Work Text:
People often forget Dorea Potter was born a Black. They forget she thrived in Slytherin in school. They forget she was much more comfortable in the Grey than the Light. At least, they forget until she pointedly reminded them that her name changed in marriage, not her character. Charlus loved her ambition and her pride and her cunning. Charlus married her, Slytherin and Black and all. He was enough of a prankster that he encouraged her mischief.
She did not mind dabbling in people’s expectations of her. She did not mind people forgetting that despite her lovely face and Light husband, she hid thorns underneath. Some may say she reveled in the anonymity of it all. It allowed her to see things and hear things she otherwise wouldn’t. Something quite useful in times of war.
When Hadrian Fawley entered the scene, Dorea watched. She listened. She gossiped with ladies past their prime and flirted with widowers to gain information. No one knew where this boy came from. No one knew his motivations beyond the surface. It was suspicious. Dorea did not survive through two wars ignoring suspicious behavior.
So when her dearest child asked if he could invite the man over for the Yule celebration, well, how could she refuse? The best information came from the source after all.
Dorea’s first impressions of the young man were interesting. He was used to social function, to pureblood niceties, but he was supremely uncomfortable either by the pomp and circumstance or by her presence. He was enigmatic and engaging. Both blunt and deflecting. Endearingly floundering and evasively flat. She absolutely loved interesting people.
And then he saved them.
He saved Dorea by getting her out. He saved Charlus. He saved James and Lily. He saved Sirius.
At nearly the cost of his own life.
Dorea fussed at Charlus, thinking how close they had come last night. She brushed soot from his robes. Oh, the house would take forever to put to rights after this. Her brow creased as her mental to-do list grew.
Charlus grabbed her hand, capturing her attention. “I’m fine, love.”
“You are not fine,” she stressed, as she sat beside his hospital bed, just one door down from Lily and Hadrian’s. “Otherwise the healer’s would have cleared you already.”
They were not as young as they once were, in another war. Damage to the wards had taken its toll on Charlus, in addition to the magical exhaustion of sparring at their age. Charlus pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. “Can’t get rid of me that easily.”
“Well, there go my plans of squandering your fortune as the unlucky widow.” Her mouth trembled at the longtime joke. It fell flat in the air. She could have lost them all tonight. She straightened his collar to hide the tremors of her hand.
Sirius slunk in, still in fine robes from the party, dark circles highlighting nearly silver eyes. He dropped in a nearby chair. “James is with Lily. Healers said she’ll be okay, no lasting damage.”
“Good.” The tension in her chest eased. “Are you alright, darling?”
Dorea knew her boys. She knew their moods and tempers. In the flurry of Aurors and transport to St. Mungo’s, she saw the sudden rift between James and Sirius in the tight silence and angry glances. She hadn’t had time to focus on it before, but now with the worst over, with Charlus beside her, she needed to start the process of rebuilding from the night of terror.
Even as Sirius relaxed at the term of endearment, he tensed at the question. “James says it’s my fault.”
Dorea frowned. That was not like her James. “He is, of course, wrong, dear. You cannot predict every Death Eater attack. And despite our best efforts, we cannot protect everyone.”
Sirius looked away, unwilling to accept her words. Before she could try again, Charlus squeezed her hand. She looked over at Charlus, frowning at him as he shook his head. He cleared his throat, gaining Sirius’ attention. “What does he blame you for, Sirius?”
Sullen silence.
What had Dorea missed during the battle? She knew the wards had been attacked, fiendfyre Charlus had told her. She knew Lily got hit by a stray curse, that Hadrian had pushed her out of the way and gotten hit as well. Other than that, there had been minor injuries. Much less than expected when visited by the self-proclaimed Lord Voldemort.
They sat in silence until Sirius’ patience wore out. He scowled. “He thinks it’s my fault for Lily getting hurt. But I don’t trust him! He had a wand pointing at Lily!”
“Who did?” Dorea asked calmly, knowing Sirius needed calm more than she needed to desperately scream and rage.
“Fawley.” He spat out his name like a curse.
Ah. Pieces fell into place. On the surface, Fawley’s actions were suspect. Dorea could see how the stranger could fit into one of two categories: either he was an unexpected blessing for the Light, able to help them fight back, or he was an incredible spy, able to infiltrate their homes and business with his charming naivete. Fawley seemed eager to help, but was the desire true?
And James, her sweet boy, trusted quickly and easily. When he spoke of the new Auror in the office, he talked about how familiar he felt, how fast he was in duels, how he pranked James and Sirius. James found friends so readily, even in war.
Sirius had instincts born from a childhood of pain and abuse. He did not trust the way James did. Even when all the evidence was to the contrary, Sirius would resist help if he did not trust. It was a miracle Dorea and Charlus were able to build that rapport when Sirius was a moody teenager, cast out from his family for being true to himself. Hadrian Fawley would not find an ally in Sirius Black.
But which one of her sons saw the truth?
“He is not the enemy, Sirius,” Charlus said solemnly. Dorea studied her husband. That was a bold statement. “You made a judgment call and, unfortunately, it was wrong this time. But the only one to blame for Lily being injured is the one who cast the spell.”
Sirius shot up from his chair and stomped out, not ready to let go of the rolling anger and leftover tension from the fight.
With a sigh, Dorea let him go and looked at Charlus expectantly. He was staring at the door Sirius left, a far off look in his eye. She touched his cheek to get his attention. “You trust Hadrian Fawley.”
“His name’s not Hadrian Fawley.” Charlus looked at her and she instinctively cast a privacy charm.
“James said he was undercover from the continent. Did he share his name with you?” That would be odd; James didn’t typically confide in only one of them. Dorea knew the cover story, she knew Fawley was wearing a disguise. She could practically feel the lies rolling off him. He was not a very good liar.
“No.” He licked his lips, then let out a weary sigh. “When Hadrian was hit by the spell, he fell unconscious and his disguise fell. James and Sirius were fussing over Lily so I was able to set them back up fairly quickly.”
She frowned, unease curling in the pit of her stomach. “Who is he, Charlus?”
“I do not know his name,” he said slowly, closing his eyes as if picturing the man he saw, “but in that moment, I would have sworn I was looking at James.”
All the air left her lungs. No. It couldn’t be. She would know her son, disguise or not. Hadrian was not that much older than James. She clenched her hands, pulling back from Charlus. “How is that possible?”
“I do not know. And more than that,” he hesitated, lips forming into a thin line before he spoke, “I felt the wards responding to him, just for a moment, when the spell hit him and Lily.”
A throat cleared behind them. The healer had returned and was waiting not-so-patiently for their conversation to be done. Dorea pursed her lips as she canceled the privacy charm. She kept the barbed comments of bedside manner and pointed remarks of who gave the donations for this ward behind her teeth. The healer ran through another set of diagnostics, rattled off the standard procedure for magical exhaustion, then handed them discharge papers, swooping out without so much as by-you-leave.
“I think I’ll sit with James for a bit,” Charlus said, leaning heavily on her. She obligingly led him to the room. James looked up at their approach, eyes red, hair disheveled. He lurched up to help, but Dorea waved him off.
“How is she, dear?” Dorea asked as she settled Charlus into a chair that could see both Lily and Hadrian’s beds.
“Healers say she was lucky,” he said hoarsely. Dorea held out her arms and held on tightly as James buried himself into her, as if he were five years old again. She stroked the back of his head, letting him fall apart, letting him be desperate and fearful but safe in her arms.
“There now, darling,” she said quietly as he pulled away. She wiped his cheeks. When did her little boy get so tall? “It’ll be alright.”
“I can’t lose her.”
“You haven’t lost her.” She could not promise that he wouldn’t, just as she could not assure herself that her family would remain intact through this cursed war. But Dorea could help him focus on the now. Lily was still here. She was healing.
James took several moments to breathe and regain his control. He held her hand and scrunched his eyes until his shoulder finally relaxed and he could breath without clenching his jaw. He offered her a tired smile and returned to his vigil by his wife’s bedside.
Dorea sighed, heart aching for her family. She squeezed Charlus’ shoulder. “I’ll return home and get it in order. We can take shifts here.”
Charlus knew better than to argue. She hesitated at the door, glancing at Hadrian Fawley in the bed next to Lily’s. Who was he? Was it safe to leave her family near him? Well, there was one way to figure things out.
The house was left a mess after the attack and subsequent Aurors taking their report. Thankfully, there had been no casualties, but the wards were in tatters and several rooms sustained physical damage as well. Dorea touched on a portrait that had been left blackened and charred. The rug in the atrium had been shredded until only scattered remains were left. The halls leading to the main room held black marks of spellfire.
She wound her way to the kitchen, where the house elves huddled. Three pairs of eyes turned to her and her arms were suddenly full of wailing little creatures. She shushed them and comforted their fears and gave them a list of tasks to take their poor minds off the horrid ordeal. She knew they would take care of the house as much as they could. The wards would have to be an entirely different order.
Once the elves were settled and reassured, Dorea went to the study in search of a very particular book. She found it tucked in the corner of the desk, nearly forgotten behind a stack of reports. She sat at the desk and pulled it out.
Unlike the Blacks, who enjoyed proclaiming their blood supremacy with an ornate tapestry hanging in the main library, the Potters quietly recorded lineage in a book that magically updated as needed. Truthfully, Dorea wouldn’t put it past Charlus to forget it entirely if she didn’t remind him to ensure it updated at James’ wedding. She wanted to ensure Lily had been recognized as a Potter. As a Black, Dorea knew some family magic would reject what the family considered impure or unfit.
I would have sworn I was looking at James.
Charlus would not have said something so rattling if he did not believe some family tie to this Hadrian Fawley. The Potter line was close to being extinct. Always on the front line, always with a target on their backs, the Potter family suffered greatly in the past wars. An unknown relative, one that bore remarkable resemblance to her son, should not be possible.
She studied the large family tome, tracing the Potter crest embossed on the leather. Would this show her what she wanted? What did she want?
Dorea huffed. She would not be daunted by ink on a page. Flipping open the book, she rested it on the desk as magic turned the pages to most recent births and deaths until it finally halted on the page that held Charlus and Dorea on top.
All correct. Charlus would remain at top until his death or until he passed the lordship onto James. James’ name was just below theirs, shining gold as a living relative, his birth date and marriage date listed in neat letters. Lily’s name nestled beside his. All good and proper.
And then…another name below James and Lily, indicating a child. Harry James Potter. No birthdate listed, glittering and impossible.
I would have sworn I was looking at James.
She touched the name as if that would somehow make it disappear, her mind racing through everything she knew about Hadrian Fawley, everything he had said or implied, the things that rang true.
He lost his parents when he was young. Her heart clenched at the thought. If James and Lily were his parents. If somehow this lost child found himself flung back in time, how young did little Harry lose them? How many years did Dorea and Charlus have left?
He hadn’t attended Beauxbatons or Durmstrang. No, he would have attended Hogwarts, as his parents and grandparents had.
He had never been to Potter Manor before. When she was leading him around the estate, she could sense his unfamiliarity of the place, the open curiosity. She had dismissed it as one unaccustomed to ancestral homes, there were so few now. But why didn’t he know it? Potter Manor belonged to the Potters.
It wasn’t possible.
Was it?
Time travel was hypothesized now and again, but never seriously. Of course, there were always experiments happening in the Department of Mysteries. Some researchers could have finally discovered a way. They could already be testing it, waiting until the war was over to release their findings. That happened during Grindelwald’s war. Magical advancements halted until time and attention and hope could be given out freely.
Time travel was the only explanation, no matter how far fetched. No one in their right mind would falsify a lineage in such a convoluted way. Unless it was a mistake? Perhaps he meant to falsify to show that he was a cousin instead. But why go through the elaborate disguise?
I would have sworn I was looking at James.
Harry James Potter.
He knew. The fighting broke out and he asked her if there was a way out only a Potter would know. Someone unaccustomed to ancestral homes and family magic wouldn’t know to ask that. Not even a trained Auror. He knew. Had his eyes flicked to the garden shed? Could he feel the wards urging him to flee, to get to safety?
Oh Merlin, Morgana, and the acolytes. Hadrian was her grandchild. She had a grandchlid.
As the truth settled into her core, all the other tiny impressions she noticed came rushing to her. How his eyes were too old for his face. The old scars along his hands and arms. How small he looked in that hospital bed as she was leaving.
He was hers. And he was hurt and alone. Well, that just wouldn’t do. Dorea shut the book and tucked it away, then she straightened her robes and went to her greenhouse. Both Hadrian and Lily would need flowers for their room, something to liven up the place as they healed. And once she had the arrangement done, and once the house elves finished any repairs or cleaning, she’d have a room set up for him.
Oh, she was sure he would refuse to stay with them. Or make some excuse to avoid the estate and by extension, her and Charlus, but, well, she knew how to deal with stubborn Potters.
She returned to St. Mungo’s refreshed despite the lack of sleep and resolute despite the utter impossibility of the situation. Charlus was still in his seat, a lone guard, while James was slumped in his own chair, snoring softly, wand rolled out on the floor.
Dorea rested on the edge of the arm of Charlus’ chair, running a hand through his hair. He leaned into her, relaxing minutely at her touch. She leaned close and cast a privacy charm before she spoke. “Congratulations are in order. You’re a grandfather.”
He startled, looking at her with wide hazel eyes, slightly darker than their son’s. “Grandfather?”
She hummed a confirmation, gaze falling to Hadrian, to Harry, lying in the bed, restless even in a magical coma. “Genealogy book confirmed it. Harry James Potter, son to James and Lily.”
“A grandfather,” he whispered in awe and joy. There was something wonderfully joyful in the news, hope and pride continued in a family line. But as she watched Charlus, joy faded to familiar grief. “We shouldn’t have survived last night.”
A shiver ran down her spine at his declaration. The Potters were known for their instincts. Not foresight, nothing so banal as fortune telling, but instinct, the uncanny ability to know which way to dodge a hex. Sometimes that meant Charlus spoke truth in the air, not really sure how it came to be or why he knew it, only that it was. Dorea did not question him, used to how magic manifested in his family. She took his hand and kissed it.
“But we did survive.”
“Because of Hadrian.”
“Harry,” she whispered. “Because of Harry, our grandson.”