tree, just to be safe. I need to be at full strength.”

Sirius nods, patting the boy on the back. “Alright. Good work, pup. I’m proud of you. That’s all the horcruxes done. It’s almost over now.”

He pulls Harry to him. Harry welcomes the embrace. He jolts in surprise, though, when Draco, Ron, and Hermione all throw their arms around the two of them, with Harry as the main focus. Then Dora excitedly joins in with a melodic giggle. Then, Narcissa wraps herself mostly over Draco, but cradling Harry’s head gently with her hand as well. Only moments after that, Andromeda and Ted join in to, somehow encircling them all in one massive bear-hug, dragging Remus in too because for some silly reason he was standing back.

Family...

Harry never thought he’d get to have one of those. He’s really glad he was proven wrong.

The next meeting is going to be tough.

“Acting Headmistress McGonagall, Madam Gjutberg,” Harry says once the impromptu family group hug has come to its end. “Might my steward and I have a chat with you both? There are some additional things that need to be discussed.”

Gjutberg looks to McGonagall. “Might we perhaps make use of the headmistress’ office? I’m sure the privacy would be most appreciated.”

“Indeed,” McGonagall agrees. “With this matter concluded, however, I’m afraid I must ask Mister Malfoy, Mister Weasley, and Miss Granger to return to their classes. I would hate to have to deduct house points and assign detentions, for skipping classes.”

They split up. Dejected, the students head off to their lessons, while the others go about whatever it is they please, and the lord and steward Black follow the Acting Headmistress and Madam Gjutberg to the agreed-upon office.

There, finally, Harry gets down to business. “I have three matters to discuss with you all,” Harry informs. “The first, I believe should be afforded the highest level of priority so we’ll start with that. I know where to find the Chamber of Secrets and how to get there, as well as what kind of monster Slytherin hid there.”

McGonagall look appropriately shocked. “The Chamber of Secrets? Truly?”

Harry nods. “One of the horcruxes was a journal that Voldemort kept during his school years here at Hogwarts. He described finding the Chamber, opening it, and using the beast inside. True to the Slytherin brand, the beast is a basilisk. In 1943, Voldemort opened the Chamber and used his Parselmouth ability and his status as the heir of Slytherin to control the basilisk. He petrified several students, and he was the one who murdered Myrtle Warren, using the basilisk. Rubeus Hagrid was innocent. According to the journal, he did keep a baby acromantula as a pet, and Voldemort used this fact to frame the acromantula and Hagrid for his own crimes. This is the journal.” He takes the journal (returned to him by Griphook, with Fila’s assistance) in question out of his bag, and places it on McGonagall’s desk. “You’ll find all the details inside. Voldemort’s birth name is Tom Marvolo Riddle. Rearrange the letters and you get I am Lord Voldemort. He gets an O for spelling and a T for creativity. I’m also a Parselmouth and the heir of Slytherin. The basilisk is a danger to the school and all her students, but perhaps, if you allow, I can reason with the beast. According to Riddle, it’s highly intelligent. If I can get it to recognize me as it’s master, we can remove it from the school without anyone getting hurt.”

Sitting next to Harry, Sirius takes a deep breath. “Harry, you are insane if you think I’m gonna let you go off and face a bloody basilisk!”

“I’ve been emancipated. By law, I’m an adult. You can’t stop me.”

Sirius scoffs. “Excuse me? You may be technically an adult but I’m still your guardian and I won’t allow this! What if you get hurt? What if you die? How can I- How can you- I- I would die if something happened to you, Harry. I can’t let you do this.”

Harry shakes his head. “I have a plan. Hagrid keeps chickens and roosters. If we bring a disguised, transfigured rooster, I can try to talk to the basilisk. If it doesn’t work, we reverse the transfiguration. The rooster cries. The basilisk dies. Problem solved.”

Both Sirius and McGonagall make to speak, but Gjutberg gets there first. “The I.C.W will support this plan. I’ll have someone borrow a rooster from the game-keeper, and prepare an expedition team consisting of our hit wizards. We can move out this afternoon with the Lord Black leading the expedition. Slay the basilisk and you’ll be offered a suitable reward.”

“And if I can master it?”

Even Gjutberg hesitates, at that. “It will have to be blinded. You will personally take responsibility for the creature. If it hurts anyone, kills anyone, it and you will face the consequences. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Alright, number two, I-”

“Harry!” Sirius shouts, standing up out of his seat. “You can’t do this!”

“Evidently, I can. Sit down, sir steward, or leave.”

Sirius hesitates. Harry can feel the anger and fear radiating off of him. He understands. He really does. He understands that Sirius isn’t really angry, he’s just scared and worried about Harry’s safety, but Sirius’ feelings aren’t the priority when it comes to the matter of the Chamber of Secrets.

Who’s to say there won’t be another Parselmouth to attend Hogwarts in the future? Harry doubts he’s the only one in the world. If he can speak to snakes, so can other people, even if the ability is rare. Sooner or later, a Parselmouth could come to Hogwarts and that person may not be as kind as Harry is. They may be like Riddle, like Voldemort. They may be even worse. When that day comes, who knows how many innocent children could get hurt or die? Hogwarts has hundreds of students at any given time; if a basilisk were to go on a rampage, they would all die.

Why?

Because Harry didn’t stop it from happening.

Harry has the ability to keep something like that from happening; of course he’s going to do it. If he didn’t, he would never forgive himself. It would never leave his mind. Every moment of every day, for the rest of his life, he would be thinking about the Chamber of Secrets and the basilisk hidden within, and the destruction that beast could cause should it be released.

Sirius sits down. They’ll need to talk about this later, Harry knows. He needs to explain his reasoning. Sirius will never like it, but once he knows Harry’s reasoning, he will at least understand it.

“For the second matter. I found the horcrux in a storage room up on the seventh floor. I’ve lately become something of a collector of antiques and curio and the like. I’d like to purchase everything in that storage room, in exchange for a fair monetary donation to the school.”

By now, McGonagall is frowning mildly, her lips as pursed as ever. “A storage room? I’m afraid I don’t know what room you’re referring to, Lord Black.”

Harry’s brows furrow. That’s…weird. McGonagall’s been at Hogwarts since before Sirius and James and Lily all came to school here. If anyone should know the layout of this place, it would be her, wouldn’t it?

“It’s on the seventh floor, opposite this ugly tapestry of some dancing trolls.”

McGonagall thinks it over for a moment, but shakes her head. Even Sirius looks at Harry in a questioning manner. At his request, Sirius hands over the Marauder’s Map. Harry unfolds it quickly, searching over the illustrations for the seventh floor. Here we go; Harry came up these stairs and he went this way, then this way, over to this side, and-…

“There’s a room missing.”

Sirius’ questioning expression turns into pride. “No, there isn’t. We mapped the whole school.”

“Except there is a room missing, because the room I saw was right here,” Harry says, pointing to the location on the map. “The tapestry was on this side, and the room was here.”

“No, there’s nothing there. I promise you, Harry, we were meticulous. We mapped this whole place.”

“Not the Chamber of Secrets.”

“Well, it’s not like we knew that legend was actually real! We had no idea where to find the Chamber.”

“Then couldn’t this room be the same?”

Sirius stares at the map; Harry can see the wheels turning in his head. “How about it, Minnie? Care to join us on an adventure?”

Chapter Text

“So, long story short, it’s a room that exists only when someone wants it to exist, and when they do want it to exist, the room always contains exactly what they need.”

Hermione looks utterly gobsmacked. “But... That’s not physically possible! A room that only exists when someone wants it to exist?! What?!”

Harry shrugs. “I tried to figure out the physics of it too but, y’know, magic.”

“How does that even...”

“My theory is that when the room isn’t needed, all the atoms and molecules suck their bits in, removing all the space between their components, so the room basically shrinks down to, like, the size of a grain of sand! There could be a whole archive of rooms, and they could just stick to the walls or embed themselves in the floor when they’re not in use. If they’re that small, no one would even notice, would they? And then, when someone wants a room, that particular grain of sand is selected from the archive and the room balloons back up in size! I’ll definitely need to write to Coco about this. She’ll be begging McGonagall for permission to visit!”

“Remind me, who’s Coco again?” Hermione asks, even as she looks like she’s trying to wrap her brain around the disappearing room.

“Colombe Leclair, I wrote to you about her, didn’t I?”

“Oh, yeah, the Beauxbatons professor! Is she a physicist?”

“Of a sort, I guess. What’s your theory?”

The girl hums. “I’m not sure. I’d have to see the place for myself, I think. Your theory has merit, though, I guess. Isn’t it also a possibility that when the room isn’t needed, the particles just scatter? They break away from each other and slot into place between other molecules? Like, in the walls or the floor? And the wish for a room reconstitutes the particles into the requested room?”

“Well, if they broke down to the subatomic level, they could possibly coexist between molecules, as long as they didn’t actually bond to those molecules.”

“So, do you think the room exists inside the rest of the castle? Until someone brings the atoms together and gives them a building plan to follow, I mean.”

“Definitely a possibility! And the latent magical energy inside the structure of the castle is what facilitates all of it, no matter how the mechanics of it looks.”

“Meaning, a room like that can’t exist in a place that isn’t as steeped in magic as Hogwarts is. Like…my house! It’s a muggle building with no magic in it, so a room like that can’t physically exist in that space. But how much latent magic energy would be needed for such a room to even be constructed?”

Harry looks down at his plate of food, stabbing aimlessly at his mashed potatoes as he thinks. “Don’t we first need to ask, how do we quantify amounts of latent magic energy in a place or object?”

Hermione sighs. She shoves a meatball around on her plate. “You’re right. How do you even measure that?”

“Stop playing with your food, please, Harry, Hermione,” Andromeda tells them calmly. “Why don’t you table your discussion for now and finish your meal first? Eat up, and after, you can talk as much physics as you like. Okay?”

The boy sighs. “Fine, Aunt Andy.”

“Okay, Mrs Tonks.”

“Oh, Hermione, darling, there’s no need for that! Please, feel free to call me Andy if you like. I promise I don’t mind.”

Hermione smiles. “Okay, Andy! Thanks!”

It’s weird to be eating in the Great Hall again. The day before yesterday, the house-elves brought them all dinner in their rooms in the teacher’s wing (where McGonagall was kind enough to offer them all room to sleep); Harry ate breakfast there as well, before that whole horcrux collection mission. After that, he ate lunch, dinner, and breakfast in the Hospital Wing, meaning that this is the first time he’s sitting in the Great Hall for a meal again since before the winter holidays. Ron and Hermione insisted Harry sit with them at the Gryffindor table, and Draco joined them as well; then, the rest of the family sort of just followed their lead and squeezed in with the Gryffindors. He can feel the awkward, curious stares of students from the other houses. Suppose this sort of thing is a bit unprecedented, to be fair. No one who’s actually at the table seems to mind, though, which is a relief.

Little do all of these people know, that soon, Harry will be leading an expedition into the Chamber of Secrets to either slay or subdue a basilisk.

He didn’t get to bring up his third topic during his meeting with McGonagall and Gjutberg, Harry realizes as he considers their plans. The disappearing room sort of took over, didn’t it? Uch, he’ll need to meet with them again. At least Gjutberg. Technically, the topic in question has nothing to do with McGonagall or Hogwarts, so she doesn’t actually have to be there, but given their current locale, he figures its common courtesy to at least invite her.

Harry isn’t looking forward to discussing the prophecy.

He knows how Sirius will react and it won’t be pretty. Harry loves him and has come to trusts him in the last three months since they met in Prague, and he’s glad Sirius feels the same, but at the same time, Sirius needs to understand that no one but Harry is going to be able to stop Voldemort.

Either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives.

That’s pretty self-explanatory. Either Harry kills Voldemort, or no one does.

After lunch, Draco, Ron, and Hermione continue their lessons. The family decides to tour the grounds together, and reminisce about their own time attending Hogwarts. Sirius and Harry excuse themselves for more business with McGonagall and so on. In truth, however, they meet up with the squad of hit wizards in the girl’s bathroom on the second floor. They can all hear Moaning Myrtle’s soft snivelling and crying from one of the toilet stalls but no one approaches her. Harry will have to talk to her later, if she lets him. Maybe he can help her spirit find peace, if she knows her killers have been dealt with. He’s not sure about the mechanics behind ghosts but maybe knowing the truth has come out will help her move on.

Harry exchanges his Black signet for the Slytherin signet and holds Slytherin’s locket in his hand so he can display it with ease. In the journal, Voldemort says he always wore the Gaunt ring as well, so Harry makes sure to wear that too. Anything, to help the basilisk tell he is the new heir.

Sirius is given a small black chess piece. Rooster to rook. All he needs to do is cancel the transfiguration and the rooster will cry.

Everyone is given a blindfold.

Harry studies each of the sinks. Voldemort described it, now Harry just has to find it. A sink, with a snake etched on the tap.

“Open.”

Just like Voldemort described, the sink begins to move. Everyone watches in something akin to awe as the sink descends into the floor and disappears there. Beyond it, a dark tunnel opens up for them. Harry makes to go first, but Sirius stops him. Sirius goes first. One by one, the whole group descends into the tunnel. Euch, the smell! To no one’s surprise, it smells like sewage, and rot and decay. At the bottom is an intersection of paths, of pipes? What was it Voldemort wrote… He spent hours and hours mapping out the pipes and the actual chamber. Down into the intersection, then… This way!

They move as a group. Two hit wizards lead, Sirius is behind them, and Harry behind him, with the rest of the hit wizards in formation in the back. Despite Voldemort’s initial description of the path, they’re on their own from there on. It takes them a few hours of searching all but blindly in the dark to find what has to be the entrance to the chamber. A large stone door with detailed carvings of snakes all over it. Right. No one ever said old Slytherin was the imaginative sort.

“Open,” Harry hisses to this door, as well.

As expected, it opens for them. Again, not very imaginative, that Slytherin fellow, was he?

Beyond the door, the path is flanked with statues of snakes. Harry sighs. Does he even have to say it? They walk to the very end of the path, where the wall is covered by a carving of a man’s face. Slytherin himself, perhaps? But where’s the basilisk?

“Okay, everyone, all of you back up and give us some room. We don’t want the thing to feel too threatened. Let’s get those blindfolds on.”

They follow Harry’s orders. The hit wizards pull back a distance and tie their blindfolds into place, each one readying their wand. Sirius stays with Harry, but sets the rook down on the floor and keeps his wand ready and aimed at it. Harry himself takes off his glasses and puts his own blindfold on. He holds both hands up, displaying the Gaunt ring and locket with his left, and the signet on the right.

“Ready?”

“Ready!” one of the hit wizards replies.

Harry takes a deep breath. “Ssspeak to me, Ssslytherin, greatessst of the Hogwartsss four!”

With a mighty crack, something begins to move. Stone grinds against stone and it makes an awful racket. The ground seems to quiver under Harry’s feet when something heavy lands. The hissing of the basilisk sends shivers up Harry’s spine, but it speaks no words yet. He listens intently as its massive body slithers across the stone floor, until he can feel its rank breath against his whole height.

“A new massster hasss come,” the creature whispers finally. “I have waited many yearsss. The lassst left me behind, like thossse before him. Will you leave me asss well?”

Harry swallows. He lowers the pendant and fumbles with dropping it into his pocket. “I don’t want to leave you. But if you come with me, you mussst never hurt any humansss. I will provide food for you, inssstead.”

“Truly? You wish for me to ceassse my hunt?”

“If you don’t, I have no choice but to leave you. If you come with me, your killsss lay on my handsss. If people die, I will be the one punished. But you could live with me. You could be by my ssside forever. Protect me, and I will protect you in return. Your deathly gaze mussst be dealt with, but if you allow it to be done, you can be free from thisss prissson.”

The basilisk seems to almost purr at him. “A basssilisssk choosssesss when their eyesss kill or not. Take me assss your sssservant, and my eyesss will never again bring death.”

“You will ssserve me, then?”

“Yesss, Massster. Give me a name, and my life isss yoursss.”

“A name?”

“Each massster mussst give a name. If I accept the name, I am sssworn to your ssservice. Treat me well, and I will accept a name from no other massster.”

Harry thinks for a moment. “Umbra, after the darknessss you dwelled in for ssso long. I ssswear on thisss name you will never again be imprisssoned in the dark.”

The basilisk purrs again. “Thisss isss a good name. I am Umbra, and I am your ssservant, Massster. Look into my eyesss and sssee my loyalty.”

The boy takes a deep breath. Either must die at the hand of the other. A basilisk won’t kill him, because Harry has to be alive to fight Voldemort. He pulls the blindfold off his head and opens his eyes. His breath quivers when he meets Umbra’s eyes, bright and yellow. Beautiful, and terrifying. Harry steps closer. He reaches his hand out. Her scales are cool and somewhat damp under his palm.

“Do you think I could shrink you down? You’re beautiful, but your sssize might make it difficult for you to live with me.”

“Do asss you wish, Massster. I am yoursss to do with asss you pleassse.”

Harry nods. “You can remove your blindfolds,” he tells his companions as he draws the Elder Wand from the holster on his left wrist. “She’s sworn her service to me. She won’t hurt you. Diminuendo.”

With a slight whisk of white light and some smoke, the massive basilisk rapidly shrinks in size, down until she’s the same size of a common garden snake, though quite a bit longer. Harry holsters his wand then gently picks her up.

“There you go, Umbra. Look at you, you’re ssso cute like this!” he gushes as he drapes her long body over his shoulders. “Comfy like that? You just sssit there, and I’ll get you right out of here. We’ll run to the kitchensss and get you a nice big plate of meat, how’sss that?”

“Ah, yesss, Massster, I have hungered for ssso long, many thanksss to you,” she hisses softly in his ear.

Harry smiles, stroking her head with one finger. “Don’t worry. You’ll never go hungry again, I promissse you that. Whenever you feel hungry, jussst let me know and I’ll get you sssome food right away, okay?”

“Thank you, Massster, I will do thisss.”

“Good girl. Shall we get out of here, then? Bet you’ve been missssing the sssunlight.”

“I have never ssseen the sssun, Massster. I wasss kept hidden, alwaysss.”

At that, Harry frowns. “Well, that’ll be changing ssstarting today. Alright, everyone, mission completed! Let’s head back out.”

They all stare at him as he begins the walk back the way they came.

“Let me see if I understand this correctly. You intend to keep it. As a pet.”

Harry nods, running his fingers down Umbra’s spine as she lays curled up in his lap. “She swore her servitude to me.”

Gjutberg massages the bridge of her nose. “The I.C.W will have to discuss this.”

“Discuss to your heart’s content. It won’t change the facts. Either way, we have something more important to discuss.”

“More important than a basilisk let loose?”

“Voldemort.”

Gjutberg sighs and eats her words. “Fine. What is there to discuss on the matter of You Know Who?”

Harry glances at Sirius, and at McGonagall. Neither one is going to be very pleased with this. “The prophecy concerning myself and Voldemort. It goes like this. The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies, and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not, and either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives. I have to kill Voldemort. It can’t be anyone else. It has to be me. It will always be me.”

Beside him, Sirius stares at the floor, his eyes wide with horror. Across from him, both McGonagall and Gjutberg look unsettled by this knowledge. They know as well as anyone does, that a prophecy will come true. No matter how hard anyone might try to prevent it or avoid it, the prophecy will always come true. Why? Because they’re whispers from destiny herself. Everything has already been planned and decided. A prophecy is just someone catching a glimpse of the plan. Everyone knows it, even if no one wants to admit it.

“My proposition is this. We lure Voldemort out and draw him to me. Once we have him on the hook, I eradicate the fragment left inside me, leaving him mortal once more. When Voldemort arrives, I kill him.”

“Harry…” Sirius says softly. “How can you be so calm about this?”

The boy takes a deep breath. “Because I don’t have a choice. I don’t want to kill someone. I don’t want to be a murderer. Not even if the victim is the person who murdered my parents. I don’t want that for me. If I could, I’d run and hide and let someone else deal with all of it. But just like it has been for most my life, the fact is I don’t have a choice.”

The others look as upset as he feels, because again, they know he’s right. If a prophecy will come true, then there is no choice but for Harry to kill Voldemort, because if he doesn’t, Voldemort will kill him, and no one wants that to happen, do they? Harry killing Voldemort is the only acceptable outcome, even if it is a horrible outcome. Between the two, it is the lesser evil.

“The I.C.W will use their hit wizards here to support you,” Gjutberg decides finally. “How do you intend to lure him?”

Time for Harry’s delightful master plan to be revealed, then. “I have had the journal transcribed and prepared for publishing. Currently, it’s slated to hit the shelves. The moment I send word, an article will be published in the Daily Prophet, exposing many of Voldemort’s secrets including the one he is most ashamed of in the entire world. The fact that he himself is a half-blood. The article also makes it abundantly clear that I am back at Hogwarts. Once he realizes his secrets have been bared to the world and I am the cause, he will come after me. There will be no mention of the journal in the article, only stating that I found this information while conducting my own research in the time I spent away from Hogwarts, meaning Voldemort won’t be aware I’ve found his horcruxes. The book won’t go out on the shelves until the day after. By then, Voldemort will hopefully already be dead.”

Gjutberg nods at this. “Send word early tomorrow. It’ll be on the front page of the Prophet.”

“My thought exactly,” Harry agrees, as he stands up, moving Umbra to his shoulders as he goes. “If you’ll excuse me, I promised to show her the sun.”

He exits the headmistress’ office. From there, he wanders somewhat aimlessly, taking an indirect path through Hogwarts’ halls but with the grounds as his destination. When he steps outside, into the sun, Umbra tenses around his neck. She lifts her head upwards towards the sky, her eyes shut as she lets the light wash over her.

“Isss thisss…the sssun?”

“Yesss, Umbra. Thisss warmth, thisss isss the sssun.”

“I thank you for thisss gift, my Massster. I am forever in your ssservice and your debt.”

The cry of an owl stops Harry from replying. He knows that cry! His eyes dart around the bright blue sky and when he spots Hedwig’s sleek, snow-white body, a smile fills his face. He quickly holds his arm up for her to land on, and she descend towards him.

“Hedwig!” he calls just before she lands, her talons wrapping around his forearm. “I’m so glad to see you! I’m sorry I didn’t visit yet, things have been crazy. And…I’m really sorry I left. I just couldn’t stay, and I wasn’t sure if I would be able to take care of you while I was travelling. I’m so sorry.” The owl cocks her head, chirping at him. She leans close to him and nudges her beak against his temple. Harry smiles. “Thank you, Hedwig. I promise I won’t leave without warning ever again. Even if I have to travel, I’ll make sure you know before I leave. Oh! And Hedwig, please meet your new sister! This is Umbra. Umbra, this is Hedwig. I hope you two can get along with each other. I promise I love both of you equally!”

“Harry!”

The boy turns around; he smiles when he sees Sirius coming out to join him in the courtyard. “Hi, Sirius. I was just introducing Hedwig and Umbra to each other. What’s up?”

Sirius lets out a deep breath; together, they begin to walk at a mild pace, moving slowly out of the courtyard to the rolling hills of grass surrounding the castle. “I-… Harry, I’m scared. What if something happens to you? If you got hurt, I’d-… I don’t know what I’d do.”

“I know. You’re forgetting something, though, Sirius.”

“What?”

“I’m the Master of Death.”

“Does-… Do you think it means you really can’t be killed?”

Harry holds his arm up; Hedwig takes off back into the air. She circles over them for a moment before heading off towards the owlery. “No, I don’t think so. I think that being the Master of Death means you have to be like the third brother. You might run from death, but you know you can never truly escape it. I think it means accepting that death is unavoidable in the end.”

“What are you saying, Harry?”

He pets Umbra’s head. “I’m saying that I’ve accepted death. It’s okay. If it happens, it happens, and I’m not going blame anyone for it. I’m not happy about it, of course, I don’t want to die, but… Being scared of it doesn’t help, either. At least like this, I know that if I die, I’m dying without regrets. I’m dying surrounded by family and friends, people who love me. I got to experience the world, even if only a small part of it. I got to know what it’s like to have a family, for a little while. I got to be free. If I die, at least I won’t be regretting anything.”

“Harry, I-… Please. I can’t- I can’t lose you,” Sirius pleads. It’s obvious in his voice that he’s struggling not to cry and scream and yell and fight all of this. “What am I-… I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose you, Harry.”

The boy smiles, looking up at his adoptive father. “You’ll go on. You’ll love Moony for all your lives, and you’ll take care of our family, and you’ll find a way to be happy. It might be hard. It will be hard, for a long time. But one day, you’ll wake up and you’ll realize that the grief isn’t as heavy as it used to be, and you’ll go on with your life, and that’s okay. You’re allowed to be happy, even if I’m not there to see it.”

Sirius stops short. Harry keeps walking.

He enjoys the sunlight while he can.

Harry rips the tree up by the roots.

He delves his hands into the sun-warmed earth and digs out every single snaking root, tearing them away from the tree itself.

Even this deep inside his own soul, the gruelling work makes his hands ache. Splinters dig into his skin. The rough bark scratches him open and draws spots of blood to well out. He wonders how his real hands will look after this. He’s soaked with sweat from the back-breaking labour.

Harry doesn’t know how many hours it takes.

Slowly, the ghostly stags begin to congregate around him, watching him work. Good. Harry lets himself draw strength from them. He can do this; his father is supporting him, there’s nothing he can’t do.

The crack of a whip makes Harry look around. What...

The stags have formed two lines, one behind the other, six animals wide. Around each of them, green vines are wrapped and tied off like harnesses. The vines are dotted with glowing flowers. His mother is helping, too!

Harry grabs the ends of the vines. He wraps each one around the thick trunk of the tree and ties them off together. He places himself on the other side of the tree.

“Pull!”

The stags bellow together, hooves stomping the ground as they begin to pull. The tree cracks and snaps; it very quickly begins to tilt, weakened by the loss of many of its roots. Harry himself, he pushes with all his might. He plants his feet and pushes with everything he has.

“Get out!” he cries at this stupid fucking tree and at Voldemort, that bastard, who took everything from him. “Get out of me!”

The tree jerks, tipping further. Yes! It’s working! It’s almost there! Just a bit more!

“Keep pulling! Keep going!”

The animals bellow in response and seem to pull even harder.

When the tree finally gives out, falling completely onto its side, Harry falls too, landing hard on his hands and knees. He gasps for air. He lifts his head. The vines simply fade out, flowers and petals sailing away with the wind, while the stags scatter back out over the meadow to resume their grazing.

The tree lays there dead.

In an instant, it shatters like glass, just like the fragment from a horcrux. Shards of black glass explode outwards and…disappear.

It’s gone. He did it. Harry did it. He killed the tree. There’s nothing left of it.

He did it.

He did it.

The pit in the circle of dry, dead grass still remains, but the infection itself is gone. Now, the wound can begin to heal on its own. It’ll take quite some time, Harry’s sure, but at least healing process has started. With time, all of this will disappear and it will be as if it was never there in the first place.

Harry smiles as he shuts his eyes. He lets his mind rise out of his soul, bringing him back to his physical body. He looks down at his hands. No damage! What a relief...

The family is gathered in the room with him, but most are doing their own thing by now, he’s probably been gone quite a while. Even though everything is a bit blurry without his glasses, it feels like he can see them all as clear as day. Narcissa is cuddling with Draco on the couch, talking softly with each other. Dora sits on the floor with Ron and Hermione and seems to be helping them with their homework. Sirius and Remus sit quietly together in front of the fire. Remus is holding Sirius close; Harry has no doubt Sirius has told him everything. To the side, Andromeda and Ted share some tea, sitting quietly and enjoying each other’s company. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?

“It’s done,” Harry says.

Everyone’s eyes snap over to him, and relief fills each of their faces.

“Congratulations, Harry,” Narcissa is first to say. “I’m so happy for you. Come on. Come have a rest.”

Though everyone looks happy and relieved and excited for Harry, the atmosphere remains calm and quiet. Suppose they can see on his face exactly how exhausted he is by now. He shuffles over to the couch where Narcissa and Draco sit, and sits on the woman’s other side. At her urging, he lays down and rests his head on her lap. Draco gets up for a moment, and only smiles as he drapes a blanket over Harry before sitting back down with his mother. Narcissa strokes Harry’s hair just like she does Draco’s.

“There you go, darling,” she tells him. “Just go to sleep, now, alright? You look like you could use a good nap.”

Yes, he definitely could.

Early tomorrow, he’ll send his message to Griphook and have him fire the starting signal. Harry has no doubt that he will be face to face with Voldemort before the day is over.

Harry is ready for it, no matter the outcome.

For now, though, a nap sounds good.

Chapter Text

DARK LORD UNMASKED: BORN TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE IN MUGGLE LONDON

Decent headline. Harry has no doubt that when the book goes on the shelves tomorrow, sales will go through the roof because of it. He can only imagine Voldemort is furious about it all.

The article itself is a brief summary of Voldemort’s Hogwarts years, and does a very good job at teasing the book, only to reveal at the end that it will be available for purchase in stores and on mail-order in just one day! Most of the profit will go to a charity established some years back during the war, with the mission to support surviving victims.

After breakfast, Harry, Sirius, and the I.C.W hit wizards move out onto the lawns. There, they wait.

It was neatly mentioned in the article, as well; Harry was the one to find and gather all this information about the supposed Dark Lord during his time away from Hogwarts, but now he has chosen to return, ostensibly to continue his education (as planned, the journal is not mentioned in the article). Voldemort knows exactly where to find him.

Time passes. Sirius paces. Harry pets Umbra. The hit wizards seem anxious. Harry has given everyone their orders, and they’re ready to follow out, but until Voldemort actually gets here, they’re anxious in their waiting.

Harry isn’t nervous. He has a plan. Even if it fails, he has accepted that he’ll die. Death is just another journey. Everyone else here, they’re ready to do battle with Voldemort immediately, should Harry fall. They should be able to overpower him. Even if Harry dies, so will Voldemort. It’s okay.

A dark column of smoke streaks across the sky.

“It’s him!” Sirius shouts.

The others ready themselves. Harry steps out in front of all of them, they fall in behind him. Sirius doesn’t enjoy it, but Harry convinced him to follow orders.

He’s never seen such a thing; flying without wings or a broom. It’s like he’s transfigured himself into nothing but sentient smoke. The dark plume races across the clear sky, very obviously heading directly for Hogwarts (or however close he can get in that shape, with the wards and all), but suddenly, it makes a sharp turn. Redirecting itself, it now aims squarely for Harry and his company.

Voldemort has spotted them. No doubt he thinks such a small group will be an excellent appetizer before taking on all of Hogwarts as the main course.

The ball of smoke crashes into the ground. In a blink, the darkness disperses. Quirrell steps out of the remaining wisps. He doesn’t look like Harry remembers him, not completely. His irises have turned as red as blood, and his skin has fallen deathly pale. Harry can just make out the outline of another face on the back of his head, but its eyes are shut as if it’s asleep. Is that… Is that Voldemort? Quirrell used to wear a turban, was it concealing Voldemort’s face? Is it a by-product of Voldemort possessing his body? But now, it seems Voldemort has fully taken over, pushed Quirrell out and taken the body for his own.

“Harry Potter,” Voldemort says, in Quirrell’s voice. “Ever a thorn in my side…”

Harry has no interest in speaking to this monster.

He shuts his eyes.

“Umbra.”

The basilisk lays around his shoulders; when called, she moves.

There comes the sound of a body hitting the ground.

“It isss done, Massster.”

Umbra curls loosely around his neck. Harry opens his eyes.

Voldemort, Quirrell, lays dead in the grass, slain by the gaze of the basilisk he himself once wielded as a weapon. He had her obedience, but never her fealty.

Harry approaches. He kneels down. He sucks in a deep, steeling breath, then reaches his hand out to touch the man’s neck. He feels around there for some moments.

No pulse.

He really is dead, then.

Harry walks back to where Sirius and the hit wizards stand, still struck silent by shock. He takes Umbra off his shoulders and places her in Sirius’ hands.

Then, he turns away and starts running.

The transformation takes over. His hooves pound the grass like thunder, talons digging into the soft earth. He spreads his wings and takes to the air. He screams his joy at the sky.

At long last, after so much misery that it can hardly be put into words, Harry is completely and utterly free.

Chapter Text

The news of Voldemort’s demise goes out with the evening edition of the Prophet.

According to Gjutberg, the Ministry, and most particularly, Minister Fudge, tried to run interference and force the Prophet to write that Voldemort was slain by Ministry-employed aurors. However, Gjutberg had already communicated with the I.C.W beforehand and they stopped that business right in its tracks. All of Britain gets to read the news as it truly happened: Voldemort was slain by Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. They only leave out Umbra’s involvement to avoid causing a panic about a basilisk on the loose, as it were. Apparently, this also gives the I.C.W something they were looking for; a legitimate reason to begin a thorough investigation of Fudge and his entire Ministry, so the I.C.W is also quite grateful for that.

The nation celebrates. The war is finally, blessedly over.

Harry looks out at the lake from a hallway window. They’ll be leaving soon. They’re just waiting for the school day to end so they can say their farewells. He checks his watch; only a few minutes left until classes end for the day.

“Lord Black.”

“Acting Headmistress McGonagall. What can I do for you, madam?”

The woman joins him by the window. “You’re leaving today, as planned, yes?”

“That’s right.”

“And I assume you don’t intend to resume your studies with us next school year?”

“I sent you my formal withdrawal from the school in January, didn’t I?”

“I thought perhaps you had changed your mind.”

“I haven’t.”

“I see. I-... Lord Black, I wished to apologize once more. Albus was... I trusted him. I considered him my dearest friend. I could never imagine a world where he didn’t always prioritize the health and safety of every student we take under our wing at this school, or of you when you were a baby. I never imagined-... I trusted him to know what was best. The ways in which both he and I failed you are unforgiveable. No child should be doomed to live under such circumstances. I am so sorry, Harry. I won’t ask you to forgive me. I know this can’t be forgiven. I only ask that you tell me in what way I may spend my life paying penance for my mistakes.”

The question is a simple one.

“Take care of your students, Minerva. Protect them. Be what he should’ve been.”

McGonagall smiles. “Yes, Lord Black. I can most certainly do that.”

Doors are thrown open; students mill out of their classrooms and in mere moments, the hallway is filled to the brim.

“Harry, there you are, mate! C’mon! Oh, hey, Headmistress McGonagall!”

“Good afternoon, Mister Weasley. Lord Black, my office fireplace is available to you, as agreed. I wish you happiness.”

Harry smiles at her, honestly, sincerely, for the first time since coming back to Hogwarts. “I wish the same for you, Headmistress.”

He offers his hand. She smiles and gives it a firm shake, patting his arm lightly before making her way through the crowd of students.

Finally, Harry turns to Ron, who has by then been joined by both Draco and Hermione.

“Let’s go!”

Together, they push through the crowd. They make their way to the griffin statue where the rest of the family waits. Draco runs to Narcissa while Harry stays with Ron and Hermione.

“We’ll talk through the mirrors lots, okay? And I’ll send letters all the time, I promise,” he tells them both. “I’ll be there to see you when you arrive in London, too, and I’ll help your parents get their fireplace connected to the floo network, Hermione! We’ll be able to see each other whenever we want, over the summer.”

The girl nods, excited about the prospect. “Mum wrote and they’ll be expecting you some time next week. I gave you their work hours, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll make sure to keep them in mind. Awkward if I come knocking and no one’s home,” Harry says with a laugh.

The other two laugh, as well. “Mum can’t wait to meet you both,” Ron says, then. “And she wrote that if Sirius doesn’t come visit her soon, she’ll track him down and give him a right thrashing! They all knew each other a bit during the war, she said.”

Grinning, Harry nods. “I’ll make sure he knows! I’d love to meet her and your dad. Even if they only knew my parents a little, I hope they’ll still have something to say about them.”

“I really hope they do, Harry,” Hermione agrees. “You deserve it!”

“You really do, mate. I hope they’ve got lots to say.”

They all exchange tight embraces filled with hope and love and excitement.

“I’ll miss you guys,” Harry says as they break away. “I can’t wait for summer to come.”

Both of them echo the sentiment. Harry steps away, finally. He knows that if he doesn’t do it now, it’ll never get done and they’ll stand there all night just wishing they could all stay together. Instead, Harry moves over to where Draco and Narcissa stand.

“I’ll make up a room just for you,” Harry promises his cousin. “And it’ll be right near mine.”

“Thanks, Harry. And you’ll...get all my stuff from the Manor?” Draco asks, his voice low.

Narcissa strokes the boy’s head. Harry reaches out and lays his hand on Draco’s shoulder. “I’ll get every little bit of it. I’ve got the list of other stuff you wanted, too. I promise I’ll get everything, and have everything else put in storage until the summer. You’ll be able to go through it all too, if you need to, and you won’t have to go back there. I’ll take care of it all.”

Draco nods meekly. “Thanks. I-...”

“I understand. You don’t have to say anything,” Harry reassures. “Just trust me.”

The blond boy nods again. He hugs Harry tight. They say their goodbyes as well. It stings a bit to leave them behind, as Harry and the others move up the stairs to McGonagall’s office. He knows he’ll see them again soon enough, but... He already misses them. Looking at their sad faces cuts him deep.

Oh, Harry knows how to cheer them up!

He draws his wand. “Expecto Patronum!”

Watching their faces light up with awe as the ghostly white hippogriff leaps out of Harry’s wand is a memory he’ll treasure. Silently, he commands the creature, even as he himself moves up the stairs. It gallops down the hallway and the trio runs after. In just a moment, it’ll leap through the wall and take off flying into the air; they’ll be able to watch it from the windows. It’ll circle for a few moment before climbing high up above the castle and disappearing into the clouds. It’s not much, but at least Harry gets to leave them smiling.

In McGonagall’s office, they step into the fireplace one by one. Harry startles when the first few are consumed by toxic-green flames. He’s never seen that before! Amazing... When his turn comes up, he keeps Sirius’ instructions well in mind; speak clearly and loudly, with firm intent, then throw down the floo powder.

Umbra curls just a bit closer on his shoulders.

“Fleamont Manor!” Harry shouts, throwing the silver powder at his feet.

When he steps out of the blinding green flames onto solid ground, he finds himself standing in a large, stately dining room. Wait, where’s Remus and Narcissa? They said they’d wait right on the other side so they could look around the old place together.

“Are you alright, Umbra?” he asks first, as the small basilisk lifts her head to look around at their new location.

“Yesss, Massster. It wasss...ssstrange, but I am alright.”

Harry gives her chin a short scratch, then returns his focus to their main problem. “Aunt Cissa?!” he calls as he shuffles over to the double doors at the side of the room. “Moony?!”

He steps through the doors into a dimly lit hallway, a few candles lit in old, dusty candelabras here and there, scanning up and down the hallway from end to end.

“Harry! Are you there?!”

“Aunt Cissa!”

Harry hurries in the direction his aunt’s voice came from. She steps out into the hallway a few doors down, dusting cobwebs from her prim skirt suit.

“Where did you come out, dear? I think this is a sitting room,” she says with a slight gesture to the dark, dusty room she exited from, putting out the light of her wand.

“I landed in the dining room. Why’re there so many fireplaces?”

The woman sighs, picking webbing out of her hair. “Oh, these old manors are all the same! Malfoy Manor, too. I swear, there must be a hundred fireplaces in that old heap. Suppose we’ll have to visit the Ministry and have the network connections looked over. One or two should be plenty, I think.”

“Have you seen Moony?”

“No, darling, sorry. I had trouble enough just finding my way out that sitting room. I think it’s being used as storage, it was a bit of a maze.”

“Okay. Sirius should be coming in a minute. You look around this floor for both of them and I’ll see if they’re upstairs!”

Harry scurries down the hallway in the other direction, and with a few more turns, he finds the grand vestibule where the main staircase is also located.

“Moony!” he calls while jogging up the stairs.

Atop the first landing the wall is covered in massive windows, which overlook the back garden. Aside from the windows, the walls are filled to the brim with paintings and other typical wall decor. The people in the paintings and portraits are all soundly asleep; there hasn’t been anyone in the building for at least thirty years now, so Harry can’t blame them. It strikes him as he makes his way up the last set of stairs and down one of the many hallways that the people in these paintings, there’s a very good chance at least some of them are his ancestors. If Harry recalls the documents right, the last real Fleamont was his grandfather, or his great-grandfather, it’s difficult to remember. Is he in one of these paintings?

“Moony? Moony, can you hear me?”

“Harry? Is that you?”

“Moony!” He follows the man’s voice and meets him just outside what looks like a large office space. “There you are! We all got scattered. Aunt Cissa says the place probably has too many fireplaces connected. Since we didn’t specify where we wanted to land-”

“-they spit us out at random,” Remus agrees, nodding. “Makes sense. But you found Cissa, at least. Any sign of Padfoot? He was right behind you, wasn’t he?”

“Not yet! Aunt Cissa’s looking around for him downstairs, though.”

Remus sighs, running a hand through his thin hair. “Alright, well, why don’t you go check that side and I’ll look around here? And we’ll meet in the middle.”

“Okay!”

They split up as agreed, each heading for one half of the upper floor. Harry calls after Sirius and sticks his head into most every room he passes, but there isn’t any sign of him. Umbra tries to catch a scent, but unfortunately there’s not really any proper trace of him here yet. It does, however, look like the two elves, Fila and Kreacher, have been busy the last few days. A good number of the rooms have been tidied and dusted, windows thrown wide open to air the place out and fresh sheets on the beds. Harry wonders which one of these rooms will be his! He’s never had his very own room before! Hm, well, do hotel rooms count? He had a few of those. No, they don’t count, do they? They’re rented rooms, but here, he’ll have a room that is just his and no one elses! How is he going to decorate it?! Harry didn’t even think about that! He’ll be able to repaint and redecorate and have brand new furniture if he wants, and it’ll be his very own room! He’ll have a big fancy perch for Hedwig by the windows, and he’ll set up a nice, comfy den for Umbra, too! Oh, that sounds wonderful!

“Sirius! Padfoot! Can you hear me?!” Harry keeps calling as he searches through the hallways and their adjoined rooms.

“Harry! Cissa found him!” Remus shouts after him, after some time. “They’re downstairs!”

Relieved at the news, Harry quickly hurries back the way he came and down the stairs, meeting the three of them in the vestibule.

The state poor Sirius is in, it brings a surprised laugh out of Harry. The poor man looks like he’s been rolling around in the remnants of a bonfire; he’d completely caked in ashes and soot, his hair clumped up with it here and there.

“What happened?” Harry questions.

Sirius sighs, trying to wipe at least his face clean with a handkerchief offered by Narcissa. “The kitchen oven happened, is what,” he mutters. “Big old bastard of a thing, that, and looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in a century or two. Kreacher had to crawl in and help me find the way out. Put him in about the same sorry state as me. I sent him off for a bath, and I think I’ll do the same.”

Harry laughs at the mental image; crotchety old Kreacher crawling into a big old brick oven to drag Sirius out of its depths!

“Fila?”

The elf appears with a slight poof of magic, quickly curtseying to the company. She looks quite worried, though, when she registers the state of Sirius. “Is Master Sirius alright? Can Fila help?”

“Yes, actually, Fila,” Harry tells her. “Could you show him to a bathroom and find him some clean clothes, please? There was a slight mishap with the floo network, you see.”

Fila nods rapidly. “Fila will show Master Sirius his room right away, Master Harry! Please follow Fila, Master Sirius!”

The two of them disappear up the stairs together, and Harry can’t help but let out a sigh when they’re gone.

“What’s wrong, darling?” Narcissa asks.

“Nothing, really. I just thought I could ask one of the elves to give us a tour, but they’re both busy now, I suppose. Guess it can wait ‘til morning.”

Narcissa hums. “We can take a walk around later, perhaps. I’m sure Fila would love to give us the grand tour. Speaking of elves, however, would you care to purchase the Malfoy elves? There should be some thirty or forty of them. We’d probably need more elves to keep this place running anyway, and once we leave the Manor behind, those elves won’t have anywhere to go. Bringing them over to here solves both problems, doesn’t it?”

Harry admits, he has considered taking in a few more elves. Like Narcissa said, this is a big house with an even bigger plot of land around it; it’ll be hard for two elves to manage on their own, even if the residents pitch in as much as possible. And if the Malfoy elves would be left on their own anyway... Hm, it’s true, it’s a good solution for both problems.

“Alright, have all of them gather here in an hour. We can discuss numbers while we wait. I want Fila and Kreacher to be there, too. Any ideas on where the basement is?”

“There’s usually access near the kitchens, I believe. Cold storage and wine cellars are most often in the basement,” Narcissa informs.

“Pads came from this way, didn’t he?” Remus says and begins to lead the way.

It takes a few minutes of searching, during which Harry discusses numbers with Narcissa (and he may also put in a generous offer on the property itself), but they track down the kitchens finally, and basement access near there. The basement is a large, musty old place, just as time-worn as the rest of the building.

“What do you think, Moony?”

The man’s brows furrow. “About what?”

“Do you think we could build a comfortable room down here?”

“For what?”

Harry smiles. “For you! Somewhere you’ll be safe and comfortable during full moons! And me and Sirius can keep you company. I’m an animagus too, you know! We’ll just put up some walls and a sturdy door, and put in a nice fireplace to keep you warm, and lots of comfy things to sleep on, and whatever else you need! It’ll be great! What d’you think?”

Remus’ mouth hangs open somewhat. “You- Harry... That’s- That’s too kind, I don’t-... I don’t know what to say.”

Harry grins, walking over and taking the man’s hand in his own. “It’s okay. We take care of family, right? Think about what you want the room to look like for a bit, okay? It’s two weeks until the next full moon so we should have plenty of time to get something prepared, even if it’s a bit cobbled together this first moon. After that, you’ll have a whole month to get it just the way you like it!”

Remus looks like he wants to say something more but is struggling to quite find the words. In the end, he only nods, giving Harry’s hand a squeeze. “Thank you.”

Still smiling, Harry pulls away and jogs to the stairs. “C’mon! Let’s see that oven Sirius got trapped in!”

Harry’s office (Harry has an office!) is swarmed with house-elves; the majority of them are bone-thin and dressed in dirty tunics, wearing fearful expressions on their little faces.

That won’t do.

“Hello, everyone!” he says with a smile. “As I’m sure you’re all aware, you’re all to be working in this household from now on. I’m Lord Harry Black, and you can all call me Harry! These are the two elves I had previously, Fila and Kreacher,” he explains, indicating the two standing at either his side, dressed up neatly in their livery. “Fila is going to be in charge of everyone, she knows best how I like things done, and Kreacher will be right below her. If you ever have any questions or concerns, go first to Fila or Kreacher, and if they can’t help you solve the problem, they’ll help you bring it to me, or my steward, Sir Sirius Black.”

Some forty face peer up at him intently, listening closely to every word he says.

“Now, I have some very, very important rules that you all need to follow, okay? And as the lord of the house, my authority supersedes that of any other person, so unless I say otherwise, you always need to follow these rules. First of all, you are forbidden from hurting yourselves or each other on purpose. Accidents happen and that’s okay, but you cannot intentionally cause harm to yourself or each other. If you do get hurt or sick, drop all your assigned tasks immediately, and tend to your injury or illness. Go see Fila right away, and she’ll help you get sorted. If anyone in this house, be it a resident or a guest, hurts you or orders you to hurt yourself or someone else, you are to leave immediately and come directly to me and tell me exactly what happened. I will not accept anyone causing you harm, no matter who they are.”

The elves stare at him with big, wide eyes.

“Number two. Your first priority is always to take care of yourself. You will be given three meals per day, and more if you’re still hungry. You will have somewhere warm, dry, and comfortable to sleep. You can bathe whenever you feel it’s needed. You’ll work in three shifts, so everyone gets plenty of time to rest and take care of themselves properly. Fila and Kreacher have a basic schedule prepared, and you’ll get your assignments later. Now, I need a few volunteers to run an errand with Kreacher! Hands up, if you’re interested!”

Nearly all the elves stick their hand up, a good few of them bouncing with excitement at the prospect of being picked. Smiling, Harry picks out four elves at random, who all hurry to the front of the group. Kreacher steps into place at the front of this smaller group to lead the mission. Harry takes the prepared letter from off his desk (he has a desk all of his own, in his very own office!) and kneels down to offer it to Kreacher.

“The five of you are going to visit Madam Makin’s tailor shop in Diagon Alley, and place an order of livery for everyone, three sets each, along with winter attire. This letter has all the details for them. Kreacher, your uniform will act as the guide for Madam Malkin and her helpers to follow so make sure to let them have a good look at it, okay?”

Kreacher brows briefly. “Yes, Master Harry, it will be done.”

“Good. You can stay at the shop for as long as it takes to get everything done, but if they need more than one day, come home at the end of the shop’s hours at the latest. If you all need more help carrying things, call for as many more elves as you need. Alright?”

“Yes, Master Harry!”

At Kreacher’s direction, the five of them disapparate together. Harry stands back up to address the remaining elves.

“The rest of you, please follow Fila and she’ll help you all get settled in!”

Fila leads the elves out of the office, making sure to close the door after them as well.

Alright, that should all be sorted, then. Harry slumps into the chair behind his desk with a sigh. On his instruction, a few of the rooms on the ground floor are being turned into living quarters for the staff of elves. Everyone will have a nice little bed to themselves, in a warm, dry, safe place, just like Harry promised. Of course, it’s still only everyone’s first day here really (save for Fila and Kreacher), so for now, things will be in a bit of a trial period. Hopefully, they’ll get all the kinks sorted out before too long, so everyone can live with some proper dignity. House-elves are mistreated in a lot of places, Harry has unfortunately learned, and it’s his utmost goal to never let his house be one of those places.

A tap on the door has Harry sitting up straight. “Come in!”

Sirius shuffles inside, dressed in fresh clothes and hair still damp, while flicking through a pile of envelopes. “Caught some mail arriving. God knows how anyone found out where you’re staying, though.” He looks up as he crosses the room, and smiles upon seeing Harry seated at his desk. “Looking good, Lord Black. Very lordly, if I may be so bold.”

The boy scoffs and accepts the envelopes. After some searching through the desk, he finds a letter opener and gets to work.

Invitation to a ball at Parkinson Place, a soirée at Travers House, high tea at Carrow Manor, luncheon at Rosier Villa, Greengrass, Selwyn, Yaxley, Nott, Avery, Rowle, Flint; families from the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight trying to cosy up to the next generation of Black, it seems. Normally, Harry may not have objected, but he knows these names. They’re all known blood purists. A good number of them even have members who supported Voldemort.

Pathetic.

Now that the war is finally over, they’re wasting no time is trying to get into the Saviour’s good graces (that reminds him, he needs to file a complaint with the Prophet, he does not need people going around calling him Saviour like they chose to dub him). As if a single invitation for tea would undo all the foul things they’ve ever said and done...

He hands the invitations back to Sirius, who goes through them as well, scoffing at them all. “Hoping to save some face I see... How dreadfully pathetic. Want me to burn them? The letters, I mean. Unless...?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “You just got out of prison, Sirius. We don’t need you going back.”

The man sighs, tossing the invitations down on the desk. “Boring! So, what are you gonna do, pup?”

“Respond.”

“Oh?”

The boy grins. “Oh, indeed.”

Harry summons his bag to himself; it makes the jaunt across the room from where it had lain on one of the couches, to deposit itself in his lap. Uch, that reminds him too, he needs to unpack. Ah, well, an issue to deal with later.

From his bag, he collects eleven glass pens, eleven bottles of ink, eleven sheets of paper and envelopes, and his pouch of signets. After rearranging the desk a bit, he can lay out each sheet of paper and match it with ink and pen. Two rows of five, with one in front of himself. He casts a small charm on all the pens, then picks up the one laying before him. The remaining ten ape after the first; moving this way, that way, up, down... Very good. He’ll only need to write his reply once.

He takes care to leave plenty of room at the top of the page, so he can later fill in the name of each recipient.

I received your invitation, and the answer is no.

Why? Because, with all due respect, which is none, your family’s reputation does precede you and when it comes to you, that is far from a compliment.

The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, and its lord, has no interest whatsoever in voluntarily entering the company of narrow-minded, bigoted fools such as yourself, nor anyone else who showed any support for Tom Marvolo Riddle. Now, I do not intend to paint your whole family with one brush; perhaps there are those among you who did not agree with Riddle, nor share in the common ideals of blood supremacy, and even if there aren’t, people are capable of change, I truly believe this.

If any of you wish to ever enter into any meaningful relationship between our two families, or as individuals, then I suggest you look within yourself and begin to re-evaluate. Blood supremacy is a dead ideology. Do what should already have been done, and bury it.

Move on, or get left behind. Time waits for no one, and least of all, for fools like you.

Disrespectfully,

Lord Sirius Harry James Evans Black IV,
               Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black
               Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter
               Lord of the House of Fleamont
               Lord of the House of Gaunt
               Lord of the House of Peverell
               Lord and Heir of Gryffindor
               Lord and Heir of Hufflepuff
               Lord and Heir of Slytherin

First, Harry presses the Black signet to each of the letters, right beside where the name is listed among his titles. Next, he exchanges it for the Potter signet and stamps it on each of them. He repeats this process for each signet, save for Gaunt and Peverell who have none.

The first letter he finishes, he picks up and offers to Sirius. He jumps up from where he has sat down on the nearest couch to wait, eagerly rushing over to read the response. As he reads, Harry watches the grin fill his face, with pride. Yes, he feels he did quite a good job of it.

“What was it Aunt Andy said?” Harry hums, leaning back in his seat to gloat just a little. “The only way to get respect is to demand it?”

Sirius laughs for several minutes.

Chapter Text

It’s funny; standing in Draco’s lavish bedroom at Malfoy Manor, Harry feared he might feel jealous.

The enormous, plush bed. Quidditch posters framed on the walls. Toys, both old and new, scattered around; the older ones, from earlier childhood, placed up on shelves like mementos. A bookcase filled with everything from storybooks to study guides to prepare for Hogwarts, to old quidditch magazines. A walk-in closet filled to the brim with clothes of the highest quality. Every inch of the room shows exactly how loved and cherished Draco has been, since he was just a baby.

Harry thought he’d be jealous. He never got to have any of these things. He didn’t even have a room of his own, much less all this stuff to fill it with.

Jealousy wouldn’t be an unreasonable response, Harry would like think.

But he’s not jealous. Not really. Yes, it probably would have been nice to have a room like this, and all this stuff, the toys and the clothes and the books. He’s more sad, than jealous, though, he finds. He’s sad that...his own aunt, his flesh and blood, Petunia, didn’t find him worthy of being loved. If she had loved him, she would have at least tried to be kind, right? Even if Vernon didn’t agree, she would still have tried, wouldn’t she? She would’ve... There would’ve been some sign, right?

There never was, though. He was never good enough for her, he could never earn her love or kindness. No matter what he did, she always looked at him as if he were vermin.

Harry is sad, but he is not jealous.

He opens the suitcase sitting by his feet, then sweeps his wand over the room. Things begin to gently hover out of their places, marching across the room, and settling into the suitcase. He flicks the wand at the walk-in, as well. Clothes begin to join the fray. Harry hopes Draco will like his new room, at Fleamont Manor. As promised, it’s just across the hall from Harry’s own room. He picked out rooms for everyone; Draco, Dora, Ron, and Hermione. Draco is the only one of them who will be living there full-time, but Harry wants the others to have rooms too, for when they visit. Even if it’s only sometimes, he wants them to have a place in his home, each of them. He’s even planning on putting up plaques! And he’s going to make them himself!

A knock on the open door makes him turn around, a smile filling his face when he finds Remus peeking his head inside.

“Got a minute? The contractors want you to have a final look at the plans,” Remus tells him, smiling as well.

Harry steps away from Draco’s things; it’ll take care of itself from here. Once it’s done, the elves will collect it. “Where’s Sirius?” he wonders as they walk swiftly down the elegant hallways of the manor.

Remus scoffs. “Where do you think?”

Harry rolls his eyes (though he’s grinning, so maybe it doesn’t count). “Still chasing those poor peacocks around?”

“More puppy than man, that one, even before he became an animagus,” Remus comments, without malice, of course, as his smile is so deeply fond. “All the time I’ve known him, he’s been like this bouncy, happy-go-lucky golden retriever of a person. I think... I think that’s why the war was so hard on him. Despite where he grew up, he was too soft for those times. Too kind. Everything cut him so much deeper, it seemed. I’m not excusing the things he said and did, nor do I think I can ever truly forgive it all, but...I understand it. That’s all there is to it, I suppose.”

“From everything I’ve heard, he was just...scared. It doesn’t excuse any ill action on his part, but who doesn’t act irrationally when fearing for their life, and the lives of everyone they love?”

“Quite,” Remus murmurs in agreement.

They leave the morose conversation behind, as they move down the stairs and into what was once a dining room. It’s already been cleared out of furniture, like most of the ground floor, though a small table remains in the centre of the room. Narcissa stands over it with the two lead contractors. The wizards look up when Harry and Remus enter, offering short bows in respect.

“Lord Black,” one of them says, shuffling around the building blueprints for the boy to view as he joins them at the table. “We’ve made the adjustments we discussed as you can see here.”

Harry studies the blueprints; as mentioned, the new adjustments are highlighted with red ink. Very good. He’s no expert, but they’ve been over these some twenty times already; he’s seeing these bloody things in his dreams by now! “It looks good. The issue of bathrooms?”

The second contractor clears his throat. “For now, we’ll be adding a total of forty-six bathrooms, with toilet, sink, and shower, and we’ll be remodelling and dividing up fourteen of the existing bathrooms, turning them into two bathrooms each, making for twenty-eight.”

Good, very good. “And kitchens?”

“Each apartment will have its own, as you wished, meaning we will be installing a total of one-hundred and seventy-three kitchenettes,” the second replies.

“Very good. Are you ready start construction?”

The first speaks again, “We need another few days to prepare our materials and brief our staff on the plans, timeline, and such, but we should be ready come Monday.”

Harry nods to himself. Right, that gives them plenty of time to pack up what furniture and so on remains in the manor. Based on their initial estimated timeline, construction should only take a month, a month and a half at most (if nothing has changed too much), which also gives them a good amount of time to start advertising. When he looks at Narcissa, the woman has a small, proud smile on her face. Harry smiles back at her.

It's perfect, isn’t it? This old monument to blood supremacy, turning into nearly two-hundred low-rent apartments for anyone, of any blood status, with accommodations available during full moons for werewolves in the basement and even rooms that can be completely blacked out from sunlight for vampires, and lots of room to grow based on whatever the tenants might require to live as comfortably as they deserve. It’s a good start. It’s only the first step, of course. This is just a proof of concept, as it were; as soon as he can see signs that interest exists, Harry will be starting construction on more apartment buildings on the land surrounding the original manor. Of course, they won’t be as classic in architecture as the manor, but such is life. Once it’s got some two-hundred heads in population, businesses are likely to start showing interest; the short supply of property for rent gives Harry the perfect upper hand to control negotiations with so he can gain favourable contracts from these businesses. An influx of businesses will spark further interest and generate more tenants, and hopefully, the cycle will continue. He already has Remus and Griphook digging up ownership records for the surrounding land, attacking the issue from two angles for the most rapt completion, outside the Malfoy property; once they know who owns the land, Harry can buy it up and expand.

As the owner of the land, Harry can ensure that the rent always remains low and affordable, and that all buildings and apartments remain in good, respectable condition. Here, no one will be living in squalor, in unsafe homes, where no one cares what happens to them.

No cupboards under the stairs for anyone here.

This will be a beautiful place, he hopes.

“Lord Black, sir,” Isabelle says softly as she sidles up next to Harry. “It’s a quarter to two, sir, your two o’clock guests should be arriving at the Fleamont Manor shortly.”

Harry nods. “Thank you, Belle. Go give a shout for Sirius, please,” he tells her briefly, then turns back to the contractors. “Everything looks perfect. Fingers crossed you can start on Monday, but let me know if there are any delays. I’m excited to see your work!”

Both the contractors smile. “Thank you, my Lord. We endeavour to live up to your expectations,” one says.

“Good. Do it right, and you might have an even bigger contract on the horizon. I assure you, if all goes well, this is far from the only work that will be done in these parts.”

“We look forward to hearing more when the time comes, Lord Black.”

Harry shakes hands with each of the two, before he and his company make their exit to return to Fleamont Manor, Sirius stumbling in to join the group just in time. The floo has been seen to, allowing the whole company to arrive in the same fireplace in short succession of each other. Narcissa excuses herself to unpack what she gathered for herself from her previous home, and Remus follows her upstairs to go to his office and continue his task of finding land owners. While Isabelle waits by the fireplace for their guests, Harry and Sirius retreat to the former’s office.

“How did everything go?” Sirius wonders, throwing himself down on one of the couches.

“It’s looking good. They should start construction on Monday.”

Sirius smiles. “You know, you’re doing a really amazing thing, over there.”

Harry sits down on the second couch, which is placed opposite to the one Sirius lounges on. “You think so?”

“Of course I do. I mean, you’re practically founding a whole new town, pup! That’s incredible! And you’re doing it with kindness in mind, that’s even more incredible. I mean, lots of people want to live in wizarding towns, or at least in towns with big wizarding neighbourhoods, where they don’t constantly have to be on guard and careful and making sure no muggles suspect anything’s off, but most people just can’t afford it. It’s been like that for ages, pup. Property in wizarding towns and neighbourhoods have always had a steep price tag, so a lot of people have no choice but to live among muggles, but what are you doing? You’re providing somewhere safe and cheap for those people to move to! Somewhere they can be themselves without worrying about the world collapsing around them! I think people are gonna love it, Harry. And you did that. It was all your idea! Yeah, we’re all helping in our own ways to make it actually happen, but without your idea, it would never have been done.”

Harry gets up.

He has something he needs to show Sirius!

From the locked bottom left drawer of his desk, Harry takes his journal. He flips through the many pages of the last few months to an entry he made last week, where one page is taken up by a rough sketch.

Four concentric circles. From the smallest circle in the centre outwards to that last circle, there runs seven lines, each one numbered. Each cordoned off section also has a number, as does the last, untouched circle in the middle. Below the sketch, the numbers are listed, some with proposed names. Above the sketch, Harry has chosen another name.

He hurries back to the couches, kneeling down on the floor near where Sirius rests his head. The man frowns for a moment as he grasps the sketch, before his eyes go wide.

“Harry... What is this?”

Harry grins. “This is my town.”

“Lily’s Valley...”

“That’s what I’m going to name it! And these, these are the main streets,” he explains, pointing to the lines running from the outer most to the inner most circle. “These, are the street names! What do you think?”

Sirius stares at the rough, crude sketch. “Padfoot’s Path, Moony’s Main Street, Daffodil Alley, Dragon’s Lane, Nymph’s Park, Constellation Court... Harry, did you...”

“Right there in the centre,” Harry goes on to tell him, indicating the smallest circle. “That’s gonna be Prongs Plaza, after dad! And all these names, they’re for the rest of my family, and it’s like we’re all in my mum’s embrace, you see? Like she’s watching over everyone? I haven’t decided on a name for the last main road, though. I thought maybe I could name it after myself in some way, so the whole family’s there, but that feels sort of narcissistic, doesn’t it? Naming a street after myself? Either way, these are the main streets, and then, these smaller crossing streets will need names too, of course, but I haven’t gotten that far yet! I thought I’d ask everyone if they had any suggestions. I kinda wanna name two after Hermione and Ron, but I think I need to ask them first. I mean, we haven’t even been friends that long and I’ve been gone for months now so I don’t know, but... It was just a thought, I guess. Then, each section between the streets, they’re gonna have names too, like little neighbourhoods!”

Sirius runs his finger over the sketch. He wears an almost wistful look, as he does it. “That... That sounds really nice, Harry. I can’t wait to see it.”

“Yeah?”

Sirius looks over at him instead, a small smile on his lips. “Yeah, Harry. I can’t wait. I’m so bloody proud of you, pup.”

Harry’s heart jumps with pride. He’s doing something good, and Sirius is proud of him for it. He knows Remus and Narcissa adore the idea as well, and he’s certain the Tonks trio will love it when he gets a chance to tell them all about it. Harry can only hope that James and Lily would love it too, and be proud of his idea and what he’s trying to do.

Isabelle’s distinct rapt knock lands on the door. “Lord Black, Mister and Madam Weasley are here for you!” she calls from outside.

Sirius sits up with a sigh. He closes the journal, tousling Harry’s hair as the boy takes it back. Harry gets up; he puts the journal aside on the desk then quickly drags a dusty old trunk out of the corner of the room, lugging it over near the couches.

“Come in!”

Isabelle steps inside. She holds the door for the guests, who both shuffle into the room with some apprehension.

“Tea for the company, sir?”

“No, thank you, Belle, that won’t be necessary, this’ll only take a few minutes!”

The witch steps back outside, closing the door behind herself, while Harry bids his guests to come further into the room than to stand by the door.

“Molly, Arthur, sorry to call you over so formally,” he goes on, then. “But I promise you, this will be really, really quick!”

“No need for apologies,” Arthur assures, smiling as he always seems to do. “The formality was unexpected but you’re family. Of course we’d come, lad.”

It warms to hear it said. “Thank you. Can I have a sickle?”

The Weasley couple glance at each other, no doubt a bit miffed at the sudden request, but Molly shortly begins to delve into the small purse she carries on her arm. She retrieves a sweetly embroidered coin pouch, from which she pulls a fine silver coin. She offers it to Harry with a smile.

“There you go, love.”

“Sirius, please bear witness,” Harry requests.

“Witnessing,” Sirius replies, grinning, knowing exactly what’s coming.

Harry plucks the coin out of Molly’s hand and slips it quickly into his own pocket. “Thank you very much, Molly, Arthur, for purchasing this lovely trunk and all its contents, for the price of one sickle, witnessed by Sirius Black III. I will accept no returns or refunds on your purchase.” With that, Harry rounds his desk and takes a seat, smiling at his confused guests. “Please, go ahead. Open it.”

The Weasleys give each other another look. Arthur clears his throat. He goes and kneels over the weather-beaten old trunk. He swallows. He glances at his wife. Then, finally, he pops the clasps and lifts the lid.

Harry watches the man’s face go blank and slack. His jaw literally drops. “M-Molly!”

The woman scurries over, and when her eyes too register what the trunk contains, she staggers backwards for a moment. She clutches her chest, mouth opening and closing as she struggles to find her words.

Harry found the trunk in the disappearing room, at Hogwarts. First, it looked like nothing special; an old school trunk from quite some decades ago. But after bringing it home and opening it... Well. It was a very good purchase. The thing was nearly overflowing with shiny golden galleons, and handfuls upon handfuls of gemstones, as well as well as some odds and ends bits of jewellery scattered in. (Harry may or may not also have added a few additional scoops of galleons, but no one needs to know that.)

“Harry!” Arthur chokes out, finally, still staring wide-eyed at the small fortune laid before him. “This is- We can’t- What?!”

“No, no, Arthur, don’t you recall? You purchased this trunk and all its contents, fair and square. Isn’t that right, Sirius?”

“That’s exactly how I remember it happening, yes,” Sirius supports with an enormous grin.

“No returns!” Harry reminds, as well.

“Belle, can I see the calendar, please?” Harry wonders without looking up from today’s stack of mail.

Isabelle sits at her own desk across the room, busy with her own tasks; close enough that they can effortlessly work together and communicate when needed, but separated enough to have their own personal little work spaces.

“Top right drawer,” she replies.

Frowning, Harry checks the drawer in question; she usually keeps an iron-grip on her calendar book, hardly ever letting it out of her reach, much less her sight. He finds a foreign book in the drawer, which he, now quite curious, takes out and flips through. Wait, she really did leave her calendar book here? That’s...unexpected. When he looks over to ask about it, she holds up an identical book with a smile and a wink.

“I bought them in Diagon Alley a few days ago!” she informs. “They’re connected! If you write in one, it appears in the other as well. That way, we won’t accidentally clash bookings or anything! Don’t worry, the expense report is on your to-do list of paperwork.”

Clever, clever, clever! Harry knew he made the right choice in offering her this position; as if she hasn’t already proven that a hundred times over already! These days, it seems he can hardly get a moment of peace with all the work he’s handling. Who knew founding and building a brand new town from the ground up took this much paperwork? And oh, God, don’t get him started on the meetings...

The point is, he’d forget his own head if Isabelle wasn’t there to keep track of it for him.

He flips through the pages of the calendar, looking over the many, many entries.

They’ve got lots and lots of plans over the summer, both for work and for family time. He even has time blocked out that will be just for the three cousins; Harry, Draco, and Dora.

Then, September. On the first, Harry and Draco will go see Ron and Hermione off to Hogwarts at King’s Cross; after that, there’s lunch with all three families, Weasley, Granger, and Black. On the seventh, Harry and Draco go to Beauxbatons together! Draco was able to transfer after all, but he needs to finish out the year at Hogwarts first (only just over a month left now!), before starting at Beauxbatons. Harry will be returning to study there for a few weeks as well; he’ll be tripling up on classes this time around, too; magical theory and philosophy with Professor Descoteaux, magizoology with Professor Sauveterre, and magical government and law with Professor Babineaux. Harry is dying with excitement for all three! He’s counting down the days until the school year starts.

In November, he’ll make the trip to Uagadou to visit Zuhura and hopefully audit classes there (he’s still negotiating with the headmaster and school board about it, but things are looking positive). Home again for the holidays, where Narcissa is already planning a massive joint Christmas event (Blacks, Tonks’, Grangers, Weasleys, members of the old Order of the Phoenix if they’re available, plus whatever friends and acquaintances are interested, as well). A short stop in Paris to see Basim and his son, then back down to Africa to continue exploring (if the professors at Uagadou are finished with him, that is!), then over to wander around in Asia for a while, stopping at Shambhala if he happens to be near to see Durga and Lady Madhuri, and maybe visit Mahoutokoro in Japan if he can negotiate his way in. Maybe a visit to Australia? Maybe, maybe not, no decisions made on it yet.

Then it would probably be about summer time again, so back to England to spend time with the family while Draco, Ron, and Hermione are out from school. Then during that fall, Harry would really love to visit the Americas! Start up in Canada then keep moving all the way down through South America, as well. That’ll probably take quite a while, so he’ll probably need to stop for the holidays again and swing by here at home, then get back on track with it again up until the summer.

Hm, that’s some two years roughly sketched out, isn’t it? The only really solid plans so far are for this coming fall, yes, but Harry has lots of ideas for places he wants to go, things he wants to do and see, and there isn’t much in the world that can stop him.

Isn’t that the most wonderful thing you’ve ever heard?

In what is now called Hippogriff’s Hall (Sirius went and changed the bloody name of the manor behind Harry’s back, but to be fair, Harry was already considering changing the name to reflect the more current state of the family), there is a large, lavish dining room on the ground floor. Originally, it was taken up mainly by an enormous banquet table, with some sixty matching chairs, which probably did see quite a lot of use back in the day. However, shortly after moving in, Harry had the table moved to the side of the room, where it instead would act as a display of sorts, now housing an ever growing collection of family photos and mementos they all gather together. At its centre, sit two very particular photographs, surrounded by candles.

The first is of James and Lily, dancing together in the snow, smiling and gazing at each other with nothing but love and adoration. It’s a beautiful picture. Harry had a copy made, which now hangs in a place of honour in his bedroom, where he can see it from just about everywhere he may be in the room.

The second, is of Regulus; it’s a stiff thing, where he’s dressed in a starched suit and his hair is neatly combed back, his face cold and impassive. Only sixteen years old... According to Kreacher, it was one of the Black family photos that year, which explains the distant look of it. Made up to be overly formal, to suit the noble nature, without question.

Harry has no doubt that, sooner or later, more pictures will be added to their little memorial, and that’s okay. He won’t savour the day another photo is added; it’ll hurt, he knows, but he also knows it’s the way of things; death can only be delayed for so long. For now, though, he’s glad the memorial is as small as it is.

Instead of the banquet table, Harry decides to use a table he bought during one of his antiquing stops. It’s a large circular thing, made of dark oak, in a baroque style, with the legs and edges delicately, elegantly carved. It’s big enough to seat all eight family members, with room to spare for guests when needed. Of course, the Tonks’ don’t join for every meal, so their three designated seats remain unoccupied most of the time. Draco’s seat is empty, as well, of course, as the school year is still going on. Even when it’s just the four of them, though, Harry, Sirius, Remus, and Narcissa, it still feels like a proper family event, even if it’s just a normal, everyday breakfast.

For Harry, it feels like a miracle every single time he gets to sit down with his family, no matter their numbers. Just a year ago, he had never experienced anything like this. The Dursleys never let him sit with them at the table, he always had to eat in the kitchen or in his cupboard, but he’s certain that even if he did get to eat together with them, it wouldn’t have felt like this does.

“What’s the matter, Harry, dear?” Andromeda asks from across the table, pausing from her meal to sip at a glass of wine. “You look...pensive.”

Harry shrugs. “I just... I’m really happy.”

Narcissa, sitting to his left, reaches out and gives his arm a squeeze. “That’s good, love. Any particular reason?”

He shakes his head. “No, I guess not. It’s just that... I have a family.”

At that, most everyone at the table seems a bit perplexed. Harry smiles.

“I mean that, at this time last year, I was basically alone. But now... I’ve got two amazing dads.”

Both Sirius and Remus look like they’re about to burst into tears at simply being acknowledged as father figures.

“I have two super awesome aunts, and a really cool uncle.”

Narcissa, Andromeda, and Ted all appear touched as well, by his words.

“And the two best cousins in the whole entire world!”

Dora snorts out a giggle, her hair shimmering as it shifts from light blue to vibrant, sunflower yellow.

“I’m just amazed that I have a family. And sitting here with you, having dinner, talking, just being all together like this... I really, really love it. It...makes me feel strong, because I know I’ve got people who will always be on my side, you know? Even if it’s us against the world, it’s still an us. Not just a me.”

Sirius, on Harry’s right, reaches out. He blinks away the mistiness in his eyes while gently tugging the boy to his side, in a half-hug of sorts. He presses a long kiss to Harry’s head, and Harry knows he can feel James and Lily’s love in it too.

“I love you so much, pup. Don’t ever forget that. It’s like you said. Us against the world.”

Smiling, Harry leans into the embrace. “Us against the world.”

That sounds like a pretty good motto, Harry thinks, for this new generation of the family.

Us against the world.

The End