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Chapter Text

He has outdone himself this time, he thinks, a little awed. The bitterness is there, of course. It always is. It doesn’t diminish his accomplishment—how could it? He had improvised the exact blend of confused and awkward required for the children to chalk it up to ‘just one of those Harry Potter things’.

The school is tittering about it already. ‘Harry Potter can resist the Imperius Curse,’ they whisper; ‘Boy-who-lived strikes again’.

Insane rage threatens to bubble up from where he keeps it locked away for the most part. Focus, now. Charms are next. Hermione and Ron, Merlin love them, have forgotten about the nightmare that is DADA. Somehow. The small part of his mind not howling in fear and/or impotent fury adores them for it. This, he repeats for the umpteenth time. This is what you need to be. Confident in yourself and your odds of surviving to adulthood. Trusting in the adults around you.

Focus. Charms. The hard part is over. You have kept the darkness where it belongs, even though the—the—

The fucking mind control. That monster—that freak tried to—No. No. Stop it. We don’t use that word. His hairs stand on end, and he grits his teeth, clenching and relaxing his hands. Feel your heartbeat. Ta-thump. Ta-thump. Squeeze your fists in the rhythm, fall into your own blood. Cast your mind through your veins, let the certainty of being alive keep you where you need to be. Where you have to be. Hogwarts. Because Hogwarts is friends and food and light and life.

In—and out. Pay attention. Flitwick has asked a question, Merlin, fuck, what was it? Let’s hope he doesn’t ask for a demonstration because whoo boy, that is a bad idea. Matter of fact, let’s hope he calls on anyone else because speaking is going to be difficult. It’s not English that comes out when he’s as dialled up as he is. No, siree. Parsel is the language of primal impulses. And Harry is much, much more a snake than anyone cares to admit.

Just—just push through this. So you had a bad day in class boo-hoo. Everybody else did. Even Neville, dear, stupid, weak Neville is holding himself together. Do you want to look weaker than baby-cheeked Neville? How long do you think they will let you stay? A week? A month? Pff. As if. They keep him because this entire fucking world is obsessed with their Boy-Who-Lived. It can’t last. Harry just hopes to stave off the inevitable as long as possible. Someone, somewhere will look closer and realize he is not, nor could he ever be, the Boy-Who-Lived. When that happens, he best be able to run.

Class is over. Merlin, when did that happen? His persona is slipping, but other than Draco fucking Malfoy, the children are predictably blind. Thank every single Saint that he ended up in Gryffindor. The snakes would see through his gilt in ten minutes. Not that Slytherin was ever an option.

Wha — Transfigurations. Fucking transfigurations.

“You’re quiet today, Har’”

Don’t call me Har’, he snarls, not for the first time. Nor likely the last. My name is Harry. It is mine. You don’t have the fucking right.

“Just thinking about stuff, no need to worry Hermione.” Oh, you should worry, little girl, snarls the Darkness inside of him. He pushes it down, like he always does. It’s a little harder to do so, like it always is.

Just a year more. Come on, just make it through the fucking OWL’s and then you can escape to the Himalayas and be as insane as you want.

“If you’re sure.” She sounds a bit doubtful, but she hasn’t caught the dark plume of smoke twirling through his fingers, so he will take it. She is, after all, a clever little girl. “Are you worried about your summer assignments?”

Merlin love her.

“Yeah, a bit.” He says. “I had time to do them this year, which helps. Still, the Potions essay was difficult.”

And she’s off. Perfect. Her rants are valuable and he had learned a lot from them over the years. He is well beyond that, now. They’re only the had one DADA lesson, and the Professor tried to assault them in the most fiendish way known to wizards. What next - is Snape going to test love potions on them? It wouldn’t surprise him. They already went from zero to an Unforgivable fucking Curse. What’s a little rape, after that? Merlin wept, this school.

“Thanks, Hermione,” he says when she looks to be winding down. Smile. Her face is twisting, idiot, abort, abort. Soften the edges, make one side higher than the other. Come on now, you know how this goes.

“Is it—” she says under her breath in just about the most attention-grabbing way possible. “You-know-who?”

Is it sad the terrorist panting for his blood is so low on his list of priorities? Or just stupid? Probably stupid. Still. Voldemort will just kill him. Privet Drive will drive him to something much worse.

“Merlin, no,” he says. “I mean, we know the World Cup fiasco boiled down to drunk Purebloods. He was pretty quiet last year.”

“Then what?” She asks, in a stunning display of her Gryffindor sorting. The kids who think Hermione should have gone to Ravenclaw are blind. The girl has befriended the most dangerous child she is ever likely to meet. Not just because he’s certifiably insane, but because she’s known as Harry Potter’s Muggleborn friend. Mudblood, in more stupid circles.

Fucking Purebloods.

“Maybe I caught something.” Now, this is delicate. Twist your mouth a little, hunch your shoulders, a pinch of defensiveness. Furrow your eyebrows just a little. Look away, as if ashamed.

“Oh, Har’, I’m so sorry. I should have noticed. Come on, let’s take you to Madam Pomphrey.”

A geyser of rage scalds his insides, even as he smiles a bit. Guilty and abashed, is what you’re going for. Fuck Pomphrey, and whoever she fucked to get where she is.

“D’you think — I mean — McGonagall—“

Hermione tosses her hair. “Professor McGonagall will understand. Now. I will drop you off and come back with notes from Transfigurations.”

Look at it this way. At least you won’t have to cast? And you get to practice keeping your temper. Isn’t that nice?

He lets the sound of chatter wash over him and focuses on his breathing. Not that he needs to worry. The outcome is clear as day. The witch will proclaim him to be fit as a fiddle and send him off to bed with a Pepper-up. Really, be grateful the school has the World’s most willfully blind healer on board, or they would have realized how fucked up you are years ago. She’s doing you a favour.

Oh yes, hisses the Darkness. And we will repay her for her kindness, won’t we? Down you go. Go play with your friends. Fuck knows there’s enough insanity to go around.

“Thanks, Hermione.”

He survives the condescending healer—she survives him, which is perhaps even more notable— and buries himself in his bed. Red and gold, spelled well-beyond the typical charm-work. His-his-his.

Casting several dozen Lumos-orbs to hang from the canopy is, by this point, second nature. Sleeping in the dark should be possible. Harry would rather drown in blood—his own, someone else’s. The question is immaterial—than sleep in darkness ever again. Orbs in different shades of gold illuminate his space, not a single dark spot to be found.

There is some serious mind-work to do. He had survived thus far by the skin of his teeth. Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined mind-control was a threat to plan for. And yet — here they are. Someone in their infinite wisdom has given schoolteachers the go-ahead to cast Unforgivable-fucking-curses on their students. Talk about a good idea. If this is how hard it is to resist a washed-out, paranoid nutcase of a retired Auror, what will happen when someone casts it competently?

Alright. Let’s think about this. Is there anyone could control him? Is that even possible—what with his situation. It sure doesn’t seem like it is. Where would the intruder even fit? Between him, the Darkness and the frothing insanity, a fourth addition would be a definite minority. Then there is the fact that nobody controls the Darkness. Harry can choke it down, most of the time, and that’s Harry. The Darkness is very invested in keeping him alive.

But—say there is someone. An immortal Dark Lord, for example. Say the—whatever Voldemort is now because Human doesn’t apply—say He tries. He might succeed. He might. By all accounts, Tom Riddle was a once-in-a-lifetime genius. More powerful than Mad-eye-fucking-Moody, that’s for sure. If that happens, then—

His body trembles, animal terror howling through. His mind is his like few things are. Boy-who-lived may have a lot of things, but Harry-the-orphan-in-the-cupboard does not. At the top of that short list is his mind—at least the part he clawed together that specific day. Just below his mind is his body—however long that will last, what with how brittle and sickly it is. And finally, he has his magic—again, however little he can tear away from the Darkness. That’s about it.

And this fucking school is encroaching on that. Encroaching on one of his things.

Well, then. It’s time for Harry-the-orphan to consider whether the pros continue to outweigh the cons, here. Being boy-who-lived might be better than the cupboard, but now that mind-control is on the table, the equation is different.

Three things. His mind. His body. His magic. They’re his and no-one else’s.

His magic—his magic—his fucking magic—

“I do not understand, Headmaster.” He says. He is too numb to fall into an insane rage, which is a small ray of light. “What does a magical contract mean? And how could I have one with a cup?”

“Ah, my boy,” says Dumbledore. “The Triwizard cup is no mere object. It is an ancient and powerful magical artefact. Your magic is bound with that of the cup. The penalty of breaking the contract is forfeiture of that magic.”

That makes—no sense. Zero fucking sense. The Boy-who-lived might be a clueless little caricature, but Harry is not. He knows about magical contracts, oaths, claims; knows there is nothing, nothing at all in the entire world that will tear the magic out of a witch or a wizard, other than loss of life. He knows about intent, consent, and why it is borderline impossible to trick someone into a vow without their understanding. The vow would fail, every time. Your promise would not align with the request, and the bond will not form.

The death-stillness in his muscles recedes, and it’s easier to think. The man is lying. Harry’s magic is fine. His life might not be, but his magic remains his.

“So I have to compete, then?” He says, giving his Headmaster another chance. “You cannot prevent it? Not in any way?”

“I am afraid not, my boy.” Blue eyes twinkle at him—which settles his heart further. Dumbledore has occupied a strange in-between place on his ever-evolving list of enemies and non-enemies. It’s always good to know an enemy, and this one has too much power over him to be ignored.

“I understand, Headmaster.”

He needs to run. But first—a letter.

Dear Mr Potter,

We have submitted your request for emancipation. We require no further paperwork from you at this time. The Bank will notify as to all the relevant developments as they occur.

My associate Bloodaxe has asked me to inquire if you plan to take on the mantle of Lord Potter. While not an Ancient and Noble House, House Potter possesses significant assets. Most important, perhaps, is the hereditary Wizengamot seat, acquired by your grand-uncle, late Lord Charlus Potter.

Regards,

Steelclaw of the

Gringotts Clan

His friends have abandoned him at just the right time. He may have two more back-knives for his collection, but it makes leaving that much more simple, doesn’t it?

Dragons. Bless them, they expect to trap a Parselmouth with Dragons. He can hear the sibilant words woven through the roars. The dragons scream of betrayal and danger and egg-stealers.

Well, then. Something else to keep in mind, perhaps? If he were a kinder man, he’d have released them tonight. Alas, his self-preservation has by now grown into a tenet of faith. No, if he releases the Dragons the organizers will just think of another nightmare to throw at children for their entertainment.

Not that having some draconic allies wouldn’t be helpful.

Dear Heir Potter,

The lower court has approved your request and has passed it on to Wizengamot. We will have a chance to argue the case in the Winter session, a week before the Yule holidays.

Your attendance is necessary, as is mine, being your Arguer. See attached a portkey that will take you to the Gringotts branch in London.

As per our agreement, Gringotts has completed the transfer of necessary funds to make sure everything goes smoothly. Please see ledger attached. Upon emancipation, with accordance to the Prescripts of the body of the Wizengamot, you will be Lord Potter officially—unless you choose to renounce your heritage. Please see the documents attached.

Steelclaw of the,

Gringotts Clan

Gotta love the Goblins. They have a form for bribing the Wizengamot.

Well, he amends. Gotta love the Wizengamot. They are so predictable in their corruption that it has become all but written in law.

Either way. He has a decent-sized pile of gold coins in his vault. He also has a corpse of a thousand-year-old basilisk to sell. Point is, money is not the most pressing concern. Escaping with his life is.

Alright. Survive dragons. Make it through to Christmas. Don’t murder anyone. Avoid being mind-controlled, if at all possible.

Hermione tries to talk to him. He stares at her until she goes away.

Draco Malfoy has attempted to rib him only the once. He must have seen something in his eyes, a measure of wilderness that he could, until recently, keep under wraps. No longer. Hogwarts is no more safe than that house was.

Malfoy walked away, without a backward glance, and has been ignoring him since. Clever little snake. Harry-the-orphan may have only ever been prey, but even prey will strike when cornered.

The Goblins forward his note to a tailor in Diagon specializing in the unusual. Mr Marsh accepts his commission with consulate professionalism. An abstract amount of Galleons later, and Harry owns not only Dress Robes for the hearing but also a sturdy two-piece body-armour. He may not be planning to fight the Dragon, but his body is one kick away from calling it quits.

McGonagall attempts to hypocritize at him no less than six times. Since Harry has read enough to know taking advice from the enemy’s lieutenants ends in death and betrayal, he smiles and nods. He can vague just as much as she can hypocritize. Match made in hell.

Chapter Text

The Horntail’s voice is split into two discrete, tragic layers. Her roar is hoarse and deep—terrifying. Parsel transforms the roar into speech—and. Well. She sounds a lot like Lily Potter. Fierce but scared. Defiant.

This is some twisted fucking shit right here. Come one, come all—no entry-fee. Come watch a teenager brutalize a mother defending her children. Why? On pain of death, in his case! The catch? There is no catch! Get your eleven-year-old accustomed to blood-sports early on! Come, come!

The dragon has a chain around her neck—reinforced to hell and back, judging by the bleeding wounds she tore into herself. Someone had taken her eggs at some point. They’re returned now—and Harry has to steal them.

He had a plan. He did. He had not predicted the Horntail would sound like his dead fucking mother.

“I’m so sorry.” He says. It’s not English. He walks up to the mother-dragon, caught in something of a trance. “I’m sorry. They—we—“

“Away, murderer! Away with all of you!”

“I’m sorry.” He says again stupidly. His heart slams into his chest like it’s doing its even-best to run away from this nightmare. Smart fucking muscle.

He stops at about fifty paces from the Dragon. She curled her tail - her greatest weapon - around her nest. The teeth, she bares at the human come to torture her. Speaking a common language will not be enough.

He points his wand. “Relashio,” he hisses, forcing the Latin into Parsel, getting a splitting headache. The chain tears from the mother’s neck and flies away from her with such force it rips from the floor and hurdles into the stadium. The staff will stop the children from getting squashed. Regrettably. It could have taught them all a valuable lesson in participating in blood-sport.

Alarmed shouts register in the back. Laughably irrelevant.

“I’m sorry.” It seems to be the only thing he can say. Even the Darkness is quiet, for once. It recognizes Lily Potter’s sacrifice as much as he does. It cherishes the mother-who-died as much as Harry does.

The Dragon, suddenly free, doesn’t fly away. No. She curls her long neck around her eggs, and just—breathes for a long moment. It’s excruciatingly tender, and Harry’s heart squeezes, the frantic tempo slowing down into a slow, momentous cadence. He is no longer afraid, terror shifting into triumph. Not his triumph, certainly. But—the Lily-dragon has a chance, now. She’s not without a wand, standing between her children and death.

“Little-lives,” Even her roar gentles, the masculine edge smoothed into a caress. “Sun shines on us still.” She turns her snout in Harry’s direction. “Snake-prey has freed us. Name your price, snake-prey.”

He steps forward, helplessly overwhelmed. “Survive. Please. Your babies need you to live. I need you to live.”

The Lily-dragon huffs a long plume of flame. “Living is my right, snake-prey. It is my battle. You have no claim on it one way or another. Name another, and be quick. Soon a fight will begin.”

“May I have your name?”

“Dragons do not have names, snakeling. I am me. Since you are too slow, I offer protection. Call me, within reason, and I will come. Come to me, and I will shield you beneath my wings. Do we have an accord?”

The Dragon’s magic rises around them, heavy and coiling. The humans—you’re a human too, fool—scream louder, but Harry-the-orphan feels the bliss coursing through him.

“Whatever you want, Lily-dragon.” He says, like an idiot. Since Parsel is inherently a magical language, it translates into Mother-dragon.

“Silly snakeling.” The magic pulses, a soundless gong marks the vow complete. “Run, now.”

He turns and runs, not hesitating for so much as a second. He can feel something dangerous is about to happen behind him, and his best bet is to put as much distance between him and it as he can.

“Duck, snakeling.” He falls to the ground, barely shielding his face from the rock. A round object sails above his head, hits the ground some ten meters away and shatters upon impact. An unearthly shriek starts and cuts, the sound all too reminiscent of a certain cursed diary from years past.

“Fake treasure—pathetic.”

He lays there for a moment, dazed and aching. “Run!” The roar has a solid undercurrent of malicious glee, but he doesn’t think it’s aimed at him.

He struggles to his feet. He has lost his glasses somewhere, but he need not run far. A hysterical throng of humans awaits not fifty paces away. Fuck, but he wants to go with the Dragon.

“Farewell, snakeling. Come to me, and I will teach you how to shine.”

A ring of inferno booms behind him just as he barrels into the arms of the dragon-personal. Whatever Ward-line they placed around the arena to stop interference breaks and the humans pour inside, hoping to contain the Lily-dragon.

With a roar that—to Harry at least—sounds like ninety per-cent laughter, the ground shudders as the flames turn white-blue. The heavy blanket of magic turns—mean and threatening. The dragon explodes from the ground, somehow directing her magic to sustain the flames she is still breathing out. It is a magnificent display of power. Harry has little doubt that, should she have not had the babies to worry about, she wouldn’t have settled for escape. Many a human corpse would have been scattered before the end.

She banks left, instead of right, and Harry realizes he may have been premature. In the few seconds she’s been flying, she’s already too high in the air to be easily visible. She won’t attack the children, no matter how well-deserved it would have been. No, if he’s right—and he’s pretty certain he’s right—

Lilly-dragon drops from the sky like a twenty-ton nightmare of fire and death. The roar is loud, challenging and deeply confident. In the sky, it’s clear little can stand in her way. Let alone puny humans concerned only with protecting their own hides.

She twists, corkscrewing through the air, sending the flames everywhere. Obscuring her position. While the humans are waffling about, she flaps once, twice, and barrels into the captured dragon-cages.

Pandemonium ensues. Harry can’t see, of course, but he can hear the dragons scream as she releases them. They silenced the cages, he realizes. Just when he thought they could not have sunk lower. They silenced them so the dragons’ screams of pain and rage wouldn’t disturb the humans.

Well, now. What will you do with two—wait, three—Dragons loose, and a fourth one on the way?

“Aurors,” booms Dumbledore’s enchanted voice. “Remove the champions. Children, remain where you are.”

Hands grab him and he stiffens, entirely on automatic. He shifts in the hands, slipping his way to freedom like the snake he is.

“Calm boy.” Hisses the adult (human, hisses the Darkness; betrayer, insists the madness).

“Calm,” Is he—laughing? “You want me to be calm? You sent a fourteen-year-old into a cage with a mother-dragon and you want me to be calm?” He’s screaming, his magic amplifying his voice against his will. His magic tickles the dragon’s and gets an indulgent tickle back. “Get away from me. Don’t fucking touch me! You would have watched me die for sport. Now you care?”

“He’s hysterical,” says a different Auror, a female this time.

“Yeah, no shit.” The Auror, to his credit, has enough sense to herd Harry without casting on him. Good thinking that. With the amount of basic magic pouring off of him, it’s anyone’s guess how his magic would react.

“Come on, Potter. This is no time for this. Soon enough the fourth one will be free, and you had better be behind some pretty strong Wards when that happens.”

“I said don’t touch me,” he seethes, amplified voice still bouncing off the stadium. It helps that they built the stadium to carry sound well. That much better to hear the screams. “You deserve all this. You deserve the dragons, you deserve a little hysteria. You set it all up. You set me up to battle a mother dragon defending her nest, and you call yourselves people? Humans? You deserve all of it.”

“That’s it,” A red spell flies towards him. Rationally, he knows it to be a stunner. Instinctively, he knows he is under attack.

His magic surges towards the thread just as the spell hits him. As he’s fading out, he can hear an adult scream. Good riddance.

Chapter Text

People talk at him for a long time after he wakes up in the Hospital Wing. First, he sits through the usual tripe from the resident child-abuser (or at least abuse-enabler). McGonagall stops by, but can’t quite reach the level of cognitive dissonance required to shout at or berate him. She gets a nod for at least sensing how unacceptable this entire thing is. Dumbledore assures him no students were dead—and that they awarded Harry zero points for his performance.

Finally, the two people who used to be his friends amble in with guilty expressions. He looks at them in silence until they wrap up their rant—in Hermione’s case—or grow purple from rage and start spitting vitriol, in Ron’s.

They leave soon after that.

The Daily Prophet informs him that Krum had the worst of it—discounting the dozens of dead dragon-tamers, of course. (Charlie Weasley is not among the dead which is perhaps a relief, but also a disappointment. He took part in it just like the rest of them.) The Bulgarian champion had blinded the Chinese Fireball, hoping to get past her that way. He succeeded—but the mother destroyed most of her own children by accident.

The dragon, once released by combined efforts of the other three, promptly threw herself at the healer’s tent with everything she had. She lost her life, but Krum lost most of the skin on his body, his sight and his career. Harry thinks it to be an unfair trade—it’s not Krum’s fault. He could have chosen another way, perhaps, but he had to fight her on the pain of his life. It would be fairer if the Dragon took out, say, the Minister. Or Crouch. Or whatever sick soul resurrected this madness in the first place.

In other news, Britain may be at war with the Lesser Bulgarian Empire as a result of their mishandling of the whole affair. Harry’s involvement is mentioned, but his very public, very loud breakdown provided a good spin. He was but a little boy. Whatever spell he tried to cast onto the Dragon misfired and freed the beast.

Really, it’s nobody’s fault.

The sheer mind-fuck of the situation both burned something out of Harry and shook something loose. His Darkness is there, but it’s—not tamer, but more in sync with his own thoughts. He more or less absorbed the insane part. There will be no more taming, no more pushing down the more—problematic impulses. He has termites burrowing under his skin now, not letting him rest. The urge to leave, to escape, to destroy is stronger than ever. Just a month more, and he can escape this damn place, and these hidden monsters. Just a month.

The school cancels all classes for the week, and the students twitter through the hallways. Well. A lot of them look haunted and terrified, but nowhere as many as there should have been.

The Ravenclaws are least affected. They judge the whole thing to result from inferior planning. Harry—who has taken to wandering the halls under his Cloak in a futile search for peace—hears that line of dialogue repeated often. If the Dragon-tamers were better at their job, they would have had no trouble. Their casting was shoddy—as evidenced by the incident itself. A single stray spell from a fourth-year broke the Horntail’s bonds.

The Gryffindors are less certain, but they bluster through their fear with great aplomb. They accept the dragon-tamers have lost their lives, but consider their deaths to be deserving of respect and recognition—they fell in the line of duty, after all. What could be braver than that?

Slytherins and Hufflepuffs are the unexpected ones. Harry expected the Hufflepuffs to be most calm about this, and Slytherins to think themselves betrayed for being put in danger. Not so. Slytherins are, almost to the last, standing back. They rarely leave their Common room at all. The Hufflepuffs roam the corridors in droves. The upper-years are—concerning. They’re saturated with the sort of twisting rage that does something to a person.

Which, yeah, their Champion did everything right. Diggory didn’t harm the Dragon, didn’t so much as scratch her eggs, escaped with little more than a light cut. His only crime was being stupid enough to enter himself into this mess. Now the Healers need to re-grow his entire right hand and right leg below the knee in a complex set of operations because he had the bad luck to sleep in the same healing tent as Krum. Unlike Krum, his chances of recovery are decent. The recovery might be painful, long and maddening, but it’s at least in the pipes.

The Hufflepuffs are also distraught by Harry’s accusations. Just about every member of Hufflepuff house has apologized if Harry sat down for long enough to be apologized at. Some were tearful, some were wrathful, some were grudging, but every apology appeared to be honest at least.

Good for them. Some sign of growth there, at least. Not enough, not even near, but som. Harry would feed all of them to the Lily-dragon and not feel a single twinge of conscience. Fucking humans.

“Excuse me, may I have a word.”

“Very few of them,” says whatever Bulgarian politician came to scream at Karkaroff and Dumbledore today.

“Mr Krum—I understand he is out of England.”

“Speak sense, child, or leave me be.” The politician may more than just a politician. Wounded rage howls in the woman’s eyes and her lips curl from her teeth in a frankly intimidating grimace.

“I have harmed your Champion,” Harry says. “I owe him.”

“Oh, go away. I have no time for foolish children. You are no more responsible than he is. Unless you offer me the beast’s head to mount on my wall, I will not hear it.”

This was a mistake. Why did he even try—He never learns—

“The beast is dead.” Ice creeps into his tone. “She was a mother. You people enslaved and brought her here to torment for sport.”

“You would defend the beast that maimed my nephew?” The woman sounds more taken aback than angry. His stupidity must have shocked her out of whatever hellscape she was occupying.

“I—I should go. Please pass on my apologies to your nephew. Grief or not, Krum was not at fault for her children’s demise. Not really.”

He turns on his heel and makes a hurried escape from the furious woman. Merlin, what was he thinking? He must screw his head back on—or get someone to do it for him. What little common sense he had evaporated in the storm of dragon-fire.

Two weeks more.

Two things happen after his unfortunate talk with Krum’s aunt (?). Hogwarts tries to re-start his shunning, but Slytherins and Hufflepuffs refuse to join in. It’s a rather sad affair, all told. More important is the letter he gets from Krum, apologizing for his aunt’s actions.

Krum’s Aunt, the letter explains, had laid in on Dumbledore for his apparent endorsement of Krum’s maiming, on top of what she had planned to bring up already. She regrets it now, the letter assures him. Krum had nothing to do with it, it adds as a faux-casual afterthought.

Harry is more puzzled by the Bulgarian’s motive, then by his Aunt’s actions. Had he really made that much of an impression, to warrant an apology from an internationally famous—and very well-connected—boy with solid reasons to dislike Harry?

He charms a batch of Dictagrams, and replies as politely as possible. Why Krum doesn’t ping his human-alarm is unclear. Possibly it’s the novelty of someone taking him seriously? He assures the boy no harm was done, and Hogwarts swings around to hating him every few months or so.

A week and a half until his Court hearing. The Goblins forward him the contact information of a potioneer peddling Dreamless Sleep. Judging by the not at all veiled amusement in their letters, they find his developing addiction hilarious.

His teachers, sans Flitwick and Hagrid, are almost to the last trying to teach him some sort of lesson by ignoring his very existence. Well—except for Snape. The Potions teacher had, in a stunning display of blind hatred, stepped outside of his House’s strict avoidance policy. Since this mess started, Snape is the first—and likely the last—Slytherin to antagonize him openly. Harry recognizes that fear drives some of the vitriol. He also recognizes the crazed glint that speaks of a twisted obsession. Not with Harry, perhaps, but with Lily. It’s weird, and off-putting, but sad above all. If Harry were in any way inclined to help, he’d offer to shag the man, just so he could get over it. He has little interest in helping humans anymore, however. Just ten days more.

Dictagrams fly between England and Bulgaria, uncaring of the brewing political strife. Krum still doesn’t believe Harry is just a kid—there is too much solemn respect in his letters to doubt that—but that doesn’t stop a strange half-friendship from forming. Wheedling the boy’s address takes longer than it should—but then again, what does he know of security, and the weight of keeping one’s family safe. He gets the damn address in the end and starts organizing his apology-gift. Or a get-well gift, depending on who wants to know. There is really only one thing he can think of—and the Aunt did ask for the beast’s head to mount on her wall.

The last weekend in Hogwarts is, thus, spent stuffing the Basilisk in the biggest expandable trunk he could buy. Shrinking expandable objects is Master-level work, so he doesn’t send the trunk via owl. He will post the thing via Gringotts after the Portkey has whisked him away from this hellhole. If everything works out as it should, he won’t be returning at all.

Five more days. He attends the classes, wary of rocking the boat any further than he already has. Honestly, he has sunk the boat many a time now, but this current iteration just needs to hold him until Friday.

Merlin, he stretched that metaphor as far as it would go.

A wispy, blond girl-child flinches every time he walks past her. She looks terrified, but also like she’s seeing more than what is present. In case she’s clairvoyant and not just mad, he feels bad for her. He wasn’t a paragon of sanity before—Merlin knows what he is now.

Never mind the children. Five more days.

Saturday arrives, his time is up. It’s time to run.

Run-run-run

Chapter Text

The dress-robes fit him well enough. They’re a bit wider in the shoulders than they need to be, and the green-on-black makes him look even paler. His hair has grown out enough that he can tie it back. His glasses are smaller with almost invisible rims, designed to be unobtrusive. He looks almost presentable.

Steelclaw—a name Harry suspects is a part of an overarching joke Goblin-folk are playing on the humans—wastes little time on pleasantries. A handful of brisk instructions after his arrival, Steelclaw’s assistants have spirited Harry’s trunks away, while he hustled Harry into the giant, well-guarded Floo-room in the Bank.

Go-time.

The Floo deposits them into the main Chamber of the Ministry. It’s a dull building, with none of the effortless majesty of Hogwarts—or even Diagon. The only notable aspect is a golden statue so hideous he spends the next couple of minutes lost in a blind rage. Steelclaw, a practical Goblin to the bone, senses his client is a hair away from bloody murder and leaves him to collect himself in peace.

The hearing takes place in a wide, intimidating amphitheatre. Steelclaw insisted they arrive on time, and not a minute sooner. Still incensed by the grotesque monument to human bigotry, Harry doesn’t have it in him to be intimidated by these people, fancy room or no fancy room.

Keeping the veneer of calm takes up most of his focus. Thankfully, he needs to do little but follow Steelclaw’s commands as best he can. Sit here. Be quiet. Let the nice Goblin work.

“The Winter Session of the August Body of Wizengamot is now in session. Interim Chief Warlock Amelia Bones presiding.”

His case is rather clear-cut. Three Wizarding Schools and the Ministry of Magic, through one Bartemius Crouch, have declared Harry Potter to be an adult. He has independent finances and plenty of means to support himself. Due to the stresses of the previous years, he has decided to retire from public life for his own safety, and continue his schooling in private.

Moderate Dark families are bribed to not care one way or another. The more far-Right Purebloods have an interest in removing the Boy-who-lived from public life. The moderate Light Houses he can convince by, well, the fact the law is on his side, and the far-Left will vote against him no matter what.

He needs two-thirds. Not at all impossible to achieve.

The questioning goes in a chaotic fashion. Head of DMLE, in this case Bones’s second in command, Rufus Scrimgeour gets to ask the first question. The Minister of Magic, represented by a lumpy little witch called Umbridge, is next. Then it’s the Wizengamot’s turn.

“I do not see how you expect this body to believe you will be better served by living alone than with your own blood.” Says Doge. Says, not asks.

He discussed this with Steelclaw. One of their more hopeful goals was to win without having to drag his sorry life out in the open. However, needs must. Blood counts for a lot in the Wizarding World and Harry can see minds changing by the second.

“I live in a house inhabited by Magic-hating muggles, my Lord.” He says. “I would rather not return, if it is all the same to you.”

“Stuff and nonsense, young man.” Says Doge. His bravado fools no-one. Now that Harry has forced them to look, signs of malnutrition are all there.

“I understand such things are difficult to prove, my Lord. One simple piece of evidence, perhaps. Please, if you could all note my Hogwarts letter. Addressed to Harry Potter, cupboard under the stairs.”

Chaos ensues, and Madam Bones has to result to a magical gong to quiet down the Lords and Ladies arguing one over another.

“Mister Potter, are you testifying to establish grounds for an investigation against your Muggle family, or are you applying for emancipation? On the second question, I do not see how any here could argue against it. Your Triwizard Tournament contract attests as much.”

“My client is owed an in-depth investigation whatever the outcome of this hearing is.” Says Steelclaw. “By your own laws, every credible claim of child abuse or neglect by non-magical caretakers must be investigated, and the minor removed from the situation. Here, the second part is immaterial, as I am confident this body will not refuse Heir Potter his right to be emancipated.”

“I can provide memories,” Harry says into the stunned silence. “Although I am afraid I am not familiar with the technique.”

“Oh, come now, Amelia.” The witch—Umbridge—says. “It is obvious the boy is lying. Moreover, I can’t see the Minister’s signature on this little piece of paper. I would argue that it is Mister Potter who should be investigated. After all, it is his actions that led to the dragon almost killing the nephew of the Bulgarian Minister of Magic. It is because of him that Auror Smythe is in St Mungos as we speak.”

“Madam Undersecretary, please remember where you are, and address me as Head Warlock?” Says Bones a little wearily. “Your other concerns were raised and were deemed unsubstantiated several times. Mister Potter—pardon me, Heir Potter—is well within his rights to make his de facto emancipation official.”

She turns to Harry and scrutinizes him with pursed lips for a good minute. “I do not believe this matter should have even been brought to this body. Nevertheless, we are here already, so we might as well. All in favour of granting Heir Potter, of the Noble House of Potter the status of an emancipated minor?”

He needs twenty-five hands. Just twenty-five, out of thirty-six. Two, four, eight, twelve, twenty, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-eight. Twenty-eight hands are raised. He tries not to sag into his seat, but his Arguer still kicks him under the table. Right, decorum.

“Excellent, we have reached an agreement. Heir, beg pardon, Lord Potter, I would like to schedule a set of interviews with you regarding the issues you raised about your previous caretakers. It would be perhaps wise to settle the Auror investigation before you argue your case in front of the Wizengamot, so that the body has all the information it requires to conduct a fair ruling. Are we in agreement?”

“Yes, Chief Warlock.” He says, sketching an awkward bow. “I would like to request that the interviews take place next year, so I can spend some time recuperating. As I understand it, the Triwizard Tournament has been effectively cancelled, which would work well for my immediate ex-matriculation from the Hogwarts Academy.”

“Very well. Statute of limitations does not apply in these circumstances, and you are well within your rights to start the investigative process whenever you wish. I will try my best to make sure I handle your case myself. Feel free to owl me when you deem to be in acceptable health.”

“Thank you, Lords and Ladies, Chief Warlock. Undersecretary.”

Free. Free. Free.

Chapter Text

Gringotts is the first stop. The Goblins have proven to be good allies. Even though they make sure they are well compensated for their work, he still feels the need to repay them. As it happens, repaying them goes a long way to helping himself.

Steelclaw brightens further when Harry brings up the matter of his assets.

“Oh, thank the Great Lord.” Says the Goblin. “Wait here.”

He waits where he bids. Ten minutes later, a tray of grilled meat appears, with a small drawing of a short skinny child, a pebble, and an arrow suggesting that they’re of comparable size. Alright, fair point. He eats as much as he can stomach, and then some more, and he barely makes a dent in what is about seven kilograms of meat, not counting the bones. 

Ten minutes later, the tray disappears, and another appears in its place. This time it’s filled with about a dozen small bowls of various soups, broths, and various liquid nourishment. However well-versed the Goblins are in Wizarding Law and the Wizengamot, they haven’t yet understood the dietary habits of humans.

Refusing is more than Harry can afford. Thankfully, the bowls are small—perhaps one glass of liquid in each. He gulps down the carrot-and-potato soup, then mushroom-and-leek. He finishes with a beef-and-vegetable soup, and is pretty sure he is about to explode.

The tray winks out of existence, and a second one takes its place—filled with pies and chocolate. Merlin.

“Young Lord Potter, you have been missed.”

Steelclaw returns with a Goblin that must be Bloodaxe, before leaving without a word. Bloodaxe is thinner and taller than his companion. He almost looks to be a different sub-species—stature aside, his features are more feline, with large, triangular ears, wide mouth and small, round sun-glasses. Upon closer inspection, the glasses aren’t black—they are dark blue. How odd.

He also wears a Victorian business-suit, carries a dark leather briefcase, and has a white bowtie around his neck.

“The matter of the Potter accounts has been a matter of some debate here at Gringotts. We have a busy day ahead of us, young man. It is fortunate you need not return to that blasted school.”

“I am all yours, Bloodaxe.” He’s eaten enough and is content enough to be very agreeable. He need not pretend with the Goblins. They expect very, very little of him. “But perhaps before we start, I should ask if Gringotts has a way of securing my accommodation for the night? I am afraid I am, starting today, in effect homeless.” And what a thrilling concept that is.

“Don’t be naïve, young man. You will not leave this building until we have sorted through this mess.” Says Bloodaxe, punctuating each word by taking folders of documents out of his—magically expanded—briefcase. “I will drag a bed into this office if I have to.”

Fancy that. He didn’t figure sanctuary in Gringotts was on the table. “I accept your kind invitation, Bloodaxe. Then, let us begin. What is all that?”

“These,” he points to one ever-growing stack of folders. “Are the bequeaths to the House of Potter, by various Witches and Wizards over the years.” Straightforward enough.

“These, are the various businesses that your House either owns, owns a portion of or recieved from, again, various Witches and Wizards.” Less straightforward—wouldn’t those fall under bequeaths?

“Then we have various offers by Noble Houses, such as marriage contracts, alliances, vassalship and so on.” Merlin.

“Here are the business offers—book deals, interviews, sponsorships, contributions and so on.” Who the fuck has a business offer for a fourteen-year-old?

“And finally, we have real-estate related matters. Your House owns a sizable amount of land and real-estate even by Noble House standards. Some rental contracts have become void, and those families had to leave. Some contracts are still in effect, but will not remain such for long, and so on.”

Shit.

“I see what you mean.” He tries to eyeball the number of folders—Merlin, there has to be more than a hundred! “I would be happy to pay for my lodgings, for however long it takes to resolve this.”

“You will pay for your lodgings by working for it, wizardling! For twenty-one years I have been waiting for a Potter, and now that I got you, best believe you won’t be escaping soon.”

Harry raises his hands in surrender. “As you say, Account Manager.” Best not use the—likely facetious—name. Titles are safer, for now.

“Better. Now. On November third, Nineteen-Eighty, one Ms Dorris Crawford has written in her will that she leaves all her worldly belongings, sans her house and her Kneazles, to one Harry James Potter—“

He spends a glorious two weeks in Gringotts before they’re even made a dent in the mountain of work. Not that it’s not the very definition of bizarre, because it is.

Bloodaxe has, in deference to Harry’s bony, eminently snappable neck, enforced a strict meal—and bedtime routine. A round of potions first thing in the morning, then breakfast, followed by a four-hour block of work. Another round of potions, followed by lunch. Work again, until dinner, which he eats in what he has come to think of as Harry’s room.

Harry’s room is not underground at all. Whoever wrote the Goblin’s Manual for Care and Feeding of Young Boys, had the right idea, but went about it sideways. Harry’s room is well-above ground. Somehow. It’s not in London, is the thing. His balcony overlooks a mountain.

By itself, the room is sparse—there’s little more than a bed and a desk. What it lacks in comforts, it makes up for with a floor-to-ceiling window, only interrupted by a round door, leading to a balcony that is about twice the size of the room.

Balcony overlooking a very steep, very intimidating mountain, snow and all.

He doesn’t ask. There is no space to store the information—his mind is plenty full with everything the Goblins need him to learn. Bloodaxe is merciless. He browbeats Harry to make all the decisions himself—and boy is there a lot of ground to cover. It’s exhausting. (Sometimes, when he is very attentive and follows whatever convoluted thought the Goblin is spinning, Bloodaxe will fling a piece of chocolate at his head with great vigour. In the first few days, he has tried to catch them with his hands. By the end of the week, he’s been snapping them out of the air with his teeth. Little things.)

They comb through the hundreds and hundreds of bequeaths. Even the Dark Purebloods left him money. The Malfoys threw a fundraiser for then-infant-Harry, already languishing in his cupboard, explains Bloodaxe, every word dripping in cynical amusement. Every member of the Dark and Neutral faction of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, plus a good hundred smaller families from all over Europe donated a pile of gold on the same day.

The Light organized a similar event—with one marked difference. The Light was so much poorer than the Dark, a lot of the Families couldn’t afford to send gold. Which is where the peculiar part of the bequeaths starts. It’s not he doesn’t recognize the good-will, because he does. All those gifts meant much more than Galleons ever had to Malfoys. But what to do with vaults full of children’s toys, blankets, clothes, books and so forth?

He can’t sell them, and brief investigation into the matter informs him Magical Britain has no orphanages he can donate them to. He settles on starting a foundation, named Lily-dragon. The foundation is a hundred percent fictional so far—it consists of one vault containing all the miscellaneous things people sent baby-Harry that wasn’t gold. Nobody knows how much gold was gifted to him because it has been sitting in a Warded vault for all these years. The Curse-breakers need to comb it for curses and tampering before even attempting to count them.

That concluded the movable assets—gold and gifts and such. What about the bequeathed estates? Many a family line ended in the war. It had become something of a tradition that the last scion of a dying House leaves their house and lands to the Boy-who-lived. So much so that the Goblins created a streamlined protocol, complete with condensed paperwork. Bloodaxe showed him the ‘Baby-Potter-Procedure’ paperwork—it was mortifying.

Distant relatives contested some of those bequeaths—and depending on how well they knew the system and who to bribe, sometimes they even won their land back. Most often, they didn’t, which left Hary with seventeen properties in various states of disrepair he needs to decide what to do with.

The Goblins have, in their infinite mercy, been taking out the property taxes from the main Potter vault—one less mess to untangle. What to do with them, however, is up to Harry. Just accounting the properties will be a daunting project, never mind the renovation.

They settle on drawing up a contract between House Potter and the Gringotts Clan. House of Potter—that is, one Harry Potter—will hire a team of Goblin architects to inspect and provide reports on the condition of the objects, their recommendations on how to proceed, and a rough appraisal of worth.

The business aspect is less cooky and more depressing. House Potter has owned many businesses over four hundred years it has been gaining power. Most of those have closed because of the Grindelwald war. Some because of Grindelwald himself, but most because of mismanagement. Within a couple of decades, both the main branch and the side branch—which Harry belongs to—died out but for James and his Lady Potter. James had no time for business, not when he joined the War-effort before he finished Hogwarts. Then, as it were, he died four years later, leaving behind a baby in a cupboard and a royal mess otherwise.

Point is—all but a few businesses closed. Apart from the debts which the Goblins honoured, the rest had to wait. Most witches and wizards that ran the businesses expressed their willingness to continue to do so if a Potter—or, indeed, a Potter representative—renewed their contracts. Alas, there was no-one to do so, and so they had to leave.

Which brings about the second contract between Harry and the Gringotts Clan for a team of Goblins to go over the books, and figure out which businesses are worth keeping, and which ones should he let die in peace.

“Does Gringotts have a business department?” He ends up asking at the end of the ninth day, after another torturous hour of trying and failing to understand shifting profit margins of consolidating two specialist business into one, larger, business. “I cannot learn this in one afternoon, no matter how you look at it. I cannot learn this in one year.” One decade, Merlin fucking wept.

“We do.” Says Bloodaxe. “However, we have found, that Wizards hesitate to entrust their businesses to us.”

Harry, knowing a light at the end of a tunnel when he sees one, jumps at the chance. “Alright, how about this? Why can’t I hire you—well, not you, you’re mine, I need you—but a Goblin, or however many Goblins you recommend, to handle all this? He or they will take up temporary management of all Potter businesses, hereditary or bequeathed—or owned in part, or whatever. We share responsibility, equally. In return, I offer.” What does he offer? Is fifty percent too much? Is it too little? Seems rather fair to him. They share fifty percent of the responsibility, they share fifty percent of the profit. Plus Harry isn’t doing any work, so should he offer sixty-five? “How much do I offer?”

“Mine-father save me from reckless children.” Says Bloodaxe. “You offer ten percent, with a potential five percent bonus if your business grows above what you consider to be reasonable.”

“What—? That doesn’t seem fair.”

The Goblin rolls his eyes. “No, wizardling, you will not offer more. Offering more will make you look suspicious. If anything, you would bargain for less.”

“But—I’m not even doing anything.”

“You’re providing the start-up capital, so to speak. Never mind. I will write up your request and pass it on to the appropriate vein. (A/N collective noun for Goblin-folk is vein).”

“In fact,” says Harry, on the roll. “Can’t we—I mean—Maybe they could—“

“Speak sense, shardling.”

Harry takes in a sharp breath. “The Architect team. Couldn’t they coordinate? With the business team? And maybe. Figure out. Stuff.”

Bloodaxe pauses in his furious scribbling across what looks like four separate pieces of parchment. “Hmm. Not a terrible idea.”

Harry feels a smile blooming on his face, honest (and well fucking deserved) pleasure filling him. Bloodaxe was a kind soul, but gruff and awkward with humans. Praise was a foreign concept.

“You will need to appoint someone to oversee the project. And a separate team to coordinate between them.”

“That’s fine,” he says. “I can offer them—“

“No, you will not. You will not offer them a knut over ten percent. Their profit margin would grow as well. No. You will offer ten percent, with an additional five as an incentive to exceed expectations.”

The goblin scribbles something in the fascinating, blocky script the Goblin-folk use for internal memos.

“This project is beyond me. I will need to make inquiries. We haven’t to my knowledge worked so closely with wizards before.”

Fucking Wizards. It makes all sorts of sense to Harry. The two weeks as a guest of the Goblin Nation have been the most peaceful period of his entire life. If it weren’t for his outstanding debts to a certain Horntail, and vague ideas about a life spent with dragons he’d offer all Potter belongings to the Goblin Nation just so they would let him live here in peace.

“Moving on. Potter land.”

Harry leans forward in interest. This is just about the only part of the whole shebang that is of any interest to him.

“The Potters have, as is the case with most old families, a large, unplottable estate. Or, well, it was once unplottable. Dark Lord Grindelwald has famously broken Potter wards and killed your Great-uncle, late Lord Charlus Potter and his wife Dorea Potter nee Black, in what has since been called the battle of Willowshire. Willowshire being the common name of your ancestral lands. It spans about three hundred square miles.”

Well, that’s some bad news. 

“That counts out the blood-wards, then.” He says.

“I am afraid so. Even the strongest blood-wards can fall—and the Dark Lord brought them down himself.”

Why them, though? What problem did Grindelwald have with his family? Seems a bit excessive.

“Rebuilding broken ward schemes is tricky business. The Goblin Nation cannot help you there.”

Right. He could hire some ward-Masters to erect new wards if he could find a single human he would trust to do it. He could do it himself, in about twenty years. Hmm.

“My tentative plan is to buy up all the land I can and secure a haven for me and mine.” Me and mine, in this case, being Harry, one Horntail, and her litter of babies. Speaking of. “You don’t happen to know a Goblin well-versed in Wizarding law?”

“Every member of the Gringotts Clan is well-versed in Wizarding Law, shardling.”

“Right, right, of course. Then, you could recommend a Goblin to explain the legalities of keeping Dragons on one’s land?”

The Goblin blinks at him once, twice, three times. “The quick answer is no. The long answer is no. Wizards may not keep Dragons in Britain.”

“I wouldn’t keep them,” he says, puzzled. “How would I even do that? But they would live on my land, and be happy, and I’d have someone to talk to. In my experience, Dragons make much better friends than humans.”

Bloodaxe pauses, and for once puts down his quill. “You speak to Dragons? How? You share no blood with the Slytherin line.”

Nice to have a confirmation. “Nobody knows. I’ve been speaking to snakes my entire life.” Snakes made for dull conversations. The more magical breeds were better, but Dragons, oh, the sheer weight and complexity of Horntail’s speech, how each word shimmered with multiple meanings. It was enchanting.

“Right,” hums Bloodaxe, looking at him with a complicated expression. “I will be frank with you. The Wizards consider Dragons to be little more than a living Statute risk. They keep them in Reservations, which has more to do with the value of their body parts than any real conservation efforts.” Yeah, sure, Harry knows all this. “The Goblin-nation has shared this view.”

What, really? He sends Bloodaxe a shocked look. He is beginning to consider the Goblin, if not an ally, then an acquaintance with an interest to keep Harry alive and happy. Hence the shock.

“In fact, Gringotts keeps three Dragons in the Bank, as a security measure.” Says Bloodaxe, each word carefully measured.

“I will buy them from you.” He says, without so much as a thought. “Name your price.” The very notion of keeping Dragons, creatures so connected with the sun and sky deep underground in the dark—it’s unimaginable.

Bloodaxe sighs. “It’s not that simple. Understand, we are not a monolith. The Goblin Nation has shifts in politics and priorities, just like humans do. The previous administration thought it a good idea to keep the Dragons as a security measure. It soon became clear they were a bigger liability than a help. We cannot remove them safely. We have lost countless people trying to either remove them or put them down.”

“I can do it.” Merlin willing, he is not lying. “I can. I can talk to them. They will listen to me.”

Bloodaxe closes his eyes a hair too long to be a simple blink.

“I will add that to my growing list of things to talk with my superiors, then. You are a trying wizardling.” He sighs and scribbles something down. “No matter what my superiors say, you will still have legal issues. Wizards won’t let you keep dragons in your land.”

“Oh, I think the wizards will have their hands full in the next couple of years.” And they will if Harry’s dreams are anything to go by. Voldemort is getting ready, and a war is on the horizon. A war Harry is more than happy to stay well away from. “I have it on solid authority the Dark Lord will start his campaign soon.”

Bloodaxe’s quill screeches across the stone desk, having stabbed straight through the parchment. “Pardon?” He says. “The Dark—“

“Oh yes,” he says. “You know he is not dead—I can bet my last Galleon his vaults are still active. Well, give it a year or two, and he will be back, murdering his merry way across Britain.”

“And you are not—“

“I am a fourteen-year-old teenager who has been exploited in one way or another my entire life. I have no problem in leaving the humans to their fates. They just about deserve each other.”

“Right.” Says Bloodaxe, voice a little faint. “Yet another thing for the list.”

He writes for a good few moments until he taps the side of his desk in a specific pattern. Not a minute later, a different Goblin knocks on the door. Bloodaxe hands him the list and sends him off with brisk, hurried instructions.

“Just one more thing for the day, then. You are the Heir to Ancient and Noble House of Black. How would you like to proceed regarding that?”

Oh shit. Sirius.

Chapter Text

Harry’s feelings for Sirius have, much like those for Dumbledore, never been completely clear. The man is—well. It’s not his fault. But he had offered to rescue Harry, and then didn’t do it. That level of crushing disappointment would sour any relationship.

However. Harry does owe him. No adult offered, is the thing. Sirius tried, and was kept from fulfilling his promise only by fourteen years in prison, a malicious government, and, well, being barking mad.

“Say, Bloodaxe.”

The Goblin sighs. “Mine-father, give me strength.”

Fair.

“Say—hypothetically—I had a Godfather. Who just happens to be a fugitive on the run. You wouldn’t have a suggestion on how I might, er, resolve the situation?”

Bloodaxe looks at him and has the most peculiar reaction. A slow, mean smile spreads his lips in a rather intimidating curve. It’s very ominous.

“We-ell. Now that you mention it, there is someone. Ye-es. And it would be very appropriate, wouldn’t it.” He trails off into murmurs that are at least seventy per cent malicious glee.

“Wait here, wizardling. And by stone and chisel, eat something.”

Bloodaxe returns with an even more intimidating Goblin. The two of them are obviously from the same sub-species, both thin, and tall - the new arrival is just about Harry’s height.

“Wizardling, meet Slit, the Account Manager of House of Black. Slit, this is my wizardling, Lord of House Potter.”

The Darkness inside Harry purrs at the casual possessive pronoun. Odd—he never appreciated such emotions directed his way before.

“Well met, Heir Black, Lord Potter.” Says Slit.

Two things. First of all Slit is female. Second of all—her voice is liquid gold. Heavy and dripping with magic. Harry knows the Goblins to be fae, and not of the Seelie-persuasion. Slit really flaunts her heritage. The few wisps of hair on her head are white—not grey, but pure white—and her eyes are slit and bright green. Harry-the-prey tenses at the blatant predator in their midst.

“Oh, relax, wizardling,” says Bloodaxe. “Slit is on your side.” And it is where you want to keep her, is the heavy undertone.

Slit takes a seat. “Indeed I am. Accounts of House Black languish, and their numbers drop like flies. There is but one with the full-blood claim to the House, which would be Sirius Orion Black. And you, wizardling, know how to get to him.”

Harry fights the urge to hide behind Bloodaxe, who rolls his eyes at him in a very human gesture. He is trying to put him at ease, Harry realizes, mimicking facial expressions that would feel familiar. It doesn’t work.

“I—Sirius never had a trial.” He says. “I could perhaps open a line of communication between him and the Goblin Nation. Wouldn’t it be better if I try to use my new Wizengamot Seat to get him acquitted?”

Slit tilts her chin upwards, and if she had a tail Harry is certain it would lash about impatiently.

“Humans are slow and corrupt. Sirius Black is not Lord Black yet. It would be wise of him to find a way to Gringotts and make his claim official and binding.” The word ‘wise’ twists and turns in her mouth until it shoots right past ‘threat’ into ‘Godly decree’.

“Would that help him?”

Slit bares her teeth in a smile. Two rows of very sharp, very carnivorous teeth. “It is no easy matter, to imprison a Lord of House Black, wizardling,”

Right.

“Would the Goblin Nation be willing to, say, grant asylum to a hypothetical Lord Black for a couple of weeks?” What to offer? “I am sure there are a few valuable items in the Potter Vault that I could offer as recompense.”

Bloodaxe sighs and shares a long look with Slit.

“Having him accept and the Black accounts would be enough. Lord Arcturus Black left everything to his grandson, one Sirius Black. If he had but stopped by Gringotts to take on the role of Lord Black, the accounts wouldn’t be languishing for sixteen years.”

Huh. It seems James and Sirius shared a strangely dismissive view of family fortunes.

“I am sure I can convince Sirius to come. But—” He pauses, uncertain.

“But what, wizardling,” says Slit in a pleasant voice that implies her willingness to partake of Harry’s flesh presently if challenged.

“He’s not—well.” He says. “He spent fourteen years in Azkaban. Most of those years he spent in his Animagus form. He’s—yeah.”

Slit narrows her eyes at him. “You seem like a competent little Lord. I am sure you can get future Lord Black to see reason if you try, hmm?”

“I will try,” he agrees, knowing when he’s beat. “I can promise that much.”

“Excellent. Well, this has been a productive meeting. I will leave you to your busy day of finding future Lord Black and dragging him to Gringotts by the scruff of his neck. Good day.”

Harry watches the Lady glide out of the office with the confidence of those born into—and well-used to wielding—considerable power.

“Thank fuck I am not a Black.”

“Indeed.”

Getting to Sirius is not as complicated as he had feared. As it happens, his Godfather has sent him thirty-nine letters over the two weeks he’s been incommunicado. He scours the Isles in search of Harry, is the gist of his missives. To be fair so has everyone else. The Goblins don’t allow the Prophet inside their walls, which is all sorts of hilarious, but Harry can just about imagine the panicked scrambling of the Light faction, trying to find their rebellious figure-head.

Good luck.

A team of Goblins enchanted every single item of clothing he wears to double as a portkey back to Gringotts. They scrubbed him clean of any lingering magic—be they curses or cures—and applied about a dozen fresh protective charms. He wears enchanted rings, bracelets, amulets and even a strange chain that wraps around his neck, falls down over his spine, loops around his waist, and back up his chest to his neck. He is as close to indestructible as the Goblins can make him.

Which is not to say he is not in a disguise, because best believe he is. Since his choices were Bloodaxe and Slit, he had managed to wheedle Bloodaxe into being his chaperone. Currently, the Goblin is polyjuiced into a man of about forty. Harry wears the face and body of a girl of six.

It’s all very amusing. Harry’s plan was to write to Sirius and arrange a meeting. Bloodaxe laughed at him and organized a scrying. The godparent vow establishes enough of a connection that Harry’s blood can find Sirius if both parties want that enough. Since Sirius is by all accounts risking life and limb to find Harry, the condition should be met.

They find a location—somewhere north of the Forbidden Forest, of all places. A portkey deposits them close enough, and then it’s time to find a great big dog.

As it happens, it’s not the matter of finding Sirius, as much as it is standing in one place long enough to be bowled over by two hundred pounds of canine, that smelled right through his disguise.

“Alright, Padfoot, yeah it’s me,” he says, wrestling the dog trying to lick the polyjuice off his face. “Merlin, what have you been eating?”

“-rk, bark, —ave I been eating?” Sirius transforms into a human mid-sentence. “What have I been eating? You run away from Hogwarts, emancipate yourself, almost get your fool self eaten by a dragon and disappear for weeks and this is what you have to say to me?”

A smile touches Harry’s lips. “Your timeline of events can do with some work, Pads,”

“My timeline—why you little—“

Sirius transforms back into a dog just so he can run in circles for a good few minutes, obviously overcome. It is likely concerning behaviour, but also beyond charming so. Yeah.

“—meline of events, he says,” The transformation into a human is smooth enough to continue pacing in circles. “Merlin, Lils, this is your fault. It is. James would never have had the balls—“

“Mister Black,” says Bloodaxe, with what passes for a very reasonable tone for the gruff Goblin. Harry winces. That was not wise.

The next few moments are spent wrestling the snarling, much less charming dog off of the polyjuiced Goblin who sputters up at him from his prone position on the ground, too outraged to be afraid.

“Easy, Pads,” Harry says. “This is Bloodaxe, he’s my Account Manager in Gringotts. It’s where I’ve been hiding.”

“—k, bark, bar—gott’s! You’ve been at Gringotts you little weasel! How would you even—why would you—I’ve been looking everywhere for you—and you—in London!”

“Yeah, the Goblins are awesome,” he says, with complete honesty. “They've been helping me loads. Not only with the Potter stuff but also like, keeping me fed and safe and yeah. It’s been terrific, Pads.”

Finally some of the manic, panicked energy leeks out of Sirius, and he droops down. “Merlin, pup. That is one low fucking bar.”

Harry scoffs. “Listen, it’s not safe here. I’m staying in Gringotts for now, and you will come stay there with me. I will beg on my knees, don’t think I won’t. I will invoke my mother’s name. I will invoke my father’s name. There is no line, Sirius Orion Black.”

Sirius shakes his head, to clear it, or to get rid of whatever hallucination hangs around.

“Alright, pup. Though I am warning you, Moony just might storm Gringotts if he doesn’t hear from me. We set up a blood-trace, in case I had to get captured to get to you.” Wow. Commitment.

Bloodaxe sighs, and picks himself up from the ground. “Mine-father save me from dramatic children. Call your friend, Mister Black. I will allow my wizardling to expand his protection to him. But just you two. No more humans will be allowed inside our walls.”

“Oh, great, thanks,” says Sirius, mood turning on a dime, smile gaining a manic edge. “Let me just—“

He drags a finger down his hand, leaving behind an inch-deep, heavily bleeding wound. Harry gapes at the casual mutilation and doesn’t even hear the incantation.

Which is how their little clearing gains six feet and nine inches of furious werewolf, wand in one hand, and a ritual knife in other.

“Wow, Professor,” Harry says, like an idiot. “I never realized how tall you were.”

Chapter Text

Gringotts Goblins do not, as it happens, have a high tolerance policy towards werewolves. They didn’t bar Lupin from entry, but they didn’t really acknowledge him in any way. They don’t seem to despise him, but avert their eyes from the (giant fucking) man, and talk around him consistently. Lupin seems well-well used to such treatment, at least.

Harry, on the other hand, is doing some furious soul-searching. On one hand, Lupin doesn’t register as human to him. (To be honest, Sirius barely registers as human to him, with how often the man transforms into a dog as soon as things overwhelm him in any way). On the other hand, Lupin, once he was calm and had tucked the knife away, looks like such an archetypal Adult that it is very hard to relax around him. Almost every adult that has ever harmed Harry matched that exact shade of reasonable and practical.

Harry is, as he is starting to learn, an instinctual creature. As such his dual response of safe and not-safe were very taxing. (He is kind of jealous of Sirius. He would love to just turn into a dog and run around for a while without any worries.)

“Wizardling, calm your Godfather because Slit is on her way.”

Padfoot whines miserably from underneath Harry’s chair. His dog-form is big enough that only his head and a small part of his shoulders can fit under the chair, but damn if he didn’t give it his best shot. Harry doesn’t blame him. Slit was terrifying.

Harry sighs. “Pads, can I speak in your name?”

The dog woofs. It sounds very encouraging if a little desperate around the edges. Harry looks at Bloodaxe.

“Lord Potter cannot accept your Lordship in your name, Mister Black.”

Sirius’s whine gets a petulant note.

“Come on, Pads,” says Lupin reasonably. “Up you get. I am sure the Black Account Manager will be perfectly nice.”

Harry bites his lips and sneaks a look at Bloodaxe, who has a very mean glint in his eyes. A corner of his wide, wide mouth twitches.

“How about a compromise,” he says. “You remain Sirius for long enough to accept your Lordship and name me your proxy, and I will handle everything from there? Fair?”

Padfoot grumbles for a good long minute, but suddenly he perks up. He inches back, and dislodges his body from the chair, before transforming just before Slit stalks inside.

“You.” Says Slit. “Sirius Orion Black, by my shrivelled soul.”

“Merry meet, Slit,” says Sirius miserably. “Long time no see.”

Harry curls into himself a little. That was some unwise phrasing.

“It is, isn’t it?” She purrs. “Years and years and years, in fact. Why, last time I’ve seen you, you’ve been what - thirteen?”

“Oh that’s not fair,” Sirius says. “You can’t blame me for being imprisoned?”

“I can do whatever I want Sirius Orion Black.” Says Slit. “I have been managing Black accounts for three hundred years. And you, little boy, couldn’t bring yourself to stop by the Bank once. How do you think these last years would have looked, with a Lordship Ring on your hand? With full access to Family Magic?” 

Sirius droops, obviously recognizing this is a fight he cannot win. He’s not a short man, six-foot-two perhaps, but it’s very obvious he’s outmatched by the just under five-foot Goblin Lady.

“Yeah, okay.” He says. “I should have come after I graduated.”

“You should have. At least your Godson has a little sense.”

Sirius straightens in pride, before remembering the events that led to them being in Gringotts. “He—sense—the little nightmare ran away from school and didn’t tell anyone where he was going! He—he fought a dragon and—“

“And had the sense to come to the Goblin Nation, and seek help.” She finishes with a heavy curtain of finality. “He is also currently creating a truly interesting bit of multi-vein cooperation. He will be a fine business-wizard one day.”

“What—really?” Says Sirius, anger forgotten. “Lookit, Moony. Our Prongslet is a fine business-wizard.”

Lupin, who is sitting as unobtrusively as a six-foot-nine giant werewolf can, never mind the patched elbows on his jumper, smiles a crooked little smile. His eyes are sad, though. He looks to be much less sanguine about Sirius’s mood swings.

Ah well, Harry reasons. It would be harder for sane people to deal with insanity. If Lupin plans to stick around, he best get used to it.

“Siri,” says Harry. “Why don’t you go through the most pressing Lordship stuff now, and explain to your Account Manager that I am authorized to speak in your name. Oh but, quick, before you do that, do you have anything you specifically don’t want done to the Black accounts? 'Cause I’m kind of flying with all safety-charms off if we’re being honest.”

Sirius barks a long, honest laugh. His eyes clear a little, which is good (?). “Merlin, Pup, do whatever you want with it. Melt it down into a giant cauldron and cook the world's biggest carrot soup. I want nothing to do with it. With any of it.”

Harry smiles a little helplessly at the man, but turns to the resident Adult in the room, just in case. Lupin raises his eyebrows. “You seem to have the order of things mixed up, pup.” Says Lupin with a tired smile. “I am not Sirius’s keeper. At most I am his enabler. Perhaps a side-kick, if we’re being polite about it.”

“Tosh,” says Sirius, and swoons theatrically into Lupin’s lap. “I am nothing without you. I would be but a pale shadow, cursed to wander, heartless and alone.”

Lupin pats his head indulgently, even as his eyes find Harry’s. See, his eyebrows say. See what I mean?

Which, yeah, completely fair. A large chunk of his wariness against Lupin dies a swift death. That is not what an Adult would say.

“Well, then,” says Harry brightly. “We’re good to go. Lady Account-manager, can my dogfather get the barest minimum of documents he is required to sign so that he is officially Lord Black, and I am his proxy.”

“Lady Account-Manager,” snickers Sirius. “Merlin, pup. Smooth.” Lupin says nothing, but his eyes are suspiciously not looking at Harry, which means that was probably pretty ridiculous.

He huffs. “Is that you wanting more paperwork, Sirius? Is that what I am hearing right now?”

Lupin pats the man’s long, dirty hair all through his impassioned pleas for mercy. Bloodaxe looks like he fiercely regrets ever letting these degenerates into his life.

Harry outlines his plan briefly. Sirius cannot stop laughing. No, really, for ten minutes now. Lupin has a look of wry acceptance, of a man so used to rolling with whatever crazy scheme he is pulled into, that this is really just par for the course.

“What—it’s a good plan!” Harry lets a little whine enter his voice, his magic unfurling slightly. (He’s getting them acclimated to the darker shades of his magic slowly, but so far neither wizard has noticed. Sirius, of course, is a Dark wizard born and bred. Lupin is a dark creature. They should both be well-comfortable with dark magic.)

“It is a fine plan, pup.” Says Lupin comfortingly. “A bit—unusual, perhaps, but no worse for it.”

“See—see Sirius—would you stop laughing—“

“I—I’m sorry pup—I—ahahah—I just—My mother, may she rot for all eternity—ahaha—“

“Don’t mind him.” Says Lupin who is swiftly becoming Moony in Harry’s eyes. “He just has many complicated feelings about his family in general and his mother in particular. And what you’re proposing—well. It’s not something she would have approved of. Now, can you be a lamb, and ask our Goblin Overlords for permission to cast briefly?”

Harry’s lips twitch slightly.

“Dear Account Manager and Lady Account Manager, would you mind terribly if my Godfather cast something briefly?”

Slit looks at him, her ocean of exasperation hitting him with such force that he loses his breath for a minute. “Do not call me Lady Account Manager, wizardling. I am Slit.” Like fuck will he call the Lady Slit. It is too evocative of grievous bodily harm she looks to be very willing to unleash. He might as well call her Crunch. “And yes, your Godfather may cast as long as his magic is not directed at us, or is harmful in any way.”

“Excellent.” Hums Lupin, before he conjures a chaise lounge, just in time for it to catch Sirius who flops from his chair in laughter. “Blacks,” he says with an air of a man who has obtained this knowledge through gruesome battle. “Are, as a rule, very emotional. He will calm down eventually. Best leave him be, and continue blindly toppling over millennia worth of tradition.”

Harry looks him over once, twice, three times. “You’re alright,” he says.

Lupin blinks, a bit surprised, before settling into fond but grieving melancholy. “Thank you, pup.”

“Now,” Harry says as he turns to the two Goblins. “Where were we? Ah, yes, we were finalizing joining our two Houses into one?” He ignores Sirius’s desperate wheeze with aplomb. “Now, do you think the Wizengamot would let us rename the whole thing, or do we stick with hyphenating them? Because, let me tell you, I have an idea—“

Sirius’s magic, Dark as the night sky but still inexplicably merry, blankets the room, and Harry’s own Darkness rises to meet it. Look at that? His magic had never felt—bashful? Yeah. Bashful is the right term. Sirius’s magic engulfs it with a merry crackle, and another part of Harry’s bleeding soul heals. Huh.

Though Sirius and Harry were well on their way to declaring their new House be named Lily, Lily-dragon or Marauder, Lupin’s suggestion is still grudgingly accepted. There will be time later for such things. For now, they have two Wizengamot seats in their name, and that is a valuable advantage to have.

But a Black-Potter alliance is in the pipes, which sends Sirius in another fit of giggles, and this time it’s infectious enough that Harry joins him. It’s just so fucking ridiculous—the entirety of Houses of Black and Potter are one fourteen-year-old Hogwarts dropout and one fugitive from justice. What a grand alliance they make.

There is still one large elephant in the room, however, which will need to be addressed, before they become officially allies. “Honored Account Managers, would you mind if we call it a day? We have a few personal things to discuss.”

Bloodaxe looks to be absolutely thrilled to see the back of them, but Slit spears him with a gimlet look. “You are the Black spokeswizard now. You do not leave this Bank until those accounts are gleaming. Are we understood?”

Bloodaxe raises an eyebrow, and Harry realizes it’s time to skedaddle. He motions for Sirius and Moony to leave, trying his best to keep his movements as discrete as possible.

“My wizardling will finish his Potter accounts first. He is Lord Potter first, and Black Proxy second.”

“House of Black is an older and bigger house than House Black. Plus, he already finished most of your accounts, while mine languish in desolation.”

“Now listen here, you bag of rats—“

“Go-go-go.”

—

“I’m not going back, you know.” He says once they’ve reached Harry’s room - which might yet be too small for three fo them. “Not ever. They can all burn in hell. They deserve what Voldemort will do to them.”

Sirius looks at him with too-young-too-old eyes and barks a bitter laugh, but Lupin is a bit taken aback. “Can you really stay away? You-know-who killed your parents—tried to kill you—“

“Voldemort never kept me in the cupboard. Voldemort never beat me or starved me or forced me to battle a mother dragon. He never lied to me. He has never betrayed his responsibility to me. No. Do not force me to choose sides, because you will not like which side I will end up on.”

Lupin chews on that for a long moment, but Sirius flips an airy hand, every inch the indolent Lordling, never mind the ratty hair and clothes.

“I fought for Prongs, wherever he would lead me. Of course, I would do the same for Prongslet. And it’s not like there is a good side to be had, Moony. The way I see it, the Light is sending people to Azkaban without trials, children back to abusive homes, and is legislating werewolves out of existence. Prongslet might as well choose which poison we drink. We owe him that much.”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to chew on the complicated boulder of emotions that weighs his stomach down. Wow. Okay. He didn’t expect condemnation, not really, but certainly not wholehearted support.

“You’re right, Pads.” Lupin sighs. “When you’re right, you’re right. Alright. So we—what—fight for Voldemort now?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We fight for ourselves. And maybe a few dragons.”

“Wha—,” Sirius raises his head, with a laugh bubbling up his throat. “Dragons, what Dragons? You haven’t mentioned any Dragons, Prongslet, other than the one you set on Krum.”

Sirius pauses, obviously waiting for Harry's sputtering denial. When he doesn't get it, he stands up further, gaping a little. “You didn’t actually set the Dragon on Krum, did you? Because, let me tell you, that’s some bad sportsmanship.”

Lupin’s eyes gleam with unholy hellfire. “Well said, Pads. Setting dangerous creatures on unsuspecting children is bad sportsmanship.”

Sirius rolls his eyes but looks about a word away from transforming into Padfoot, so Harry jumps in. “I didn’t set anyone on anything. You know I can speak to Dragons, yes?" A pause. "No? Really?”

Moony clears his throat, with a slight blush. “Now that you mention it, yes, it is obvious. Dragons would speak Parseltongue. Is it all reptiles, though?”

“Eh,” says Harry, see-sawing his hand a little. “It’s hit and miss. Most reptiles don't really have to say anything worth hearing. They don’t think in abstract concepts you know? The more magical the animal, the more vibrant their thought process becomes. Parsel is a magical language, it has nothing to do with the actual sounds produced by snakes or dragons.”

Sirius looks like he’s getting solidly bored, while Moony looks like every other academic Harry has ever seen. Abort, abort, before you are swept away in the minutiae. “It doesn’t matter.” He says firmly. “Point is, when they shoved me into the Arena with the Horntail, I already knew I wouldn't fight her. I was hoping to bribe her, or convince her to give me the fake-egg. But.” He pauses, a little choked still. It was an emotional experience, and he isn’t even sure if he should be sharing it. But - these two are Lily’s family practically more than Harry is. “She—the Horntail. She sounds like Mum. Like Lily.”

The more or less cheerful atmosphere drops into sub-zero temperatures.

“Yeah, I know, a kick in the teeth, right? On the surface, she had this hoarse, raspy roar that terrifies you out of existence. But underneath, in Parsel? Could be mum’s sister. Sounds more like mum than her real sister does, actually.”

Sirius inhales sharply, the sound rattling in his chest, and Moony grabs the shorter wizard and drags him into a cuddle without averting his eyes from Harry.

“Anyway, yeah, I lost the plot. They chained her up, put a collar around her neck and left her to defend her eggs. In an Arena full of wizards who would cheer her death. So yeah, I destroyed her chains, and she let me go as payment. Everything that happened next is her doing. She released the other mothers, and they escaped but.” He inhales, gathering his composure. This bit is just so fucked up. “One, a Chinese Fireball. Krum had blinded her, and she destroyed her own eggs in the panic. When Horntail released her, well. She took her revenge.”

“Holy fucking shit, kid.” Says Sirius. “Holy fucking shit.”

“Yeah. So that was it for me. I snapped then and there, and I am happy to remain snapped. No more wizards for me. From now on, its us and the Dragons, and whatever friends we make along the way. But I’m done with them. To do that, to a creature miles more intelligent than us, that lives for hundreds and hundreds of years, just for a game—that’s it. That’s it. I’d rather go with Voldemort.”

Chapter Text

Wizards, in general, don’t have much of an insight into Goblin numbers and the scale of their operations. While it is known they run one of a handful of Banks around the world, the nature of Magical Space was such that even mapping out territory of the planet is a fool’s errand. How much land the Goblin Nation has warded off is anyone’s guess. And, of course, same holds true for the underground. Magical space can be folded, stretched, and scattered. It can be manipulated in infinite ways. (Up until someone makes a mistake and collapses fuck knows how many matrices, with everything and anyone inside.)

Point is, while Harry and Sirius are delighted to hand of the running of their estates to the Goblin Nation, Bloodaxe and Slit have—reservations.

“Understand, children,” says Slit, with what passes for patience. “The Potter accounts are one thing. They are comparatively small, and without much pull. The Black accounts are not. You will not find a richer family in the Isles—in Europe. You must be careful.”

Harry shares a long look with Padfoot. When that fails to clear anything up, he looks at Moony instead. (Moony, Harry is starting to realize, is something of a spy behind the ranks of the Adults. Sure, he looks like one and knows how they think, but underneath the tweed surface, he is just as cracked as them.)

“What she means, is that you should be wary of putting too much power into the hands of someone you don’t know very well,” Moony says. “And she is being very nice about it.” He adds, as an afterthought. “It would be more profitable for Gringotts to swindle you out of all your land and gold.”

Harry chews on this for a moment. He’s not stupid. He knows he is being reckless with a lot of money. Money that is his based on some truly weird laws that make no sense to him. Inheritance law as a whole is a strange bit of idealism, that he is simply not accustomed to. Being paid for work, that makes sense. Taking money from the weak, that’s yeah immoral, but straightforward. But inheriting money from people he’s never met, based on some nebulous concept of bloodlines—that’s where it starts getting weird.

“You don’t mind if we discuss you like you’re not here?” He asks Slit. Better be safe with that one. She’s not here to play games.

“Not at all.” She says and flicks her ears a bit. “I have plenty of future-precedent to write, just for the Black-Potter alliance. You talk it out, children.”

“I figure the Goblin Nation can’t cut us out completely, Moony. I figure they would have already if they could afford it. The humans, they won’t do business with a purely Goblin-owned enterprise. They need the veneer of a Pureblood name, the illusion of a human-run operation.”

Slit hums, a pleased little feline trill of agreement.

Moony looks at him for a long moment. “You confuse me sometimes, pup. I can’t tell what it is you actually want to accomplish?”

Harry shrugs. “I want to turn what I have into what I want. I have a lot of ill-earned fame, a lot of gold I do not think I have the right to, and a lot of people who want to use me. I want to live a peaceful, safe life, with my people. Currently, that’s Sirius, you, and however many Dragons I can smuggle into our lands.”

“And this—with Goblins—is?”

He thinks for a moment, trying to funnel his bursts of inspiration into concrete ideas. “I figure that even if I spend the year studying, I am still only one kid. I need a team of people who actually want to do this stuff, who are interested in the process. I haven’t met any humans who I trust, who would want to do it—you certainly don’t, and Pads would run for the hills if I so much as mentioned an investment portfolio.” Padfoot barks loudly from his prone position at the fire-place. “So - Goblins. They know the theory, they know the market. They earn part of the profit, even though I think they should really get a bigger cut. They aren’t interested in taking over completely because they don’t want a full-scale war with the wizards. It’s as close to a win-win as I can imagine.”

“You’re missing one thing, wizardling,” says Slit absently. “Goblins are just as susceptible to greed as humans are. Greed is not a rational emotion. If you give too much, too quickly, someone somewhere will try taking it all, even if we all lose in the process.”

“Right.” Harry says, grimacing a little. “Yeah, I did forget about that.”

“Why don’t we then try the experiment with the Potter accounts,” says Moony. “It will need a couple of years to get off the ground, and that’s in peace-time. War is not good for the economy, real estate or otherwise.”

“Very true.” Hums Slit. “In fact, I would go so far as to say it is in your best interest for the war to be as brief as possible.”

Harry swallows. “Yeah. Well. Tough. I am a kid. Let the Adults fight it out.”

“Hmmm.” Says Slit. “In any case, the question is rather immaterial. The Dark Sect hasn’t even resurrected their leader yet. The Light Sect is without clear leadership at all, what with their figurehead escaping, and their real leader reluctant to step forward. There is time, still, to prepare.”

He doesn't really like this phrasing. It feels like the argument is changing around him. More and more the question becomes not if he will fight, but when and how (and whom) he will fight.

“Chin up, pup.” Says Moony. “The Lady is right. We have more pressing things to discuss. Such as Sirius’ trial.”

Slit scoffs, still not taking her eyes of her writing. “House of Black has a phalanx of law-wizards and barristers in their employ. You don’t even need one of our Arguers.”

Harry shrugs a little, disappointed. “I was kind of hoping you would do it, if I’m honest.”

“I don’t go above-ground if I can help it, wizardling. I would do it, perhaps, if there was no other way. Since Lord Black has a perfect serviceable shark-pit of experts, I do not need to.”

Yeah okay, fair enough.

Slit proves her word—and her worth. Underneath her iron fist, the wrinkles in their plan, such as it is, iron out without too much input needed. She organizes a set of discrete wizards to come and design a healing regiment for Harry, Sirius and, by extension, Moony. The poor souls were wrapped up in secrecy vows so tightly, neither of the three fears any exposure from that end. With the initial batch of paperwork done, their only orders are to sleep, eat and relax as much as they can. The Goblins have decided to get them as healthy as possible in the shortest amount of time, and they are merciless.

The law firm employed by the Black family has seen some pretty messed up stuff, over the years— they don’t need to obscure anything. Slit organizes a set of two representatives from the firm to meet with them, and discuss how Sirius’ case will be handled. A set of twins, with visibly Japanese origins, dressed head to toe in steel-blue floo in on a particularly dreary Tuesday. They make for an intimidating pair, slim and identical, with cold, calculating gazes that didn't invite anything but brisk professionalism. (Sirius explained that, in this case, his family's policy was to employ the best, not because they feared they would need them as such, but because they didn't want the other side to have them.)

Yoichi and Masashi almost immediately give up on any real collaboration with Harry or Sirius. The two men instead turn to Slit and Bloodaxe—and, to a lesser extent, Moony. They are confident enough to recommend not to bother with bribing the Wizengamot. The political situation, they explain, has shifted dramatically. The Ministry is in shambles, Fudge has been laughed out of office—first for his mishandling of the Triwizard Tournament, and then his very public loss of the Boy-who-lived. The Dark Purebloods are capitalizing on the chaos, but they are paralyzed by infighting. Dumbledore has, more or less, come out even. He was publicly against the Triwizard Tournament, and was overridden by Crouch and Fudge, but was also the one to give the Boy-who-lived to abusive Muggles.

The thing that Harry gets from all that is that the Wizarding world is doing what it always does. Order of the day is finding a scapegoat. As for fixing the problems, well. That's for the nebulous 'them' to do.

The two law-wizards are confident they will gut the Ministry for their mishandling of Lord Black's case. They require little but Sirius' sworn affidavit that he had never received a trial, a hearing or a single chance to argue his innocence. Since it would be very convenient for the Ministry to hush it up by organizing an appropriate accident, it's best that Sirius lays low in Gringotts for the time being.

Slit chats amiably with the two, as amiably as Harry has ever seen her. They are peas in a pod, these three. He imagines they would get on well with Voldemort. Or Tom Riddle, at the very least. 

Bloodaxe has been absent more often than not. To be fair, Harry is (somehow) a more troublesome client than Sirius is. Bloodaxe had to report to the higher-ups, or the lower-downs as the case may be, about several outlandish requests. First, there’s Harry's wish to purchase the Dragons from Gringotts, then his insistence that the war is in the pipes, and finally the decision not to fight on either side. The Dark's chances are, even to Harry's untrained eye, much better. The loss of their sacrificial lamb has hurt the Light substantially. Now they need to get Harry back, which won't happen, and failing that, find another sucker. Which would surely expose how arbitrary their initial choice was.

Harry concerns himself with a. Food; b. Keeping Sirius's spirits up; c. Plans to transport the Dragons to Potter land and d. Vague ideas about the Animagus transformation.

January comes and goes, and the Goblins keep them and feed them with care. While the three, as a rule, don't go out of the bank, their rooms have been upgraded to a slightly bigger bedroom, connected to an even bigger balcony. Certainly big enough for Padfoot to run around in. The Goblins, via Harry, politely inform Moony that he will either take Wolfsbane or leave and never return. Harry had, by that point, already launched his campaign at getting Moony to be his Majordomo. (Not only because the title was beyond awesome). So far Moony has proven to be a tough nut to crack, but at the very least the man could accept that keeping both Harry and Sirius alive will take some doing. His chances drop down into single digits if he is not even in the same building as they are for months.

It's fun. Harry's Darkness proves to be more than the figment of his imagination. The Healers start making Concerned Adult noises very briefly until alarms start going off in the back of Harry's mind and he throws the mother of all tantrums to get them to leave. The Healers escape with their lives, and the next batch is warned any talk of removing anything from anyone is strictly forbidden. The Healers are there to fix their ruined bodies and suggest some calming techniques. Nothing else.

Without the strict need for secrecy, and Harry's determination to indulge himself and his magic to the extreme, some of the violent edges bleed out of him. Both parts of him are still violent and quick to react with lethal force, but more and more they learn to coexist peacefully. Harry grows meaner, the Darkness mellows out and they meet somewhere in the middle. Or thereabouts.

Moony doesn't really get it, bless him. Which, yeah. Moony's internal balance consists of little more than intense loathing. He keeps the Wolf chained down as tightly as he can and then when the wolf comes out, it does it’s even best to chew itself to death. Wolfsbane just makes the matter somehow even worse. Instead of chaining it down, Remus is actively poisoning half of his being.

Harry tries to bring it up once or twice or ninety-three times, but Moony is unmoved. He can be a stubborn bastard, as evidenced by endless pain he is willing to put himself through just because he decided that was the best way to handle this. There is time, still. If Harry's magic has tried to give the poor wolf a fond tickle, well.

Sirius, on the other hand, is going through a lot. There was always, according to Moony, a lot of anger in him. Apparently what the Dursley's did to Harry is a drop in a bucket of all the fucked up shit Walburga and Orion Black have done to Sirius and his little brother Regulus. Azkaban, as it happens, hasn't helped Sirius's rage issues. What it did do, is teach him that outward explosions aren't practical. There are only so many times he could have flung himself at the walls after all. No, Azkaban turned his rage inwards. Which is a very dangerous place for a magically-gifted Black to be.

So they worked on some healthy ways of expressing his anger, without levelling a city block. He was a ridiculously talented man, as it happens. It was just a matter of finding an art-form his fucked up family hasn't already ruined. The piano was out, and his shaky fine motor control ruled out most of the string-instruments. His voice was fucked to hell, and writing just made him more morose, not less.

Which brought them neatly to fencing. Admittedly—not the healthiest possible outlet. Definitely a close cousin of blood-sports. On the other hand, Sirius is not only good at it, but the Goblins had connections in that specific arena. Tutors were quietly brought in to help the Mad Black develop his atrophied muscles. A (definitely unlicensed) therapist is paid to sit in and encourage him to try and emote as much as possible while fighting. As it happens, a Black in a halfway-berserker rage is a pretty bad opponent to face, even if he is barely trained.

It works, somewhat. Sirius flourishes physically, at the very least. His magic grows stronger and settles a little. Bit by bit, he claws together some sort of balance with himself. It's shaky, still, but he spends less and less time as Padfoot as the time progresses.

A resounding success, Harry thinks, as February inches into March, and Moony starts making some pretty determined noises about Harry's education. The Goblins unfortunately agree. They don't want the public face of the biggest inter-department project this century to be a laughing stock without his OWL's.

Harry recuses himself completely from any discussions about scheduling, tutors, timing and so on. As far as he's concerned, if the tutors aren't able to make the material interesting, he's just going to ignore them until they go away. What was the point of having an independent fortune, if you had to sit in boring lessons with Adults?

Moony, well-aware of what he has to work with, changes track. He purchases all required texts, and a good few more, and builds Harry a beautiful study room. Then, he convinces the Goblins—through some truly hilarious third-person negotiations—to let Harry help them in their work. The caveat is that he has to use Magic—and no Parsel—and only ever the one branch. One week he can use Charms, the other week Potions, the third week Transfigurations, and so on and so forth.

As far as pedagogy goes, Harry bows to Moony's genius. He's hooked. Practical research has always been a joy, and having his hands free only made him want to succeed more. Sirius gets hooked too, and the two of them spend well over the requisite eight hours tinkering with arithmancy for a charm they need for a specific task.

March turns into April which turns into May. Harry grows a good inch, to a resounding 5ft2. Sirius puts on about ten pounds of pure muscle, and everything from his hair to his skin shines like, well, a rich aristocrat that can afford the best specialists to remove signs of Azkaban from his skin, if not his soul.

As for  Moony, well. Other than a jump in confidence, the most notable change in the werewolf is the change in posture. He stops signalling harmlessness so relentlessly. Now he lets his shoulders settle into their natural, intimidating posture. His voice shifted from hushed to calm. Definitely more subtle changes than the other two, but no less significant for it. Moony is, after all, a fairly subtle creature.

Both of the Account Managers have made it clear their stay at Gringotts is drawing to a close. Everything about this situation was novel for everyone involved. Two heirs to a Noble House, both of them last ones of their line, and more than willing to throw gold and power at Goblins as long as they keep them hidden.

"That is enough." Snaps Slit one day, around the third week of April, while Harry is trying to wheedle another three months of Gringotts time. "Once you children get Lord Black declared innocent, you will go to Castle Black. The Potter Wards may have been broken, but the Black Wards won't be by anything short of a week-long assault by the ICW. Also unlike Potter Lands, Black Lands are very much unplottable. You will be safe there, you and your draconic friends."

"But what about my internship?" Harry may be aware this battle is good and lost, but that doesn't mean he won't try to squeeze as much as he can from the Lady. And he likes his work here. Sirius likes the work here. Even Moony does - he has almost managed to get the Goblins to talk to him without grimacing as if in pain.

"You will discuss all that and more at your upcoming meeting with Head of the Gringotts Clan, Pax, on the seventh. Best believe a lot of your questions go well-beyond me, and I am the most senior Account Manager in the British branch."

Not for the first time Harry bemoans the bizarre naming rituals of Goblin-folk. Do they really expect him to call the Goblin equivalent of royalty by the name Pax?

"Fine," he says. "Be that way."

"Indeed, I will."

Chapter Text

Goblins, Harry is learning, are just as phenotypically diverse as the Humans are. Even more so, being so magical. Head of the Gringotts Clan, called Pax, is a Goblin of deep olive skin. They wear a two-piece business suit and sport a full head of shortly-cropped black hair. Their ears are triangular like Slit's, except more pointed. Less feline and more fae. To wrap it all up, they wear tinted eye-glasses, just like Slit and Bloodaxe, except hers are dark-red.

"Greetings, Lord Potter." They say. Their voice is just as ambiguous as the rest of them. Male or female or anything in-between. "We have many things to discuss. Come, sit, and we will talk"

Harry spends a long moment fiercely regretting everything. "Thank you, Clan Leader." He pauses for a bit, gauging their reaction. Seems acceptable. Onwards! "Thank you for seeing me."

"You are, by what I'm told, a very useful mover of things, Lord Potter. You have moved the stagnant Potter accounts. Same is true for the Black accounts. Now you propose to move the Dragons that have been a drain on our resources."

Their speech patterns are a bit odd, but more than that, they talk slowly, measuring each word and making unintuitive pauses. It is very hypnotizing, actually.

"Dragons are something like allies, to me." One dragon is something like an ally, but who's counting. "I am invested in their well-being on a personal level. As for the other stuff, well. Your folk have been good to me when I did nothing to deserve it. At first, I wanted to settle the debt. Then it became clear helping you helps me, and here we are."

The Clan Leader inclines their head. "Very well argued. It is a shame more Lords do not follow in your footsteps."

"Thank-you?" He says, very aware of how awkward it sounds.

"Moving on." They say, with a brisk tone. "How do you plan to transport your dragons?"

Well, shit. "A portkey?" He throws out, hoping but aware the chances are low.

"Dragons are too magical to be transported by such prosaic method." 

Well, then, there's really only the one thing. "I would try Parselmagic? If I convince them to listen to me and to cooperate, perhaps I can tap into their magic to help me make the Portkey? It's either that or I try to release them to--I apologize, I am not certain what the view from my rooms is." Hold on. "How did you get them in?"

"Through the front door." They say, dry as death. "Regulations back then were much looser, I understand. But. I bring this up for a reason. If you would allow us--Gringotts Clan of the Goblin Nation--to tunnel through to Black Ancestral Property--and let us keep the volume of the tunnel as our own sovereign territory, we will build the path free of charge."

He opens his mouth to agree, and his Darkness slaps him across the face. "This sounds like something I should talk over with my lawyers, begging pardon," he says a little sheepishly. "But I'm sure we can come to some sort of agreement. You want the Dragons gone, I want the Dragons free and happy - it sounds pretty straightforward to me."

Their lips twitch slightly, but they chuff in an approving manner. "Indeed. Now, my policy has been to give my Account Managers free rein over the accounts they preside over. It is a very rare wizard that will go off the beaten path to the extent you have. As both Bloodaxe and Slit must have warned you, the Black accounts are much too big and well known for us to run. Setting aside any potential mismanagement by one of mine, the Wizards would be after us in a heartbeat. I will prevent that by any method, Lord Potter. I will not have another Wizard/Goblin war on my hands."

"Right." Harry thinks for a long moment, going through what he has spoken about with Moony. "Well, the problem is this. The Black Lord is in recovery. I can honestly say he will not see his accounts as anything but a burden for a good few years. I am fourteen and also in recovery. I am simply not equipped to manage this level of business responsibility. Then we have Moony -- Remus Lupin -- whose main objective is to keep both of us alive. He is by far the most equipped between the three of us for this, and even he would be hard-pressed to really care about money at this point. That's it. I have no-one else I can trust even a little."

The Clan Leader leans back in their seat, watching him closely. They would always have been inscrutable--their features and body language are too alien to begin deciphering. The sun-glasses certainly don't help.

"I understand your position, Lord Potter. I will think on it. For now, it is best to finalize the paperwork for the arrangements you have already made, and leave things to settle some. Your experiment with the Potter properties is watched by many in the Goblin Nation. If it ends up a success you would make history."

Harry can't think of a thing he wants less than to make history, but saying so would be impolitic. "Thank-you."

"Alright. I have the shape of things. Expect another meeting around September. Good-day."

"Thank you for your time, Clan Leader."

Their chuffs of amusement, follow him out the door. What an odd Goblin.

Harry returns just in time to see the moment the tailor the Goblins hired has cottoned on who exactly he is creating the dress-robes for. The poor wizard is terrified, petrified by fear, and Sirius is occupied by pestering Moony to weave flowers in his hair.

"Pads, this is not the time." Says Moony with regal patience. "You're wasting the good-wizard's time."

"He's fine Moony, I'll just pay him more. But flowers, dearest--how would he know which robes I need, if he doesn't have the complete picture?"

"You will not go to your trial with flowers in your hair--"

"Oh you just watch me. I ordered a crate of very Kneazles to be released when I'm proclaimed innocent, and let me tell you, Zonko's owl order catalogue is just as efficient as it once was."

"Are we terrorizing the Ministry?" Asks Harry. This is exactly the type of conversation he wants to have. Moony groans theatrically, but smoothes a fond hand down his hair anyways. Harry beams at them both, before turning what he has come to think of as 'dead eyes' to the tailor.

The tailor who has absolutely recognized the missing Boy-who-lived.

"Only after the trial." Says Sirius, rather reasonably, all told. "Yoichi and Masashi would probably feed us to an ant colony if we tried anything before. They don't like to lose."

"Cool." He says. "So,  dress-robes huh? You don't happen to be Mr Moss?"

"I am, Mr Potter." Says Moss. For all that the man is clearly terrified, he keeps on a passable font of professionalism.

"Huh." He turns to his Godfathers. "He's alright. He made my body-armour, which was rather good of him, and my dress robes for the emancipation hearing. Top-notch, and not a peep told to the Prophet."

That may have been a mistake. The poor man was intimidated by Sirius ignoring him completely. He was in no way prepared to deal with being the focus of his attention.

"Merry meet, Master Moss," says Sirius. Harry, with the benefit of prior knowledge, knows that smile is as close as Siri can get to friendly right now. Which is an even split between a threat and a proposition.

"Merlin wept." Says Moony, but hangs back with Harry. There is really no stopping this particular broom collision. The tailor--Moss--pales and blushes simultaneously, and does his even best to answer Siri's questions. Sirius, bless him, finds the whole thing hilarious, and doubles down. "There goes his day. How was your meeting, pup?"

"Eh," he seesaws his hand. "Didn't really cover much. The Clan Leader is terrifying beyond belief, and I barely stopped myself from signing over an abstract amount of Black Land to Goblins. Other than that, I think they wanted to get my measure, more or less."

Moony fusses over his collar a little bit, and Harry closes his eyes in bliss. What a nice feeling. "It's not surprising that they wanted to suss you out. If nothing else than to make sure Bloodaxe didn't orchestrate this whole thing by pulling your strings."

Harry huffs in laughter. "Bloodaxe would never. I've just made more work for him."

They pause and take in Siri's weirdly steep level of escalation. "Hey, Moony, is Pads going to shag this guy right here? Should we, like, leave?"

Moony sighs, but there is a solid laugh under there. "I yearn to say no. But just in case, why don't we go to your study, and you explain the problems you had with the latest version of the petrification potion?"

"Oh--oh--Moony, it was brilliant--we somehow added an animation component--"

Even with the Barett, Hino & Mesbah law-firm tearing through the Ministry and Wizengamot without mercy, the trial can't be scheduled earlier than June. Their defence is simple, straightforward, and needs no rehearsal. More to the point, the Goblins, in the interest of getting those damn humans out of their Bank, have smoothed the way for the Law-firm to get instant access to funds. They opened a special vault for it and everything.

The firm goes all out. And why wouldn't they? The British ministry had managed by all accounts to piss off practically every single demographic in the Isles. Including, somehow, the people profiting off their incompetence. Barett, Hino & Mesbah are no different. When provided with an innocent client, practically unlimited amount of gold, and a chance to wreak havoc, well. They do not disappoint. Sirius is bullied into accepting a private security team to keep him 'safe' between leaving the Bank and the trial. They purchase a memory-projector, for maximum impact--now both the Wizengamot and the press will be able to watch the memories.

The hassle around memories ended up swallowing three entire days. They couldn't extract the things yet--the protocol of memory extraction for legal purposes was expectedly involved. It needs to be done by an Auror and under strict supervision by Chief Warlock and the Head of the DMLE to ensure everything is up to par.  Choosing which memories to extract though, that was exhausting. Harry can't blame them--ideally, they would focus on Sirius more. Dementors, however, made sure Siri had comparatively very few memories to choose from. That he fixated on his innocence is the only thing that saved their case. While he retained practically not a single happy memory about his family and very few from his Hogwarts years, he recalls in crystal clarity every single event that led to his imprisonment. Including the Aurors who took him in, the Obliviators that reported him, and Crouch who stopped by his cell to order his immediate transferal to Azkaban. They might not have the memories yet, but they have the names and dates, and best believe the Firm hired a team of private investigators to gather dirt on every single person involved in the whole mess.

Harry can't really help much -- nor can he stay out of it completely. His hands are tied, so to speak. If things were different, he'd be voting the Potter seat. Since House of Potter is in an official alliance with House of Black, he has to recuse himself from voting.

Augusta Longbottom agreed to vote his seat. Bloodaxe contacted the Account Manager of the famously Light Pureblood House, and she agreed. It is no secret, that the trial of the century is about to commence. Their lawyers have been raising hell for weeks. Lady Longbottom might not know what the trial is, but she should recognize the law-firm if nothing else. More important than that, she is her own counsel in these matters. Neither faith nor loyalty will change that witch's mind, once she has set her course.

Day of the trial comes--and the primping is more or less finished. They are scheduled to leave the Bank at 17.30, and make a splashy entrance at the Ministry by 17.45--the trial starts at 18.00.

Dressed to the nines, Sirius is, well. A man bred to be gorgeous. Blacks pruned their pedigrees very, very carefully--and what little variation still remains, well. What's a blood-ritual here and there between friends? Looks are more or less a polite fiction among the Purebloods--just look at Narcissa Malfoy. She was no less a Black than her sisters were. And yet the preparations for her Marriage ceremony included a swift removal of the wild black mane and hooded deep-set eyes. Newly-wed Narcissa Malfoy had blue eyes and straight blonde hair--and woe betide anyone who thinks to mention it.

Harry has never felt his dubious height more. His robes are wonderful, it can't be argued. Cut in a more Asian fashion, the drape and style of his open robe somehow make him look lean instead of unhealthy. In a bit of daring, Harry wears the Black red, and Siri wears Potter orange--only accents of course, but the statement is there for anyone who cares to look.

Moony--being a Dark Creature--can't come.

"Are you sure you won't marry me, Moony?" Asks Harry, not for the first time. He's joking--mostly--but the first time he raised the topic, he had to endure three and a half hours of sex-and-consent talk.

It never fails to make the werewolf roll his eyes, or wring a smile out of Siri though.

"It's not like you're not half of my available dating pool," he says, quite reasonably. "You and Siri are the sum total of the humans I trust. There are the Goblin-folk, I suppose, but they are not likely to go for wizards."

Siri's chuckles drown out Moony's sigh, so job well done. "Chin-up, pup. Who says you have to date humans? Sure, the Goblins would be tricky, but there are other Beings and Creatures that would make wonderful partners, and that aren't as exclusive as you would think."

"Oh?" Asks Harry,  attention going from zero to a hundred in a second flat. He was joking--mostly--but really? "I didn't know that was a thing."

"It's not," says Moony, a bit dryly. "Pads is just special."

Sirius flaps his hand airly. "Oh, tosh. Don't listen to him, pup. I've dated, goodness, at least four other species. And that's not counting the hybrids."

Moony sighs, a bit longsuffering, but smiles at Harry with a fair bit of encouragement. "While what Pads was doing with aforementioned Gelntlecreatures can be hardly construed as dating, he nonetheless has a point. It's not spoken about in the Hogwarts-educated upper-classes, but quite a few creatures are physically compatible with humans. Vampires and werewolves are an obvious example. Then there are the Veela, Dryads and Nymphs. Jengu, Naga and Lamia, if we were to go outside of the Isles. And that's just from the top of my head."

"Don't forget the Centaurs." Adds Sirius.

"Right, sorry," Says Moony, with an apologetic smile. "The Centaurs as well. Speaking of, do you plan on visiting the Herd after you're a free man?"

"Merlin," Says Sirius. "I suppose I will have to. But 'Lei will skin me alive. "

"Never mind her," says Moony. "Cesi will set his mother on you, and then what will you do?"

The two exchange a fond but heavy look.  Harry can kind of assume what this is about, even though his mind is stalling a little on the concept of interspecies romances. Especially with centaurs, Merlin wept. "Sorry, pup." Says Sirius. "Never mind us."

"Hey, no." Says Harry, admittedly a little dazed. "This is important info for me to have. It's possible I will resolve my issues with humans at some point, but not for a good few years. It's good to know I won't have to be celibate my entire life. So--Centarus?"

"Oh, yeah." Says Siri. "I had a phase in Hogwarts, around what--year seven? Your parents started dating, and Remi was seeing McKinnon, and yeah, I  fell into a relationship with a centaur couple, Orelei and Cesien. We broke it off after I became more and more involved in the war."

Harry looks right past the deliberately cheery tone and notes both the genuine distress yawning in his dogfather's eyes and the empathy in Moony's. Moreover, just the fact he remembers the couple at all means it contained a fair bit of pain, too.

"Centaurs, you say." He says, but lets it be for now. The trial is about to start soon. But. These two, they are the first and only times Siri has so much alluded to a proper relationship. Centaurs are long-lived too. There's a fair chance those two are still around. Something to keep in mind.

Chapter Text

Castle Black, as it happens, is somehow fancier than Hogwarts.

No, really. It's true. About a fourth of the size of Hogwarts, it was built out of some sort of obsidian, and it gleamed. The architecture was daring, but comparatively very tame--all clean lines and understated elegance. Not at all jiving with what he had come to expect from the House of Black.

Without the Family Magic, the House Elves have long since perished. Not that, ah, acquiring House Elves was ever really a viable option. The thought of a magical creature waiting on them makes Harry want to stab his eyes out. As for Siri, he has an irrational hatred of House Elves, all a part of his Miserable Childhood That They Do Not Talk About.

A whole month goes by, and the three of them don't do anything more strenuous than mess around and clean the Castle from top to bottom. Several creatures have free access to the Floo—Harry has made himself enough of a pest that he managed to convince their Account Managers to visit for a coffee every now and again. Bloodaxe and Slit visit semi-regularly, which, really, makes the whole thing worth it.

Siri and Pax and Lord Barett spend a whole day sequestered in Gringotts and emerge with an agreement everyone likes. The Goblins will, indeed, tunnel through to Black Lands, and will transport the Dragons that way. In return, they will hold sovereignty for the land bellow a hundred-meter mark and will have no mining-rights other than the soil and rock they directly dig through. It's probably more involved than that, but that's the gist of it as Harry understands. Pax started visiting, after that. Harry is pretty certain they are just curious—and mildly suspicious.

Since Siri is one of nature's show-dogs, he is mostly useless in house-work. Harry has decided he will never cook for anyone ever again, and Moony has discovered the libraries and barely lets himself be dragged out for any reason under the sun. It’s clear some measures need to be taken so that they don’t expire from sheer irresponsibility. Their resident Adult spy—Moony—thus spreads his Adult wings and contacts some of his associates in the Magical Kingdom of Russia. It takes some wrangling and a couple of truly involved rituals, but Castle Black now houses it's own Domovoy, by the name of Zorya. It helps some, although Zorya is a protector by every available metric. No chores get done, but they all sleep easier, and the already thick feel of magic blanketing the castle grows that much more complex.

Zorya's arrival marks the beginning of a new chapter. Word goes out in certain non-human circles, of two sort-of-kind-of humans and a werewolf with more money and land than they know what to do with and a phobia of humans. Two Lords and a werewolf walk into a Castle and all that. A Kobold family of three moves in from Heidelberg, Germany—father Kai with two daughters Elke and Antje take over the upkeep of the castle. Ascribing gender to shapeshifting spirits is something of a lost cause, but since they choose gendered shapes, the appellations stick. A family of Monacielli from Naples moves into the lower levels without much fuss. The first sign of a pack of Kitsune that made their homes at the outer parts of the castle is a newly erected shrine to Inari-sama.

Harry worried for a while there if Zorya would take exception to all these new additions to her (their?) territory. Thankfully, either the beings cleared it with the Domovoy before arrival, or she didn't mind, because the harmony of the castle is never threatened. The spirits know not to target Harry with their pranks, because he reacts with lethal force. Sirius and the Kitsune are engaged in a merciless prank war, and it was hard to tell which side was more thrilled by it. As for Moony, he tends to mostly hang around Zorya, and sometimes the Monacielli clutch in the cellars.

With how many non-human inhabitants they have to keep in mind, Moony agrees it was beyond unwise to continue involving human therapists and healers in their recovery. All the beings in Castle Black came here looking for a sanctuary—three of them very much included. Harry had been trying to send his thoughts telepathically to  Lily-dragon for weeks, now. If not for his Darkness, he’d be worried he is only screaming into the void, as it were, but it assures him he is not. He may not be reaching his dragon yet, but he's getting there. Meditation and constant magic-use will help, they agree.

The Black accounts are mostly in operation, Slit informs him in mid-August, and the Willowshire-operation is well on its way. The Willowshire-operation now consists of no fewer than a hundred and thirty-seven Goblins and twenty-two humans provided by the Barnett&co Lawfirm. The operation is just about ready to form into something like a company, it seems. Moony is very excited by it, which is adorable, and also the first thing that really makes Harry pay attention. He may not care, but he cares a whole lot about Moony. In general, though, Harry smiles and nods, signs what Bloodaxe needs him to sign and defends himself to Pax when they visit once again, to congratulate him on his success thusfar. Their congratulations never fail to sound like threats.

Their need for an in-house healer becomes that much more pressing when a ragged group of Naga comes to them via a discrete recommendation by the Scamander House. Harry doesn't ask any questions about their battered forms, and the barely restrained terror in their eyes, and simply lets them choose the section of the Castle they would like for themselves. Not at all surprisingly, they barricade themselves in the south wing and don't so much as put a scale outside of them for a couple of weeks. Moony stress-brews, Sirius stress-buys and Harry stress-bakes. Between the three of them, they leave them about one offering every hour.

The mother-figure—a green-red Naga called Varjini—is the first one to brave the outside. Harry—the resident Parselmouth —had promptly banished Siri and Moony to the upper levels of the castle. It helped that the Naga are tall and imposing creatures and Harry is a scrawny, pale Englishman.

Bit by bit, the story comes out. It is as gruesome as it is predictable. The magical underbelly is just as cruel as Harry thought it to be. Buying and selling 'exotic' creatures is a lucrative business, no matter that it has been banned for hundreds of years by every Magical Government in the ICW.

The House Scamander’s Lord—famous Newt Scamander's nephew—has continued in his grand-uncle's footsteps. Although, Lord Marcus Scamander is notably less peaceful than Newt had been. Where Newt ran a small operation, focusing more on rehabilitating creatures he finds, Marcus focuses on hitting the auctions hard and fast and letting the Governments take care of the creatures afterwards. It's a different approach, and one Harry can't bring himself to judge. Not everyone can be in the business of rehabilitation, after all, and the man had sense enough to offer some reasonable options to those most hurt.

As far as Harry understands, the Naga share no actual blood but have grown close in their time in captivity. There is obviously Varjini, the oldest, and most vicious of the lot. The second one to leave their temporary nest is Tej, a teenager by the looks of it, with a shining emerald tail. The scales that are growing in boast a darker shade of green, and the overall effect is rather stunning. The humanoid half is gorgeous—as tends to be the case with Naga—but littered with scars caused by Dark Magic which won't heal. They tell a tale Harry resolutely does not want to hear, but the svelte lines of his body and the gleaming golden skin are no less beautiful for it. Tej found a friend in Moony, and spent most of his time in a patch of sun in the library.

Laal is the quieter and the angrier of the two. His scales are much slower to grow back in—and no wonder, considering how few of them he had upon arrival. Physically, he is smaller, and flame-coloured in every way, from the gold of his hair, to the reds and oranges of his scales. Laal tended to stay with the Kitsune, if he went outside of their rooms at all.

Ahi looked to be around Harry's age, and the two of them got along splendidly. In many ways, Ahi was what Harry always hoped he would be—indomitable, brave and full of life. Full of anger too and cynical to the bone. Less said about his condition upon arrival the better. With enough skele-gro and ritual-magic, they patched his friend up fairly well, and the Naga boy soon started poking his nose in every nook and cranny of Castle Black he could access and a few he should not be able to.

Raman, Harry has only seen once, the youngest of the Naga, barely a snakelet. The other four Naga, no matter how friendly and grateful they were for the respite, wouldn’t let anyone near little Raman, and honestly, none of them thought themselves stable enough to handle it anyhow.

The Naga stay in Castle Black until mid-September, until they're more or less healed up. Harry is pretty certain Fawkes has stopped by a couple of times to help with the kids because they're all as healthy as they can make them. There are likely Healers out there that could do more, but certainly, none that any of them would trust to help. Moony fudges them a set of international portkeys, and they leave with the standing invitation to visit whenever they want to.

Bloodaxe and Slit find the whole thing exasperating, but also bring them homemade Goblin desserts, so Harry figures they approve of their halfway house for mistreated creatures. They even offer to spread the word among certain circles—Vampiric circles if Harry has read the not at all subtle cues—who run similar kinds of operations. Under the condition, Bloodaxe is firm to point out, that Harry sits his OWL's in the December date. Harry, who has long since surpassed OWL level casting, agrees to it without issue. It turns out that his Darkness, once properly embraced, is a great boon in studying magic. Since Harry has turned ignoring the possible origins and implications of his Darkness into an art-form, he sees no issue with this. So what if the second part of him is smarter and better read than he is? As far as he's concerned, that's just some good luck that he's been overdue.

Harry sits his exams. Harry passes his exams. The phalanx of private security doesn't let anyone come near him, in or out of the Ministry. To his credit, Dumbledore leaves him be. Smarter members of the Order of the Phoenix also leave him be. The less intelligent, more self-righteous variety he feeds to his attorney who shadows him through the ministry like a particularly well-mannered shark.

Two things happen on Yule. One, Dark Lord Voldemort sends him a rather polite letter, attached to a charmed cage containing one Peter Pettigrew, and two, nine Hungarian Horntails finally wing over to the Black Lands, pursued by a troupe of Aurors on brooms.

"Hey, so, Prongslet," asks Siri, reading the Dark Lord's letter for the umpteenth time. "Are we sure this isn't a prank?"

Harry, just as shocked stupid by it all, just points to Pettigrew's cage. "I don't think it is." He says slowly. "Who else would have sent you the rat?"

"But." says Sirius, with the tone of a man who is so far past questioning that he emerged through the other side back to accepting. "But. The Wards. Don't we have Wards against mail?"

Harry, who is not as terminally stupid as he often appears to be, thinks about it for a moment. "I have a feeling," he says, carefully picking his words. "That any Ward schemata that I am keyed into, would also let in Voldemort." And possibly vice versa.

Sirius looks at him quietly for a long moment, grey eyes trained at the angry red scar on his forehead.

"So." he says. "That would be—?”

"I mean. I speak Parsel. And the Goblins assure me I share no blood with the Slytherin line."

"Well fuck."

They're both quiet for a good few moments.

"So—judging by the tone of the letter, Voldemort wasn't aware of this before?"

"Mhm."

"But he is now."

"Mhm."

"Because Snape told him."

Harry's head throbs desperately.

"It would appear so." He grits out.

"Snape who is—what—spying on every side? For every side? For no side?”

"Fucks sake, Siri."

"Hey, I'm just confused, alright? Solicitous Dark Lords, and vows of protection—It's odd, alright."

"I don't know—“

Moony ambles inside and goes from 'harmless uncle' to 'enraged murder machine' in 0.2 seconds flat.

"What's this, my dears?" He says, golden eyes fixed on the unfortunate rat trembling in his cage. "I was going to inquire about the Wards blocking fifty or so Aurors from entering the property -- and yet somehow your news seems to be more pressing still."

They divide the tasks according to their strengths. Harry, obviously, goes to greet Lily-dragon, as soon as her roar is heard above the Castle. Sirius, by far the most infuriating out of the three of them, goes to Lord Barett to prepare their very involved defence of 'we don't know anything about anything; the dragons flew over Black Land and went somewhere, Merlin knows where; no we will not lower our wards, get a proper warrant and be prepared for us to fight it for a decade or three'.

Moony, Adult whisperer, composes a polite letter to Voldemort, attaches a very nice set of rare books as suggested by Harry, and tries his even best not to eat Wormtail.

It all works out, mostly.

"Snakeling!" Lily-dragon's voice is just as imposing and heart-wrenching as he remembers it to be. "You have found yourself a strong Den! I approve!"

"Thank you Lily-dragon." So he's calling the Dragon his mother, sue him. "I have missed you."

"You have grown strong, snakelet. You are no longer Prey. You are something else now. Something new."

Harry shrugs a bit. Whatever mushing, blending or healing he is going through with him and his Darkness, it's certainly not over, nor predictable. He's mildly curious in the results, but it's a rather tame flavour of curiosity.

"I am what I am."

"Well said, snakelet. Come, come, meet my young."

Now, Harry knows Dragons are, by and large, some of the most magical creatures that exist. He knows magic is their blood, it's what gives them life, and so of course they exist somewhat parallel to the natural world.

He did not expect baby dragons to be this colourful. The Horntail is a sort of dull metallic brown, interspersed with red and black. And yet—there are eight babies here, each one more iridescent than the last. They don't talk yet, not like the Horntail does, but their squeaky roars sound a fair bit like baby-noise.

They're the most adorable thing Harry has ever seen. His heart melts, and he practically throws himself into the wriggling ball of dragon.

"Careful," laughs Lily-dragon, and saves him from some overenthusiastic dragon-teeth. The babies might be young but each one is about Harry's size and has teeth to match. "They are too small, still, to know their strength."

"They're spectacular." He says, eyes trained on the almost see-through wing membranes and the bell-like quality of their laughter. "I've never seen the like."

"And you never will." She says puffing up proudly. "They will be mighty, one day. Give them a couple of hundred of years, and they will have ten spikes each."

Harry blinks, quickly counting up the spikes coming down Horntail's tail. Two - eight - ten - fourteen - eighteen - twenty -

How old is Lily-dragon, if they measure age and power by spikes. 'Fucks sake, what were the humans thinking.

Never mind that. There are more important things to think about.

"You are staying, yes?" He asks, injecting as much hope into his voice as possible. “My lands are large, you will have many miles to roam, and Wards to keep the Humans away. Me and mine, we are friends to you and yours."

"Oh?" There is a pleased note in her voice. "I had planned for a simple visit. I would not say no to a few peaceful years. What are the terms?”

"Wonderful," he beams, and reaches out with his magic, cuddling it into hers.

"The terms, snakeling." Prompts Lily-dragon.

"Oh, um. So we kind of opened our Den to many creatures and beings fleeing human persecution. So maybe don't eat them? And, um, I will be housing some Dragons that the Goblin Nation had imprisoned a few decades back, so maybe don't eat them too. Umm—yeah. If possible, don't eat any sentient magical creature, unless it attacks you, or enters into your territory. We can mark it out if you want. I will buy whatever animal you prefer to eat, so you don't need to bother with that."

The Dragon huffs out a fond laugh. "I can sense the borders of your Den. It is more than big enough for me and many dragons yet. I agree to your terms, snakeling. I will not attack unless provoked, and will only bring down agreed-upon prey."

"Perfect." Says Harry dreamily. "We will have so much fun!"