Reading Time: 95 Minutes

Title: Stone of Theia
Author: MykkiTno
Fandom: Harry Potter
Genre: Drama, Family, Mystery, Pre-Relationship, Time Travel
Relationship(s): Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy, Severus Snape/Sirius Black
Content Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Hate Crimes, Hate Speech, Incest, Major Character Death, Slavery, Torture, Violence-Graphic, Violence-Against Children/Child Abuse. Depression, Death/Murder, Discussion of genocide/terrorism, Potion control, Mind control, Bigotry, Homophobia, Sexism
Author Note: Warnings explained. re: Major Character Death – as it pertains to time travel, and references to canon deaths for those that remember the alternate timeline, plus a few extras in new Timelines. re: Incest – discussion with Pureblood families – Draco/Harry could be considered 2nd cousins.
Beta:
Alpha: Hourstillnoon. Shout out for Alphaing the story for me, and stopping me from spiralling, in addition to my co-workers (Vi and Sav) for letting me ramble. This probably wouldn’t be the story it is without your help and patience.
Word Count: 139864
Summary: After the war, haunted by Grimmauld and suffering from dreams and visions, Harry finds himself in an otherwise empty room, except for a rune-covered table and a crystal ball. Not understanding the significance, he grabs the ball intending to throw it.

The next thing he knows, he’s holding an amulet, there’s a ring on his finger, and he can hear Sirius pounding on the wall. Offered a chance to change things, he knows nothing will be the same again.
Artist: Coco
Artist Appreciation: I want to thank my artist again for the beautiful work they did. It’s humbling to see how the story I crafted can be visualized by others

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CHAPTER FOUR

August 13, 1995

Draco was pursuing the journal he’d found in Lucius’s death, with the breakfast remains in front of him, wondering if it had been a mistake to eat when the morning post was delivered.

It was almost mind-numbing relief to set aside the atrocities involved in the journal to accept the paper and scan the letters, absently noting senders with only a hint of dread.

Setting those aside to look over later, Draco handed the ones for his mother over and flipped open his copy of the Daily Prophet, jaw-dropping in shock.

If he’d wanted some undeniable proof, Harry Potter might have remembered that alternate timeline; it was staring him in the face.

The photograph on the front showcased a man who was every inch the wizard who’d defeated Voldemort before, just cleaned and better dressed.

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Draco dragged his eyes from Potter to skim the titles of the multiple articles that covered the front page. His shock became more pronounced as he had to start over, the titles shifting and moving around to blur together in an unending arc, proclaiming that Harry wasn’t playing around this time.

The different titles from multiple authors jumped from the page, highlighting various aspects of the trial, and the overall audacity of one Harry Potter knew no bounds.

“BOY-WHO-LIVED CALLS OUT MINISTRY, LIST ILLEGAL ACTS.”

“DUMBLEDORE AND MINISTER KNEW BLACK WAS INNOCENT!”

“POTTER TAKES VOW ON HIS MAGIC! HAS MINISTRY LOST CONTROL OF DEMENTORS?”

“POTTER’S VOW SENDS MINISTRY INTO A SPIRAL AS IT CONFIRMS HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED IS BACK!”

“POTTER DOESN’T CARE IF HE’S VINDICATED, CALLS SOCIETY SHEEPLE.”

“SIRIUS BLACK, INNOCENT VICTIM?”

“POTTER CALLS OUT LACK OF EDUCATION IN BRITAIN BY LISTING CLASSES OFFERED AT ISM!”

“POTTER EMANCIPATED DUE TO FORCED PARTICIPATION IN TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT!”

“BOY-WHO-LIVED, NOT DERANGED, QUOTES STATUTE AND THREATENS ICW INTERVENTION!”

Draco dropped the paper, wiping a hand over his face, a helpless laugh escaping his lips, “he certainly doesn’t do things by half, does he?”

“No,” Narcissa agreed with a soft murmur, “it appears he took a very courageous approach. I wonder who helped arrange his robes.”

Laughing, Draco looked at the photo that took up half the page, again and had to agree. They were gorgeous robes, and every stitch screamed pureblood in a way that even his clothing sometimes lacked; it was disconcerting and annoying, considering he’d even managed to style his hair, so it appeared artfully tousled.

“He looks very handsome,” the sly comment made Draco flush and avoid his mother’s eyes.

“It says nothing about him claiming the Black title,” Draco said, changing the subject and not wanting to address whatever his mother implied.

Shrugging unconcerned, Narcissa glanced over her copy, “It doesn’t matter. He has, and he carries it well.” Angling the paper, Narcissa hummed thoughtfully and added, “If you know what to look for, you can see the influence. I just hope no one on his side realizes it, at least not until long after they can do anything about it.”

“Can they actually do anything about it?” Draco asked curiously.

“Eh…” the noise Narcissa made wasn’t exactly comfortable, though the statement seemed to imply she had hope, “not in the sense they could prevent it, but they could try to control him through an illegal marriage contract or try and convince him to give his proxy to a person of their choosing.”

Glancing at the flashing titles, Draco lifted his eyebrow, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”

Sharing a smile, Narcissa caressed the title of an article, “No, I don’t expect it to be, but there are those who won’t be happy with this turn of events.”

Draco privately agreed, so he didn’t say anything, unfolding the paper and continuing to skim the headlines. He found the small article naming him Lord, with no mention of his father, though suspected, if Riddle let his father live, that might change very shortly. If interacting and passing gossip to Rita Skeeter taught him anything last year, then if the woman were offered the chance, she’d snap up the story and put whatever slant she could on it.

Overall, the paper didn’t have real news, at least nothing that talked of the repercussions of Harry’s challenge, which is what it was, Draco realized as he folded the paper. It was honestly somewhat surprising the Ministry hadn’t tried a publication ban, lest the ICW get wind of what had transpired, because if the facts had been correct, Potter was right that the ICW would shut down the government for what they did in his third year of school.

Setting the paper to the side, Draco looked over the letters he’d received and knew they were concerning what he’d done at the bank yesterday and wasn’t inclined to open them; his only thanks came in the form that they weren’t howlers.

“Bad news?” Narcissa asked, drawing his attention.

Shrugging, Draco admitted, “Letters from Pansy and her father.”

Narcissa winced, “Ah… at least they’re not howlers.”

Draco sighed; there wasn’t anything he could say to refute that, considering he’d already had that thought; he slit the seal on Pansy’s half, hopeful she was as understanding as she implied at Yule. He hadn’t wanted the marriage contract their fathers had created between them, and he’d taken pains to nullify the other unfulfilled contracts in the vaults, knowing that Pansy had been in love with Blaise since they were small children, something that hadn’t changed when they started at Hogwarts.

Shoving that thought aside, he skimmed Pansy’s letter, his shoulders relaxing as he picked out keywords before going back and rereading her letter.

“Draco,

My father is livid—not that that state is new—but he knew about the cancellation before the owl from Gringotts arrived. I assume he had the contract in view; he liked to brag about it to anyone he entertained, that his daughter would be the next Lady Malfoy. I can’t thank you enough for cancelling it. The thought of marrying you is vomit-inducing, though I mean that with all my love- you are my best friend. We should meet in Diagon Alley before school resumes if you can get away. If not, I’ll see you in September.

Love Pans.

Smiling, Draco passed it to his mother and opened the one from Pansy’s father, unsurprised by the rage-fuelled letter that was littered with spelling, punctuation and grammar errors. Sadly, it also indicated Parkinson had suspected it would happen, meaning Lucius had gone to see his ‘friend,’ though it didn’t speak of his fate either.

Scowling, he tossed the letter, such as it was, on the table, not stopping his mother from snatching it, though the scowl on her face made him second-guess that decision. As he opened the one from his account manager, “Gringotts apologizes for the delay, but the earliest they can send curse breakers is the middle of September.”

Narcissa pulled a face and sighed, picking up her tea, “There’s nothing we can do about it. It’s better than Yule, as I’d originally expected.”

“True.” Draco agreed, though he desperately wanted the cup out of his home. “Have you thought about how to get a letter to Harry?”

Setting her tea down, “I have, though given the changes in the timeline, I don’t know if the old Black house-elf would come if I called.”

“But you’re a child of Black,” Draco said in confusion.

“I am.” Narcissa inclined her head in agreement, “But the intricate magics that govern a house elf are bound to the head of the family. In this case, it’s Harry. Kreacher might not be able to come.”

“Have you tried calling?” He asked in confusion, not understanding his mother’s hesitation.

Narcissa shook her head and admitted slowly. “I know I originally offered to write a letter, but given the last few days’ events and your difficulties attempting to send one, it might be better to wait and see what else Lord Black does. As much as it pains me to admit, he might not see correspondences with us as favourable, given our opposing sides in that other timeline. It would be more appropriate to wait until news of your Lordship has made the rounds, even though he spoke in our defence at the trial.”

Draco flinched and swallowed at the reminder, conceding the point. If Harry was having the same difficulties with the memory flashes he was having, Draco understood waiting. He couldn’t help but ask, “Do you think he knows?”

“Knows that we came back, too?” Narcissa asked, looking at him in sympathy. “Yes, I do. I can’t explain how I know that. It could be part of the magic that brought us back, or maybe it’s just the blood within the family, but yes, I believe Lord Black does know.”

“Does that include Aunt Bella?” Draco couldn’t help but ask, hating the flinch his mother couldn’t hide as she nodded.

Dropping his eyes to his tea, Draco debated filling it before glancing at the clock as his mother pulled out her journal, reminding him of the one he’d set aside earlier. He really didn’t want to continue reading it. The atrocities his father had planned were horrifying and disturbing on a level he hadn’t comprehended the first time around. “I think I need to make an appointment with Madame Bones.”

Startled, Narcissa’s head snapped up, voice overly polite. “I beg your pardon.”

Straightening at the tone, Draco gestured to the book he’d been reading, “Lucius wrote some of the plans and ideas the Dark Lord had. It has a list of assets and targets, accounting for donations. Even with the changes, it might be a good idea to pass it over to the authorities and disavow knowledge or approval for it.” It hadn’t meant to be ended as a question, but his mother’s blank face made him second-guess the idea.

“One would assume it lists and details the planned attack that took her life?” Narcissa questioned, breathing in slowly before nodding and not waiting for confirmation. “Make an appointment and stress the urgency; the loss of her had a profound impact on the war the last time.”

Summoning parchment and a quill from the sideboard, Draco did as instructed and called for his new personal elf. Tinker was a young male with enthusiasm to spare, but he’d instilled none of Dobby’s fanatic hero worship in the house elf at a young age. And while the child inside missed his friend, he could honestly say he didn’t miss Dobby as his elf, knowing he was happier bonded to Harry, even if the man in question had no idea.

It was with that thought and hidden amusement at being the one to inform Potter about it that if he still didn’t know, he gave Tinker the letter, requesting that he wait until Amelia Bones was alone to deliver it, citing the need for secrecy, for why he didn’t send the letter by owl.

As the elf popped away with a cheerful grin, Draco turned his attention from the book, stacking it with his mail and pulling the prophet before him to read the articles. He didn’t finish the first sentence before his mother spoke, drawing his attention again.

“When did you want to move to the master suite?”

“What?” Draco asked, lifting his head. “Why would I…” He trailed off and flushed when Narcissa raised an elegant eyebrow. “I don’t need to move, do I? I’m happy with my rooms.”

“It’s not proper, Draco.” Narcissa scolded, her expression serious. “You are the Earl of Avebury. It is only right that you assume the Master Suite, as I’ve already moved my things to the rose room.”

In Draco’s opinion, this wasn’t a surprise as it was the least likely room to have been used by any of their unwelcome guests before the timeline change, but it also suited his mother. She might present the perfect pureblood mask to the public, but to him, she was a gentle, loving soul. It’s why he had no regrets doing everything he could to protect her the first time. “I wonder if it would be better after the curse breakers clear the house to see if the manor would do a complete restructuring.”

“Oh?” Narcissa asked curiously, but not pushing for an explanation.

“I think it will help make this change feel more real instead of being haunted by memories.” He paused and then admitted, “I also hate the location of the master suite.”

Snorting in amusement, Narcissa flashed a smile, “The peacocks are a bit much. I’m so glad you had the elves contain them.” She looked down at her notes, tapping her quill on the edge, “So if we can get the house to change the layout, what would you like to do?”

Startled, Draco shook his head, “Mum, it’s not like I’ve spent any time replanning the manor’s layout. It was just an idea.”

“Maybe, but it’s a good one.” Narcissa agreed, “Maybe the best way to start is to figure out what we have? Merlin knows some rooms haven’t been touched in centuries.”

Amused and a little scared, Draco couldn’t help but laugh and ask, “Why are you doing this?”

“Oh, the redecorating? Let’s call it a little spring cleaning.” Narcissa answered airily, gathering her book and quill and rose to her feet.

“You are aware it’s not Spring, right?” Draco confirmed with an amused smile as his mother laughed delightedly.

“It is in my world. Tah, love, I’ll be around if you need me.”

Watching his mother sweep from the room, Draco couldn’t find it in himself to argue, unable to remember the last time he’d seen his mother so happy.

Picking up his teacup, Draco shifted the newspaper and bent his head, taking the time to read through it before beginning his day.

***

It was always cold. It had been cold for a long time before the door closed behind her. Not that it had always been like that, there had been a time, long ago, when she had been young, when she remembered being warm. Warmed and loved, if disbelieved.

It started simply enough, with “Ah, that’s nice, sweetie,” or “Mama’s busy, love.”

When had it changed, though? She couldn’t remember. Nor did she remember why. It had been bad, though, worse than what she’d become.

Usually, she knew she’d laugh at that, a high-pitched cackle, the sound of madness, the fame of a Black. But that wasn’t right either. She wasn’t mad per se; she’d chosen this. This hell on earth, trapped and wrapped up in magic, power, and fear.

There had been freedom promised. She remembered that much, not from ‘him’ but from someone else, someone of the blood, the rightfully chosen heir. Not determined by family, but by ‘her,’ she just couldn’t remember who….

It used to be infuriating; now it was frustrating. It made her sad and caused her to weep. Weeping disturbed everyone around her, not that she knew who was around anymore; the monsters she knew had been a price, but they had taken that memory away.

So, what did she remember?

A little girl, dark-haired, hazel eyes – but not the green that haunted her.

No, focused Bella. The little girl?

Yes. Her. Andy, a few years younger. Bitter and jealous because of what she’d seen. She couldn’t help it, they’d been playing, her, Andy, and…and Cissa! Yes, sweet, pretty, white-blond-haired Cissa, they’d been playing, and Bella had looked and seen. It had been so easy, simple even, Cissa would have a son who would marry a king…

Then Andy had to ruin it. Ruined the picture and demanded what Bella saw when she looked at her. Knowing the answer would hurt and make Andy mad, she hadn’t wanted to answer, but Andy had never played fair. Crying to Mama, who’d given Andy whatever she wanted. They’d always said Bella and Cissa were the favourites, but it wasn’t true. It had been plain, boring, Andy. She’s tried to misdirect, “her daughter would be a metamorphosis,” but it wasn’t enough for Andy. It never was. Forced to share, Bella was punished for telling tales because no one would listen when Bella said they didn’t want to know. Marry a wolf, indeed? But Bella had been right; she knew she was, and a kid had been born too…. Or at least not yet, but it would, before the end.

Bella shook her head. That didn’t make sense. How did she know this? The end of what? No, something was wrong; she wasn’t supposed to remember this because this way led to madness.

Scrambling to her knees, Bella looked around the too-small cell, the ice forming on the stone walls, sending a shiver down her spine. She wasn’t supposed to remember, not-no, it wasn’t supposed to be like, she knew it wasn’t.

Yet it was, so what was different? The scent of woods, the flash of green, the high cackle of madness, the taste of fear… always the taste of fear, mingled and mixed with relief. Because with fear, it meant it wasn’t terror, it wasn’t doom, it wasn’t being responsible for untold death and destruction. It meant not birthing those things, worse than the monsters outside the door.

Bella froze, breath coming in panicked little puffs; she wasn’t supposed to remember that. That was the deal: take the memories and the gift, leaving her trapped in her head, knowing what she’d done but unable to stop or prevent it.

All because of him, Uncle Alphard, the supposed innocent one, the nice one, the only one who’d seen Bella as she was, what she’d always known. She shouldn’t have been named Bellatrix; being a warrior was not what she had been meant to be. No, that was forced upon her by circumstances. She knew her name should have been Kassandra, but no one believed her. No one ever did, yet-yet maybe he would—the one who was promised. Yes, perhaps he’d set her free?

Crawling to the door, she started banging, tears sliding silently down her cheeks again, the path burning like sandpaper on pale, reddened skin, and pleaded to an empty cell, “Please, please, I need to send a letter, please, please….”

***

PART THREE

August 15th, 1995

Never more grateful for his godfather than he was at that moment, Harry watched under his invisibility cloak as order members, including Ron and Hermione, Ginny already inside, filed into the kitchen, trying to ignore Sirius, who was holding court in the kitchen.

Tucked away under the stairs in a little nock no one noticed, Harry took a good look at the faces, curious why even Moody didn’t appear to see him, and he wondered if that was his uniting of the Deathly Hallows in the other timeline had changed the magical make-up of the clock or the fact he’d used his blood to rejuvenate it instinctively. Something he still wasn’t sure how he felt, but the day of the trial, while talking to Sirius later that night and explaining some of the things that had happened after his original death, Harry had cut his hand with a knife he’d been using to peel an apple. Instead of using magic to heal the cut, he’d grabbed the cloak he’d taken to carrying around and used that to soak up the blood.

After fifteen minutes and no new members appearing, Harry slipped back down the hall, crossing the hidden archway that held the family quarters and headed to his study, pulling off the cloak as he entered the room.

Checking his appearance in the mirror above the fireplace, he softly called for Kreacher, the elf popping in beside him, running a critical eye over him and snapping his fingers, removing the wrinkles and straightening the cravat the elf had insisted on again. “Keep watch on Sirius, please. If it looks dicey, get him out immediately.”

The old elf snorted, “Kreacher, remembering his instructions, Master Harry, no need to be fretting. Yous have your appointment to go too. Don’t be forgetting they’re called the Dverger. Goblins be nasty term used by those who consider them lesser, also no wand, sign of distrust.”

Glancing at the clock on the wall, Harry nodded, “I remember, thanks.” Stuffing the cloak into a pocket, Harry took a handful of floo powder from the pot the elf offered and threw it into the fire. Stepping inside the crackling green flames, he called out the destination he’d been instructed to use, then spun through the flickering green flames until he tumbled out, stumbling at the momentum, thankful the private chamber was empty except for the lone guard who looked somewhat surprised by his arrival, even though he’d clearly been waiting.

Kreacher reappeared briefly, removing the dust with another snap and, with a long-suffering sigh of resignation, offered the folder Harry had left on the desk, which he accepted with a flush and murmured “thanks.” The elf didn’t verbally acknowledge before disappearing, leaving as silently as he entered.

The guard regarded him silently before seeming to nod as he gestured to follow. “The Chieftain is waiting.”

Hurrying after the Dverger, Harry looked around the hallway, noting with interest that the marble used in the lobby gave way to an older cut stone that he could identify. However, the blue swirls entwined with the black stone were utterly fascinating as they caught and reflected the light bobbing free along the walls.

At a darkened archway, the guard placed his hand on the wall, the contact making it ripple. Magic glistened off the blackened stone. The image of a mountain shone for a long moment before a seam appeared, and the door swung open, the guard stepping to the side. “You may enter, wizard. We politely ask and remind you not to draw your wand in the Chieftain’s presence without his permission per the treaty of 1792.”

Harry inclined his head, “I remember, thank you, Laoch.”

The Dverger’s eyes widened involuntarily, and he glanced behind Harry at the back of the room, making Harry do the same. He immediately focused on the windows circling the raised dais as the mountain image he had seen on the door shimmered into view, filling him with a sense of wonder and home.

The red rock face of the mountain stood sentry over a forested area at the base, with rolling fields to the right. A river twining through the trees split off, one going into the mountain, the other towards the edge of what looked like a sea, though it bubbled happily behind a small village with fields of golden wheat blowing in the wind.

It looked like paradise.

Harry wasn’t even aware of moving closer until he brushed past the Dverger, who cleared his throat. He appeared intrigued by Harry’s reaction as he jerked to a halt, blushing furiously at his lack of manners.

Harry bowed quickly, trying not to stutter as he spoke the traditional greeting. Then, felt horrible for mispronouncing words he’d spent hours the night before practicing. Embarrassed, Harry winced as he straightened and looked at the Dverger, his mouth dropping open as he tried to reconcile the being in front of him with the clerks that manned the front of the bank, there being no similarities between the two species. The shame spreading through him intensified when he realized that if he’d been paying attention, the guard who had escorted him here was similar to the man who regarded him silently. The being in front of him was his height, with the build of a fighter. His leather armour was not decoration, even as fine as it was. His dark hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail as he rested a hand on the pommel of a short sword at his hip. In truth, even if Harry hadn’t been told not to call the being in front of him a Goblin, he wouldn’t have anyway; nothing was horrifying about the man, though Harry was horrified by his behaviour when he realized he’d been staring for too long.

“I apologize, Sir. No disrespect was meant or intended.”

“Hmmm.” The Dverger hummed, tilting his head. “Is there a specific reason you learned the traditional greetings?”

Medea nudged him, making him take a deep breath and admit, “The matriarch has been teaching me the old ways, but a night of studying doesn’t make up for lack of a proper education in the duties to my line.”

The Dverger’s eyes sharpened with interest, though he clarified curiously, “I mean no disrespect to you or your ancestors, Mr. Potter, yet it is commonly believed your mother was a Muggle-born.”

“She was, Sir.” Harry confirmed, fingers twisting into his robes, “I found out a few days ago that my godfather, with my parent’s permission, presented me to Arcturus Black shortly after my birth, and he performed the blood adoption ritual to Sirius and made me his Heir in place of his grandson.”

Shocked surprise drifted over the Dverger’s face, and he stepped forward, “Name?”

Startled, Harry blinked and swallowed, “Ah, Harry-”

“No wizard, the name?” The Chieftain interrupted, “Your title?”

“Mávros.” The name came to him unbidden and instinctively, his eyes fluttering shut as it also came memories. Memories of a world that no longer existed as it did, though they lingered in what their forefathers had laid the groundwork for. They flooded his mind, overwhelming him and making him sway as hundreds of years flashed before his eyes. He was eternally grateful that it was just the visions, not the associated feelings they experienced.

When he finally opened his eyes, he was sitting in a chair that hadn’t been there before, and a concerned Dverger was staring at him. “Are you alright, Comte Mávros?”

“I…” Harry trailed off and shook his head. Swallowing, he shrugged uncomfortably, “I’ve had flashes and shorter visions, but that was a lot.”

Inclining his head, the Dverger rose to his feet, “I apologize. I didn’t think the demand of the name would trigger that, though, in hindsight, it should have been expected.”

Snorting, Harry shrugged, “I don’t see how Sir. Medea has slept for a long time.”

“Call me, Ragnok. If any of your kind deserves the right, I think it might be you,” Ragnok said as he sat in the matching chair before Harry. “As for Medea.” Ragnok frowned, “She was named friend to the Dverger nation. That status was honoured long after her physical death until Casimir betrayed his vows.”

“You know of that?” Harry asked in interest.

“I do. My father spoke of it when I was a boy, as his father was told when the main vault sealed,” Ragnok explained, expression serious.

Harry frowned, “Why?”

Ragnok smiled, shifting in his seat as he continued his explanation. “It’s simple in the end, but it’s done to protect magic. While some know of this, it isn’t common knowledge, and it’s not information that will be found in books. The Dverger have been here on what you call Earth for centuries. I can explain the whole of our history later. The short of it, my ancestors petitioned magic for a haven. Magic granted us this and the knowledge to create our pocket realms, but in exchange, we were granted the ability to interact and manipulate the lay lines that are a conduit for using magic.”

“What does that have to do with wizarding family magics?” Harry asked in confusion, “At least I assume that’s where this is leading.”

“It does.” The Chieftain inclined his head. “As witches and wizards started populating this realm, we ran into issues when they died.”

“Magic interacted with the ley lines.” Harry breathed, understanding precisely what Ragnok meant.

“Correct. Because of the severity of the issues, the Dverger was given the domain of being the respite that holds and allows the family magics to stay dormant instead of dying, which was the only other option available.” Ragnok shrugged, “It was supposed to be a short-term solution that grew into a lifetime commitment. We have no interest in changing. We’ve seen and experienced the greed of wizarding society and feel that not only do none deserve the right to hold the magic, they wouldn’t be able to.”

“No, they’d corrupt what’s not theirs to touch.” Harry agreed and sighed, rubbing his forehead, “So does this mean she told you when she woke?”

“Eh, not in as much as her appearing in front of me.” Ragnok replied thoughtfully, “It’s hard to explain to a wizard, as our magics are different. In layman’s terms, I asked for the title because that’s what whispers in my head.” Annoyance twisting his features, he sighed when he suddenly chuckled, “I must thank you, Comte Mávros. This is a good lesson even for one my age to learn.”

“Oh, please call me Harry.” Harry said quickly, then asked, “What lesson?”

“Learning that I don’t know everything, Harry.” Ragnok said simply, “Just because I hear the title, that doesn’t mean the witch or wizard arrives at the bank, and if they do, sometimes it’s years after that event, so we forget.”

“Don’t you do inheritance testing?” Harry asked in confusion, a hint of trepidation filling him.

“Oh, we do.” Ragnok assured casually, “But I’m the only one to hear the waking or sleeping of a title.”

“This is confusing,” Harry admitted, rubbing his forehead again. “Confusing but fascinating, and I wish I had more time to ask questions, but Sirius could only guarantee me two to three hours tops before someone comes looking for me.”

“That’s quiet, alright. You mentioned several things you wished to address in your letter, including an inheritance test?” Ragnok asked, standing and gesturing for Harry to follow.

“Yes, I don’t understand much of what he tried to explain, not being raised as Heir. He doesn’t understand how or why I don’t have the Potter title. Exmoor? I think he said.”

“That would be right.” The Dverger agreed, leading him to the side of the room, and a pedestal formed that looked like the branch of a tree rose from the stone floor.

Harry’s steps slowed as he felt Medea look through his eyes, focusing on the ash-blond wood. Small green and red leaves grew around the braided lumber, making it thicker than his forearm and half his body length. “Yggdrasil…” He trailed off and frowned, glancing at Ragnok. “I thought he was destroyed during Ragnarök.”

Ragnok stopped dead and turned to stare at Harry in utter fascination, responding after a few minutes. “According to legend, that happened, but a seed can still grow. According to our histories, after Ragnarök, seven seeds were found and given to the Dverger to safeguard. To our shock, we found that they responded to our magic and started to grow. So, when we amended our petition to protect the ley lines and the family magics, the seeds became the foundation on which the banks were built. That is where the magic is stored and the nodes in which the ley lines travel, too.” He paused and added, “Though that isn’t to say there aren’t more nodes out there; for example, the lake by Hogwarts is one.”

Nodding absently, Harry reached out a hand and then stopped, glancing at Ragnok, “May I?”

“Of course,” Ragnok answered, pausing briefly before asking curiously, “How did you recognize it?”

Tilting his head, Harry hesitated, “I have a family wand. Would you like to see it?”

Ragnok looked at him carefully before nodding, watching calmly as Harry dropped the hidden wand into his hand, offered it, palms out, and asked, “What do you know of Medea’s history?”

Starting in awe at the wand, Ragnok hesitated before picking it up, running a critical eye over the engravings, seeming to swallow before admitting, “Not much. We know that she came here, to what became known as England, around 400 AD before passing away, leaving her legacy to her grandson, Bedivere, who became a knight of King Arthur’s court.”

“Hmm,” Harry hummed, kneeling in front of the pedestal and running a finger gently over a still closed bud, breath catching as it blossomed, revealing a red inside, “Medea never stepped foot in England, dying peacefully in her sleep in 157AD at the age of twelve hundred and forty-one years on a hidden island that worshipped to the Norse Gods. Her oldest grandson, Aaric, became head of the family and went to Britain in 378, carrying the legacy before passing it on to his son, Bedivere, who helped put Arthur on the throne.”

“But that would mean her legacy…” Ragnok trailed off, his face paling as he leaned against his desk.

“Is just shy of three thousand years old?” Harry asked dryly, “How do you think I feel? I’m stuck with her in my head.”

Shaken, Ragnok said nothing for a long moment before offering the wand back, “May I ask what the core is?”

“A tooth from Jörmungandr.” Harry accepted the wand, “I think I’m the only one alive who can use it safely and not just because it belongs to my matriarch.”

Ragnok swallowed and inclined his head. “Why do you think that?”

“It tested me.” Harry admitted, sliding the wand back into the holster, “A basilisk bit me in my second year at Hogwarts, then Fawkes cried into the wound. I later understood that it was my immunity bite, and the venom from the tooth, while inert, could tell that. I’m already balanced, as is the wand.”

“Life and death.” Ragnok said, understanding what he meant, glancing up sharply, “Don’t think I ignored what you said about a basilisk at Hogwarts, as we’ll be coming back to that. You said immunity bite; you’re a Parselmouth?”

“Besides Tom Riddle, I’m the only one in Britain.” Harry admitted roughly, “But it’s obviously not something I ask other people about, given the evil connotations around the ability.”

“It’s not evil. You’re also not the only two.” Ragnok stiffly replied, “While the Dverger as a species does not have the gift, we employ those with it. To date, we have 23 wizards that work for the bank, though most reside outside England.” He paused and added, “In part due to the stigma, but also the utter lack of tombs.”

Feeling a sense of shocked relief, Harry laughed, “Really?”

Amused, Ragnok lifted an eyebrow, “Who do you think clears the tombs in Egypt before muggles investigate them? They’re drenched in parselmagic that needs to be dispelled, and dark artifacts removed.” He frowned and admitted, “It was an embarrassment when muggles found and opened Tutankhamun’s tomb. We hadn’t even been aware they’d been looking, and then the boy’s horcrux got loose…. Alfǫðr, it was a mess.”

Harry froze, turning a wide-eyed look towards Ragnok, who grimaced, “Sorry, Alfǫðr means All Father in your tongue.”

Jerking his head in a negative, Harry whispered, “That’s- I know that, no, it was the other word.”

By Ragnok’s rapidly paling complexion, it appeared the Chieftain seemed to realize he might have messed up, and Harry knew he had to stop the spiral before it took hold. “You said Horcrux, you know what they are?”

“I did, and we do.” Ragnok agreed slowly, eyeing Harry warily.

“Do you know how to destroy them? You- you implied you knew, so, do you?” Harry’s desperation started making him shake, and he twisted his hands in his robes, knowing he would earn a scolding from Kreacher but unable to prevent it.

“We do.” Ragnok said again, his expression still wary but alert as he scanned Harry’s face, “Why do you ask?”

Licking his lips, Harry lifted the fringe on his brow, unable to stop the tumble of words, “Riddle. He made- it’s how he’s survived all these years.”

Ragnok straightened slowly, face turning impassive, though he gave a curt nod, “We’ll discuss that at length first.” He nodded to the pedestal that had previously fascinated Harry but now brought a surge of fear.

Fear that he wasn’t worthy, that his aunt and uncle had been right. That prophecy declared him the only one to defeat Tom Riddle, and it was the only reason he existed. He was little better than a weapon to be used and discarded as easily as Dudley’s toys when they were small kids. The pedestal represented his life and fate, and he wasn’t sure he deserved it, not after the deaths he’d caused in the first timeline. It was the fear of the unknown, and he wanted to run as fast and as far as possible, though that opportunity had long passed as Ragnok physically steered him towards the small dais.

“Place your hands on either side of the stone tablet. It will judge to see if you’re worthy.”

Feeling like a robot moving on automation, Harry did as instructed, hands flexing as he curled them around the tablet, then tightened against his will, feeling a slice along both palms, blood soaking the sides of the stone tablet, mouth dropping out as if to shout.

He wanted to panic. He tried to move, but it was like being hit with an immobilization curse; his body was frozen, unable to move; he couldn’t even blink or move his eyes when magic, unlike anything he’d felt before, slowly trickled through his mind. Similar in some ways to Medea, but the taste was utterly different. Medea was old, ancient even, but the taste of this magic was unending, spanning past his consciousness, eternal and immortal.

It filled him, completing him in a way he hadn’t been aware he’d been starved for, and yet when it ended, it didn’t disappear completely. It was still there, joyful and welcoming, the feeling of everything he’d always wanted and never had.

He wasn’t even aware of crying until a tear landed on his hand, and he raised it to hastily brush his cheeks, glancing down at the boxes on the tablet.

There were three, none of the emblems clear, as tears still filled his vision, but he heard Ragnok shift beside him and let out a slow, gasping breath. The shocked awe was audible in the exclamation of sound, making Harry look at him, worried for the man was swaying somewhat dangerously beside him. “What?”

Ragnok shook his head, eyes fixated on the box as he swallowed and sank to the ground, sitting on the dais, “I just- I need a minute, Your Grace.”

Harry’s mind stopped, then jumped into overdrive, scrambling to catch up, as his eyes snapped to the boxes, and he hastily pushed up his glasses and wiped his eyes.

“That’s-that’s…” Shaking his head in denial, he shut his mouth and stepped away from the boxes, unfamiliar with the feelings running through him. Anger and rage. Confusion and confoundment. Honour and pride…. It was all tangled up in the life he’d lived before he could parse a single coherent thought, and he looked at Ragnok again, lips parting on a whispered plea. “Please tell me that’s not…”

Ragnok looked at him curiously, sympathy building in his eyes at the fear Harry was sure he must see on his face. The hesitation that flowed out of the older man, warring with his need to tell the truth and hating to do it as he dropped eyes unable to meet Harry’s as he spoke, his voice soft and kind but sounding loud in the room that just held the two of them, “I’m sorry, Your Grace.”

“But-“ Harry tried, cutting it off when Ragnok looked straight at him and then rose fluidly to his feet, “it’s the emblem of Pendragon, Your Grace, meaning you are our Regent.”

***

It started as a small, almost indecipherable flicker that started a quarter to the hour, yet the wizard at the overflowing desk of books and papers didn’t appear to notice.

So consumed by the research, the wizard had taken his long black hair and pulled it into a messy bun at the back of his head, yet strands escaped as he kept running a hand through it as he worked through another round of calculations, trying in vain to make the arithmancy work.

It had been fifteen years of work, a lifetime of servitude, and it appeared that prophecy was again at its core, preventing him from saving his brother’s son.

Not that his brother knew he was doing this, not that Harry did. No one did. No one knew he was still alive, using the magic of Medea to lock that secret away to make it appear he’d died. The only person who had known passed away in ‘91 after conferring the dubious honour of being named head of the DOM. Now, he lived and breathed as Croaker, tied to his first duty as guardian of Avalon, then his second to Harry, wanting to give his brother peace that his son would live.

Tossing down the quill in frustration, wishing once again he could call Kreacher to bring him that cursed locket, which would make his job so much easier, but his vows prevented it. The duality of protection offered in Medea meant his secret worked against him.

Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair again and leaned back in the chair, feeling his back crack and pop from the hunched-over position he’d been in for too long.

A flicker of light behind the closed door to his right caught his attention, making him tense, breath catching in his chest as he felt an unfamiliar sensation spread through his magic.

Feeling a hint of fear, Croaker pushed back from the desk, moving through the tiny room towards the door, hand hesitating as it touched the handle.

With a sense of dread mingled with anticipation, Croaker, formally known as Regulus Black, opened the door, somehow knowing it wasn’t just the declaration of a Regent coming that would change his life. No, this was deeper, hidden, and promised in the magic that kept his secret that his time of skulking in shadows had ended, unlike the first time he’d lived through this life. And wasn’t that a terrifying thought because he didn’t know what it meant, only that it was true…

***

CHAPTER FIVE

From the back of the room, silver glittering eyes surveyed the crowded and noisy kitchen, wishing for a headache potion. They’d been at it for over an hour, and he was tired. If he hadn’t been aware that Medea had helped correct the damage the exposures to the dementors had done to both his mind and magic, Sirius was sure he’d half-think he was back there. It was torture watching the group of older members, and kids Molly had claimed were too young to join, sit around the table trying to find a cause for Harry’s behaviour.

Which, when he thought about it, was odd. Why would they all care about his behaviour? It technically had nothing to do with the war, at least not beyond the idea they expected a fifteen-year-old to take care of it.

Sirius stopped at that, raising a shaking hand to his face, and rubbed his temples, the sudden realization that they had expected it, and Harry had done it before in that other timeline.

It was strange having memories of an alternate reality, made worse by the fact that he knew things that had happened after his death. Like he’d been there, but not a participant, which was a decidedly odd feeling. Almost worse than the sense of déjà vu he’d get before the expected ending of an interaction changed.

It had happened that first night, when Harry did whatever he’d done, Sirius still wasn’t sure. But as he’d been getting ready for bed, he knew Remus would be sneaking in before dawn, leaving the illusion they’d slept together, or at least he probably would have if Sirius had stayed. Yet something, in hindsight probably Medea, had made him leave, the growing sense of wrongness in staying in that room too much to bear. It’s how Sirius found himself in the bathroom, the door locked and warded, and about to step into the shower when he felt the pull. And for all the descriptive words in the English language, the pull was the only suitable choice. It was as if he’d been forced to walk out of the bathroom, turn down a hall that hadn’t existed previously, and lead in a winding loop that probably took fifteen minutes in a house that wasn’t that big.

When it let go, he stood before a cracked open door, the faint spill of light shining on the dust-free carpet, inviting him in.

It was strange to enter and know it was the Lord’s room. The real study whispered as if it were a Black legend. The substitute on the second floor, with all the furniture and decoration, was not even worth the cost of the desk that sat empty and waiting. And for one single, mad second, Sirius wanted it. The power, the glory, the righteousness and the prestige it could provide. He wanted it all. Yet just as quickly as that thought had come, it disappeared, fluttering away on the wind as memories, thoughts and sometimes even feelings swept through his mind. Things he knew to have happened in a future period, things he knew had occurred after his death – a bitter realization to have at stupid o’clock in the morning. It was trying to corral and make sense of his thoughts that the older family legends whispered along the edges, flitting too fast to snatch onto and examine. Which? Well, it was probably a good thing because as he leaned weakly over the desk, he felt the sweep of foreign and beautiful magic mingled with Harry’s sharp, biting force spread across the floor from inside the wall to his right.

It hovered in the room for a single blinding moment before it spiralled up and out, crawling up the walls like an avalanche, the force and strength something Sirius wasn’t sure anyone could combat.

Then he heard at least two voices, one of which was Harry’s, and even though it shouldn’t have been possible in a couple of hours, he heard the difference. The tone, the inflections, the tiredness, the maturity, as if Harry had aged rapidly in that small passage between supper and now.

Then Sirius heard the second voice, his heart stopping and jumping into overtime, memories of the conversation with his grandfather, the subsequent one with Lily and James, followed by the ritual that bound Harry to his family forever. In that instant, hearing that voice that had beckoned and haunted him in his dreams, Sirius knew. He knew his life had irrevocably changed, and he wouldn’t give up his second chances at life. Willingly – metaphorically – as Harry wasn’t standing before him, he bent the knee to his godson and accepted him forever more as his patriarch.

A throat clearing drew Sirius’s attention, and when he blinked, looking at those assembled, he saw them all looking at him in varying degrees of suspicion and could only sigh at the irony. It didn’t matter if he’d been proven innocent. It hadn’t mattered he let them into his childhood home – a place he’d hated and run from and ate the food he’d purchased because of his most recent ancestors; they viewed him as cut of the same cloth and condemned him the same.

“Well, are you going to respond?” Molly demanded peevishly, her mood rapidly deteriorating in the two days since the trial.

Sirius shrugged and summoned a bottle of whiskey from the cellar with a flick of his fingers, “Considering I wasn’t listening, no.”

The flushed face went scarlet as the bottle of whiskey landed in Sirius’s hand, and he bit back a grin as he opened it, took a sniff, sighed in satisfaction and said to no one in particular, “1667, sure was a good year for whiskey.”

“This is serious!” Molly bellowed, causing them all to flinch at the volume.

That caused his grin to widen, it always did, and he nodded in agreement, “Sure am, says so on the wall in the lounge-” he frowned and then shrugged, “Well, it would have if mummy dearest hadn’t blasted me off.”

Molly closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, muttering too low to be heard before looking at him again. “This is why you don’t make a good guardian. It’s evident that you’re encouraging Harry to flout the rules.”

“By saying stuff that’s true?” Sirius asked in genuine confusion, looking between the order members gathered, focusing briefly on Snape, who sat in the opposite corner, the expression on Severus’s face one Sirius couldn’t place, “I’m extremely proud of Harry for telling the Wizengamot all about themselves, and yes, Dumbledore too. He’s done more for me in the last forty-eight hours than anyone has in the last fourteen years. He spoke the truth, made a vow and gave them all something to think about. Why wouldn’t I be proud of that?”

Molly glared, fingers twisting into the towel in her hands, wringing them together just like he imagined she wanted to do to him, “You need to talk Harry into speaking with Ron and Hermione; his anger isn’t justified, and he’s hurting both himself and them.”

Sirius tilted his head in utter disbelief, “No.”

The redhead swelled up, enraged, “What do you mean, no?”

“Well, it’s straightforward. No, I’m not turning on Harry and convincing him to do something he has every right to decide for himself to do. He’s allowed to be justifiably angry at them; they barely wrote him all summer.” He held up a hand when she opened her mouth and mimed closing it with two fingers, “And yeah, sure, it was on the belief the house could be watched. Yet, when it was supposed to be, he was attacked by dementors.” He glared at Mundagnus Fletcher, who shifted uncomfortably from where he leaned against the counter, “But there are other ways to send a letter; didn’t you send one to him inviting him to your home? What about Hermione? She’s a Muggle-born. I’m certain she understands how the Royal Post works. I think it was planned; it was a plot to give Harry as little information as possible, sprinkled in with enough bragging.” He shot Ron a hard look, “which made Harry feel neglected and forgotten. Enabling people here to feel superior to being included.”

“Why, I never!” Molly exclaimed.

“Of course not. Why would you?” Sirius replied carelessly, “You all treated him like he was in the wrong when he arrived. You fed into his fear that he would be severely punished, berated him for defending himself, and then dared to be offended when he pointed out the stupidity of making him travel to his hearing by Muggle means when the entire point of moving him here was to keep him hidden. Then, on top of that, when he came down to dinner, not one of you congratulated him on winning, on telling the truth. You acted then and still are that he deliberately intended to offend everyone here, and I don’t get it. Why are you so mad?” Sirius finished shaking his head because he didn’t understand their issue. The Ministry and Dumbledore were scrambling, but it served them right. Riddle was biding his time, and Sirius didn’t think it had anything to do with Draco and his title claim. Sirius paused his thoughts, mentally shaking his head. That hadn’t happened the first time, and Sirius didn’t know what to think of it, but the reaction of Ronald Weasley when that article was noticed, you’d think Draco had offed his father to get his hands on the title and trot off to the Dark Lord. Which, when looked at logically, made no sense because Lucius had been his right-hand man; it was bizarre. If Draco were as Slytherin as Ron had implied, the smartest thing to do would have been to work from the shadows, let his father continue in that position until Voldemort had taken Lucius out himself, and then slide into place offering his services.

A hand slammed down onto the table, drawing Sirius’s attention, and he narrowed his eyes as Molly glared at him, “It’s Harry’s fault the Ministry is scrambling, trying not to draw attention from the international press. There’s talk of an investigation at Hogwarts. Dumbledore’s been subjected to hours-long meetings in the Ministry to keep everyone calm, and you don’t seem to care that Harry hasn’t faced any consequences for risking everything! We should concentrate on the Dark Lord; everything else can be fixed after he’s gone, but now the focus is on everything but!”

Sirius sighed, long and hard, “Well, it’s not Harry’s fault; everyone involved has done something illegal that they now need to scramble and cover up; I’d say it looks good on them.”

“Why are you even here?” Molly demanded suddenly.

Sirius blinked, “Ah, well, to start, it is my ancestral home, and second, I was told this was to be an order meeting….” He glanced around the room and raised an eyebrow, “Yet instead of having an actual meeting, you have children at a meeting you previously denied allowing Harry access because he’s too young. You’re complaining about Harry doing the right thing, and you’re complaining…. Merlin, I don’t even know what for. Why is it so important that Harry forgive people who haven’t apologized and meant it?”

“He needs his friends around him at a time like this.” Molly bit out, anger flashing in her eyes, “But no one can find him to talk to him. He’s been rude and almost belligerent to order members, arguing for the sake of arguing and refusing to listen.”

“Well, technically, he is an adult,” Sirius drawled lazily, “while I suspect he’s going to have some adjusting to do – he’s not going to follow orders without careful consideration. He’s been used too much, with unfair expectations set on his shoulders since he was fifteen months old. None of you would stand for what he’s had to face – Circe, half of you probably wouldn’t have survived even a quarter of what he has.”

“What do you know of it?” Molly demanded, glaring defiantly at him.

Sirius took a long pull of whiskey, running through the possible scenarios of saying more than he should, but in the end, he still decided to wing it, “I know that he was placed illegally with his Muggle aunt-”

“He was what?” Severus demanded, speaking for the first time, his face thunderous.

Sirius gazed back impassively, wanting to snip and snap at his old nemesis strangely silent, “he was dropped off on Petunia’s doorstep before the milk delivery in the cold on November 1st.”

The glower on Severus’s face didn’t lessen, but he didn’t say anything else, though a flicker of horror flashed through his eyes before they fell shut.

Taking that as permission to continue, Sirius did, keeping his voice even, “his childhood overall was crap, but I’m not saying more about that- though isn’t it true your younger sons recused Harry during his second year when his aunt and uncle put bars on his window and confined him to his room?”

Sirius smiled wickedly when Molly paled, eyes darting everywhere but towards Sirius, and he allowed the silence to linger for a minute, “Then there is his horrible school record of death-defying situations. No student should be involved. His first year was the stupid philosopher’s stone, though I can’t understand how Nicolas allowed that to be hidden in the school. The second year, I believe, involved your daughter and her inability to use her brain-“

“Hey!” Molly tried to interject, but Sirius continued speaking. “It’s true, and you can’t deny it. She spent over a year talking in a diary, opened the Chamber of Secrets, and unleashed a basilisk on the student population.”

“She was scared!” Molly shouted, waving a hand expressively.

Narrowing his eyes, Sirius leaned forward, “She should have turned in the diary to an adult the second it spoke back!”

“Sirius,” Arthur spoke softly, though his eyes flashed with a warning that he ignored.

“No, I’m not dropping it. You wanted to talk about the consequences of individuals’ actions? Why wasn’t Ginny held accountable? Making and offering a vow to magic and keeping it is a whole other pot full of potions than communing with an object where you can’t see the brain. It’s basic Dark Arts 101; if you haven’t done your job teaching your children that, then that’s on you. It’s your responsibility as parents.” Sirius snapped, straightening, feeling the unfamiliar but nonthreatening magic slide along his skin. When nothing else happened, he held up a hand, ticking off two fingers, and continued speaking, “As for Harry’s third year, you set him up like bait in Diagon Alley. I don’t know whose brilliant idea that was, but let’s talk about the wards at Hogwarts, then. If the wards had worked correctly, not only should it have been evident at the very least to Dumbledore, or even McGonagall, that not only was there a basilisk roaming the school, but there was an Animagus in the Gryffindor Tower for years! It should have been obvious to you, Lupin! You spent at least two years with him, ten months of the year, transformed. You should have smelt him a mile away!”

Remus shifted at the accusation but bowed his head and said nothing, making Sirius snort in disbelief and shake his head, “Figures you didn’t want me to be found innocent. Makes me wonder why? You suggested I leave England after Harry and Hermione recused me with the illegal use of a time turner, which no one has offered a reasonable explanation for. I know the Ministry doesn’t offer them to students, as they must go through the DOM, and there is no way Croaker would allow the usage by a thirteen-year-old student.”

“I was fourteen, almost fifteen,” Hermione protested, folding her arms.

“Bully for you. According to the ICW, usage of a time turner is only allowed to legally aged witches or wizards who have been invited to the DOM, sworn in, and worked under a mentor for at least three years before given the option of use in theoretical research studies with severe restrictions and oversight, as well as a detailed calendar explaining the usages.” Sirius drawled, lifting an eyebrow, “I seriously doubt you, for as brilliant as you’re reported to be, had any of that or been provided that information.”

Hermione blushed furiously and lowered her gaze. “Professor McGonagall gave it to me.”

Tonks shifted in her seat, sitting beside Andromeda, glancing between Hermione and Sirius before asking, “How do you know all that, Sirius?”

“Doesn’t matter, it’s true, isn’t it?” Sirius shrugged, waiting for her nod, hesitant though it was, “As for the fourth year, if we have to rehash that, then you need to sit there and think seriously about why the fuck you’re here and why you expect a fifteen-year-old to save you.”

“He is supposed to save us!” Ron protested, face red.

“Why? How? When?” Sirius demanded, rising to his feet, “You turned on him the second his name came out of the cup and waited until he almost died out flying a dragon. If one of you could have gotten over Harry being a Parselmouth, he could have walked into that arena, spoken to that dragon, and requested the egg. Yet, because of the stigma surrounding that magical gift, there are no books in England, and he was too scared to ask.”

“It’s dark.”

Sirius stared straight at Andromeda and couldn’t help but laugh in disbelief, “So is Remus, but I don’t see you discouraging your daughter from trying to crawl into his bed.”

Tonks blushed furiously while her mother sputtered, though Sirius wasn’t sure if it was fury or embarrassment, “As for Parselmouth for being dark? You need a serious re-education in history. You all do. Hecate gifted her children magic, and in no oral or written history does it say she judged those born and subjected them to a distribution system. She gave us free will and let us make our own choices, good or bad.”

“Who’s Hecate?” Hermione asked, her voice filled with confusion.

“Who’s Hecate?” Sirius repeatedly dumbly glanced around the kitchen when not one single eye met his, except for Severus, who offered a response.

“Unfortunately, Magical Comprehensive Studies is no longer offered as an elective course, not even an option through self-study.”

Sirius blinked in shock and a slow-growing horror at the guilty expression that crossed over Molly’s face, and he set the bottle of whiskey down, then banished it, catching the movement of Mundagnus from the corner of his eye. “Wow… just, wow.” he shook his head in disbelief, “We’re done.”

Then, suiting action to his words, Sirius stalked to the kitchen door, opened it, letting it slam shut behind him, and immediately turned right into the family passage, hoping they all choked on his exit because he knew they’d realize he hadn’t dropped the wards and left anyway.

***

It felt like a dream or even a nightmare, but Harry had no clear memories of his conversation with Ragnok. Snatches of words filtered through his mind before the Chieftain seemingly gave up, prodding him to take the boxes and then leading him from the room.

It was probably horrid and rude of him. Still, he couldn’t even muster the manners he knew Medea would be grading him on later – if there was a later, because Medea was suspiciously silent, even when he met a woman, her name escaping him. However, she offered a kind, understanding smile as she stepped beside them.

Medea’s silence might have made him panic if he’d been thinking, but his mind was too full, trying to understand how he could be Regent to an extinct line.

All through the cart ride into the bowels of the bank, Harry stood blankly between the two Dverger, followed by another cart full of guards that had appeared without a word. Then, with Harry in the middle, he was led down a hall he didn’t recognize, even with the hazy schematics from the previous timeline in his head.

At the end of the tunnel, with double doors more than two hundred feet away, the guards fell back, leaving Harry with Ragnok and the woman at his side, and he swallowed hard when Ragnok knelt at his feet. “I know tonight has been difficult, Your Grace, and even with the ring as proof, nothing I or my wife could say would make you believe us.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to….” Harry whispered, eyeing the pale rose-coloured door.

“It’s a weird mistake?” Ragnok asked softly.

“The line’s extinct,” Harry said, though even he could hear the doubt in his voice.

“If that is indeed the case, then the magic of Yggdrasil is failing, and you won’t be able to pass more than halfway,” Ragnok said evenly, gesturing down the hall.

Harry didn’t want to move. It felt like a challenge he was bound to lose, and he wasn’t sure if this was the consequence and repercussions of his time travel that he hadn’t foreseen. Though how anyone could have foreseen the absurd situation he was in, boggled the mind, the matriarch of his family had been a prophet and seer, and she had been just as startled as he had been until she’d fallen silent.

As if his thoughts of her summoned her, he felt the gentle prod from Medea and swallowed hard as he took a step forward, hand tightening around the boxes in his hands.

It was the weirdest sensation, each step feeling like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders for the briefest of seconds, though strangely enough, the way forward became easier and easier, though his breath caught and sped up when he realized that he was more than halfway. He also discovered that instead of reacting, he was thinking again, still somewhat disjointed and scrambled. Still, calm anticipation was growing, slowing the rising rage that had also been building as he sorted through his memories of the prophecy and what he’d done in that alternate future.

Ten feet from the door, which wasn’t the pale rose he’d initially thought, shifted and rippled through the entire spectrum of colours, never seeming to settle on one single one. It was also when he saw the hazy outline of something other. It glistened in the magical torchlight as it lifted its head from where it lay curled in front of the door, a faint hint of what looked like smoke curling from its nose.

Five feet from the door, the haze lifted, and Harry was meeting the purple eyes of a white dragon, the expression contrite and guilty at odds with the facial expectations of the species, “I knew the line lived on, but never thought I’d see this day.”

Harry swallowed, feeling the sting of tears, “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about our line, Your Highness.”

“I’m not Arthur, young one.” The dragon replied gently, “I’m the spirit of Pendragon. I was a gift from the Lady, meant to help him rule wisely, though I failed in my task and didn’t know how badly until the end came to pass.”

“I-I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Harry admitted.

The dragon sighed, blowing out a breath that produced more smoke. “No, I don’t suppose you do. What hasn’t been kept to family lore has mostly been forgotten.” The dragon tilted his head, breathing another puff of smoke, “You see, the legends surrounding Arthur have been warped and changed, distorting the truth. Something I encouraged to protect you.”

“You knew of me?” Harry couldn’t help but ask, not sure he wanted the answer.

The dragon flushed but shook his head, “Not you specifically, but the idea of you. Arthur raised Mordred as his own, but neither in name nor blood. He loved and cared for and taught him his letters and how to rule but missed one crucial lesson. Mordred believed he’d inherit the throne because he was the oldest, and when he was told otherwise….” The dragon heaved a sigh, “Mordred, in his jealousy and rage, betrayed the king and tried to steal the throne. Arthur was killed in the resulting battle, and both lines were punished by magic, and a forgotten prophecy was born, recited and hidden by Merlin in the remains of Avalon.”

“Prophecy?” A harsh, disbelieving laugh erupted from Harry, “Another one?”

The dragon frowned, smoke trailing over his head, voice deepening as he spoke, “Of four children, the oldest was raised by the king. But when naming an Heir, the jester betrays his father and king in both word and deed. Full of misunderstanding and greed, the child demands more than his right and, in the end, pays for his deceit. Sins of the father pass on indeed. When the dragon’s blood merges with the blood of the last living jester, a daughter will be born, and a male scion of Brenin will come from her line, which will change the world.”

Harry blinked. Then blinked again, the harsh laugh dying like dust in his throat, his eyes filling again, “fate’s hand indeed….”

There was a fluttering of apology from Medea, along with the sensation she hadn’t understood what had meant until now, forcing him to sigh.

“What do you mean by fate’s hand, young one?” Pendragon asked, ears rising in interest, clearly curious. “How did you draw the eyes of the Moirai?”

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair, and asked, “Can they hear our conversation?”

The dragon straightened, looking over his shoulder, “The Dverger? No, the conversation is meant for us alone.”

Nodding, Harry glanced around, noting the carvings on the wall he’d missed during his walk down the hall. Epic moments and battles were recreated in living murals; the crowning of Arthur, the individual knighting ceremonies, the subsequent argument followed by the betrayal, and then the destruction of a kingdom saved by the sacrifice of Merlin.

“I’m not even sure where to begin,” Harry admitted carefully, then pleaded somewhat desperately, “and don’t tell me the beginning, that-” He shook his head, heaving a sigh, “I’m the Master of Death, Pendragon. Beyond all my other titles, that is something I’ve always been, in some form or another. Due to circumstances beyond my control, this is not the first time I’ve lived at fifteen. Because of the betrayals perpetrated against me and our line, the matriarch of my godfather’s line gave me a second chance and brought me back.” He met the dragon’s eyes widened in surprise. He offered a twisted smile he couldn’t be sure was more of a grimace, “in truth, I’ve only been consciously aware of the two separate timelines for about two days, possibly three given I’m unsure how long I’ve been here.”

“You carry a heavy burden, young one.” Pendragon finally said voice subdued, “one that won’t be made lighter by my presence.”

Harry’s eyes flashed, the green morphing into the same purple hue as the dragons, and the smile curling around his lips, a self-satisfaction that could only be called vindication, “I welcome your presence, Pendragon.”

“Do you deserve it, though? Your forefather thought he did, demanded it through blood and death and look where that got him and his line? Reduced to squibs, with a curse passed on and on.”

“Sins of the father,” Harry agreed, “but they still didn’t learn. I understand the prophecy, Pendragon. I am central and key to another, probably several more. I don’t know how it’s possible, but I believe the last living jester is Tom Riddle Jr., who has delusions of grandeur similar to those of Mordred. He’s hunted me since birth, all because of a prophecy that said it would mark me as his equal, though I would have powers he knows not.”

“Did you defeat him the first time?” Pendragon asked, a frown forming on his face.

“Not without sacrifice, he made horcruxes, and a man named Dumbledore believed that only I had the power to destroy them. He sent me on an impossible task that ended in my death. A death I’ve come to realize was meant to be permanent….”

“But it wasn’t?” The dragon asked, making Harry shake his head.

“No, in his quest for glory, he sought for years to reunite my Hallows. My gift from fate. His blindness and vision of the Greater Good led me straight to them, ensuring my survival.” Harry explained tiredly. “It would be easier to accomplish my goals if we worked together, but I won’t demand your help. If you find me unworthy, I can do it other ways.”

The dragon chuckled and shook his head, rising from his spot before the door, “Unworthy you are not, Hadrian Brenin. Come, step into the vault of your ancestors and claim the family grimoire; it will tell us how you came to be.”

Harry hesitated, fingering the boxes in his hands, then with a deep breath opened the top one that reflected the Slytherin crest he still couldn’t reconcile in his mind, yet slipped on his finger, followed by the Peverell. They merged and joined with the Black-Mávros ring already there, the obsidian reflecting emerald green, the engraving of the hallows and a snake wrapped around the wand shone in the light.

Releasing a slow breath, he gazed at the Pendragon ring, the mithril gleaming beautifully, the dragon relief rippling with the same colour of the door that had continued to cycle through the rainbow spectrum.

Looking at the dragon, Harry licked his lips. “Do you merge with me?”

The dragon’s lips curled into a smile. “Like Medea?”

Harry frowned at the question, “So I won’t hear you in my head?”

The dragon shook his head, tongue lolling as puffs of smoke curled around his head, “No, young one, our joining is not the same. I become you, you become me, together we become more.” He paused, furrowed the line of where eyebrows would be if dragons had such things, and dipped his head, “Though entangled with Medea and all she is, we may change. The remnant of Arthur joined with me upon his death; his guilt upon what he’d inadvertently wrought made him feel he didn’t deserve to rest, and together, we decided that when the Heir was born, we would guide him together and pray he heeded our counsel as he had not.”

Unsure of the response and answer, Harry glanced at the ring again, the twinkle in the purple eyes causing his own to flash, even as he slipped it on. He felt the same finger-like touch as the previous two, tasting and testing the dragon’s tongue, reaching out to touch his cheek as he shimmered in the torchlight and faded, becoming a ball of light that sank into his chest.

The sensation felt like a small ball of relaxation as it stretched, slowly filling his body, the oddity of muscles he hadn’t been aware of before tingling as they merged with Pendragon. Shields erected in his mind like an impenetrable tower that echoed the ache across his shoulders and spine, promising something he wasn’t sure he was ready to contemplate.

The duality lasted for another moment, but on an exhale, Harry felt full in a way he hadn’t before. The knowledge he wasn’t aware of teased along his subconscious. Still, he tabled that for now, knowing from experience with Medea that sleep would help settle and smooth out the ruffles.

Stepping forward, he touched the door, the light bleeding into his hand as it swung open and shut behind him. He knew he didn’t have time to search the vaults, but he grabbed the grimoire and the account book in stasis and left the room. He had to finish his meeting with Ragnok and return to Grimmauld; Sirius was going to lose his mind.

***

Sirius looked up when the flame in the fireplace flared green, followed a second later by Harry stepping out, expressionless as he warily set an unexpectedly large stack of portfolios and account books on the edge of the desk and sank into the chair.

“That bad?” Sirius asked carefully, not even attempting to use humour.

The faint, feeble flicker of a smile that barely curled the edge of Harry’s lip alarmed Sirius more than he expected, but he fought the initial panic reaction.

“It was informative.” Harry said slowly, running a hand down his face, “Ragnok has reactivated all my dormant accounts and is searching for my parents will. They agreed to my assessment, helped me fill out the application to transfer to the ISM, and filed a complaint with the ICW, offering the services of Ragnok’s nephew, an internationally renowned lawyer.”

Sirius blinked at the information, his confusion growing when Harry continued, “Croaker has also pledged his oath of service, which includes the entirety of the Unspeakable from the DOM and has moved all prophecy concerning me, including the one of Riddle, to a separate and better-secured location.”

Licking his lips, Sirius cleared his throat, interrupting the toneless recitation, and the alarm at the information made him need a minute. There were only so many reasons the DOM offered their oath of service, “hey, pup, you-you don’t have to justify-”

“Petunia’s not my aunt,” Harry said, talking over Sirius. “Though I don’t know if she ever knew that, considering they were raised as sisters. Petunia was born in 1954, and my mother was born in 1960 to a young lady named, Emilee.” Harry swallowed hard and met Sirius’ eyes, his glistening with unshed tears, “According to the family grimoire, Emilee feared for the life of her unborn child because of the father’s descent into madness. She fled to her squib brother, who offered to raise Lily as a Muggle-born witch, hiding her identity from the world. While I don’t necessarily agree with keeping the truth from her, due to family lore, it was the only thing that saved her from being used by others.”

Sirius waited for Harry to continue, unsure if he should call Kreacher for tea, when a tray appeared on the desk, though instead of tea, it had tumblers full of rye. Harry automatically reached for a sandwich, finishing it in two bites before grabbing a tumbler and tossing it back with a shudder at the burn as it slid down.

Reaching into his robes, Harry set down an amulet that sparkled with magic. “You have an appointment in two days to undergo a ritual cleansing. The portkey will take you to the chamber at 10 pm. While it’s agreed, Medea has done a great deal for us since we’ve been back. The Dverger healer still performed a full physical examination and found recent traces of compulsions, loyalty charms, and potions in my system. She also healed the damage I still suffered from the events in June and put me on a strict nutritional regimen to correct the other issues caused by my relatives’ neglect.”

“Alright,” Sirius said, not even trying to argue or understand why the Dverger had insisted they see him. “I appreciate the help they’re offering.”

A faint smile flickered on Harry’s face, though he drew a deep breath, “They’re honour and oath-bound to assist the Regent, Sirius.”

Instantly glad he hadn’t taken a glass, Sirius still choked on air, and stared at Harry in shock, “pardon me?”

Amusement flashed in Harry’s eyes as he leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow, “I said it was informative; the plus side to the legacy is it won’t be released until I release it, or marry, at least not before I turn twenty-five.”

“Harry.” Sirius started, then swallowed, “I need you to explain in simple words and stop speaking in riddles.”

Waving his hand, Harry banished the tray and set his hands on the desk, palms flat, exposing the rings. “The Exmoor title has been locked until I turn seventeen due to outside interference, starting with my father. The other titles are a little convoluted; one I claimed myself, reuniting the Hallows. My grandfather disowned himself, and the other is through my mother. However, she had no claim to the title due to hierarchy rules of succession.”

Sirius waved a hand expressively. Harry’s explanation was not exactly necessary, but understandable in the circumstances.

Harry looked down at his rings again before lifting his head, eyes flashing purple as he spoke,

“My name is Hadrian Cadmus James Brenin, Regent Brenin, Duke of Avalon, Duke of Warwick, Comte Mávros, and magical Heir of Slytherin.”

Sirius was thankful Harry did nothing but summon a bottle of whiskey and offer it as a peace offering. He opened it mindlessly, tossed a shot back, and settled back in his chair, letting silence fill the room again.

***

August 16th, 1995

Strolling into the breakfast room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Draco immediately saw the sealed letter from Gringotts in front of his chair, and his mother bent over a similar one with a complex expression that Draco had never seen on her face before.

Hesitating for only a second, Draco went to the sideboard, filling his plate, suspecting that he wouldn’t eat at all if he didn’t have food before him after he read the letter.

Gently setting the plate down at his seat, his mother glanced up, eyes filled with unshed tears, though he could not determine if they were happy or sad, and cleared his throat awkwardly. “Bad news?”

“The opposite, actually,” Narcissa said after a slight pause, fingers brushing her teacup as if she wasn’t sure she wanted a drink. “While your letter will vary in detail, they’re from the same person.”

Frowning at the answer, Draco glanced at the letter and sighed knowingly, “secrecy charms?”

“Dverger cast.” Narcissa agreed cheerfully, finally taking a sip of her tea, setting the letter aside, pulling a blank paper in front of her, and picking up her quill.

Understanding there was nothing he could do that would make his mother talk, Draco glared at the letter before purposefully taking a bite of egg,

His mother’s lips pursed like she wanted to say something herself, but either because of secrecy charms or her sense of knowing, she said nothing, bending over the paper, quill scratching across the surface as she wrote her response.

The letter mocked him sitting there as he ate his breakfast; not even the Prophet’s arrival drew his attention from it. His curiosity grew, even as his hunger was abated by the hearty breakfast Mimsy had crafted.

Finally unable to resist, Draco pushed the half-eaten breakfast away and pulled the sealed envelope forward, using the unused butter knife to slice it open.

To his surprise, a single piece of paper came out with another sealed envelope, and he glanced at that before reading the paper.

“Greetings, Lord Malfoy.

I write this brief note of assurance as a friend of the Mávros patriarch that the secrecy charms are necessary, as the news contained is sensitive, and if it falls into the wrong hands, all will be for naught.

Your Dverger friend

Ragnok.”

Draco blinked and glanced at his mother, “Mávros?”

“Hmmm.” Narcissa hummed, unconcerned. “Read your letter, Draco.”

Sighing heavily, Draco rolled his eyes but slit the seal, feeling the charm activate, swirling over his skin as it took effect.

Opening it, he tried to check the signature at the bottom but found his eyes unable to focus until he looked at the heading, each word only becoming readable after he finished the previous one.

It was with a state of disbelief that he read through the letter once, then three extra times, before he set it down, calling for Mimsy instantly, “I don’t care about the time. Nor is breakfast finished. I want no arguments or judgments, please, get me a whiskey.”

The expression on the elf’s face was clear judgment, but at least Tinker didn’t argue, and the iced glass of whiskey appeared even as the elf disappeared.

Grabbing the drink, Draco tossed it back and met his mother’s eyes, her emotions still carefully hidden, though she offered a gentle, understanding smile when he couldn’t even muster a sound.

Pressing the empty glass to his forehead, he pulled the letter forward again, reading each word even though it felt burned into his mind already.

“Draco,

It’s bizarre to write and address you as such, as we’ve never been friends – a fact I find myself regretting, considering information that had recently come to light. Yet even so, we can both agree we find ourselves in a strange, somewhat baffling time.

As you have probably already guessed, I know that you, your mother, and Sirius, along with Bellatrix, all have memories of the alternate timeline or universe. However, in my opinion, the distinction doesn’t matter. I have no explanation for why you have your memories. Medea hasn’t shared them or doesn’t know, but I have claimed the lordship as my right, as I was named Heir by blood and magic.

A somewhat interesting fact, regarding this and what will allow me to hide a bit longer, is the English understanding, or lack thereof, of the Black family. You see, my title is old, predating the creation of Avalon and the Senate in Rome, although our ancestors, Bedivere, served Arthur faithfully even after death. So, while we have the title of Islington now, our rightful one is Mávros, and that is what I will be called.

It is an Ancient Greek term, and while it is commonly believed to mean “darker skin,” in our case, it refers to Medea’s gift and was derived from the adjective “difficult to discern,” meaning barely visible.

In having said that, with the merging of our matriarchal line and learning the true history of the Black Madness, I find myself understanding the definition of family in a way I never had before, which means people I counted as friends aren’t what I thought, and maybe people I thought enemies might not be either. I can safely say that both Riddle and Dumbledore are firmly in the enemy camp, and nothing will change that.

Being tutored and taught by a three-thousand-year-old entity is the most normal thing about my existence. The recent titles I’ve claimed are the weirdest. If you thought the Boy-Who-Lived was bragging, you’ve seen nothing yet.

Things that should have happened haven’t, and things that have… well, let’s just say I’m slowly going crazy and have stopped attempting to keep to the already tested path. Not that I tried that hard after coming back, as you can probably tell from the farce of a trial.

Hence, the reason for this letter is that if, like me, you are looking for a change, please reach out, and I would be happy to strike up a correspondence while I remain in England. And even after, if you don’t mind a delay for the international post, I’m not sure what a delay means when the Dverger will continue to act as my go-between. Still, Sirius insists I include it as I’m transferring to ISM on September 1st.

This fifth year will not be the same, as I refuse to set foot in Hogwarts and deal with the backbiting from my “friends” and enemies alike. Nor will I let the Ministry torture me in some twisted show of power or trot along the path Dumbledore has paved for me.

Having come into information I didn’t have before, the wizarding world is not ready for what I can bring forward, so I hope they let me adjust to the news that has shaken my foundation for their sake. In its way, it’s horrifying to contemplate that in Dumbledore’s need to help or even direct fate in helping fulfill a prophecy, he set out and destroyed even more.

I will forge my way despite interference, and I’m hoping that, having learned the correct definition of family, I can count on our shared blood for that support, even if it’s silent.

So, in memory of a boy I was too blind to see was just as scared as I, and in honour of the men we became, I finally offer my hand in friendship.

Hadrian Brenin

Comte Mávros… etc. etc. etc

PS: I know that’s not the proper sign-off, but I felt it would intrigue you and at least prompt you to write back and demand more.

Harry”

***

CHAPTER SIX

August 16th, 1995

Harry felt like he’d overdone weird in the three days he’d been back, but as he sauntered through the house, having a mental argument with the sentient house was a decidedly odd experience. Yet his ability to ignore the house’s growing irritation with the Weasleys finally became too much, or she was louder than the selective hearing employed.

Grimmauld led him to the sitting room, and he leaned unobserved against the frame with arms folded, watching the guests destroy his home. Ginny held open a Muggle garbage bag as Molly shot an unlocking spell at the door, directing Ron and Hermione to empty the curio cabinet, not caring for the antiques they were tossing.

“What are you guys doing?” Harry asked, brow furrowed, trying to adopt a baffled expression instead of the fury their lack of care invoked.

Molly turned to him, a broad smile flickering questioningly as she took in his appearance. The annoyance at his tastefully tailored robes was evident in her eyes, but she still beckoned him in as if she had the right in his own house. “How nice to see you, dear, ready to get to work?”

“Ah, I’m not sure I understand what you mean. Get ready to do what work?” Harry asked, pushing off the door, smoothing the rich, quality robes Kreacher had procured for him, though the elf hadn’t explained if they were Regulus’s or purchased new. It hadn’t mattered; the colour, cut and style complemented Harry, and he was comfortable. It was almost a novel experience, having clothing he liked, and he had praised Kreacher for his tastes.

Molly’s smile was brittle, her eyes hardening as she glanced at him before focusing on the admittedly hideous drapes in the window. “Well, if you hadn’t been sulking, you would know we’re going room to room, clearing out the junk and dark artifacts.”

“Not to disagree, but it’s insulting that you think I’m sulking by taking my education seriously and finishing my summer schoolwork, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said mildly, earning a huff from Hermione. However, he kept his attention on Molly. “As for clearing out the junk and/or dark artifacts, why? They’re not yours. It’s not your place to make those sorts of decisions.”

“We need to make the old house habitable. It has had nothing but that useless house elf, so it has fallen into disrepair.” Molly replied, her teeth grinding, “As for dark artifacts, none of you children need to be exposed to them, so it’s better to just toss the items next to it in case of bleed-off.”

“So, you’re using a Muggle garbage bag?” Harry asked in confusion and shook his head, “You realize that defeats the purpose of ‘disposing’ of the dark artifacts. They should be contained and sent for cleansing because if you toss them in the trash, they will infect anyone, most likely muggles who encounter them.”

“But they’re trash!” Molly protested.

“To you, maybe, but they’re family Heirlooms that I’m set to inherit, and Sirius permitted me to send the pieces to the Dverger to have ritual cleansed. As for the idea that they’re trash, Muggles are weird. They have a saying: One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” Harry said mildly, flicking his wand, emptying the bag and sending the ornaments back to the curio cabinet and locking it.

Molly’s mouth dropped open, and she took a breath. He held up a hand to stop the impending rebuke, seeing she was gearing up to deliver it. “Please remember that I’m not your child. I’m not your responsibility. You are, in fact, a guest in my home, and I’m legally emancipated before you yell at me. Even if I wasn’t, underage wizards are legally allowed to use magic inside heritage homes, which is what Grimmauld is. It’s one of the benefits of staying in a pureblood family home, which I’m sure your children will appreciate, so they can practice spells in the duelling room before school starts.”

“But-but-” Molly drew in a deep breath, “You’re making that up!”

Laughing, Harry shook his head, “No, I’m not. It’s easily confirmed. Ask Moody about the subclause of Heritage Homes in the Treaties of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, amended in 1932 to exclude the Potters, though admittedly they never actually lost their status; they were just stricken from the annals.”

Molly flushed violently but didn’t respond directly. A glance at Hermione showed her thinking face, which was enough for Harry. “As guests, it should go without saying, but you don’t touch what isn’t yours, so I’ll politely ask you to refrain from ‘fixing’ my home.”

“We can’t live like this!” It burst out of Molly as she waved her arm in growing irritation, “The entire home is dark and depressing and reeks of Dark Magic. It isn’t safe for anyone to live like this.”

“Yet you expect my godfather to do it.” Harry countered instantly, “And before you say it’s because it’s believed he’s guilty of a crime he didn’t commit, there are enough Aurors and purebloods in this home daily that could fight to get him a trial. Yet not even after my farce of a trial will one of you step up to add your voice to mine.”

“We don’t have the political clout to ensure a fair trial, ” Molly said through clenched teeth.

“The Weasleys may not, but Dumbledore does as Chief Warlock, which says nothing for when he was Supreme Mugwump. If he didn’t think Sirius could have obtained a fair trial in England, he could have petitioned one before the ICW.” Harry countered instantly, shaking his head and holding his hands, “But I won’t argue this anymore. I’ve already determined none of you are here for any other reason than to ensure Sirius and I stay put. So, to keep the peace, have you ever considered asking Sirius or me for the house’s assistance?”

They all gaped at him, proving that none of them had thought to do so, though they all looked at Hermione when she laughed out loud, disbelief colouring the tone and making Harry sigh tiredly.

“I’m not sure why you’re laughing, Hermione,” Harry said. “You do understand Grimmauld works on the same principle and concept as Hogwarts, right?”

“Harry, that’s a bit of a stretch. Grimmauld would have to be ancient for a house to get sentient status.” She offered a somewhat condescending smile, missing the uncomfortable expressions on the Weasleys’ faces. “For that to happen, the house must have been here for centuries.”

Titling his head, Harry regarded Hermione until she shifted nervously, “You realize the Black family is one of the oldest Pureblood families in the United Kingdom, right? It can be proven that one of the first ancestors to land in England was in 378. His son was a friend and a loyal knight who helped put Arthur on the throne.”

“That’s not possible.” The denial was sharp and instant, Hermione’s face growing hard and unyielding.

“Considering it’s provable, it is possible.” Harry countered evenly, “His name was Bedivere, but even you must notice that not even the Weasleys are arguing the history lessons, leading one to believe there must be a grain of truth to what I’m saying. Isn’t that right, Ron?”

Ronald Weasley predictably flushed at being called out, but he grunted moodily, “According to what we were taught by Dad’s mum, our grandmother, Harry’s correct.”

“Cedrella Black, if you’re curious.” Harry added helpfully, “She was, of course, disowned, but Mrs. Weasley’s aunt by marriage, Lucretia Black, wasn’t, and I know for a fact she was proud of being a Black and took home a NEWT in history, so was I wrong in any way, Mrs. Weasley?”

“No.” She responded grudgingly, with a hint of calculation growing in her eyes. “How do you know so much about Black history?”

“How do you know so little about social etiquette that you assume you know better than everyone? I know your aunt-in-law helped Muriel Prewitt raise you and your brothers, and I’m going to go out on a limb and say both would be horrified at how little respect you’re portraying as guests in a home you’ve been invited to stay in.” Harry countered immediately, raising an eyebrow.

At that, even Hermione’s face flushed a brilliant red, matching the Weasley siblings, leaving Molly spluttering incoherently.

“As for knowing all that, Sirius is my godfather. I’m also the son of a pureblood, who would have wanted me raised to know my station, one my mother reportedly embraced and supported.” Harry answered, keeping the mockery from his tone, but quickly walked to the wall, set his hand on the wall, and closed his eyes.

Harry wasn’t sure if he needed to close his eyes, suspecting Grimmauld would and could do what he asked if he said it aloud, but it was infinitely more satisfying hearing the startled gasp, strangled squeak and choked-off scream.

Ducking his chin briefly to hide the smile, Harry patted the wall, murmuring a soft thanks and opened his eyes.

Gone was the dark, dingy room and half-rotten furniture and drapery; in its place stood a room that was the envy of anything Molly wanted, according to her expression as she looked around in shock, though the greed that crossed Ginny’s face was judge worthy.

Ivory-coloured wallpaper adorned the wall with delicate swirls of green vines and leaves, making the dark oak wood accents pop in contrast.

The wood and walls matched the furniture, with a large black plush carpet on the floor underneath, complementing the outer drapes of black velvet that outlined the only other colour in the room: a sheer, pale green, a shade lighter than the vines and leaves on the wall.

The fireplace, which had been half-crumbling, was buffed to shine; the dark brick was not something Harry recognized, but it had a large mirror covering it. The fireplace bed was laid, ready and waiting, with a cast-iron guard in front. Along the walls were landscapes, ranging from a forest setting to an ocean view and even a desert.

It was, in a word, beautiful and exactly as Harry envisioned, and he smiled at the pleased response the house offered. He tilted his head and sighed regrettably, “I know I requested the ivory seating, but I think with the quality of guests that don’t appreciate the sanctuary they’ve been offered, won’t appreciate the care provide the due diligence they should offer, so maybe a darker colour?”

The house vibrated, the colour bleeding out until they changed to a dark forest green and seemed to giggle in a far-off way that spoke to age and disuse before settling again.

When Harry turned his attention to the Weasleys and Hermione, it was to find Molly had left the room, and he wasn’t surprised when the house informed him that Molly was offended. Hermione’s expression indicated she had, like, a hundred questions, while Ginny was toying with a lock of hair, probably meant to be enticing but just made him uncomfortable, and Ron, unfortunately, and with no great surprise, had to demand to know why he’d chosen green.

The same satisfaction he received earlier slotted another notch when he shrugged and responded over his shoulder. “It’s my favourite colour.” He heard a gasp of outrage, clearly offended by a personal choice Ron disagreed with.

***

Unfortunately for Harry, his little performance made supper awkward and uncomfortable. He almost envied Fred and George, who escaped without talking. Not that he blamed them exactly. Molly had practically thrown a fit when he made something different for himself and Sirius from what she’d cooked for everyone else. In combination with his own experiences, his joining with Medea and merging with Pendragon had made him aware on a level he hadn’t consciously been alerted to before that Moody’s reported paranoia was an accurate indicator that needed to be followed. Even if he hadn’t been alerted by Kreacher that Molly was adding potions to the food, his rings told him the same thing and meeting her eyes when she’d attempted to throw a fit earlier and state quite clearly that he was on a strict nutritional program and any divination to it could be detrimental she’d shut right up, ducking her head as if to avoid drawing attention to herself. Though he did see that she wanted to demand more information and probably rightfully assumed he’d deny her that knowledge. It was interesting that even knowing Dumbledore hadn’t been to the house since his trial, he had at least sent communications not to antagonize him unduly.

Leafing through the paper to the business section, Harry shifted the Muggle-style but wizard-made notebook – that never ran out of pages, could be organized with a tap, and never bled or ran out of ink – closer and bent his head, listing interesting investments.

The envious looks Hermione kept shooting him, or more importantly, the notebook and pen – nosily clearing her throat enough that it finally exasperated him.

“Yes?” he asked, looking up, bringing a profound silence to the table that had been attempting to ignore not only Hermione but also the already uncomfortable situation.

“Where did you get those?” Hermione demanded, unaware or uncaring that everyone was staring at her.

“You can also get them at The Rose Boutique off Faire Lane in Diagon Alley,” Harry replied, adding a note next to a questionable business he semi-recognized the name of, but not what they did.

“You went out?” came the demand from four different people, half of them swelling up, reminiscent of Aunt Marge, though without the bouncing. “You can’t just leave, Harry. It’s dangerous!”

Harry sighed, capping the top of his pen, and set it down. Folding his arms over his chest, knowing he wouldn’t be able to get a word in, he listened as Molly, Hermione, and even Remus chimed in.

It was only when it became apparent to them that he wouldn’t respond that they fell silent, though he waited an extra beat and then asked, “You guys done?”

“You need to let us know when you’re leaving to go places, Harry,” Remus said gently.

“Well, considering I didn’t go anywhere but the bank, one of the most secure locations in the world, then there’s no problem.” Harry gathered up his notebook and slipped the paper inside.

“Where are you going? We need to discuss this, Harry. You implied you went and got them yourself.” Hermione said.

“I said nothing of the sort. I said where you can get them, as clearly, the implication here is that I’m a prisoner. As for me visiting the bank, it’s a trip through the floo, into one secured location from another.” The sarcasm in his tone was ignored as Remus frowned as if trying to figure out when he’d gone to the bank.

Instead, he focused on the part Harry was sure everyone else missed. “You need an account manager to purchase or purchase things outside the bank.”

“I do,” Harry replied, exchanging a look with Sirius, who shrugged back in confusion, unsure where the conversation was going.

“But the Potter account manager died.” Remus protested.

“So?” Harry said and shook his head, “Your point? I asked and was assigned a new one. Why does it matter who my account manager is?”

“It doesn’t. I don’t understand why you have one.” Remus said, face furrowed.

Harry genuinely laughed and shook his head, “Has it ever occurred to you, Remus, that my parents were filthy rich and overly generous with my trust vault? If Hogwarts still charged tuition, I’d have the rough equivalent to the full seven years of school in that vault, plus extra, which is about 80,000 gallons.”

Ron sputtered angrily, shoving back from the table and stalking from the room with a glower of hatred at Harry.

“I’m not going to spend all that, and it would be irresponsible if I did. A trust vault is set up to teach Heirs the importance of money, budgeting, managing, investing, etc. I’m not going to let it still fallow like it has been doing since I was nine years old when I was supposed to be originally told of it.” The explanation did little to settle Remus, who was looking similar to Ron. Harry smiled then – one he knew would confuse most of them, “that was very concerning for the Dverger. They’re investigating why I was denied access to my account. I also brought up the issues with my relatives – hence my strict nutritional program, and they’re looking into why my parents will wasn’t executed.”

“Why would you do that?” Molly demanded, eyes widening in shock.

“I wanted to know why I couldn’t claim my father’s title.” Harry snapped, voice taking on an unfamiliar timber. “I could have accepted the Potter heir ring at thirteen years old, and in fact, I should have, but because of outside interference. One would assume that it was a means to control me, but I was denied access or even the knowledge of that. Now I must wait until seventeen to claim the Exmoor title.” Harry drew in a calming breath when Sirius nudged his arm and shook his head, “happily for me, I got around the emancipation issue with the tournament, so I got lucky. I may not be able to make changes to the Potter accounts, but I am reviewing them to understand and make informed decisions about the business practices. I already have half a dozen earmarked for removal. If they can’t meet the requirements, I’ll be demanding if they wish to retain me as a client.”

“What makes you think people will listen to you? You’re just a fifteen-year-old boy.” Andromeda, who had been suspiciously silent until then, spoke up, tone snide.

It hurt. It did. Even knowing how quickly Andromeda had turned on him after his public defence of the Malfoys, still hearing the tone brought back memories of Teddy, the only good thing from that future. Harry frowned, dropping his eyes to the table and thought it through.

Andy had been severely put out when he’d started living at Grimmauld Place after the war and had tried repeatedly to get him to leave and find a new place. ‘Something fit for a young man, not the stuffy home of a dark, pureblood family.’ Add that into her silent acceptance and approval when he hadn’t attempted or been interested in going to the bank for an inheritance test, which meant he never knew of the Black title. With Draco in prison and out of the picture, it meant Andromeda could have tried to claim it in Teddy’s name and act as his regent until he was of legal age.

The realization made him nauseous; it explained a great deal. Sirius had told him about the “order” meeting, his accusation of Tonks creeping into Remus’s bed, and how none appeared interested in forcing a trial for Sirius… Andy wanted the title. It crystallized clearly at that moment, and he fought the urge to yell, wondering if Remus was in on the plan, such as it was. Considering that he kept trying to sneak into Sirius’s room and his behaviour, the entire situation stank. Stretching to release the tension in his shoulders, Harry rose to his feet. “I’m the Boy-Who-Lived. In my experience, even those who dislike me will go out of their way to give me what I want. If they want to use my name and brag about me being a client, they’ll give me what I want in return.”

He reached the door before Molly said, “Ron said you moved your stuff out of your room.”

Harry looked back, “and?”

“Where is it?” Molly asked, exasperation filling her voice.

“In my new room,” Harry answered in amusement, watching Ginny’s face light up in interest.

“Which is where? There aren’t- No, Arthur, it doesn’t make sense.” Molly snapped, glaring at her husband, who was trying to get her attention or maybe silence her. “There aren’t enough rooms-”

“You can use my old room if you need extra places for people.” Sirius interrupted, rising to his feet, “I have a different room too.”

“What?” Molly sputtered, voice snide, “What did you do, ask the house for extra rooms?”

Harry laughed in genuine amusement, “Don’t be silly. I don’t know if she can do that. She just opened the family wing. As none of you are family-”

“We’re family!” Molly protested, surging to her feet.

“Accepted blood family.” Harry clarified, folding his arms and jerking his head to Sirius, who hesitated for only a second before leaving, though not without a look urging caution. “We have no control over what the house allows people to access. Without a family patriarch, we can change nothing, though even with one, I won’t have much hope they could circumvent the restrictions embedded in the family magics that would allow tainted blood-”

“We aren’t tainted!” Molly screeched, hair standing on end, “This house is! Everything in this house is tainted and dangerous. And it’s clearly infected your mind. I told you dark artifacts can and will contaminate everything they touch. I warned you, but you didn’t listen. First was your disrespectful attitude and rudeness, now this.” Molly fumed, “I won’t have, I won’t. In this house, we treat our elders with respect and consideration. No child of fifteen will tell me what to do or act like they’re better than everyone else. Tomorrow, things will change, so I expect your truck back in the room you share with Ron and your homework waiting on the table so Hermione can check it and confirm you have done it.”

“If you say so, Mrs. Weasley, I’ll be very interested in watching how you combat a sentient home that likes me. Good night.” Harry replied amusedly and left the room, slipping down the family corridor, but not before he whispered silent instructions to Kreacher to keep watch.

*

“Molly, love, you’re supposed to keep your temper, not antagonize him further,” Arthur said calmly, summoning the teapot, filling a cup, and handing it to his wife, who sank into her chair with an angry growl.

“Yeah, I don’t think that will go how you expect, Molly.” Tonks muttered sullenly. “Do you think you can talk to him and get him to calm down, Remus? Hermione?”

Remus shook his head but didn’t explain, brow furrowed in concentration, though he tilted his head to listen to Hermione’s quiet reply, “I don’t think so. One of our fundamental issues is our opposite approach to magic; unfortunately, Harry has me beat. I’m too logical and literal, which is good at book things and finding information at a moment’s notice. But I can’t manipulate or weave magic on the instinctive and creative level Harry exhibits.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Ginny asked peevishly.

Hermione sighed, “Harry knows how I work, and given my logical approach to the situation since he’s been here, he won’t listen to me.”

Molly sighed heavily and set the teacup down. “And now Ronald’s sulking because of the talk of money. I guess it’ll be up to you, Ginny.”

“The contract is questionable now because of his stupid emancipation, so it would have been easier if you’d given him a room of his own.”

“I think it was invalid before that.” Remus pointed out absently.

“It was perfectly valid.” Ginny said through clenched teeth, “It was to pay and even out the exchange for the life debt I owe.”

Remus snorted, shook his head, and glared mildly at Molly, who avoided his gaze. “As your mother refuses to tell you, the contract was invalid the second it was signed because Harry didn’t. He has no knowledge of the contract or the life debt, and we’ve taken pains to keep him unaware of either.”

“But-” Ginny started to protest, but Molly placed a calming hand on her arm.

“No, sweetie, I’m sorry, but Remus is right.” Molly said gently, “I’ve known you wanted to be Lady Potter since you were a little girl, but I had no idea how to go about betrothing you because of the blood status. The events in your first year got out of hand, and I’ll forever be sorry for what you suffered, but it got us a life debt that could be cancelled with a contract.”

“I know all this, Mom.” Ginny stated flatly, eyes narrowing, “But what I’m hearing is it isn’t a valid contract.”

Slowly, Molly shook her head, “No, I didn’t know it at the time, and Albus never mentioned it during the signing, but because it was Harry, the debt is owed; he must acknowledge and sign the contract to make it legal and unbreakable. With a contract signed by three of the four necessary parties, the only thing we can do is wait until you’re of legal age when it becomes valid due to the length of the contract.”

Remus cleared his throat, interrupting the temper tantrum he saw building, and looked at Hermione, “Do you know everything he researched last year during the tournament?”

“I-no, we looked up the information on the ICW because I didn’t know what else to do, but he had a lot of spare time in which I couldn’t always be there. Why?”

Remus frowned, trailing a finger over the table.

“Why did you want to know Remus?” Andy asked curiously when Remus didn’t say anything.

Remus frowned again, huffing out a breath, “he knows way more than he should about his rights as a noble and half-blood, even with Sirius teaching him. It made me wonder how he knew to check in with Gringotts….” He trailed off and glanced at them. “He never said who his account manager was, did he?” Multiple shakes happened around the room, and Remus swore, “How is your passive legilimency, Andy?”

“Not as good as Snape’s, but it’s passable. Why?”

“See if you can gleam who the account manager is, as it’s doubtful he’ll leave correspondence lying around,” Remus instructed and ran a hand down his face, “I wish we could get Snape to do it, but he hasn’t even since Harry since he arrived.”

“Why is it important to know who his account manager is?” Hermione asked, confusion laced in her tone.

“Because if another Potter account manager dies, they’ll investigate. We might be able to pass one off as a fluke but depending on how high they are in the ranking, it will become increasingly difficult.”

“Well, Bill hasn’t said anything,” Arthur said.

“He probably wouldn’t know.” Remus replied, shrugging, and explained, “To start, he’s human. The Dverger would never give one a position as an account manager, even if he was interested, which he has very firmly indicated he was not. Still, it’s also what makes me suspect Harry’s account manager is higher up the ranking than the previous one. Rumours always abound within the breakroom because the Dverger thrives on earning and one-upping others in terms of money. The only time those rumours don’t happen is if it’s the first-tier managers who work under a privacy seal.”

“I’ll ask Bill again,” Arthur sighed, running a hand down his face, “though I’m starting to think Albus had the wrong idea in sending Harry back to the Dursleys for the summer. It would have been easier if he’d come here. We could have set a schedule and controlled what he did. The dementors Deloris set on him threw all that away.”

“Why was that even a thing?” Tonks asked, “We already knew from Remus how Harry reacts to them adversely.”

“It was supposed to be a scare tactic.” Molly admitted with a tired sigh, “But she screwed up the timing; she sent them too early and not when he went shopping on Diagon Alley.”

“Then he blindsided us all,” Remus said quietly, shaking his head. “I think the best thing we can do for the next few days is leave him alone, try not to antagonize or fight with him. We can’t risk him leaving, and he will if push comes to shove.”

“And just where would he go?” Molly demanded, “he has the Dursleys and here.”

“That’s just it, Molly, he could go anywhere.” Remus exhaled slowly, “It’s another mark in the column. He has a tier one account manager; they sent him to a Dverger healer.”

“So?” Ginny said in confusion.

“So, only several account managers can refer a client to a healer immediately without a months-long appointment. I think one of the reasons we’ve all had difficulties with him is the healer cleansed him, meaning he won’t trust anyone but Sirius.”

“We should have tried to find a way to put him back in prison.” As she glanced around the kitchen, Andy complained, “even if that meant not being able to access Grimmauld.”

“He was supposed to die.” Remus replied mildly, “But he got to the kids first and got them to listen.”

“You still could have taken the shot.” Andy snapped.

Shaking his head, Remus heaved a sigh, “I don’t think so. Even at thirteen, Harry had unbelievable raw power and control over his magic. What he lacked in spells, he made up for in creativity, like Hermione said. He doesn’t realize it, maybe he doesn’t even know, but in holding off a swarm of over a hundred dementors, he destroyed half of them.”

Andy’s mouth fell open, and she shook her head in denial, “But that’s impossible.”

“Yet he did it anyway.” He murmured quietly and slowly raised his head. “I’m worried that the Dverger got him to do an inheritance test; there is something…” he trailed off, not finishing his sentence.

“Something?” Molly prompted as a note, flew in from the flop and landed before her.

“There is something there. Something that makes Moony leery and want to hide. I don’t dare draw too much attention, trying to probe at it.” Remus muttered, clearly frustrated.

“But you’re a werewolf!” Andy exclaimed, “And we’ve managed to subvert the natural hierarchy of a Grim.”

Snorting, Remus shook his head in growing agitation, “I know that, but I can’t explain it any better.”

“Maybe Moony can detect the basilisk venom in Harry’s system. I imagine, though, I haven’t researched it, but if Harry were bitten by either a werewolf or vampire, his blood would poison them.” Hermione stated, earning wide-eyed looks of astonishment.

Remus groaned, scrubbing his face with both hands, “And he’s a bloody Parselmouth, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, someone spread a rumour in our second year that he was the Heir to Slytherin, but Dumbledore squashed that, thank god,” Hermione muttered angrily.

“That creates a whole new set of problems, though it could explain why the potions are no longer working, which I honestly prefer to having to worry about the Dverger,” Remus exhaled and reached for the teapot.

“How does that cause more problems?” Tonks asked, taking over, filling his cup and handing it back.

“Because if it’s the first venomous snake to bite him, it’s his immunity bite,” Remus explained, earning a look of bafflement from the Auror.

Hermione sighed, brushing her hair back. “It means he’s immune to pretty much all poisons, and it won’t matter if they’re injected or ingested; the most they’ll do is make him temporarily sick.”

The room fell silent, lost in thought, until Molly remembered the paper in front of her and leaned over it, muttering a spell at it and reading it silently.

When she sat back, she frowned but offered it to Arthur, who took the paper, eyebrows climbing his face. He shared a look with his wife before explaining. “It’s from Percy. They had an informal visit with representatives from the ICW at the ministry today.”

Everyone tensed at that, though Tonks pushed for more, “and?”

“They poked around, asked some questions, and left again, but Fudge finally agreed with Dumbledore and is having Dolores Umbridge assume the DADA position. There is the hope that Harry will rebel and take over teaching the students, as the ministry plans to change the curriculum and make it useless.”

“Why? What’s the point?” Ginny asked.

“It’s to make him want to fight. It gives him a reason. No one can defeat the Dark Lord but him.” Remus said slowly, clearly trying to envision the plan to see if it would work, but then he paled rapidly, almost swaying in his seat. “We need to confirm who the account manager is?”

“But- we already planned to do that,” Molly said slowly, confused by the urgency in his tone.

Remus shook his head somewhat desperately, saying, “No, we need to find out which healer saw him as soon as possible.”

“Why?” Arthur asked, clearly confused. We already said we’d contact Bill, Remus.”

Remus closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “You don’t understand all the plans to control the Potter fortune through Ginny, his seats in the Wizengamot, everything-” He coughed, inhaling sharply. “The Dverger can undo everything planned – decades of work will be wiped out in an afternoon.”

“How?” Andy asked, looking just as alarmed, touching her daughter’s arm protectively.

“They are the only ones who can recognize and remove the Horcrux in Harry’s head, and they won’t listen when it’s explained that it must stay. Their vows to magic make that an impossibility. They’ll remove it and damn us all to hell.”

The stunned silence was oppressive for a second before Molly burst into action, racing to the fireplace, Arthur a step behind her.

And in the corner, the old, overlooked house elf disappeared with a silent laugh, happily and faithfully recounting the entire conversation.

***

August 20th,1995

Stepping into the house, expecting the dark, dingy hallway and screeching portrait, and encountering the opposite was the last thing Severus Snape thought he’d see on a Sunday evening.

It would have felt more plausible if he’d seen Potter sitting down to tea with the Dark Lord than surveying the brightly lit, clean entranceway with what appeared to be a stained-glass window opposite Walburga’s portrait.

The pale blue walls matched the royal blue runner that spanned the length of the hall. Another was on the gleaming dark wood of the stairs leading up, and along the walls were landscapes, all tasteful and elegant.

Glancing into the lounge, he saw the same transformation, with no feeling of dark artifacts anywhere at all.

It was, in a word, mind-boggling, and it made him uneasy with everything that had happened since Potter’s trial.

Not much had happened event-wise, but he had a weird sense of déjà vu that ended differently than expected, which still made no sense considering he shouldn’t have expected anything different.

Shaking his head to stop the unending cycle of circling thoughts, Severus silently descended the hall, hiding his reaction to Walburga’s visual transformation. He stepped into the kitchen, mouth dropping open.

If the entryway and lounge had been transformed, it looked like the kitchen had been gutted and renovated.

Gone were the ’60s retro cabinets and decor, and in their place was sleek, woodsy-esque.

The walls were pale yellow, enhancing the dark oak beams in the taller ceiling. The cabinets, which were still oak but not as dark, glistened with coloured glass frontings. The marble countertops had swirls of black and green, with a few hints of purple, while the floor was a solid piece of black stone that didn’t appear porous. Even the appliances were modern, the large stove similar in design to what was at Hogwarts, and there was a pantry front that Severus knew held the cold box, a copycat of the Muggle fridge.

An island with a double sink was in the middle of the room, with eight stools around it. A breakfast nook to the left, with bench seating, looking out over a fully blooming flower bed, while the table used in order meetings was utterly changed, the wooden finish not as pristine as most purebloods would use, but it fit the room perfectly. It was pushed to the far right, closest to the stained-glass doors that hadn’t been there previously, leading to a garden Severus hadn’t even been aware of existing.

He moved forward slowly, eyeing Molly, sitting at the second seat in from the head with a mulish and put-upon expression on her face, while Arthur sat beside her, face lined in exhaustion. Andy, Tonks and Remus sat on the opposite side. Tonks had her head on the table, Remus was staring unseeing into an untouched glass of whiskey, while Andromeda poured over a book, increasingly frustrated. Moody sat near the back, a massive grin on his face that he wasn’t bothering to hide, while Mundagnus sat stiffly in a chair, appearing unable to move.

It was brilliant and concerning, yet he said nothing. He just moved near the glass doors and looked out into the garden, recognizing plants he hadn’t seen outside a greenhouse in years.

“What happened?” He asked slowly, unable to hide the confusion in his tone.

Tonks groaned and tried burying her head more, while Remus laughed hollowly and brokenly, and Molly growled while Arthur tried half-heartedly to calm her down.

“That-that-BOY!” She snarled, hair starting to arc before she yelped and clenched her teeth, taking a few calming breaths, “he’s turned the house against us!”

Perplexed, Severus glanced at the other four, hoping for a more articulate response, though he did feel the need to point out, “It does look much better than it did.”

“That’s not the point!” Molly snapped, “We can’t do anything, we can’t leave. This is the first hot tea I’ve had in four days, and we had more than sandwiches for the first time today as well.”

“I-” Severus frowned and looked around the kitchen, “why? It looks like a completely functional kitchen.”

“It is.” The response was grudging, even laced with resentment as it was.

“So, what’s the issue?” Severus asked, hiding his amusement behind his trademark sneer.

“It’s not just the renovations.” Arthur admitted, “As Molly said, we can’t leave. Neither Tonks nor I have been able to go to work. Molly can’t pop out to the store or even the Burrow. Remus’s assignment had to be postponed….” He trailed off, running a hand down his face, “That’s including the issues with everything else.”

Trying not to react to Moody’s obvious amusement, Severus sighed and waved a hand impatiently when no one offered more information, “Well?”

“All schoolbooks, mastery subjects, electives, etc. Anything considered dark has been removed from the house, or at least we’ve been denied access. We can no longer enter the basement to the potions lab or the duelling chamber. The garden, while nice, is combative and prone to throw thorns or sap at you, and we can’t use magic within the home- At least nothing more than shields or summoning charms. Molly had to recruit most of us to help prepare food for tonight’s supper, as she can’t even use basic household spells. Books brought in from the outside are unreadable or incomprehensible- It’s a mess, honestly.”

Curiously, Severus held out a hand for the book Andy had shoved away. “May I?”

Andy shrugged, so Severus summoned the book wandlessly and glanced at the title on the spine before opening it, raising an amused eyebrow. “Communing with Spirits?”

“You can read it?” Came the demand from five of the seven at the table.

“I can,” he held up a hand before they could speak further, “but I can also tell you, it’ll do you no good. Grimmauld isn’t exactly a spirit. She’s sentient, and there is a difference. She can already communicate, and she is. She’s taken a statement or accusation and made it literal. It’s why you can’t leave, use magic, like a cutting charm, or boil water.”

Molly shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t?” Severus asked curiously, “But you’ve been complaining since summer started that the house is dark, tainted and evil. She took your concerns seriously as a good host and removed everything dark, tainted and evil.”

“But our magic!” Molly protested, “How’s that evil?”

“A cutting charm can kill just as easily as the killing curse,” Severus explained, feeling like he was teaching a first-year the concept of stirring their cauldron. “As for keeping you prisoners? It’s been constantly stated that leaving is dangerous, right?”

“Not for us!” Molly shouted, then flinched, only relaxing when nothing happened.

Severus smiled, “But it is. Isn’t it?”

When Molly glared, Severus shrugged, “To me, it looks like an objective lesson in the sense that magic is a tool. It’s in the hands that use it that subject it to light or dark.”

“But-but Harry changed the rooms. He refused to help and tried lecturing me on disposing of the dark artifacts in the home.” Molly protested and then waved a hand, “he won’t listen and doesn’t care what his temper tantrum is doing to the rest of us.”

“I don’t understand.” The admittance didn’t hurt as it should have, and Severus was too amused by the situation to wonder why.

“Either Sirius or Harry – though my money is on Harry- is trying to punish us for Molly’s claim that the house is tainted with dark magic,” Arthur said quietly, stroking a hand down his wife’s back.

“I have to admit, I haven’t felt a single dark thing since I entered the home,” Severus replied slowly.

“That’s ‘cause there is none.” Moody confirmed with a grin, “The boggart and lethifold are gone. The wards have been reworked, though it keeps zapping Remus.” He paused and looked at Molly, “and Molly or her daughter when they lose their tempers.” The entire house has been rearranged, and we only have access to this room, the two lounges, the garden, individual bedrooms and two bathrooms. The library has been sealed, and what books are left available…” He trailed off, grin widening, “Well, let’s just say Ms. Granger had a right old fit.”

“In what way?” Severus asked curiously.

“About the only books left are basic theory, historical texts, religious books, the odd potions manuscript, and a few other randoms, and Muggle books,” Remus said morosely, running a hand through his hair. “Absolutely nothing to prepare her for the fifth year, and she’s losing her mind, blaming us for everything.”

Severus glanced at Moody with a raised eyebrow; the older man snorted in response and shrugged, making Severus sigh and rub his forehead tiredly, “And Mundagnus?”

At that, Moody barked a laugh and took a drink from the flask at his hip, amusement flavouring his tone, “Old Mung got caught flinching items, the house protested, and the only way to agree in her letting him in again was his inability to move freely around the house, and he had to stay in that chair.”

Arthur flushed crimson as Molly stared straight ahead, avoiding eye contact, as Moody snickered, “Turns out Molly had given him permission to do so, though it’s arguably that the house reacted to this because of that, or her comments about dark, evil and dangerous.”

“Indeed.” Severus intoned dryly and shook his head, “And no one has thought to apologize?”

“Why should I apologize?” Molly demanded, “I’ve done nothing wrong. The house was dark and evil, and we were doing what we could to clean it up. But Harry- he’s changed. He’s rude, belligerent and condescending. He won’t listen, even when adults who know more than him give him instructions. He’s refusing to cooperate with the DMLE and give information on He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, won’t retract his statements against Dumbledore or the ministry….” She trailed off in growing irritation but seemed to have learned her lesson on losing her temper because she took a few calming breaths before meeting his eyes and continuing, “he won’t apologize to Ron, avoids Ginny like she has the plague and ignores Hermione’s pleas and advice. Everything is being ruined and threatened because he can’t do what he’s told!”

Severus frowned at the surface thoughts he gleamed, an odd sensation in his stomach feeling like guilt twisting it unpleasantly, and he blinked to break the connection she thankfully didn’t seem aware of, though she stared at him expectantly as if waiting for him to agree Potter was indeed in the wrong.

“While I’ve never hidden my dislike of Potter. I think, in this case, his anger is justified.” He held up a hand when Molly opened her mouth to protest, “he spent a year participating in a tournament he had no busy being entered in, and his ‘supposed’ best friend, your son, treated him like shit, mocked him, and bullied him even after “forgiving” Harry after the first task. Now, I must ask myself why Ron forgave Harry when it’s obvious to anyone that he should have been pleading for forgiveness, but I digress. Ms. Granger, on the other hand, while somewhat helpful in providing some direction, spent most of the first term alternating between trying to convince either boy to ‘let it go’ and trying to blame the situation on Potter because Ron was just jealous of his fame. As for your daughter, she’s a silly little girl with a fantasy of the Boy-Who-Lived, not Harry Potter, the boy/man he is and becoming. She follows him like a love-sick Crup, gets petty and jealous when he pays attention to anyone but her, and on top of that, she’s vindictive and puts your temper to shame. Why in the world would he want to subject himself to that? Because I know I wouldn’t want to.”

“Why you-” Molly started but flinched painfully and settled on, glaring at Moody, who laughed heartily again, acting like this was the best entertainment he’d seen in years.

Severus couldn’t blame him; it was amusing, and he found him finishing his little speech with that humour in his tone, “As for the house, she has protested and fought since we stepped foot into her since the end of June. Yet in the seven days Potter’s been here, it’s obvious that she likes him. She’s listening to him, clearing, cleaning and renovating to make this house a home. One her family can be proud of, and that tells me more about the situation than anything you lot could tell me.”

As the five looked at him blankly, Moody crossed his ankles and leaned back in his chair. “Before you explain that, lad, I have an extra observation to add and one I’m surprised you missed, Severus.”

“Oh?” The potions master asked.

“Another reason for Potter to avoid the Weasley chit is that her core is twisted, infected, and uncomfortable to be around.” He pointed at Molly and Arthur, who both paled, “but neither will explain why she hasn’t been looked at.” He paused and frowned, “And don’t tell me because Dumbledore said it was okay. He’s a somewhat good man but blind to many things. He’s not infallible and makes mistakes, and your determination to take his word as gospel will end up harming your daughter in the long term.”

Severus gaped at the Auror before glaring at the Weasley parents, “You never took Ginevra to a mind healer?”

“It was deemed an unnecessary expense,” Molly replied stiffly.

“You wouldn’t have had to pay for it!” Severus snapped, “I told you both at the end of her first year that she had severe core strain and memory issues because of whatever it was she did. Neither you nor the Headmaster would explain it then either, so I told them it was my recommendation that she see a mind healer and that the school would have it paid as she had been injured on school grounds.”

Arthur placed a hand on Molly’s arm and shook his head, “It was unnecessary and has been dealt with. Ginny is fine. So, continue your early comment about how the house’s actions tell you more about the situation than what we have suffered here?”

“She chose him,” Severus said simply. The confusion on their faces made Severus smile, a cruel edge he didn’t bother hiding.

Andromeda frowned, toying with the teacup she’d filled earlier, “So he’s the Black Heir?”

“I didn’t say that.” Severus denied, then shrugged, “But it is well known that the Blacks had no legal Heir, and while the house allowed Sirius’s entry as a son of the blood, he never had full access to the wards.”

“Family Magic doesn’t work like that. It can’t just choose a master.” Andy quarrelled, though her complexion paled considerably.

“I never said anything about family magic either. I’m talking about a house so old, it’s obtained sentience. She can choose who she wishes to serve, and no amount of blood will be able to fight it.” The dryness of his tone was a clear indication to those gathered that he was getting annoyed, or they hated what he was saying because Molly shook herself and rose from the table; whatever she was about to say was cut off as the kitchen door slammed open. Hermione came storming in, waving a sheet of paper, “Is this true!?”

Molly glared at the interruption but was saved by Remus, who sighed, “Is what true, Hermione?”

“The list of available courses and electives offered through the ISM?” The bushy-haired girl demanded, shoving the papers at the werewolf, who accepted them, rubbing his face after setting the papers down after a minute.

“You know we haven’t been able to read anything in the house in four days, Hermione,” Remus started, but she spoke over him.

“Well, I thought it was fixed, as I can read it perfectly.” She pointed aggressively at the papers, “Harry had said there were 268 courses as of June, and here it is August, and they’ve increased the selection on offer by 4, so now there are 272 courses available, and of those courses, the only ones available at Hogwarts are the cores classes, and six electives. Why have none of you ever explained the lack of education here in England?”

“Because it doesn’t matter.” Molly snapped, “Albus has already promised you the job of your dreams!”

“And if I decide I want a mastery? What then?” Hermione snapped back, “It’s not like the great Albus Dumbledore can get me a master!”

“Hermione!” Molly said, horrified at her tone, “What has gotten into you, young lady?”

“Everything!” Hermione shouted, “Everything, and I feel so fucking guilty for it too. I hate it! You all turned me against my first friend, convinced me he would go dark, yet after being in this house and seeing how you all treat him, I have to wonder if he has a right to his anger.” Hermione hissed angrily, chest heaving, “we’ve used him, plotted against him, and tried to control his life, and it’s wrong! It’s so fundamentally wrong, I wonder if you’ve done it to me too!”

“I would never!” Molly exclaimed, scandalized, hand over her heart, expression pleading.

Severus’ estimation of the Muggle-born grew when she snorted and folded her arms over her chest, “swear an unbreakable vow then.”

Remus and Arthur tensed, the body shifting and drawing Hermione’s attention momentarily. When Severus caught her expression, his breath caught at how bad he felt for her.

“So, when did you decide I would do for your son? You knew nothing of me, really in the first year, second year, I was in a coma for half of it because of your stupid daughter, and then the third year, I was too busy keeping Harry out of trouble and away from the werewolf Dumbledore thought was a good idea to employ in the school.” Hermione demanded, brushing the unshed tears from her face, facing Molly’s mulish expression.

“You signed your contract!” Molly said, voice rising.

Snorting bitterly, Hermione nodded, “I did, and I’ll honour it, and so will your son, but a heads up, you aren’t as smart as you think you are.”

“What does that mean?” Molly demanded, temper getting the better of her, and she flinched violently, glaring at the ceiling as she clutched her side.

Hermione smiled. A smile so cold, Severus wasn’t surprised to see Molly shiver, “Next time you sign a magically binding contract you didn’t write, maybe you’ll read it more thoroughly.”

At that, Arthur stood up, face paling, “What did you do?”

“Exactly as you and your wife planned for Harry. The difference is that I know the history of your family’s blood status and used it to my advantage.” Hermione replied, amused, lighting her face as Arthur sank, horrified, into his chair again, “Maybe instead of complaining that Ron doesn’t read enough, you’ll learn to teach by example.”

Then, without waiting for any response, Hermione swept from the room, leaving a profane and uncomfortable silence behind her.

It was the most productive meeting Severus had experienced. No backbiting or unsolicited comments. However, that could have been due to the silent meeting, as they sat around drinking tea, although Severus did not partake in or accept any of the food or drinks offered. Still, they were all lost in thought – no one else had arrived, sending regrets and apologies; Albus begged off, citing an emergency at the ministry; none of the other children attempted to join, and Sirius didn’t appear. That part was disappointing, and Severus didn’t have it in himself to ask why. So, when he left, they’d accomplished absolutely nothing. He couldn’t help but grin; it had been worth it.

***

 

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