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Chapter Text

Harry dreams.

He’s standing in a crowded marketplace.

It’s the evening. The sun is setting on the horizon, casting a warm glow on people. The air smells of ale, sweat and dust. Everyone around him is facing ahead. He’s not sure what they’re looking at. People smile. Some have drinks in their hands. Children run around and laugh, and their harried mothers shake their heads with fondness. A man catches a stumbling toddler with a good-natured grin. His smile is missing a tooth but it’s friendly and joyous. They all stand around, waiting.

Harry makes apologies and starts pushing forward so he can see what they are gathering for, and people part away from him without seeming to notice he is even there. He hears snatches of discussions he doesn’t quite understand.

Talk of waiting for the priest. Rumours of marriage between two families. A boy fell into the pond rescuing a dog. Someone complains about the king’s taxes.

This is not the era he came from, and he certainly isn’t at Hogwarts.

The village he’s standing in looks younger than Hogsmeade and much more populated. Beyond the crowd, he sees houses of stone and wood, stables for horses and an old well. Harry wrinkles his nose. Judging by the smell newly carried by the breeze, someone is keeping pigs nearby. By his guesses from portraits of the time he’s seen around Hogwarts, this should be around the fifteenth century. Two centuries before the Statute of Secrecy was implemented, he thinks with a frown.

It doesn’t help him understand what is happening.

Until an adult at his right asks. “Who is she anyway?”

A neighbour sends him a curious look and takes a sip of ale, tapping short and stubby fingers on the handle of his pint.

“Oh, you haven’t heard? She’s one of those Potters from beyond the hill. Rosalie, her name was. The youngest of the lot.”

“Potters, the rich ones?”

“Yeah. She was caught levitating water from the well. Probably to try and poison us all, vile witch that she is. Her family’s not there though.”

Someone spits in disgust. “We’ll be coming for them next. When there’s one witch in the family, there’s usually a whole lot of them.”

Harry stiffens. His heart races. He takes less care in moving forward, pushing people aside until he gets to the edge of the crowd.

He breathes out, his eyes wide and blown by horror.

In front of him, there’s a pyre. And attached to it, a young girl with his face shape and hair is crying, begging for someone to help her.

She tugs at chains engraved in glowing red runes.

“She’s small, she’ll burn quick,” comments a mother at his right absent-mindedly, her son held tightly against her breast. She talks about the death of a child like one would talk about the weather. Harry can’t help but think that’s worse than Malfoy’s vicious crowing at the time the Chamber was opened.

“No,” he says, vaulting forward.

He climbs up the pyre as fast as he can, quidditch reflexes helping him catch himself when he stumbles on the uneven branches. Soon enough, he’s at her side. His hands grip the chains, searching for a lock he can force open with a spell. But the contraption is well thought-out, and the runes scald his skin when he passes his hands over them.

The girl keeps begging, paying him no heed. He focuses on his task, desperately searching for a solution. He doesn’t raise his head until he notices a change in the marketplace’s ambience. The crowd hushes. Their sudden silence is deafening. The girl’s pleas taper off. Defeated, she stares into the distance. Harry turns his gaze in the same direction.

A man approaches, his cane clicking on the ground. He wears a priest’s attire and holds a lit torch in his hand.

Harry redoubles his efforts. He doesn’t listen to the man’s preaching, though he thinks they’ll probably echo in his mind later. There is nothing more haunting than the self-righteous justification of murder.

When the priest is done talking, he approaches.

Harry is crying, his hands trembling. They grip uselessly at the chains.

The girl stops shaking, her eyes narrowing on him. It seems like she finally sees him. “You—” she says. “You’re—”

“Hello. I’m Harry. Rosalie, right? I want to help you,” he says, willing his voice not to tremble, “tell me what I can do.”

The priest brings the torch to the wood. The fire is lit. “Please.”

His voice breaks at the word, his desperation audible.

The girl still looks bewildered. She blinks rapidly and flinches at the sudden rising heat, staring apprehensively at her feet. Then she shakes her head and smiles sadly. “It’s fine. I’m a Potter. We greet Death like an old friend. Don’t you know our family motto?”

“No. What— what is it?”

Rosalie Potter looks at him, her eyes resigned. The flames lick at her feet. “Embrace the End.”

And she screams.

“No!” Harry shouts in anguish.

He thrashes in his bed, pulling the covers off of him. He sits up abruptly, breathing hard.

“What was that?” he murmurs, raking his fingers in his hair.

He’s in his room at the Dursleys. His truck is open at the foot of his bed. A miniature dragon peeks out of it. He looks away from the magical construct, a painful reminder of the tournament.

Hedwig hoots at the window, pulling him out of his thoughts. She lets herself in, as she usually does when he gives her free reign for the night. It’s warm enough in the summer to leave the window open.

He checks her talon in case she has something for him, but there’s no letter. He sighs. He didn’t expect otherwise.

He stands up on shaky legs, pulls himself off of the mattress and extends an arm for his companion to land on. She flies up to him. Her grip is gentle on his forearm. It’s grounding. Hedwig coos softly before rubbing her cheek against his.

A sad smile dances on his lips. “Don’t worry. It was just a dream. Not my usual fare, but it’s better than dreaming of the cemetery. Are you hungry?”

The owl shakes her head, her expression smug. Her golden eyes shine, reflecting the moonlight.

“Your hunt went that well, huh? Good girl.”

He walks her to her cage. She nuzzles against him one more time before she hops on the perch at its centre. Harry strokes her white feathers with a shaking finger and murmurs, “I’m lucky to have you.”

Hedwig is his first friend. He’ll never forget that.

She sends him a look. He chuckles. “I know, I know. It goes without saying. But you wouldn’t be happy if I took you for granted, would you?”

Hedwig hoots in reply before she headbutts his hand away from her, enjoining him to go back to bed. Harry’s lips quirk. “Aye, aye, I’m going,” he says, stepping away.

He lays back down and closes his eyes. Breathes out. Focuses on the warmth of his familiar bond twining around his magical core rather than the cold of his trembling fingertips or the remembered scorching heat of a pyre he dreamt up.

Soon, his respiration soothes.

This time, he doesn’t dream.

Harry is pacing in his room.

It’s been weeks now, and he still has no news from his friends, no insight into what is happening in the magical world. Voldemort is back and he’s stuck here, slowly losing his mind and his sleep.

The dreams haven’t stopped.

Every time he lays down and closes his eyes, he bears witness to short moments before the death of an ancestor. Sometimes only one per night, other times several in quick succession.

He doesn’t tell anyone. It’s not something he wants to discuss in a letter anyway.

Most of the time, it’s peaceful.

He stands in their rooms while they’re asleep and keeps vigil over them as they breathe their last. Death seems less daunting then, when their muscles untense and their ribcages stop moving. He memorises their features, the decor of what he can only imagine being an ancestral manor of his family, long gone or now lost to him. The rooms are always different but when they die at home, he always knows. What he now recognises as the symbol of his House is always present somewhere in paintings, engravings or embroideries. He has traced the curved bone-white antlers on a turquoise background many times now, his eyes focused on the innocuous symbol to avoid thinking about the person dying nearby, either alone or surrounded by loved ones who cannot see Harry. Sometimes, it is accompanied by the motto he has come to both love and despise. Other times, between the antlers, lays a triangle cut in half with an encircled base. He doesn’t know what that symbol means but he thinks he’s seen it before. He’ll find out. Harry’s always loved a mystery.

Most deaths are peaceful. But sometimes, they are more brutal. Violent disease, lethal curses, freak accidents, gruesome murders.

Heartbreaking executions.

Two more children perish in a witch trial as he tries and fails to free them of their binds in as many nights.

Harry had no idea that witch traps existed before now. But he supposes it makes sense; muggles had as much access to magical resources as wixen did at the time. There were trolls under their bridges and mandragora in their forests. They couldn’t do magic themselves but they could certainly exploit things that contained it.

Repurposing them to hunt magicals though…

He reread Bathilda Bagshot’s textbook and just as he remembered, there are no mentions of it. So Harry dove deeper into the small library he accumulated over the years, sparse compared to what Hermione had collected but still respectable enough to offer a wide range of study.

Most of it was bought when he was staying at the Leaky, the summer of Sirius’ escape. He had needed something beyond homework to occupy his evenings.

Harry doesn’t read dry encyclopaedia like his friend does. He doesn’t have the focus for that. Besides, he usually prefers fiction.

He used to hide from Dudley in Little Whinging’s library, all too aware that this was the one place his cousin wouldn’t be caught dead entering. The librarian didn’t like him much but after a month of staring every time he picked up a book, she had come to accept that he didn’t intend to leave with them. He never even attempted to check them out.

He never had the time to read much but enjoyed it when he could. He did the same at Hogwarts, where his friends usually took up the majority of his attention. Magical fiction was fascinating, though sometimes less imaginative than muggle works. Hermione often said that having magic makes wixen complacent. Muggles invent worlds where everything is possible as a form of escapism from their constrained lives. Magicals have these possibilities at the tip of their wands, yet they rarely use them. Wixen authors have more success writing about history, realistic adventures or interpersonal relationships than filling the gaps of what magic doesn’t make a reality.

Harry did find a lot of very interesting space fantasy novels though, and he shares his taste for them with Dean Thomas. But his favourite genre will always be detective stories.

The peculiarity of wixen fiction did push him to try and find a niche in non-fiction he could use to fulfil his need for wonderment further. He found what he was searching for in magical culture magazines. Old issues were available in the library catalogue, and he often perused through them when he was in Mrs Pince’s domain due to Hermione’s study frenzy and Ron’s need to finish assignments started last minute.

He mostly skimmed through the magazines, focused on the sports, magical theory and magical creatures articles but he had sometimes read a few history articles he had found interesting. He found them more digestible than the enormous tomes Hermione inhaled in her free time and he had liked a few of them enough to owl request a subscription.

Harry digs through the issues he kept and searches for mentions of witch traps. He finds only one article, sponsored by the Museum of Wix Hunting, in the magical town of Blackmoore.

He puts down the magazine and sighs. There’s so much he doesn’t know about the magical world.

The next dream is puzzling.

It starts on a battlefield. Harry recognises the location. It isn’t difficult, Stonehenge is right there on the horizon.

This is a war he knows about, but only vaguely. Harry admittedly doesn’t listen much in History of Magic and Professor Binns tends to fall asleep during lessons, especially when he’s not talking about goblin and giant wars. In the eleventh century, William the Conqueror invaded Britain —then still called Albion by British magicals who were ruled by a Lordly Council founded at the end of King Arthur Pendragon’s reign in the sixth century. King William the Bastard was a wizard, a descendent of the Viking battlemage Rollo and son of the enchantress Herleva. Some of his own descendants would later renounce their royal title and their link to their muggle cousins to found the Noble House Rowle, who disdained the British royal family for having lost their magic throughout the centuries.

(And now the remnants of that same illustrious family knelt at the feet of a half-blood, thinks Harry with bemused disgust. Hypocrites.)

William brought with him noble wixen sworn to his name, the most infamous among them being the Malfoys, Rosiers and Lestranges. The Lordly Council came to a non-interference agreement with his army and later signed a treaty stating that the wixen living on his land recognised his authority and would pay the king’s taxes. But that was not before years of bloody battles, the most infamous one having taken place in this very place.

This battle ended with the death of the entire French contingent, if he remembers well. It is what moved King William to seek peace with British wixen rather than prolong the war and augment casualties when he already had dominated the muggle armies.

Harry tries to locate the Potter he’s meant to watch die, but there are too many fighters. When he does, it’s too late.

“Potter!” someone screams, and a man with long shaggy hair turns too late to avoid the flash of green light that hits him right in the chest. He falls off the Abraxan he was riding with a dull thud.

Harry walks up to him and kneels at his side. He closes his empty brown eyes, his gaze lingering on the man’s slack expression, frozen in surprise. The man looks to be the same age as Mr Weasley, or maybe a bit younger. He’s bearded and wears a monocle. On his left hand, the ring he’s seen so many dead Potters wear rests on his middle finger. Harry knows muggles wear signet rings on the pinkie of the non-dominant hand —Uncle Vernon bought one for Dudley on his fourteenth birthday, who had worn it proudly until his finger had grown too thick for it and he discarded it— but it seems wixen do it differently.

Harry expects to awaken soon now that the man he was supposed to see is dead. Yet nothing happens. He waits anxiously, wiping his sweaty hands onto the sleeping shorts he is wearing. Soon the woman who had screamed for his ancestor rallies the fighters to the air and they fly further north. In minutes, the battlefield is deserted.

“Shite,” he hears. “Now we shall have to cull them all to stop them from spreading rumours. And whom might thou be?”

Harry blinks down at the man he had just seen die. The same man is opening his robe and tugging at his shirt, revealing a bleeding wound where the curse hit him. It has the shape of a lightning bolt. “Er,” he says numbly.

His ancestor raises an impatient eyebrow. “Well?”

“I’m Harry. Harry Potter.” The answer comes on auto-pilot, the teenager too dumbfounded to make sense of the situation.

“I see. Thou are not of this time, am I correct?”

He shakes his head. “I’m from the twentieth century. How are you not dead?”

The man laughs before shaking his head, affronted. “Has thy father taught thou nothing? I am a Peverell of the line of Ignotus. Lawrence Peverell, to be precise. The Killing curse does nothing to those of our line, child. Unlike the sons of Cadmus, we were named Friends of Death and soul magic does not take us before it is our time. Thou should know of that.”

The language is nothing like it should be, notes Harry. Before the French invasion, Old English didn’t sound like that. The magic that’s bringing him there must be bridging the gap between eras, making the older man understandable to him without sacrificing the odd lilt of his speech. He wonders what he sounds like to Lawrence.

But that thought isn’t what makes him blink.

“I thought you were a Potter?” he asks, reeling. He ignores the implication of his last sentence. He’ll have time to panic about this when the dream is over. “And my father died when I was a baby. I’m the last Potter,” he adds, the statement as painful as ever.

There is now pity in the man’s gaze and horror at the very thought of the end of his line.

“So thou are here to be taught, I see.”

Harry bites his lip. He might be right. If the Potters are linked to Death, it would make sense that his dreams would lead him to the last moments of his ancestors to teach him what he should have known from childhood.

He’ll have to track down the truth, he decides.

Lawrence, on the other hand, is fully convinced. “A safeguard for our line someone implemented in the future, I suppose,” he muses. “Mayhaps it shall be me who thinks of it. If by Morgana’s grace, I survive this war I shall devote myself to it. And if I fail I shall leave the task to my descendants. Now to answer thy question, my cousin Eloise married Graham Potter ten winters since and adopted us all into his name. ‘Tis wasn’t a hardship for we were all orphans and Graham is unfruitful.” He means infertile, understands Harry. That would imply that all of the Potters he has met are descended from the Peverells. The Potter name is a guise, a misdirection for a family that has something to hide. Clever, he thinks with a smile. “It did cost me, though, since I respond to my true name faster than the one I was newly granted. The earlier curse would have not got me otherwise.” He pauses. “Tis an open secret that Potter was not always our name, though one that shall hopefully be lost to time. Tis not safe for us to be remembered as members of the Ancient and Noble House of Peverell.”

Harry wants to ask what makes it so dangerous but the dream seems to be coming to an end. His surroundings are getting fuzzy. Lawrence notices and presses a firm hand to his shoulder.

“Thou are fading, child. Thy time to this era comes to an end. I shall rejoin my companions. I wish thou luck, Harry the Last Potter. May the name we share outlive us both.”

As soon as Harry wakes up, he runs to the bathroom and empties his stomach, heaving over the toilet.

“Immune to the Killing curse,” he repeats, numb horror coursing through him. “Those descended from Ignotus Peverell are immune to the Killing curse. If my dad didn’t die from Voldemort’s curse that night, what killed him?”

And who, he doesn’t say, though the question haunts him for the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

The next day, Harry sits down on the floor of his room and makes a list of facts. Everything he knows about the night his parents died, he puts to parchment. In one column, he writes what he is certain of. In another, his guesses. Everything he doesn’t know goes on another parchment. He wishes Ron was there. His friend is better at looking at the whole picture, examining the facts like they’re pieces on a chessboard to move around.

“The Fidelius was cast. Wormtail was the secret keeper. He gave the secret to Voldemort, who came on Halloween night and cast the Killing curse three times. At my dad, my mum, and at me. Only one of those curses was effective. There was a rebound effect when he cast it at me, but not when he cast it at Dad which makes sense. Lawrence did imply that the Stonehenge Slaughter happened so his enemies wouldn’t be able to spread the word about the fact that the curse actually hit him, which means that it has stayed a Peverell secret for a long time. If our supposed immunity to soul magic sometimes caused a backlash, it wouldn’t have stayed that way. Voldemort’s loss of body must be related to mum’s protection.”

He drums his fingers on the two sheets of parchment. The protection is also something he should investigate. Was it truly his mother’s love which protected him as Dumbledore claimed? And if it was so, was it a protection that was unintentional or deliberate? Lily Potter was the brightest witch of her age and she had a child to protect. If her husband had told her about the Potters’ immunity to the Killing Curse, she could have made plans to ensure Voldemort wouldn’t survive long enough to find out and cast a more effective spell.

(A cutting curse wasn’t soul magic after all, and Harry would definitely be dead if the Dark Lord hadn’t been so unimaginative.)

Or was it Peverell magic, a consequence of Lawrence Potter being made aware that one day their family line would be at risk of extinction?

“What else? Nobody knew Wormtail was the secret keeper except Sirius and my parents, but other people knew where they were staying, Hagrid being one of them. How?” he mutters. “How does the Fidelius charm work? Professor Flitwick said it conceals a secret within the keeper’s soul. What was the secret? The location? Or the fact that my family was living there? The second one seems more likely, if only for the fact that the charm must have broken upon their deaths and my removal from the house. If the house itself was a secret, it would still be under Fidelius and people wouldn’t have been able to take pictures inside of it. Hermione mentioned the history books were illustrated. There were even testimonies from neighbours.” He groans. “I should have read those books Hermione mentioned about the war.”

He hadn’t wanted to deal with the exaggerations and speculations about his survival. He regretted it now.

“And where did we live exactly?” he wonders. “I know it wasn’t the manor I saw in my dreams.” He rubs at his temples and sighs. “Nevermind that, I won’t solve it in one day. So. Dad must have stayed down a few minutes at least, and he must have had a lightning bolt wound somewhere on his body where the curse hit him — which is kind of a useless fact, since it wouldn’t do anything but prove that Lawrence wasn’t having me on. It would show that the curse wasn’t the cause of death, I guess. What could it have been? Sirius came to the house before Hagrid did and Dad was dead then. They didn’t notice anything that suggested someone other than Voldemort was there or they would have mentioned it, surely.”

Not to him or the press, but at least to Dumbledore.

Harry hates that he has to, but he considers for a moment that Sirius might have lied. Not about the identity of the secret keeper, Pettigrew confessed his culpability in the Shrieking Shack and proved it by resurrecting Voldemort when he could have fucked off to another country and put it all behind him. The man was legally dead, after all. No one but Sirius would have been looking for him. And while he has no doubt that his godfather would have posed Wormtail a significant threat if he found him, doing so would have been extremely difficult.

No, he has to question whether Sirius might have been a Death Eater after all, who ran after Pettigrew because he blamed him for Voldemort’s demise rather than for betraying their best friend. He has to because he cannot let himself be blinded by his yearning for family. Not when it has been proven to him that just because he wants the culprit’s identity to be easy for him to comprehend doesn’t mean it will be. Quirrel, Tom Riddle’s Diary and Crouch Jr have demonstrated that. He was right to think Snape, Malfoy and Karkaroff were suspicious but he shouldn’t have discarded other options, no matter how cleverly the real perpetrators misdirected his attention.

He has to take the possibility seriously, even if he hates it. But he’s relieved to know that the facts don’t fit. If Sirius had really been a Death Eater, he would be marked. Voldemort proved that when he branded Pettigrew, a dead giveaway for a spy. Not only that but he wouldn’t have spared Harry that night.

And if he wasn’t a Death Eater, he had no reason to kill James Potter.

“No reason I can think of, at least,” he murmurs, hating himself a little for that.

Still, he temporarily sets Sirius aside. He will question the man about that night when he has the opportunity. Until then, doubting him will only blind him to other possible suspects.

“So what I do know is that my dad’s death happened before Hagrid’s arrival at my parents’ house and that the most likely suspects were those who already knew the secret but that anyone who was around when the charm faded —right after Mum died— could have done it, unless the charm was still active while Dad was temporarily down. Hm. The most likely suspects are still those who knew the location beforehand. So I know where and when. What I don’t know is who, why, and how. Right.”

He takes off his glasses and rubs at his eyes, ignoring the way his hands tremble. He might have done his best to look at the facts clinically but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s trying to solve his father’s murder.

“Right,” he repeats, his voice breaking. “At the very least, I can cross one name off the list. Voldemort didn’t kill my dad. If he had, then he would have known not to use the Killing curse and that my surviving is a Potter thing. He would have been more focused on stealing our immunity than bypassing the blood protection, though he’d probably have tried to kill me regardless.” He bites his lip. “I can probably cross off Hagrid since he arrived after Sirius. So what do I need?” He starts counting on his fingers. “More information on the Fidelius charm. A history book about the end of the war, so I know what others know of it. A list of everyone who knew the secret and the address of my family’s house. And… I need to figure out the cause of death. Somehow.”

He blinks rapidly, chasing the tears away. “I need to know more about the Potters too. To confirm what Lawrence said, and figure out what happened to that manor.”

He knows from his dreams that the manor still existed in the eighteenth century. The last death he had seen taking place there was that of Achini Potter, an old woman who died of a magical illness along with her husband and spent a long time before her death reminding everyone who would hear of it that she wanted to be buried close to her mother’s ancestral home in Sri Lanka. Harry guesses that she and her siblings were the first mixed-race Potters and he’s thankful for having met her, if only because he now knows that he is not simply Desi but Sinhalese. There is another culture and a language he can look forward to learning about, something tangible he can cling to when the people of Privet Drive sneer at his skin and his features.

There is still so much he doesn’t know about the history of his family. He will need to remedy that, if only because it might give him more answers about his place in the world. And he knows where to start.

Harry ignores his aunt’s snide comment when he finally leaves his room. He makes breakfast for the family and goes back up before he can be called upon to do more. He showers and changes before heading out.

He buys bleach, square sunglasses and a cap at the local grocery store. If it works for muggle celebrities, he reasons, it should work for him. Besides, his hair will revert back to its original colour overnight. It is uniquely resistant to any type of interference. Knowing this doesn’t stop him from anxiously scratching at the yellow strands curling at his nape after he’s done. He bleached his hair in a public bathroom, washing off the product in the sink. Thankfully no one came in while he was at it. He wonders what the nosy neighbours would have told his relatives.

He makes the trip to London using muggle transportation, his disguise firmly in place. Lost among muggle crowds, he tries not to remember the witch burnings, to ignore the echo of the cheers of the people attending congratulating themselves for catching another “demon spawn” ringing in his ears. Thankfully, Little Whinging is reasonably close; it takes him less than two hours to get to the Leaky Cauldron.

In the magical bar, no one pays attention to him unless it’s to sneer at his obviously muggle-born attire. He rewards the few onlookers with a carefree grin he would have never borne as Harry Potter and makes his way to the Alley after a brief nod to Tom the barman. From there, he heads straight to Gringotts.

The bank is as busy as ever.

He looks around anxiously, hoping to find a goblin who doesn’t seem too busy. His expression clears as he spots a familiar face.

“Griphook,” he greets. The goblin bares his teeth at him.

“And you are?”

Harry removes his glasses and pushes up his cap, only far enough for his scar to be distinguishable.

“I was wondering who I should talk with to set up an appointment. I have questions I only trust the bank to answer.”

The goblin’s eyes glimmer. He nods before making a sharp hand movement to one of the clerks, barking orders in Kho’bl-guk, the language of his race.

“Follow me.”

And he sets off at a brisk pace, leaving Harry no choice but to obey. Griphook takes him through a maze of open corridors, ignoring the many curious bank employees on their path. The young wizard tries not to be distracted by the arrays of gemstones channelling goblin magic through the walls, which he has read about in the latest issue of The Nosy Niffler, his favourite magical theory and culture magazine. Gringotts is as grandiose and imposing as ever, though the way to the offices is less intimidating than the cart road leading to the vaults. It seeks to impress through displays of wealth and the reminder that goblins might not have wands but their magic, rich and thick, pulses in the walls of the bank. Harry resists the temptation to greet it with the energy at his own fingertips and focuses instead on the sound of Griphooks’ dragonhide boots clacking on the marble floor. The leatherwork is of remarkable quality for a bank teller, and the wizard is left to wonder what exactly is the man’s status in the bank.

Griphook stops in front of a wall before he can ponder on it any longer. Harry watches him run a claw in a circle on an empty space between stones and takes a sharp intake of breath when the wall opens into an entryway.

“Come in and have a seat. My colleague is fetching your account manager. You’re in luck, Grimfang just came back from his lunch appointment.”

Harry inclines his head in acknowledgement and does as he is told. Inwardly, he’s reeling. He remembers wondering about how Dumbledore got his vault key but being too afraid to ask, so grateful not to have to beg the Dursleys for anything he preferred not to examine too closely the dubious circumstances of it. In his defence, he was eleven and had never stepped foot in a bank, human or otherwise.

He wonders why he’s never asked after his account manager. Everyone has one, he knew that. Uncle Vernon complains about his often enough.

“Until he arrives, would you mind answering a few questions about the services the bank offers? I don’t want to waste time.”

Griphook clicks his tongue before offering him an appraising look. Harry feels like he’s being dissected. “Ask. I will choose if I wish to answer.”

“Right. Thank you. To what extent does Gringotts function like a muggle bank?”

The goblin bares his teeth a little. The gesture feels threatening but Harry is aware that he cannot interpret another species’ expressions through a human lens. As it is, he has no idea if this is supposed to be a smile or a grimace.

“A bank, muggle or otherwise, deals in money-related services. Deposits, withdrawals, investments, loan requests. In that, we function the same way. Gringotts differs in the additional services it offers and in the fact that we do not use money that does not exist. In gold we trust is a saying we are fond of, and the little papers and plastic cards muggles like to wave around mean nothing to us.”

“Er, but don’t you exchange muggle money for galleons?”

Ah, thinks Harry faintly, that’s what a grimace of disgust looks like in a goblin. Good to know. The baring of teeth before that must have been a smile.

“We do.” Because we had to, is implied. “And the bank allows it only to buy gold in the muggle world. It has no use to us otherwise.”

He nods. “And these other services? What are they?”

“Some of these services are exclusive to members of our race and you wixen do not have the privilege to hear of them. However, the Gringotts branches in curse-breaking and magical smithing offer their services to all magical races. Additionally, as per the peace treaty signed with the British ministry during the last Kho’bl-Wixen war, in exchange for following your laws outside of Kho’bl territory —meaning Gringotts, the Kho’bl Embassy and our underground dwellings—, we oversee inheritance matters on top of handling your money, meaning that there is a senior account manager appointed to each House that was granted a seat at the Wizengamot as well as handlers for every magical family recognised by the Ministry.” Griphook tilts his head. “I’m surprised you didn’t know that, considering the fact that you hold the Potter seat and stand to inherit two more.”

“Er, what?”

“My client is dreadfully uninformed, I see,” says the voice of whom Harry guesses to be Grimfang as he steps inside the room. The goblin is holding a porcelain box in his hands. Unlike Griphook, he has a full head of hair, his blond locks held back by a professional ponytail. His ears point upward rather than downward and he is slightly shorter and darker-skinned. His eyes are just as black from iris to sclera and his teeth just as sharp. “It is nice to finally meet you, Mister Potter.”

Harry stands and inclines his head towards the goblin, who strides forward and takes the seat opposite his, behind the marble desk he has only glanced at after he got there. He lays the box down in front of him, which gives Harry the opportunity to examine it. The box is turquoise and decorated with familiar white antlers. Runes run over its sides in the same gold that keeps the box’s clasp closed.

“Likewise, mister Grimfang,” he says before the goblin gestures at him to sit back down.

“Griphook, would you mind staying? I believe we might have need of your services if only to liaise with the other account managers.”

The bank teller makes a harsh noise that might have been an agreement before stepping forward and pressing at a black stone embedded into the desk. As he does so, an additional chair appears at Grimfang’s side. Griphook takes a quill and a sheet of parchment from the desk and waits for his colleague to start.

“I am glad you came here of your own initiative, Mister Potter. You see, my companion is right to say that our race was entrusted with overseeing matters of wixen inheritances following the last conflict we had with yours, a concession granted to appease us after the Ministry refused to allow us the right to bear wands.” He scoffs then. “Pah! As if we need wooden sticks to do magic, we who descend from the fae more closely than wixen could ever boast. But you see, many magical locations are only accessible to those who bear them, and your government offices are no exception. As long as our people are barred from owning them, we will never be allowed a seat at the table to discuss our interests. I digress. As I was saying, we oversee inheritance matters but conventions must be respected, especially in the case of magical orphans. The Ministry stands to gain a lot from seats remaining empty at the Wizengamot, you see, especially when they have the power to oust a Minister for Magic on a majority vote.”

Harry takes a sharp breath. The two goblins chuckle.

“Yes. The Minister gains a lot from your continued absence on the political field, and stands to gain more if you remain unaware that you have not only two but three seats at the table.”

“Why three? The Potter seat I understand, though I’d never been told it existed in the first place, but the others?”

“Sirius Black has named you his heir, child, not that the Ministry knows that. As long as he is considered a fugitive, you are the holder of the Black seat.”

Harry wonders if that’s why Fudge refused to listen to him, Ron and Hermione that night at the Shrieking Shack. If the man thought Sirius hadn’t named an heir and his seat would stay empty as long as he was on the run. Hasn’t he made sure the Crouch line ended too? He remembers Hermione saying that Crouch Sr had no heir to succeed him after his death. If Crouch Jr had had a trial, he would have had time to write a will, surely. This might be for the better, he thinks, imagining yet another Death Eater contributing to the passing of laws for an already bigoted Ministry.

“What about the third one?”

“Your mother's inheritance. She was blood-adopted by a member of the McKinnon clan. Her best friend and your late godmother, I believe. Marlene, her name was. As she was mainline, your mother was considered a potential heiress of the nominal House McKinnon, though they likely didn’t expect it to matter considering the dame had plenty of other siblings to inherit. Alas, the entire clan was slaughtered by the Dark Lord. There might be some Scottish wixen who married out and might have a more legitimate blood claim, but since no one came to contest your right to the Headship despite it being relatively common knowledge among the Scottish clans, I don’t believe that would be an issue. Blood adoptions are generally respected. You won't inherit much money but the ancestral clan land now belongs to you along with the seat the Head family was granted.”

“I see,” says Harry, closing his eyes for a moment.

He had wondered about his mother’s friends. He had seen pictures of her with people she seemed close to in the photo album Hagrid had compiled for him but he figured they would contact him if they wished to know him.

He hadn’t thought to ask if he had a godmother. Now he knew it wouldn’t have mattered. He’s curious to know what pushed his mother and her friend to perform a blood adoption ritual. As far as he is aware, Lily Potter had a good relationship with his grandparents; Aunt Petunia had once complained that Richard and Rose Evans favoured her unduly.

“Thank you for the information, mister Grimfang. Is there a way for me to look at the paperwork involved in the, er, undertaking of those seats? That and for my accounts. I’ll admit I wasn’t really thinking about… documentation the last times I came to the bank and I’m not sure how much money is available to me, nevermind the properties my parents might have owned.”

Griphook snorts. “Even if you were, lad and that would have been surprising considering your age and what we’ve guessed of where you were raised before Hogwarts, you wouldn’t have been allowed to look at these papers before you came of age, just like we weren’t allowed to talk to you about this matter. The only reason you had access to a trust vault at all was because of your headmaster’s meddling.”

His expression twists then, like he resents having anything to thank Dumbledore for.

“Luckily for you, you came to us during the same sun cycle that saw you magically emancipated,” grins Grimfang. “An event that happened in front of ministry employees, among whom was Ludo Bagman, the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. The man owed Gringotts quite a debt, which was redeemed in exchange for a sworn statement on his part that he witnessed the Ministry’s decision to let you compete in the Triwizard tournament as an adult of sound mind and body. Gold that just sits in a vault has no use to us after all, and making that part of his sentencing after we captured the fleeing coward was no hassle.”

Harry blinks rapidly.

“So I’m…”

“Yes, Mister Potter. I sent the statement –of which I kept a duplicate, of course— to the DMLE just before I came to you. You are legally considered an adult by law and by magic. That makes you the Head of House Potter and of the MacKinnon Clan, as well as the Heir to House Black.”

He pushes the box towards him, inviting him to open it. Harry complies, glancing curiously as the box’s inside glows. Inside of it lays an unassuming gold ring adorned with the symbol of his family.

“And this, child, is your Heir ring.”

When he steps out of Gringotts with a heavy purse and bag, it is well past midday. Harry is still reeling from the onslaught of information he was given as well as his visit to his family vaults. He has more money than he’ll ever know what to do with. But more importantly, he has answers or better options to seek the ones he lacks.

Now he knows that his parents didn’t write a will and thus everything they owned before their deaths now belong to him. He knows that they lived in Godric’s Hollow but that the ancestral manor of his family, Potter’s Plot still exists though it was significantly damaged by Voldemort while they were in hiding. He knows that he owns a house in Sri Lanka and has confirmed that his family has intermarried with Sinhalese wixen for a long time. He has access to family grimoires and heirlooms he had never known existed.

And more importantly, he has letters addressed to Harry Potter, dating as far back as the eleventh century. Lawrence —and presumably others he hasn’t yet dreamt of— have told his descendants and they have written him. They were left in an old wooden drawer in the heirloom vault. The drawer only opened when he passed next to it, probably recognising his magical signature. His ancestor was thorough.

From what he has skimmed, the letters are mostly informative, meant to fill in the gaps in his knowledge of his family history. He stops at Florean Fortescue’s ice cream parlour and searches through them for anything relevant to soul magic and the Peverell’s status as “friends of Death” after ordering a treacle tart ice cream. He doesn’t let himself delve too deeply into the contents. If he starts now, he’ll never stop.

From the little he has read, he knows that his next step must be Flourish and Blotts. There, he buys a book about the use of soul magic in charms and wards, the tales of Beedle the Bard, a book Hermione recommended on Modern History, three books promising an overview of the Wizengamot and wixen laws, as well as a compendium on curses and poisons. He walks around the aisles, trying to spot books that might either be useful for him to figure out what happened to his father or serve him in the upcoming war. He has just pulled out a book about duelling when another related to wix traps catches his attention. The spine has no title and he wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t dislodged the book right next to the one he chose. He adds it to the pile.

When he’s finally out of there, he has a dozen of additional reading materials. He looks up. The sun is still high in the sky. He has time to kill.

He would rather get to Privet Drive as late as possible. He’s not exactly eager to hear what Aunt Petunia has to say about his bleached hair. It’s better to come back when his relatives are already asleep or on their way to bed. He briefly fantasises about simply not coming back before discarding the idea. He might be emancipated by magical law but the blood protection still holds until his magic has fully matured. It would be reckless to do without it when he has more enemies than friends. A side glance has him staring at a wizard holding The Daily Prophet. On the front page is an article calling him a liar and an attention-seeker.

Harry clenches his jaw and looks away. His gaze leads him towards a clothing store and he decides that buying himself clothes that fit him might be a better use of his time than lashing out at a random passerby for reading a rubbish paper.

The store is hidden partially behind the bookstore and Rosa Lee’s tea shop, away from the more practical Madam Malkin and its high-end counterpart Twilfitt and Tattings. Clement’s Treasures looks to be of good quality, though Harry supposes it’s more akin to muggle tastes than wixen usually like. He goes in and is instantly swept away by an eager sales assistant who takes his measurements with magical tools before asking him what he’s looking for.

Harry sighs before smiling crookedly. “A whole wardrobe, really.”

He starts weaving a lie that is a bit too close to the truth, telling tales of a cousin who ruined all of his clothes out of pettiness and made it necessary for him to buy new ones.

The man sends him an appraising look. “So, casual clothes, Hogwarts age for all seasons?” His eyes gleam then, sensing a good sale. “What about for formal occasions? We sell fashionable open robes for all occasions on top of our usual fare. They’re in the back of the shop, you can look around.”

Harry chooses three casual open winter robes and three summer ones, then two of each that are considered semi-formal and another pair of closed robes with a high collar that makes him think of more relaxed priest collars. Then he’s made to choose shirts, jumpers, turtlenecks and cardigans, slacks, socks and shoes, and even underwear. He gets a winter cloak too, remembering how cold it can get at Hogwarts.

He favours neutral colours before the vendor coaxes him into trying jewel tones. The sales assistant even convinced him to throw away the clothes on his back and leave the shop wearing some of his spoils. By the end of it, he’s dizzy and has a terrible headache but he owns clothes he doesn’t hate and which have never been worn by anyone else. He hopes that not looking like a street urchin will be in his favour when the Ministry inevitably comes knocking upon receiving his declaration of emancipation. And if they don’t come, well. He’ll see them at the next Wizengamot session where he’ll declare for the three seats he inherited. He has no doubt that showing up in appropriate clothes with the ring of House Potter on his finger will help. The MacKinnons don’t have Headship rings —Grimfang told him clans generally don’t— and House Black prefers star-shaped earrings that Crookclaw, its account manager, told him Sirius had already taken with him.

Now that he’s done, he knows that he should probably get back to Privet Drive. But he had an idea while he was clothes shopping which leads him to walk towards Knockturn Alley. Before he steps into the shadowed place, he gets rid of his muggle cap, stuffing it along with his shopping bags into the expanded satchel he got in the Potter vault before rummaging for a more conventional wizard hat. He keeps his sunglasses though. He’s not suicidal and he’s all too aware that the colour of his eyes gives him away as much as his scar does.

He walks with confident steps, pretending he’s not monstrously out of place in the grimy alley. He tries not to stare at the hags and vampires he passes by, searching for the shop that might sell what he’s seeking. After a few minutes spent watching his surroundings with increasingly tense shoulders, he spots an apothecary. He’s about to walk towards it when someone grabs him by the arm and hisses at his back.

“Are you an idiot, Potter?”

Harry whirls around, his wand pointed towards the source of the voice. He blinks upon recognising his interlocutor but does not lower his wand.

The boy still holding on to his bicep is half a head taller than he is. He has tawny brown hair, dark eyes and a mole on his cheekbone. He's pale, though slightly more tanned than Malfoy. He wears a midnight blue open robe embroidered with silver runes and his wand is still attached to the holster strapped to his thigh despite the threat Harry levies at him. He’s staring at Harry with furrowed brows.

“What do you want, Nott? And how did you—”

“How did I recognise you? You’re oozing magic all over the place,” he deadpans. “Do you want to get yourself killed? After what happened at the—”

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you,” says Harry, his tone vicious. “Your father told you, didn’t he? How sweet. Has he promised to let his master brand you too, or is he waiting for you to come of age? I bet you and Malfoy would love that.”

Nott releases Harry’s arm like it has burnt him. His expression darkens, his already dark eyes turning black with anger. His hand twitches and his wand flies up to his hand. “I’m not Malfoy and certainly not my father, you fuckhead. Go get yourself killed for all I care.” He starts storming away.

A pang of guilt lances through Harry. He steps forward. This time, he’s the one holding on. “Wait. Sorry, I shouldn’t— shouldn’t have assumed.”

Nott watches him, his gaze unreadable. “And yet you did. Because I’m a Slytherin with a Death Eater father so naturally I want you dead, isn’t that right? I would commend you for your self-preservation skills but considering how brazenly you’ve been waltzing into enemy territory with no care for what your death would mean to our world, I’d think that would be pushing.”

“I’ve heard you say how much you hate muggles,” retorts Harry. “It’s not just about your Hogwarts House or your family.”

As he says it he remembers the wix burnings and bites his lip. Wixen have plenty of reasons to hate muggles.

“I do resent them," admits the boy with a careless wave of his hand, as if saying 'what can you do'. At Harry's shocked expression in the face of his admission, he raises an eyebrow. "Do you think it’s enjoyable for magical beings to be forced into hiding and limiting the amount of land we can pour our magic into while muggles poison the Earth with chemicals and kill or exploit everything they can? But I’m not calling for their extermination or that of muggle-borns. Loving magic doesn't make me a bigot." His expression twists. "My father and the madman he serves are both lunatics and I want nothing to do with them.”

Harry blinks up at him. Nott really has an intense gaze, he thinks faintly. “I— er. Good to know.”

He curses himself for his lack of eloquence. Nott smirks.

“So you’ll— you’ll fight against Him?” he asks finally. “Even if your dad is Marked?”

The Slytherin looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Do you think those are the only two options? Fight or join?”

Harry bristles. “You could also do like the Ministry and put your head in the sand for as long as you can before you suffocate, I guess. Because that’s an effective way to deal with a resurrected terrorist and his minions.”

Nott raises an eyebrow.

“I can’t believe no one has told you this before, Potter, but fifteen-year-olds are not supposed to fight in wars.”

Harry chuckles mirthlessly, images of Cedric’s falling body soon filling his mind.

“That’s a pretty thought but it’s not that easy. After all, if we don’t, who will? I don’t see anyone running to oppose Voldemort, do you? Besides, it's not like refusing to fight will stop him from trying to kill me.”

Nott doesn’t answer, only looks at him like he can tell what he’s thinking about. After a while, he unlocks his jaw and speaks up.

“The cambion who works at this apothecary would rather make you his thrall than sell you anything useful. Go to Lamia’s Scale, a block from there. They sell pre-made potions too. Judging by your abysmal skills, I’m guessing that’s what you were looking for.” Harry reels at the change of subject. Nott pauses and looks behind his shoulder. “Hide your magic before you get yourself killed. The average idiot might not know what it feels like but a few Death Eaters do and they might be magic-sensitive enough to recognise you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do. ”

Nott takes Harry’s wrist and unhooks his now slackened grip from his arm before he starts walking away. Right before he passes next to him, he turns and looks down at him, his long lashes resting against his cheeks. “Nice ring, by the way.” And he steps away, disappearing as quietly as he appeared.

When he gets back to his relatives’ house with a vial of truth serum in hand and a satchel full of goods, he barely has the time to cross the doorstep before his aunt slaps him across the face. “What did you do to him?” she shrieks.

Harry blinks, nonplussed, as he raises a hand to his face. Physical violence is usually not his aunt’s first recourse.

“What?”

“My Dudley, what did you do to my Dudley?”

“What the fuck are you talking about? I was out in London all day.”

She grabs him by the arm and drags him in, slamming the door behind them. In the living room stands Dudley whose vacant eyes Harry has only seen in one person before, right after he received the Dementor’s kiss.

Chapter Text

“No,” murmurs Harry, his eyes fixed on his cousin. “Not again.”

“I knew this would happen,” mumbles his uncle, sitting at Dudley’s side. “I knew taking you in would ruin us all. You and your freaks, you did this to him. You did this to him!”

At these words he lunges towards Harry who sidesteps him and strides forward, eyeing the soulless boy who not even a day before crowed with glee at seeing his face made gaunt by lack of sleep and eat. The boy who shared his blood and paid the price for it like Cedric did at the graveyard.

His uncle is not deterred and keeps trying to reach him, his face purple with fury. Harry puts the vial of truth serum he was holding into the front pocket of his pants and grips his wand, though he does not raise it. He doesn’t feel he has the right. He lets Vernon grab his shoulders and shake him instead, lets him spit at his face.

It should have been him, he thinks, not for the first time this year. Why must others always suffer in his place? His mother, Cedric, and now Dudley? They didn’t deserve this. How can he fix this?

His thoughts find an echo in Vernon’s cries.

“You did this!” his uncle says, meaty fingers digging into his bones and Harry pretends the trembling of his body is only caused by the violence of the act. He pretends it has nothing to do with the way his soul rattles with guilt at yet another bystander caught up in the madness that is his life. “Fix him! Fix him, you fucking freak!”

“I can’t! Dementors suck souls out of their body, they don’t—”

He trails off, his mind whirling away from his despair to focus once more.

“The dementor’s Kiss is soul magic,” he murmurs. “What was a dementor even doing here?”

He turns feverish eyes towards his aunt who is sobbing, gripping at her husband’s arm as the man vociferates. “Where did you find Dudley? Aunt Petunia, this is important.”

His aunt hiccups.

“I— I don’t know. I was coming back from grocery shopping and I found him in the middle of the road. Right— right in front of the house. His eyes are so empty, oh Dudley!”

She keens before devolving into sobs again, her frame wracked by sorrow.

“I’m going to do something incredibly stupid,” Harry tells himself, his mind racing. It’s soul magic of the foulest kind, echoes in his thoughts, but he is in a unique position to do something about this, and there is protective magic just as powerful within these very walls. It won’t protect him, but perhaps it can lend him some strength to save Dudley. “Aunt Petunia, I need you to come with me.”

They learn magic in school. They are taught the laws, the equations necessary to turn a hedgehog into a pincushion and back again, the theory behind why some things can be conjured and others only enchanted, and the language of creation and destruction. There are rules to magic and that is why it is taught like one would teach maths and physics, with calculations that shape their power into something workable. There is a science to magic that goes beyond the wand movements and incantations they drill until they can perform and pronounce them by rote, a little piece of mundane in the need to calculate the cause and effects of their spells.

But the strongest magics in their world are intuitive. It is the love of a mother, a happy memory, and intense willpower fueled by desperation.

And at this moment, in this house of miseries, there is love and desperation aplenty. Not only that, there is a boy with the power to wield it and knowledge that might save a life pointlessly taken.

At this moment, Harry feels some sliver of hope.

Vernon looks impossibly angrier. “You do not order her around, boy!”

The boy braces himself for a punch that doesn’t come. “Vernon, no!” protests his aunt, leading her husband away from the nephew she’s starting to perceive as her salvation. “Don’t. We don’t— we don’t have a choice. If— if he can save our baby,” her voice breaks then, and Harry feels sympathy for this woman who never granted him that much, “I’ll go.”

His uncle splutters before taking a deep breath to still himself. “Fine. Fine. But I swear, freak, if Dudley and Pet— if Pet comes to any harm, I’ll fucking kill you, you hear me? I’ll kill you. I’m not scared of your— your sort.”

If he can’t help Dudley, Harry would probably let him, he thinks with a resigned shake of his head.

“I can’t guarantee anything. If the dementor’s already gone, I won’t be able to do anything,” he says while going for the door, trusting that his aunt will follow. “But if it was there for me it would have stuck around. I’m counting on that.”

His aunt reddens. “What are you going to do exactly? And what was that thing you mentioned, a detractor?”

“A dementor. They’re…” he scrambles for a way to explain the horror of these creatures to a muggle who can’t see them. “Soul-sucking demons, basically. Being around them makes you feel like you’ll never feel happy again. And if they Kiss you, well. They take your soul out of your body. That’s what they did to Dudley.”

Once they step beyond the property line of his relatives’ house, he tells his aunt to stay behind. Harry looks around wand in hand. When he looks back, his aunt is pale behind him but her chin is raised high, her eyes determined. Harry smiles wryly. His relatives might despise him, but if there’s one thing he can count on it’s their love for each other. He would know; that same love powers the blood protection that keeps him safe. A mother’s love, indeed.

“And how do you make them put it back?”

“There’s no known cure for the Kiss.”

His aunt looks apoplectic. She seems prepared to scream at him but Harry raises a hand before she has the chance.

“There is no known cure but I— my family, the Potters that is. I think they—”

He cuts himself off as a familiar cold feeling permeates his bones, trying to reach into the deepest parts of him. The echoes of his mother’s cry resound in his ears and he shivers.

“What— is this the…?” stutters his aunt. “Is this what took my—”

The woman turns around herself, trying to catch a glimpse of the creature. Harry is standing in front of her.

“It’s no use. Muggles can’t see them. Now, listen. I want you to do something for me. I want you to think of all the happy memories you have of Dudley.” He smiles crookedly, his eyes shadowed. “I would do it myself but…”

He wouldn’t have anything to think of, is implied. She looks stricken but unsurprised. He shrugs.

“Think of him and tell me when you are ready.”

He read about how memories are shared after he was introduced to Professor Dumbledore’s pensieve. He had been endlessly curious about the magical artefact, which he had seen as his only way to prove Sirius’ innocence. He’s never tried memory extraction before but the magical theory article explaining it was thorough and the instructions surprisingly straightforward. Besides, his fourth year did prove that he always performs better under pressure. Either way, there’s no other option. None that he can think of, at least.

His aunt searches his face for a moment before nodding. She closes her eyes. Her brow furrows and she bites her lip. Harry studies her with detachment. She is pretty like this, he supposes. He’s never seen her without a sneer on her face. He sees her resemblance with his mother now, in the shape of their faces, the slope of their noses and the rise of their cheekbones. While Petunia is thinner, more blond and lacking that magical spark that made Lily glow even in pictures, she still has nice features. He never could appreciate that before, when she looked down her nose at him like he was something stuck at the bottom of her shoe.

“Ready?”

She inclines her head. Harry raises his wand and presses it to his aunt’s temple before making a circular movement, unravelling the silver threads. It takes a few seconds, during which his back tenses as he senses the cold seep deeper into his bones, but when he is done he takes no time before pressing the memories into himself, making the same movement at his own temple, this time counter-clockwise.

The article suggested that raw memory sharing could only be done with blood relations, which explains why pensieves were invented. The enchanted waters serve as a binding agent of sorts, giving common ground to incompatible minds. It still baffles him to consider that something as unsubstantial as shared DNA makes it possible for him to share thoughts with the aunt that is so disgusted by him. For this very reason, Harry didn’t think he would ever have the occasion to try the spell. Still, it’s good to know that it works.

Impressions of love invade his mind. A round baby laughing, watched by a loving mother. His first birthdays, his accomplishments. Dudley is admitted to Smeltings, winning a boxing competition. Introducing his first friend, Piers Polkiss, complimenting Petunia’s cooking. Through the rose-coloured lenses of a mother, he is a sweet, strong child with his whole life ahead of him. Deeply loved and cared for.

Harry tries to suppress his own emotional response to the images he is presented with. There is no place for him in these memories, he has always known that. It’s not the time to dwell on it, especially when doing so would corrupt the positive feelings he’ll need to draw on to perform his insane gambit.

“Stay behind the property line, no matter what happens,” he tells his aunt. He doesn’t wait for her agreement. He turns back and faces his greatest fear.

He hears long, hoarse, rattling breathes, and suddenly the creature is there. His mother begs for him to be spared. A flash of green lights up at the corner of his eye.

Harry squares his shoulders and waits for the auditory illusion to reach its peak, for Voldemort’s curse to cut off Lily Potter’s pleas, and for his worst memory to threaten to take him over. That’s when he sees it. As he plants his feet on the asphalt in front of number 4, Privet Drive, he faces the dementor and silently dares it to come and take him.

The creature hisses, a nightmarish vision in a tattered hooded cloak, and lunges at him. It is only when the dementor is centimetres away from his face that Harry falters, terror swirling in his gut. But he clenches his jaw and reminds himself silently that Potters are immune to soul magic.

“We are Friends of Death,” he says, both to goad the creature and to give himself courage. His magic pulses through his words like he’s making a magical vow and he feels it thrum beneath his skin, vibrate at his fingertips. “All of my ancestors Embraced their End when it was time for them to be taken. But soul magic cannot take us and should not take anyone else. You came looking for me and you took another when you had no right to do either. You will return him to me.”

He has barely finished his command that the foul creature is nose to nose with him, pulling at his soul. It feels like a million sharp nails clawing at him and for a moment he thinks he was wrong, this is how he’s going to die. But the creature lets out an ungodly screech and Harry raises his wand and screams, “Expecto Patronum!”, fuelling the charm with his aunt’s memory, with the love she shared with him and which he now weaponises. The silver stag that already saved him once bursts out of his wand, spearing the dementor with his antlers.

The creature howls, and twists and shudders like its very being is rebelling against itself. Harry pants and watches it flee, pursued by the personification of Prongs, his father and protector, a symbol of purity and nobility. When it’s finally gone, he turns to the Patronus and watches the swirl at the centre of it, glowing a weak yellow in a sea of silvery white. Dudley's soul looks kind of pathetic to him, but it's insanely relieving to know that it's whole, intact if folded in on itself.

“Go give it back to him, yeah?” he asks the stag, who inclines his head and trots into the house. Harry hears his aunt’s sharp breath and his uncle’s more distant exclamation, but it feels faint in the face of his exhaustion.

His knees shake once, twice, and he falls to the ground.

His dreams take him to the thirteenth century. His ancestor, a handsome woman with the Potter shaggy hair exults over a spell matrix. She notices him too late as she activates it, and her eyes widen in dismay when she realises what his presence must mean. Seconds later, her creation implodes and takes her with it. Harry watches the blast with soul-deep exhaustion.

Thankfully, it is the only death he witnesses before he wakes up.

When his eyes blink open, he is laying on the living room sofa. Outside, it’s completely dark, the starless night offset by the artificial lights still lit inside of his relatives’ house.

“A letter arrived for you, boy,” says his uncle with none of his usual bite. “They said you were expelled from that school of yours. Then another came retracting the order. You’ve got a disciplinary hearing instead. Your headmaster’s asking you to stay put. Some of your lot will come get you there, or something.”

His aunt is sitting next to him at the dinner table, staring vacantly at the wooden surface.

Harry doesn’t even protest the breach of privacy. He doesn’t particularly care that they read his letters. No one has been writing him anything of substance this summer anyway.

“They have no reason to expel me,” croaks Harry. “I went to London to make a declaration of emancipation. I’m an adult according to magical law, so my doing magic wasn’t illegal.” His aunt raises her head, sending him a questioning look. “They made me participate in a death tournament. It had consequences they didn’t quite intend,” he explains as he raises himself up to his elbows.

The fact that they’ve sent a letter anyway tells him that Fudge has decided that slandering him in the papers is not enough. It’s kind of pathetic. They probably know they can’t actually expel him. They just want to make him sweat.

“How’s Dudley?”

“Fine,” bites out his uncle. “Sleeping off the— what happened,” he amends, sounding exhausted.

“I’m sorry this happened,” says Harry quietly.

His relatives don’t acknowledge the apology. The silence is stifling but Harry and the Dursleys are well-practised at ignoring each other, so he just stands up on aching legs and walks to the kitchen. He pours himself a glass of water and gulps it down. It’s very telling of how dire the situation is that his relatives don’t protest. Even if they had, Harry wouldn’t have cared, he thinks. He saved their son but he’s all too aware that nothing has changed between them.

“We talked,” starts Vernon when he comes back. “You saved Dudley, I’ll acknowledge that. But you’re the reason this happened in the first place. We don’t want you here anymore.”

Harry sits back down on the sofa. He doesn’t think he’s ever sat down on it before, he thinks as he smoothes a hand on the slightly scratchy fabric. As he does so, he mulls down the man’s words. In truth, he’s not surprised. He expected something like this.

“Alright. I won’t come back.”

His easy acquiescence seems to bring them some relief. His aunt still looks tense, however.

“That headmaster of yours…” starts Petunia

Harry shakes his head.

“Professor Dumbledore might try to change my mind but he can’t actually make me do anything. And considering what I’ll be asking of you in exchange, I’m not even going to give him the opportunity to convince me otherwise.”

“What do you want?” Vernon barks.

“I want to erase your memories of magic.” Of what I can do, he doesn’t say. They don’t need to know that what he’s done for Dudley is only possible because of a secret his ancestors have protected for centuries. Worse, they don’t need to be left in a position for them to tell anyone else. As far as he’s concerned, Dudley never came into contact with the dementor. “Hell, if I had my way, I’d erase your memories of my mum’s existence even. As far as you’d be concerned, Aunt Petunia, you’d be an only child. But it would leave too many holes in your mind, I’m not sure what the long-term effects of that would be. Better to make you believe Mum and I were sent to an artsy boarding school in the Highlands or something. I’ll transfer you some money. Enough to buy a house just as good as this one in America, or wherever else you want to live, and even some extra so you’ll have time to find a good position, Uncle Vernon.”

The man splutters.

“I beg your pardon?” asks his aunt, her eyes rounded with shock. She’s always been good at picking up the slack, especially when her husband is short of words.

Harry’s gaze hardens.

“If I don’t benefit from Mum’s blood protection, you don’t either. Dementors are supposed to be the wardens of Azkaban, the wizarding prison. That one of them came here at all means that they’ve either gone rogue on their own and decided I made a tasty snack or that someone powerful sent them after me. I know which option is more likely.”

He licks his lips.

“You were relatively safe here because of Mum’s protection and Dudley still almost died. What do you think will happen when you’re completely vulnerable and I’m not even there to protect you? I don’t want you to be collateral damage in a war that doesn’t concern you.” He pauses. “You’ve never done more than the bare minimum for me. But you kept me alive. I’ll return the favour. I don’t owe you more than that.” He stands up again, done with the conversation. “I’ll let you discuss it.”

He climbs upstairs without another word. When he finally reaches his bed after seconds that seem interminable to him, he collapses into it. Hedwig flies up to his side and starts grooming his hair, making disgruntled little hoots as she eyes the bleached locks distrustfully. Harry wants to chuckle but he barely manages an amused sigh before he falls asleep again.

This time, he dreams of two Peverells in succession. He has a hard time distinguishing the time period they come from, though he thinks it’s not too far from the age of Merlin. It doesn’t mean much, considering how long the sorcerer lived. Their deaths aren’t anything notable; one of them is old enough to be completely blind as a bat and doesn’t even notice him. The other sighs that it’s time for him to Embrace the End before succumbing to malady.

It takes a whole day for someone to come and get him. He’s been patiently waiting in his room, out of sight and mind, his things already packed. His hair is back to its natural colour and he sent a letter to Gringotts, both laying out what he wants to be given to the Dursleys and the actions of the Ministry. Harry occupies his time by reading the Tales of Beedle the Bard and ignoring Dudley’s considering glances through the ajar door. He’s glad to see his cousin alive but he has nothing to say to him.

The tale of the three brothers gives him clarity. It is not hard to recognise his invisibility cloak in the description given by the storyteller, and he now knows why it is so important to specify that the Potters descend from the line of Ignotus. He wonders what happened after the man’s death to prompt what he understands to be a god to give such a gift to his descendants. He has no time to ponder on it. When the sun sets, the Dursleys announce they agree to his terms. Harry performs the Memory charm on them. It’s a second-year spell, nothing difficult. The tricky part is to implant a suggestion that helps the charmed individual fill in the blanks when their modified mind is confronted with something they can’t explain with the incomplete puzzle they’ve been left with. In this case, his relatives’ obsession with normalcy helped rather than hindered him. They’re well-practised in repressing inconvenient truths.

He leaves them with the belief that Uncle Vernon won the lottery and they’ve decided to live a better life elsewhere. His absence will be explained away by the suggestion of a newfound guardian who is coming to relieve them of their burden.

When he’s finished, Dudley blinks dazedly, the only one feeling a little unsettled by the gap in memories. Soon he shakes himself and climbs up the stairs, shouting about some video game. He does rub at his rib cage, like there’s an ache there he’s not sure how to soothe.

Harry’s aunt and uncle simply go about their business, ignoring him. He does notice that their presence feels less oppressive, like the aura of fear and hatred they’ve carried since his first bouts of accidental magic have dissipated, with remnants of their disdain and annoyance at his presence the only thing to show for it.

It doesn’t bother Harry. He didn’t expect anything else.

When his escort comes, he’s waiting outside, in the dark. He’s sitting on the porch, breathing in the evening air. He doesn’t want to stay in the house and he’s not eager to go back to sleep, considering he’ll either be dreaming of his ancestors or of Cedric. Though it’s been a while since he last saw the graveyard after he closed his eyes. He supposes whatever magic his family used to connect him to his ancestry line blocks out his real dreams in some way. He won’t say he’s not glad for the reprieve. He just wishes they had chosen a better way to communicate. The endless deaths wear on him, no matter how much he learns from them.

He hears the pop of apparition and tenses. Soon, three figures appear from the shadows. Harry raises his wand in their direction. His hand doesn’t tremble, for the first time since he faced the dementor.

“Don’t move,” he tells them before they try to cross the property line. The blood protection will still hold for another year, and though he has no proof that it will do anything to anyone outside of Voldemort, it’s a small yet warranted precaution he has to make.

“Smart lad,” someone comments. “But we don’t have all day.”

Harry recognises Mad-Eye Moody’s voice. It doesn’t make him less wary. He doesn’t know this man. He has no reason to trust him. He was taught by Barty Crouch Jr, not him.

“Hello, Harry.”

“Wotcher.”

The last voice he doesn’t recognise, though the second one he does.

“Professor Lupin,” he breathes out before he composes himself. “What was in your office the first time you invited me to talk?”

He hears a chuckle. It sounds a little raspy, but warm.

“A Grindylow.”

“Right.” He smiles faintly then, a little relieved. “I suppose you vouch for the others?”

There is a beat of silence before the werewolf confirms. Harry can almost see him incline his head. “I do.”

“You can come closer then.”

As they walk further down the path, he watches them. Seeing Professor Lupin is a relief, though the man looks as bedraggled as when he saw him last. More, perhaps, thinks Harry as he observes the new lines on the man’s face and the tawny hair that looks like it has been run through too many times by an agitated hand. His hands twitch. He lowers his wand slightly, almost embarrassed to have forgotten he was still holding it. He sees his father’s friend search his face, probably for the same signs of weariness Harry looked for.

He wonders what the man would think of him erasing his relatives’ memories.

His companions are interesting. Moody looks just as Barty Jr did, deeply suspicious and scowling everywhere, his fake eye whirling in its orbit. The stranger is tall, gangly even. They look androgynous, and their most recognisable attribute is their pink hair. “So Dumbledore sent you, did he? You took your sweet time.”

“You’re not inviting us in?” asks the person he doesn’t know, sounding a little put out.

Harry shakes his head. “No. I’ll get my things and meet you there. You’re taking me somewhere, right? Who’re you, by the way?” he asks the stranger.

“Oh, right. I’m Tonks. I’m an Auror Trainee, Mad-Eye’s apprentice. Nice to meetcha. And to answer your question, yes, we’re taking you.”

He nods at Tonks and slips back inside. He runs to get his things and gets back down. At the doorway, he hesitates, wondering if he should say something. But the Dursleys are just going about their business, uncaring. He presses his lips together. What would he even say, he thinks. These people are nothing to him. He took a soul back from a dementor and they only kicked him out for his trouble, no matter how amicable it may have been —well, amicable to their standards at least. Now they don’t even remember why they found him so unpleasant to be around but that didn’t stop them from being glad to see the back of him.

Harry has always thought that their indifference cut deeper than their hatred.

He steps out of the house he’s been tied to for fourteen years. He doesn’t look back.

Professor Lupin reaches him and takes his trunk from him with one hand before squeezing his shoulder with the other, a gentle smile etched onto his face.

“It’s good to see you, Harry.”

His eyes sting. It’s probably the lack of sleep.

“Come on,” says Moody gruffly, “we’ll talk on the way.”

Harry lets himself be led to the unknown as the warm imprint of a kind hand on his shoulder soothes an ache he can’t quite name.

Chapter Text

Harry steps over the threshold into the almost total darkness of the hall. He can smell damp, dust, and a sweetish, rotting smell; the place has the feeling of a derelict building. He looks over his shoulder and sees the others filing in behind him, Lupin and Tonks carrying his trunk and Hedwig’s cage.

The abandoned townhouse brims with as much magic as Hogwarts, though the feel of it on Harry’s skin is distinctly different: where the power coursing through the castle walls feels playful and curious, both childish and wise, the edifice he is currently standing in reminds him of the sharp hunger of his childhood. He feels judged by this shabby place, dissected by a weightless gaze. It is also very unlike the welcoming feel of Potter’s Plot, who embraced and recognised him as the last scion of his House even when his dreams took him far into the past. Grimmauld Place is wary of their little group, he can tell. It also feels… lonely.

“Whose family does this belong to?” he asks, pulling out his wand and murmuring the wand-lighting charm.

“Harry!” says Professor Lupin sharply, frowning at the tip of his wand.

“Oh, this? Don’t worry about it. I passed by the bank and got myself emancipated a few hours before the dementor came to Privet Drive. I was within my right to use magic, especially since Dudley was the only witness.”

The three adults look at him, dumbfounded. He shrugs.

“It’s not my fault the Ministry hasn’t bothered to process the paperwork.”

“Are you sure about this?” asks the professor.

“And when did you even do this? We were watching the house,” says Tonks.

“Were you now.”

Harry’s sharp response draws them up short. Professor Lupin’s brows furrow in concern and he opens his mouth as if to explain, but Mrs Weasley’s interruption stops him. Then Harry’s dragged further into the house, given cryptic half-sentences that raise more questions than answers and thrown at a smiling Ron and Hermione who are acting like they haven’t refused to give him any information all summer. It is only Hedwig’s flight out of her cage and onto his shoulder that settles him, stopping him from blowing up at them. For a time. Then they start on how Dumbledore thought it was best not to tell him anything, how angry the man was that the man he’d asked to spy on Harry hadn’t stayed put.

“Well, I’m glad he left,” says Harry coldly, his grip tightening on his wand, “or I’d have been left to rot all summer, wouldn’t I?”

Lupin inhales sharply, two steps behind him. He had followed Mrs Weasley as she’d dragged him to his designated room, trying to protest while the redheaded woman ignored him. He had shaken her off when she’d told him to go downstairs with her, as the “meeting was about to start”.

“Aren’t you . . . aren’t you worried about the Ministry of Magic hearing?” says Hermione quietly.

“No,” says Harry. “I wrote my account manager, and they’ve confirmed that the Ministry doesn’t have a case to justify expelling me. I was more worried about Voldemort and the situation in the magical world, but nobody cared to tell me more about that, so…”

He walks away from them, looking around, with Hedwig nestled contentedly on his shoulder. The weight of the room’s magic is heavy on his shoulders, more than the darkness of it. A blank stretch of canvas in an ornate picture frame is all that relieves the bareness of the peeling walls and as Harry passes it he thinks he hears someone lurking out of sight snigger. “What a rude family portrait,” he murmurs. “Will anyone ever bother to tell me who this house belongs to or should I try guessing?”

“It’s Sirius’ childhood house, Harry,” says Lupin quietly.

“Sirius. Is he there?”

“He’s downstairs.”

“Is he?” Harry whispers, biting his lip. “Can you– would you mind telling him to come up and meet me when he’s done? I need. I need to talk to him. Alone.”

“Can’t it wait? You just got there,” says Ron.

“No.”

A tense silence settles over the room. Harry stares at his father’s friend.

“Please, professor Lupin.”

The man’s amber eyes soften. “Of course, Harry. And please, call me Remus.”

Harry nods. He doesn’t think he can speak right now. Once the man is gone, he turns towards his friends who are still watching him apprehensively. Objectively, Harry gets it. He must look restless, like a lion in a cage.

“So why’s Dumbledore been so keen to keep me in the dark?” Harry asks, still trying hard to keep his voice casual. “Did you — er — bother to ask him at all?”

“We told Dumbledore we wanted to tell you what was going on,” says Ron. “We did, mate. But he’s really busy now, we’ve only seen him twice since we came here and he didn’t have much time, he just made us swear not to tell you important stuff when we wrote, he said the owls might be intercepted —”

“And he doesn’t have an army of house elves at Hogwarts to use? Or use, I don’t know, anything else? He’s the greatest wizard of our time, is he not?”

Hermione gasps in offence. “We wouldn’t use slave labour just to pass on letters! And anyways,” she sighs, glancing at Ron, “it’s pretty obvious he didn’t want us to tell you anything.”

“Maybe he thinks I can’t be trusted,” says Harry, watching their expressions.

“Don’t be thick,” says Ron, looking highly disconcerted.

“Or that I can’t take care of myself —”

“Of course he doesn’t think that!” says Hermione anxiously.

“So how come I have to stay at the Dursleys when our world is on the brink of war, without hearing more than platitudes while there’s a target on my back? How come you two are here together, aware of what’s going on when I was worrying myself sick from the lack of information and —”

He cuts himself off. He doesn’t want to tell them about the dreams. Not now.

“We’re not!” Ron protests “Mum won’t let us near the meetings, she says we’re too young —”

But before he knew it, Harry was shouting. “What do I care?! I was without news for a month! I had to take things into my own hands to find out what was happening in this society that I’m supposed to be a part of when I’m literally being targeted by a madman every year, and people die because of it! And now he’s alive again but I have to wait for the fucking headmaster’s permission to find out what the guy who’s out to kill me is doing? Were you the one who saw him come back? Were you the one had to watch another student die? Were you the one who saved both of your asses from dementors? Were you the one who got rid of Riddle? Were you the one who had to burn a man alive to save the philosopher’s stone? WERE YOU?”

He heaves. “Why should anyone bother to tell me anything? It’s not like my mother’s murderer is looking to make an example out of me to start off his reign of terror on a higher note than the way he ended it last time. But no, I was stuck in Privet Drive for four weeks, left to wonder if the man’s gathering forces, who he’s gonna kill next, what’s being done to fight him. Was it fun?” he asks, staring at his dumbfounded friends. “Did you have fun here together, knowing I’d be dreaming of Cedric’s death and wondering if you were next because I couldn’t stop Voldemort from resurrecting?”

“No, of course not —”

“Harry, we’re really sorry!” says Hermione desperately, her eyes now sparkling with tears. “You’re absolutely right, Harry — I’d be furious if it was me!”

Hedwig hoots disapprovingly, nuzzling her cheek to Harry’s. It knocks his glasses askew, and Harry removes them, breathing deeply. Judging by his friends’ sharp intake of breath, they’ve noticed the purple tint of his eyebags, stark even in the dark room. There’s a long pause, broken only when Harry turns away, the floorboards creaking under his feet.

This house is really shabby, he thinks grimly. As the thought crosses his mind, Grimmauld Place’s magic suddenly tastes rancid on his tongue. He swallows with a grimace.

“What is this meeting about anyway?”

***

They talk some more, and Harry feels mildly appeased at the end of it, though he won’t forget that his friends can’t be relied upon to stand up to Dumbledore for him. Sirius can’t either, it seems, so he’s on his own. Fred, George and Ginny join them quickly afterwards, but Harry struggles focusing on the discussion. He wants to talk to his godfather.

They tell him more about what he’s missed once they figure out that he’s only informed because of a single excursion to Diagon Alley. Still mindful of his temper, Hermione doesn’t berate him for it. She looks disapproving, but a glance at his signet ring shuts her up immediately.

Then the meeting is over and they’re called for dinner. His friends beckon him out of the room, but he shakes his head.

“I need to talk to Sirius first.”

Just as he says this, there’s a knock on the door. Ginny, who was holding on to the handle, jumps before opening it.

Harry’s godfather stands on the threshold. He looks better than the last time he’d seen him. His hair has been recently trimmed, and though it doesn’t quite have the glossy shine it had on the pictures Hagrid gave Harry, it’s much less dull and brittle than before. His eyes have less of a manic edge too, and he’s wearing jewellery. A lot of it, actually, all in silver. Earrings, rings, necklaces. He doesn’t wear the star-shaped earrings Crookclaw told him about though.

“Hello, Harry,” says Sirius as he steps into the room.

Harry’s friends shuffle out of the room with one last glance, murmuring about warning Mrs Weasley that they should wait to start dinner.

“Hi, Sirius,” says Harry.

He fidgets with his wand, unsure what to do. Hedwig flies off his shoulder and nudges him forward, headbutting him gently in the shoulder. Harry, taken-off guard, bumps into his godfather.

Sirius chuckles and opens his arms. “Well, then.” He holds Harry tight and murmurs, “I missed you, kid.”

Harry’s heart clenches. “You did?”

“Of course. I imagine you’re not too happy with me though, are you?”

“I just — four weeks with nothing, Sirius. That’s not — fair.”

He feels like a petulant child, saying this, but he can’t take it back.

“I know. But Albus Dumbledore can be very persuasive when he wants to,” Sirius sighs. “He’s very nice about his threats, don’t get me wrong, but they are still threats.”

Harry inhales sharply. “Did he —?”

“Nevermind that. There’s nothing you can do about it, and besides, I should fight my own battles.”

“But –” Harry shakes himself. “No, I need to talk to you about something else. Let’s, er. Let’s sit, okay?” he says, gesturing to the bed.

Sirius’ brows furrow, concerned. “Sure. What’s wrong?”

They both sit down on the bed, facing each other.

Harry fidgets with his wand. “I don’t know how to ask you this. How well do you remember…” he hesitates, then braces himself. “How well do you remember the night my parents died?”

He watches his godfather's expression turn blank and hates himself for it, but he needs to know.

“Not… well. When I came in and saw the house destroyed… I was in shock. Then I found your dad and I—” His eyes turn glassy. “I don’t remember it well.”

Harry grasps his hand without thinking, and exhales when Sirius holds on to it like a lifeline.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” murmurs his godfather. “Dementors replayed my worst memories, and that was definitely the most terrible moment of my life. When I was in Azkaban, it was the only thing I could think about. But I’ve been out for two years now and I’m… losing things.”

“It’s a good thing,” says Harry. “I don’t want you to suffer more than you already have. And I definitely won’t mention it again after this, but… I’m sorry Sirius.” He rummages in his pocket and pulls out the truth serum he bought. “I’m going to need you to tell me about that night, and I need to know everything, even what you don’t remember.”

Sirius sucks in a breath. “Why?” he asks in a wounded tone.

It’s obviously hurting him, but Harry presses on. “Because Voldemort didn’t kill my dad and I need to find out who did. If you saw any clue that night, anything —”

“Harry, what are you saying?” Sirius interrupts.

He glances towards the empty canvas in the room. “Do you have a spell to make sure nobody hears us?”

Sirius looks at him with intent before pulling out a wand. It’s a nice wand, made of dark wood and adorned with silver embellishments. “It was my grandfather’s wand,” says Sirius absently as he catches Harry looking. He casts the privacy spells before looking at his godson expectantly.

"You can't tell anyone," warns Harry. "Not even Dumbledore."

"Of course Harry," says Sirius gently.

"I mean it. This is... no one can know."

Sirius regards him more seriously. With a solemn grace, he nods and holds up his wand.

"I won't tell. I swear on my magic."

Harry relaxes as a swirl of silver and red wraps around Sirius' ribcage, binding him to his word.

He takes a deep breath and tells him about his dreams, and particularly his meeting with Lawrence Potter. He’s dreamt of others, he tells him, Potters he met twice because they survived the Killing curse the first time. The closer from the present they are, the more aware of him they seem to be. When they have time, they offer him a tidbit about the family he comes from. He tells Sirius about Arabella Potter, who was cursed by her own husband and who asked him to grant her a dance before she went and killed the man for the offence. She taught him to waltz, he remembers fondly.

His godfather stays silent throughout his tale, though his expression increasingly growing more agitated When Harry finishes, Sirius’ hands are twitching for his wand.

“James couldn’t have died of the Killing curse,” murmurs Sirius, the manic light in his eyes returning as he processes his words. “Give me that potion.”

Harry hesitantly hands it over. The man downs it and orders, “Ask me again.”

“What do you remember from that night?”

Sirius takes a deep breath and answers mechanically.

“I was out buying supplies for James and Lily. Both of their parents had died the year before and they wanted to do a Samhain celebration. But they’d been confined for a long time and the madman was still after them, they couldn’t exactly get the right candles and ritual supplies. James complained he’d already used up all his candles for Poya day – it’s a fast day to celebrate the full moon. James never got to visit a Buddhist temple as was tradition unless he was visiting relatives in Sri Lanka, so he always made a little homemade shrine with candles and offerings — so I went to get him more, and sweets for you to try. When I got there, the door had been blasted open and the eastern part of the house had collapsed. I heard you cry first so I ran to you immediately. I had to use a hovering charm since part of the stairway was damaged. I found you in the nursery. You were sitting next to your mum, trying to wake her up. Lily was…” he closes his eyes.

“Lily was partially buried under the rubble. I checked for a pulse but she was…” he chokes on the words, the potion forcing him to tell more than he wants. “Dead, she was dead. I should have guessed really, there was so much dark magic in the air — I took you in my arms, and went searching for James. I found him in the living room, I’d passed right by him when i arrived and I didn't even notice. There was just as much residual dark magic, I didn’t notice anything different. There was no sign of anybody else being there,” he continues, processing his own words as he speaks them. “Most of the living room was intact. There were some of your toys on the floor, one of the magical theory books Lily was reading. She’d been working on an array, but she didn’t say much about it the last time I visited because Remus was with me and he’d been withdrawn, we were starting to suspect him. It’s good that she didn’t, the rat was there too and he would have —”

“Was there anything weird about Dad? A curse mark, some other magical residue? Where was he facing? What about his wand?”

“Calm down, love, I can’t answer all this at once.”

Harry’s chest warms at the term of endearment. “Sorry. Did you notice anything?”

“No, nothing of the sort. His wand was on the kitchen table and he was facing the entryway. I don’t know about other residue, I wasn’t looking for it. There was nothing different about the room,” he thinks, his brows furrowed, “or about James himself, except.” His eyes widen. “A necklace. James was wearing a necklace I’d never seen before. James didn’t wear jewellery outside of his signet ring. He always said he was pretty enough without any adornment and that he’d leave all the trinkets to me since I liked them so much. Where would he have gotten that necklace? He hadn’t been out of the house in months, and their only visitor besides me, Remus, the rat and Dumbledore was batty Bathilda Bagshot.”

“Bagshot, the one who writes our History books?”

Sirius nods, before he blinks rapidly. His shoulders slump. “The potion’s effect is gone,” he warns Harry.

“It’s fine. We have two leads. The necklace and Mrs Bagshot.”

Harry sighs shakily, rubbing his face with trembling hands. Sirius’ eyes catch onto the signet ring at his finger. His lips quirk.

“Passed by Gringotts, did you?”

“Hm. Yesterday was… eventful.”

“You’ll tell me about it after dinner. I think we need… a little break. This house isn’t exactly restful – wait until you meet my mother’s portrait – but it’ll have to do. And we’ll figure out what happened, so I can add another name to the list of people I’ll delight in ripping apart,” he says with a manic grin, an unhinged light in his eyes.

Instead of being wary, Harry relaxes, slumping forward to rest his forehead on his godfather’s shoulder. Sirius runs a hand through his hair, humming. His grip is a little too strong, his nails a little too sharp, and he doesn’t manage to hide the intermittent twitches of his limbs from this close, much less the tumultuous magic barely leashed under his skin, but Harry finds comfort in the knowledge that someone cares, someone wants to help. Sirius feels the loss of James and Lily Potter as keenly as he does, perhaps even more, and he was right in taking a gamble by revealing the Potter family secret to him. He perhaps wouldn’t have done it like this if he hadn’t been so rattled by the previous day’s events, but he can’t bring himself to regret it. Sirius must have known that he hadn’t simply wanted to extract the parts that were fuzzy in his memory. His gaze had weighed on Harry when he’d explained. But he hadn’t commented; once he’d known what Harry needed, he had drank the potion without hesitation.

Harry will have to thank Theodore Nott for his recommendation, he thinks idly as they make their way downstairs in silence, their minds still preoccupied by their previous talk. That potion was exactly what he needed.

Chapter Text

“Let’s come down, Kreacher’s made dinner and he’ll refuse to serve it to anyone if I don’t make him,” says Sirius, patting his shoulder. “We’ll eat in the kitchen.”

“Who’s Kreacher?”

His godfather’s expression twists.

“My dear old mum’s House elf. Of course he had to be the only surviving elf in Grimmauld. He was part of her dowry, you see, came with her from House Crabbe,” Harry nods, though he needs a second to process the fact that Sirius and Crabbe are related by blood, “I can’t believe he’s the only one of the elves who survived to this day. Always hated my guts, the nasty bugger.”

“Why?” asks Harry as they come down the stairs.

Sirius is about to reply when he is interrupted by a screech.

“Filth! Scum! By-products of dirt and vileness! Half-breeds, mutants, freaks, begone from this place! How dare you befoul the house of my fathers —”

His godfather sighs. “They woke up Mother’s portrait again, great,” he says as they walk in direction of the noise.

It doesn’t take long for Harry to see who he is talking about. The old woman on the self-portrait is drooling, her eyes rolling, the yellowing skin of her face stretched taut as she screams, and all along the hall behind them, the other portraits awaken and begin to yell too, so much that Harry actually flinches and covers his ears.

The old woman’s face blanches when she sees Sirius. “Yoooou!” she howls, her eyes popping at the sight of the man. “Blood traitor, abomination, shame of my flesh!”

This is too much for Harry, who raises his wand and yells, “Silencio.”

His magic extends to the entire room, and the portraits shut up, Sirius’ mother’s painting first. The curtain at its side shuts itself too, and everyone breathes a sigh of relief.

Tonks sheepishly apologises for awakening it in the first place. Harry waves it off and lets Sirius lead him to the kitchen.

Dinner is exhausting.

It starts with Mrs Weasley’s overwhelming mothering, his friends’ worried glances, and the strangers at the table. Sirius is a grounding presence at Harry’s side, but it doesn’t make the mundane conversation Mrs Weasley imposes on everyone any less grating. He learns more about the Order members who decided to stay for dinner, though.

So far, he’s not impressed.

“Nearly time for bed, I think,” said Mrs. Weasley on a yawn.

“Not just yet, Molly,” said Sirius, pushing away his empty plate and turning to look at Harry. “Why don’t you tell everyone what you’ve been up to, love?”

The atmosphere in the room changes with the rapidity Harry associates with the arrival of dementors. Where seconds before it had been sleepily relaxed, it is now alert, even tense. Lupin, who was about to take a sip of wine, lowers his goblet slowly, looking wary.

“There’s not much to tell,” says Harry. “It was just, y’know, nightmares about Cedric dying, waiting for news that don’t come, more nightmares, ... then I got sick of it, and I made a little trip to Diagon. In disguise,” he specifies when he sees Hermione and Mrs Weasley draw themselves up. “I went to pick this up,” he explains, wiggling his fingers to show the Potter ring at his finger, "along with my declaration of emancipation. I’d planned to stay at the Dursleys after that, but Uncle Vernon accused me of murder because the dementors came and gave Dudley a good fright when they passed by the neighbourhood. Luckily he was behind the wards.”

He pauses, and gauges how believable his lie is. No one except Sirius seems to find anything wrong with what he just said, though Lupin watches his godfather's face curiously before glancing back at Harry thoughtfully. “The thing is, it made me realise that the Dursleys might be safe at home, but they aren’t outside of it. So I made a deal with them, and they’ll be leaving the country. I obliviated them; they don’t even know magic exists anymore.”

Hermione gasps.

“That was extremely foolish to do,” exclaims Mrs Weasley. “What about the blood protection?”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Is this protection worth risking the lives of three muggles who have nothing to do with this?”

Mrs Weasley sputters.

“You should have asked Professor Dumbledore first,” starts Tonks, furrowing their brows.

He tilts his head.

“Why?”

He watches them exchange looks, as if the answer should be obvious.

“Because he’s the leader of the Order!” exclaims Tonks. “And he’s Dumbledore.”

“The same Order I didn’t even know existed until, er, two hours ago?” He pauses. “And the headmaster might be, well, my headmaster, but we’re not at school. I have no reason to inform him of anything. At best I should have told Sirius, but even that wasn’t required. Like I said, I’m emancipated.”

Mrs Weasley is sitting bolt upright in her chair, her fists clenched upon its arms, every trace of drowsiness gone.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re too young to--”

“If he’s not too young to join a deadly tournament or to face off against a Dark Lord, I think he’s not too young to decide how he wants to protect the only blood family he has left,” defends Sirius, “and he’s not too young to be told what’s going on here.”

“What you think doesn’t matter!”

“Hang on!” interrupts George loudly.

“How come Harry gets his questions answered?” says Fred angrily.

“We’ve been trying to get stuff out of you for a month and you haven’t told us a single thing!” adds his twin brother.

“‘You’re too young, you’re not in the Order,’” mimics Fred, in a high-pitched voice that sounds uncannily like his mother’s. “Harry’s fifteen, we’re of age.”

“It’s not my fault you haven’t been told what the Order’s doing,” said Sirius calmly. “That’s your parents’ decision. Harry, on the other hand —”

“It’s not down to you to decide what’s good for Harry!” says Mrs. Weasley sharply. Her normally kindly face looks dangerous. “You haven’t forgotten what Dumbledore said, I suppose?”

“Which bit?” Sirius asks politely, but with an air as though readying himself for a fight.

“The bit about not telling Harry more than he needs to know,” says Mrs. Weasley, placing a heavy emphasis on the last three words.

Harry clears his throat.

“Harry is right here. I’m not asking you to treat me like an adult, Mrs Weasley, I know how old I am, but I do need you to remember that you have no right to tell me what I should and shouldn’t know. You can decide not to tell me things, but the answers you don’t give me are the answers I’ll look for on my own, it’s as simple as that.”

“You are a child, Harry,” she replies firmly, “and you should trust us to know what is good for you.”

Sirius barks out a laugh. “He’s not a child. You cannot be a child and live through what he has. I would know,” he adds quietly, glancing back at the door leading to the hall of portraits.

Harry is learning more than he ever knew about his godfather, whom he now understands to be – beyond an adult who cares – a kindred spirit. Sirius knows what it’s like to be unable to rely on adults. He gets it.

“He’s not an adult either!” exclaims Mrs. Weasley, the color rising in her cheeks. “He’s not James, Sirius!”

Sirius twitches next to him.

“Mrs Weasley!” growls Harry.

With the earlier revelations still fresh for Sirius, this comment is even more violent than the older woman suspects.

She glances at him and startles, taken aback by the fierce reprimand in his eyes.

“Arthur, back me up,” she demands, rounding on her husband.

Mr. Weasley does not speak at once. He takes off his glasses and cleans them slowly on his robes, not looking at his wife. Only when he has replaced them carefully on his nose does he say, “Dumbledore knows the position has changed, Molly. He accepts that Harry will have to be filled in to a certain extent now that he is staying at headquarters —”

“Yes, but there’s a difference between that and inviting him to do and ask whatever he likes!”

“Personally,” says Lupin quietly, looking away from Sirius at last, as Mrs. Weasley turns quickly to him, hopeful that finally she is about to get an ally, “I think it better that Harry gets the facts — not all the facts, Molly, but the general picture — from us, rather than a garbled version from . . . others.”

“Well,” says Mrs. Weasley, breathing deeply and looking around the table for support that des not come, “well . . . I can see I’m going to be overruled. I’ll just say this: Dumbledore must have had his reasons for not wanting Harry to know too much, and speaking as someone who has got Harry’s best interests at heart —”

“He’s not your son,” says Sirius quietly.

“He’s as good as,” retorts Mrs. Weasley fiercely. “Who else has he got?”

“He’s got me!”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Weasley, her lip curling. “The thing is, it’s been rather difficult for you to look after him while you’ve been locked up in Azkaban, hasn’t it?” Sirius starts to rise from his chair.

Harry tries to breathe out and temper himself, but he feels his control slipping away from him. A glass explodes. And another.

“You do not speak to him that way.”

The silence is deafening.

“Harry, calm down. Mum is worried about you,” says Ron hesitantly, “she’s not...”

Harry stands up too.

“She’s not, what? Insulting my godfather in his own home just because he’s trying to support me and my choices? As if I haven’t had my agency taken away multiple times, by Dumbledore who thought he knew better who ought to raise me, by Voldemort who tried to make me bow to him, by a fucking Goblet who bound me magically and made me compete in a Tournament I didn’t ask to be in? Sirius spent twelve years in Azkaban, yes. Do you have to use it as a weapon against him?”

He looks at every one of the people attending, angling his body to shield his godfather. He feels Sirius’ hand on his forearm, soothing.

“Molly, you’re not the only person at this table who cares about Harry,” says Lupin softly. “It doesn’t give you the right to talk to Sirius that way. Sirius,” he glances at his friend then and murmurs, “sit down.”

Harry’s godfather does so, then presses his palm against his taught elbow until the teenager imitates him. Harry takes a deep breath and obeys. He turns to Sirius, whose face is white and his eyes glassy.

On the other side of the table, Mrs. Weasley’s lower lip is trembling.

“I think Harry ought to be allowed a say in this,” Lupin continues. Harry sends him a grateful smile, which he returns softly, hesitantly. “He’s old enough to decide for himself.”

And finally, Harry gets some answers.

And they are... underwhelming. He already knows about the Ministry’s position, so the only thing that’s new is that they managed to convince a handful of people, none of whom are influential enough to matter much. That, and Voldemort is apparently seeking some kind of weapon.

After this frankly disappointing conversation, they all go to bed. Sirius leads Harry to a secluded room and murmurs, “you were supposed to share a room with Ron, but with your... dreams, I thought it might be better if you crashed here instead. I had to argue a bit with Kreacher, but... this was my younger brother’s room. My brother was... I loved him, you understand, but sometimes love isn’t enough.”

He sighs.

“Kreacher,” he calls after a beat.

The elf appears in front of them. He looks profoundly unfriendly, notes Harry.

“This is Heir Black, Kreacher, you’ll obey his orders as you’ll obey mine.”

“Heir Black doesn’t wear the earrings,” croaks Kreacher, glancing hatefully at Sirius.

“That’s your only objection? Huh,” comments Sirius. “Accio Black earrings.”

A minute later, a pair of earrings zips through the corridor and drop into Sirius’ open palm. Calling them such is reductive; they look like miniaturised constellations, star-bright and delicate, though they brim with power.

“My ears aren’t pierced,” he says hesitantly.

Kreacher makes a disdainful sound. Sirius chuckles.

“They don’t need to be. Here, let me show you.”

Sirius presses one of the jewels to Harry’s lobe, and the stone warms. The delicate string of silver joining the stars together stirs and wraps around Harry’s ear. Sirius conjures a mirror and shows him. The stars are hovering over his ear, so close to the skin they look like tattoos made of starlight. They do not weigh on him at all, and the shape looks different than it used to.

“The Leo constellation,” says his godfather proudly. “Your parents and I discussed the possibility of you inheriting the Black Heirship. They let me give you a Black middle name. We didn’t think it would happen – I was disowned after all – but I chose Regulus just in case, for my cowardly little brother who found courage at the end of his life,” he says sadly.

“You don’t wear yours,” notes Harry.

Sirius shakes his head.

“It’s... the memories are too painful. But my constellation’s Canis Major,” he adds with a grin, “which you would know if you paid attention in Astronomy class, kid.”

“I did know!” he protests.

“If you say so,” chuckles his godfather before ruffling his hair. "Hey, I can see you're tired. We'll talk in the morning, alright?

His eyes soften. “Alright. Goodnight Sirius.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

That night, he dreams of a house he’s never seen before but that seems strangely familiar to him. He sees a man he’s only met in pictures confront a dark lord and get struck by the Killing curse.

Harry kneels next to him on the living room’s floor, propping the man’s head up so it rests on his thigh. He ignores the urge to go upstairs and try to save his mother from the madman climbing up the stairs. He blocks out her faint pleas resonating in his ears, practised at it after so many encounters with dementors.

“We do look alike,” he murmurs, caressing his father’s brow.

He looks around. The living room is tidy, the space cozy and lived in. It looks comfortable. Like a home. When he glances down, he sees the necklace Sirius was talking about. He reaches out to touch it.

James Potter gasps upon regaining consciousness.

“Dad,” breathes out Harry.

“Who--? Oh. Oh, no. I can’t move...? Harry!... Harry?”

They hear an explosion and a child crying. The house shakes, part of it collapses just as Sirius told him.

Harry feels his father’s struggle to rise, but the man doesn’t stir. Or rather, his body doesn’t. His ghost, though, rushes through the ceiling.

“Dad!” exclaims Harry, rushing to the half-collapsed stairs.

He climbs them fast, anxious to stay with his father.

“Harry, Lily,” sobs James Potter, trying and failing to hold the bodies of his loved ones.

His cold fingers leave trails of wind on the cheek of young Harry Potter, but the toddler only shivers and cries harder, calling out for parents he cannot yet see.

(He hasn’t found his mother’s dead body yet. Harry is guiltily relieved he doesn’t have to see that.)

Ghosts take time to anchor themselves to the world of the living, and even if James Potter had remained a spectre, little Harry wouldn’t have seen him for several days, if not weeks.

(But he hadn’t, right? Harry prays that his father isn’t haunting this house as a ghost to this day. Surely someone would have told him if it was the case, right?)

“I’m so sorry, Dad,” murmurs the teenage version of the toddler he once was.

He trails off, aware of how discomforting he is being in the face of his father’s distress.

“You’re the Last Potter,” says his father resignedly turning his ghostly face back to him.. “The one from the stories. Harry... we failed you, didn’t we?”

“No,” he denies firmly. “You and Mum protected me, and I lived. I lived, Dad, you didn’t fail. But never mind that, why are you...? You’re not supposed to be dead,” he murmured.

He had dreamt of a dozen Potters hit by the Killing Curse by now, the latest of which was his great-grandfather Dishan, who had died during Grindelwald’s War against the Magical World. He’d had physical proof that soul magic did nothing to the wizards of his line when he’d snatched Dudley’s back from a dementor.

The Killing Curse should not have killed James Potter, let alone made him a ghost.

His father knows this too, for he replies with a broken voice, “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Harry watches the ghost of his father cry, unsure what to do. He can’t embrace the man who doesn’t have a corporeal form, and he can’t give him answers he doesn’t have either. Instead, he murmurs the Patronus charm, and lets the spirit stag run around his father, who smiles weakly at the sight. James Potter pats the stag, taking a shuddering breath.

“What happened after I...”

Harry glances away.

"Sirius found you in the living room, dead. Your killer must have planned this. They must have known...”

They must have known the Peverell’s secret and planned for it. Voldemort had dealt the killing blow, but someone else had made sure it would take. How, and why? Who would have known this, when no one had ever heard of immunity to soul magic before?

If it was common knowledge, the Wizarding World would have never called Harry the Boy-Who-Lived. His survival wouldn’t have been a surprise, nor a miracle.

“What can nullify an immunity?” asks his father, the torment in his eyes clouded by his rising anger. “If they hadn’t... I could have saved you. I could have raised you.”

Harry glances down at the man’s throat. He hadn’t noticed it before, but unlike the silver tint of James Potter’s spirit, the necklace faintly glows red.

“Sirius said you didn’t wear jewellery. Where did you get this, Dad?” he asks urgently.

James looks down and touches his neck with a furrow in his brows.

“I don’t... I don’t remember.”

“The runes... they look like wix-trapping runes.”

Harry remembers Rosalie, the first Potter he watched die in his dreams. He remembers the book about wix traps he found in Flourish & Blotts. It’s in his trunk, he can consult it later.

It’s his only lead so far.

“Harry, you’re fading,” says his father, his voice breaking on the last word.

“No,” he mumbles, “no, not yet. I have so many questions to ask you. I need more time, please, I need--”

“Shhh, Harry, it’s ok. I love you. Be safe.”

“But I need—someone killed you, I have to--”

“I know, son. You’ll figure it out,” reassures his father, holding his arms out as if to embrace him. Harry tries to melt into his embrace, but he only touches nothing.

Harry wakes up, his hand reaching out into the void, and he screams.

Sirius barges into the room and takes him into his arms.

Harry sobs against his chest, babbling, “Dad was—I talked to him and—the necklace, it--”

Sirius makes soothing sounds, waiting for him to be coherent again. Once Harry is calmed down, he breathes out, savouring the feeling of his godfather’s embrace, before leaving the bed and crawling to his trunk. After a minute of searching, he finds the book on wix-traps and opens it frantically. He looks for the table of contents then jumps to the chapter he thinks might content what he is searching for. He heaves once he’s found it, pressing his forehead against the book.

Sirius, who had moved back to be close to him, makes a worried sound. Harry raises his head and brandishes the book.

“This is what killed Dad,” he says fiercely, looking at his godfather with tear-filled eyes. “The necklace, it was a wix-trap.”

“What the muggles used to hunt wixen?” asks Sirius with wide eyes, a glassy sheen veiling his own gaze.

Harry nods. Wix traps didn't kill magical people; rather it made it impossible for them to use magic. Wixen tricked or forced into wearing them could only survive the burning that came next if someone rescued them on time.

“I thought someone else might have come and killed Dad before you got there, but I was wrong. They put the necklace on him days before and erased his memory of it. They knew Voldemort would come and they made sure he wouldn’t survive it.”

“You said you talked to him,” says Sirius carefully.

“I did. He was a ghost, I don’t know how, but--”

“It doesn’t make sense,” murmurs Sirius gravely.

Harry looks at him curiously. His godfather explains.

“The reason why the Killing curse is so popular is because it doesn’t create ghosts."

Chapter Text

“I doubt anyone has used a wix-trap and the Killing curse on a Potter simultaneously before,” murmurs Sirius.

Harry rubs his eyes tiredly.

“Does that mean Dad is a ghost somewhere?”

Sirius presses his lips together, his expression grim.

“I don’t know. But there is one way to find out. Come.”

And he pushes himself up.

They both leave the room and tiptoe around the others’ sleeping quarters.

Sirius leads him to the Black Library, on the highest floor of the house. The entrance is blocked by huge set of doors with silver handles and grey inlays in runescript.

“Iron runes, to ward off elves and goblin thieves, and protective arrays for the enterprising wixen.”

The scent of mildew and decay assaults his senses and the hinges groan as Sirius pushes open the doors, revealing a vast room bathed in an unnatural silence.

Towering shelves carved from black wood groan under the weight of countless leather-bound tomes. Hundreds of grimoires, their bindings boasting rich colours and intricate tooled designs line the shelves in organised rows. Cracked and peeling bindings reveal glimpses of pages filled with arcane symbols that seem to faintly glow in the dim light.

Some are adorned with clasps fashioned from bone or gleaming, unidentified metals. Most appear ancient, their leather worn smooth, and the lettering softened by time. A few of them are brand new – well, as brand new as they can be in a house left to its own devices for a decade -, the covers gleaming and the silver lettering crisp. But all are meticulously arranged by subject, laying out a tapestry of knowledge across the walls.

“It doubles as an observatory,” comments Sirius as Harry looks up to track where the light comes from. “I didn’t tell anyone about this. There’s a smaller library downstairs, so they think it’s all we have. They’re actually just copies displayed for guests. I might despise this house, but Molly would probably see all of this burn. I don’t... Regulus loved this library,” he says simply, shrugging.

“I understand,” says Harry, turning on himself to take it all in. “It’s beautiful.”

A circular opening dominates the ceiling. Tracks suggest a retractable roof, hinting at a view of the night sky. Magic must be involved; there is no way the London sky would be unclouded to enough to see anything.

A large, polished telescope sits beside a lectern draped in a tattered velvet cloth. On the lectern, a dragonet’s skull rests, its empty eye sockets staring sightlessly upwards. Harry thinks faintly of Norberta and the nesting mothers from the first task of the Tournament and restrains a grimace.

The moonlight casts a glow on the surrounding instruments – levitating astrolabes, celestial charts adorned with glyphs instead of constellations, and vials filled with shimmering liquids that pulsate with an inner light. The air thrums with a faint electrical hum, the magic of Grimmauld mingling with the scent of dust and decay.

As Harry is looking around, Sirius rummages through the books, clicking his tongue at intervals as he searches for something. Harry observes him silently. Sirius looks in his element here, at ease among the bookshelves and the eerie glow of the starry sky.

“A-ha,” exclaims Sirius, holding a dusty book bound in white leather. On its cover, Displaced Ghosts and How to Bind Them is written in looping letters. At Harry’s mildly alarmed look, he chuckles. “The introductory section is about the nature of ghosts and the way they anchor themselves to this plane of existence. There will be no binding happening, don’t worry.”

Harry laughs weakly. He knew that. The title was just a bit ominous, that’s all. He says as much to Sirius who shakes his head amusedly and cracks open the book at the chapter he needs.

“Hm,” he says after a few minutes, “they say you can’t call a ghost to you without hurting them, but you can track them using their body’s death signature.”

Harry grimaces. He was hoping to get immediate answers, but he should have expected this. Sirius offers him a wry smile.

“I know. We’ll have to hang in there.” He pauses. “The day after the hearing there won’t be any Order meetings. I’ll go to James’ grave and get what we need. I’ll also see if I can find that damned necklace. You should figure out a way to talk to Bagshot. I obviously can’t approach her considering I’m a fugitive,” he jokes, though his laughter rings hollow.

Harry nods and embraces Sirius, who looks troubled at the idea of digging up his best friend’s grave.

His godfather sighs, holding him tighter. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. You think you can go back to sleep?” questions Sirius, his brows furrowed in concern.

Harry thinks about it, then shakes his head. “There’s... too much. To do, to think about-- I can’t.”

“I get it. Mind if I keep you company? There’re a few armchairs over there,” he points at plush leather armchairs surrounding a low table full of papers. “We can read a bit. You have a list, don’t you?”

Harry nods. He tells Sirius he needs to get a few things downstairs; he goes back to his room and brings back the research material he bought at the bookstore and the letters the Potters of the past left him. When he returns, Sirius has gathered a pile too. He lets himself be led to the leather armchairs. They have to be dusted off with a few Scourgifys.

He and Sirius split the books between them and get to work. When he has a question, he asks his godfather. Sirius knows the basics of soul magic, though most of it seems ingrained in him rather than the product of personal research. He supplements that knowledge with tidbits of magical theory and insights on the nature of Dark magic, which he begrudgingly describes as being less black and white than most people want to pretend it is.

“Some spells are simply Dark because they’re fuelled by desperation, anger, grief. It’s not like you can stop yourself from feeling those things. Rituals and potions will also be considered Dark if they use ingredients or materials classified as such. But if a cutting curse is a Light spell and can decapitate, you can understand that Dark spells can be used for good too.”

Harry nods. It seems to him that what is considered Dark magic is a little arbitrary. Torture curses being seen as Dark makes sense to him, healing rituals less so.

“My family didn’t dabble in soul magic much,” Sirius admits, “we’ve always preferred hemomancy. You know, blood work. It’s never been my forte. Reggie was amazing at it, though. James used to joke that his family history was actually creepier than mine.” He pauses. “Turns out he was serious.”

As far as Harry understands it, soul magic is an umbrella term for everything life and death related. It is not considered Dark in and of itself, but often lends itself to dark purposes.

The soul can be wounded, it can be healed, it can be detached from the body, and it can be trapped inside of it and left to decay. It can be splintered, reshaped, it can be bound and freed and bound again. Souls are shifting and malleable in a way bodies rarely are – discounting transfiguration. They are the essence of who you are, of what you want and seek out of life.

The books he reads define souls as the core of a being, what follows you to the afterlife when your body rots. It is all very philosophical, but Harry understands the gist of it. What happens to your soul on Earth can affect you in the afterlife – which is a thing wixen have confirmed exist, though they can’t quite tell what it’s supposed to look like.

It is the Potters’ death that is protected by their immunity, which makes sense considering everything Harry has learnt about Ignotus Peverell.

He compares those notes with what he has learnt about wix-traps and finds that wixen’s souls are uniquely grounded in materiality compared to muggles’, which is why they can shape the world according to their intent. A magical core is, in essence, the weak point of a magical being’s soul – the place where the immaterial flickers into existence. It is a constant ebb and flow, never quite committing to distorting what the soul should be – essence rather than form – but skirting at the edges of it to impose its will on the world.

“What a paradox,” he thinks, rubbing his left temple to ward off the impending headache.

Ghosts are cores anchored to this world who remember what their bodies looked like. They have the same ebb and flow as they had in life, but it manifests as materiality without corporeality.

Meanwhile, wix-traps cut off a wix’ connexion to the material world, which stops them from interacting with it. They do this by forcing the core into immateriality. It unmakes the essence of wizardry.

Harry remembers Grimfang’s words.

We who descend from the fae more closely than wixen could ever boast.

He’s read somewhere that goblins have solid cores, which is something they share with fae folk and house elves and that has been weaponised against them; many wixen would rather believe goblins don’t have souls than understand that maybe their definition of soul is flawed.

Due to their core nature, goblins wouldn’t be affected by wix-traps, since it is the changing state of their soul that allows them to take effect. It makes sense, since goblins were the ones who made the first wix-traps, which granted them an enormous advantage during the Wars.

(Muggles just repurposed them after, and then made fae traps to kill goblins too. The goblin nation had been a strong advocate of the Statute of Secrecy, though many of them had wished to just do away with all muggles and be done with it.)

But the interesting part of this is that it implies that goblins believe wix magic to be of fae origin – fae being an umbrella term for creatures for an entirely magical plane of existence, which had been cut off from Earth during the Age of Merlin --, and that the fluctuating nature of their core comes from their mixed heritage.

It also means that goblins, like muggles, cannot form ghosts, though for completely different reasons. And that the appearance of Harry’s father’s ghost was due to the conflict between the purpose of a wix-trap and the intent of the Killing curse; the wix-trap forced his core into immateriality and the Killing curse severed his entire soul from his body, which meant that his core was no longer affected by the wix-trap and regained its constantly fluctuating shape upon being detached from the body.

But the Potter immunity to soul magic must have created a paradox, seeking to repair the soul's connexion to the body while being unable to do so due to the necklace’s continuous presence on James’ neck. If he’s right, it means that James’ soul has either dematerialised and moved on to the afterlife, or it is stuck in a never-ending loop, attempting to possess itself.

It doesn’t necessarily mean that James’ ghost would be haunting his body. His ghost could be anywhere, stuck as he is between the material and spiritual planes.

A tear rolls down Harry’s cheek as he explains this to Sirius, who grimly vows to take the necklace from James’ corpse.

“I’ll go with you,” says Harry.

Sirius cannot find it in himself to refuse him.

Later in the morning, when Sirius has gone down to seek Remus, Harry meets his friends in Ron’s room.

The teens discuss the weapon the Order is guarding. They wonder what Voldemort could possibly be seeking. Harry is sceptical of its existence; the Dark Lord didn’t seem to need that kind of thing to strike terror into Magical Britain’s population.

Then Mrs Weasley gets them up to cleaning, though in his opinion what they are doing is more akin to waging war on the house; it puts up a very good fight, aided and abetted by Kreacher. The magic of Grimmauld Place rebels against change and it is increasingly obvious that what they are doing is pointless.

Still, Harry plays along, until Sirius shows him the tapestry.

“I haven’t looked at this for years.”

He starts commenting on the various personalities of his family. Some of them sound like rancid people and their hatred of muggles is always evident, but Harry looks at the birthdates and remembers Rosalie Potter. He can’t find it in himself to blame them entirely.

Judging by Sirius’ wry look, he agrees with this assessment, though it pains him to do so.

Sirius keeps going. “I see Tonks isn’t on here. That’s... I wonder why that is. It does explain why Kreacher won’t take orders from them — he’s supposed to do whatever the family asks him. . .”

“You and Tonks are related?” Harry asks, surprised.

“Oh yeah, their mother, Andromeda, was my favorite cousin,” says Sirius, examining the tapestry carefully. “No, Andromeda’s not on here either, look —”

He points to another small round burn mark between two names, Bellatrix and Narcissa.

“Andromeda’s sisters are still here because they made lovely, respectable pure-blood marriages, but Andromeda married a Muggleborn, Ted Tonks, so —”

Sirius mimes blasting the tapestry with a wand and laughs sourly. Harry, however, does not laugh; he is too busy staring at the names to the right of Andromeda’s burn mark. A double line of gold embroidery links Narcissa Black with Lucius Malfoy, and a single vertical gold line from their names leads to the name Draco.

“You’re related to the Malfoys!”

“The pure-blood families are all interrelated,” says Sirius.

He talks some more about it, and Harry listens distractedly, but his eyes are tracing the branches of the tree thoughtfully.

“I’m on the tapestry too,” he murmurs, tracing his name on it.

“Of course, Harry. You’re my Heir. And besides, your grandmother was a Black.”

“She was?” he asks, surprised.

“Yes. Here, see?”

He points to the name of Dorea Black, who married Charlus Potter, the son of Dishan Henry Potter. James’ name under them is interlinked with Lily’s and Sirius’. Like his godfather’s, Harry’s name underneath is written brighter than the others.

Harry sends him a questioning look.

Sirius misunderstands his intention. “I’m marked as your third parent in this since I named you as my son. I’m not seeking to replace your parents,” he hurries to say, “but this was the only way to--”

“You’re not replacing them,” interrupts Harry softly, “I know that. But thank you. I’d be proud... to be your son and theirs.”

His godfather looks at him softly. Harry glances down, embarrassed. After a beat, he raises his head.

“But... can I try to do something about Kreacher? I’m not sure it’ll work, I just think we can probably do better things with our time than cleaning this house,” he says meaningfully.

Sirius shrugs. “Do your worst, love.”

He doesn’t seem to care much about Kreacher, and considering what he’s implied yesterday, Harry can understand why. Sirius’ mother hated him, and her dowered elf mimicked her in all things, it’s not difficult to draw conclusions.

Harry takes a deep breath and calls.

“Kreacher.”

He hears a pop, and the elf appears.

“Heir Black,” he croaks, staring at him with suspicion.

“When I was twelve,” starts Harry, looking back at the tapestry, “I met an elf named Dobby. You might know of him.”

Kreacher nods slowly. “Elves know other elves. Dobby was Black elf, given as dowry to Mistress Narcissa.”

Harry blinks. He didn’t know that.

“Well, you see, Dobby was miserable with his previous master, so I freed him.” The old elf shudders bodily, looking up at him with frightened eyes. “He’s much happier now, though he’s struggled to find work for a time, until he spoke to the headmaster. Now he’s a Hogwarts elf and he gets paid. He buys socks with his money.”

That last part is said nonchalantly, like this isn’t anathema to everything Kreacher has ever known and believed.

“But you know what is good about employment?” he says, finally turning back to Kreacher. “If Dobby finds a better job offer, he can quit working at Hogwarts. What do you think about getting a co-worker, Kreacher? I’m thinking about paying him three gallons an hour, that’s a reasonable price, don’t you think?”

Sirius makes a sound, and Harry carefully doesn’t look at him. It seems like his godfather finds the situation very funny.

“Dobby no longer be a Black elf, Dobby being a disgraced Malfoy elf!” howls Kreacher. “Dobby not being deserving to serve the House of Black anymore! Oh, what would Master Regulus think of this new Master who hates Kreacher so and dares to sleep in his room, and seeks to shame House Black by bringing,” he hiccups, “freed elves into the illustrious--”

Harry blinks. “I don’t see the problem. We need more elves, and the House won’t clean itself.”

“Kreacher be cleaning the house!” exclaims the elf before disappearing with a pop.

By dinnertime, the living areas of the house are pristine, and Sirius starts laughing every time he thinks about it.

Hermione is furious, though, and makes it known after dinner, when she, Ron and he are in a sitting room by themselves.

Harry doesn’t care.

He might agree with her on principle when it comes to elf liberation, but he’s learnt his lesson with Dobby. He still feels bad about the fact that he didn’t even wonder what would happen to him after he freed him. He’d had a knee-jerk reaction in the face of the elf’s suffering, and he hadn’t paused to wonder what his life would look like as a freed elf when his species’ raison d’etre was to serve.

He had skimmed over Hermione’s notes. Elves were the descendants of cursed fae, condemned to craving the service of a master due to their ancestor’s betrayal of the fae king Oberon. They willingly entered the service of wixen to sate that craving and were soon taken advantage of. The elves of today have forgotten their fae heritage – which granted them the scorn of goblin folk – and they built their culture around their need to serve humans.

Hermione theorises that giving them clothes frees them of the curse. It isn’t so much the piece of clothing that matters, but the concept of ownership associated with it: in repentance for their act of betrayal, the cursed fae could own nothing, not even themselves, and a master giving them property works as a symbolic act of forgiveness. If she is right, it is only ingrained habit and trauma that causes the depression and mania respectively seen in Winky and Dobby. This means they can be taught to let go of those mental scars and learn to appreciate freedom.

Harry isn’t too sure about her conclusions; despite what he had naively thought at twelve, he doesn’t believe freedom can be given. If the supposed breaking of the curse doesn’t stop house elves from seeking servitude, the solution cannot be so simple. One thing he is certain of is that infrastructure should be built to support freed elves so they don’t end up like Dobby or Winky, who were lucky to find work at Hogwarts but could have very well ended up homeless and scorned by their people.

He says as much to Hermione.

“Elf freedom cannot come from human hands,” he tells her after she rants at him about how wrong it is of him to be manipulating Kreacher. “They must take it for themselves.”

“It has to come from human hands since they are cursed to crave service!”

“I don’t think so. I think it used to be like this, but bloodline curses shift with time. Ownership doesn’t free them; elves must want something for themselves to be freed.” He pauses. “I think it’s because Dobby wanted to save me that he got his freedom, not because Lucius Malfoy threw my sock at him.”

“Your theory makes no sense. What about Winky?” demands Hermione.

Ron snorts.

“Does she look free to you?”

“I think she wished to protect Barty Jr,” says Harry thoughtfully, “but I get what you mean. Kreacher!”

The house elf appears with a pop. He glances at Harry warily.

“Heir Black has an order for Kreacher?”

“A request, rather,” he corrects. “Are you under a curse of servitude?”

Kreacher shakes his head.

“Were you ever under a curse of servitude?”

“Kreacher is happy to serve,” he hisses, offended.

“Are you? Even if you think Sirius is a blood traitor who has invited people you don’t respect into the house of your beloved mistress?”

The elf stays silent, mulling over his words.

“Master Sirius is the Head of House Black and the last son of Mistress Walburga. Kreacher wishes to see House Black live on. If Kreacher must accept the filth in his house to see it happen, he will.” Begrudgingly, he adds. “And Master Sirius has chosen an acceptable heir.”

He throws a filthy look at Hermione. “The mudblood might think Kreacher has been manipulated, but he has simply conceded the point Heir Black has made. The house must be cleaned, and if Kreacher doesn’t do it, another elf will have to.” He turns back to Harry. “Kreacher thought about it, and he thinks Heir Black should bring the deviant elf here, and Winky too. She is being Charis Black’s dowry elf. Dobby is a good shopper elf and Winky is a good cooking elf. If Kreacher does the cleaning, they can be interacting with humans. Kreacher will only speak to elves and Heir Black if possible.”

Huh. All the elves he knows by name used to be Black elves. That’s... something to think about.

“So you’re not forced to obey? You do it by your own volition?” asks Hermione.

Kreacher mumbles, “the mudblood is speaking to Kreacher, he does not wish to respond, he--”

“Oi,” say Ron and Harry.

Kreacher presses his lips together. He does not apologise.

“Answer her question, Kreacher,” orders Harry.

“Some elves are still cursed, others are not. We are still wishing to serve. It is elf nature now. And house elves still be swearing oaths to their House. Curse or not, they keep wixen secrets and tend to wixen houses, cook wixen food and make wixen errands. But it is being vassalage, not slavery. House elves are paid in magic and prestige and connexion to magical land. Just because humans like their clothes and their coins doesn’t mean they make house elves happy too. Except the deviant elf, who should not be listened to. He is a manipulative elf. He pretends to be hurt when his former master kicks, but elves do not feel pain like humans do.” He licks his lips. “Kreacher is not wanting to say more in front of them.”

Harry inwardly groans. Nothing is ever easy, isn’t it? If there was a one-size-fits-all answer to the problem of elf servitude, someone would have solved it by now.

He sighs, then silently asks his friends to leave. Hermione looks about to protest, but Ron drags her away, muttering furiously that she should respect the elf’s privacy if she cared so much about his rights. This shuts her up. The door of the sitting room clicks behind them.

“Kreacher’s curse was broken when Master Regulus gave Kreacher a locket to destroy,” he reveals. “It didn’t break the curse because the locket belonged to Kreacher now, but because Kreacher did not want anything but to serve before and now Kreacher also wanted to destroy the locket for himself, not just because it was Master Regulus’ order.” He pauses. “Kreacher still took care of Mistress Walburga until she died and takes care of her ungrateful eldest son now.”

Harry wants to ask what was important about this locket, but the baring of Kreacher’s teeth stops him. Maybe another time. Or never.

“Thank you, Kreacher.”

“Kreacher has a question.”

The elf watches him with trepidation.

Harry nods. “Go ahead.”

“Harry Potter killed the Dark Lord. Kreacher wonders how he did it.”

He notes the use of his name. It seems like the old elf sees a difference between Heir Black and Harry Potter, like they’re two separate entities.

“I didn’t kill him. He’s still alive. That’s why we’re here, you do know that, right?”

“Harry Potter killed him,” refutes Kreacher, his eyes bright. “He just didn’t do it enough times.”

Harry thinks about the events of that night, where the protection in his blood both shielded him from death and lashed out against his aggressor. He then thinks about Tom Riddle’s diary and the basilisk fang he used to spear the vessel the teenage Dark Lord had used to host an imprint of himself.

Souls can be splintered and bound, he remembers.

“True enough. The last time, basilisk venom did the trick." Kreacher droops at that. “The fangs are still in the Chamber of Secrets.” He perks up. Harry looks at him warily. He tries to change the subject. “Before that, my mother’s sacrifice placed a blood protection around me. Technically she is the one who killed Voldemort.”

Kreacher made a scornful sound. “Blacks be doing blood magic since Lady Morgana’s time. No blood sacrifice is doing this, or mothers’ offsprings would survive the Killing curse more often."

"She was asked to step aside," remembers Harry. "He asked her three times."

Kreacher tilts his head and blinks his enormous eyes at him.

"Harry Potter wants his mother to have saved him. Understandable. But lying to himself does not change the truth. There is blood magic, but it is not intended to protect. It is soul magic that saves Harry Potter.” The elf waves it off as if he hasn’t shattered Dumbledore’s story with a simple logical leap. “Will Heir Black give Kreacher a basilisk fang in exchange for absolute loyalty? Kreacher will not obey another Black’s order.”

Which is how Harry realises that Narcissa Malfoy being a Black means that Kreacher could have told her everything he wished about the Order of the Phoenix.

The revelations just keep coming today, he thinks faintly. But really, he has no choice but to agree.

Chapter Text

“Let’s go now,” says Harry abruptly.

“And where are you going exactly, young man,” says a voice from behind him.

Harry turns around.

Sirius and Lupin face him, their expressions serious.

“Kreacher is loyal to any member of House Black,” he announces. “Which means that he can take orders from Narcissa Malfoy and her son.” Seeing their alarmed look, he hurries to say. “But he’s promised me absolute loyalty if I give him a basilisk fang.”

“Are you mad?” exclaims Sirius. “Don’t give anything to that little worm, especially not something so dangerous.”

“This is for the locket you mentioned, isn’t it, Kreacher?” questions Harry, ignoring his godfather.

At the elf’s careful nod, he continues his questioning. “And this locket, is it related to the question you asked me?”

Kreacher croaks, “yes.”

“Then I’ll take your oath, but I’ll only lend you the fang. You’ll destroy it in front of me and give it back afterwards, ok?” He turns back to the adults in the room. “Is that acceptable to you?”

The two men exchange a look. “Only if we can come with you,” decides Sirius.

Lupin sighs. “Let’s try to be back before morning, please?”

Harry nods. After he throws him an expectant look, Kreacher does too, though he grumbles about it.

“Accio Marauders’ Map,” casts Harry. “Accio Invisibility Cloak.”

The Cloak leaps into his arms soon after, followed by the Map. Now that he knows about Ignotus Peverell, he understands how priceless an heirloom his cloak is, and is therefore not surprised by how eager it is for him to use it.

When they are ready, the old elf snaps his fingers. They appear in front of the Shrieking Shack.

Lupin tenses at the sight of it.

“Professor Lupin--”

The man shakes his head and looks at him softly.

“Call me Remus, Harry. I already said so, didn’t I?”

“I-- alright. Remus.”

He’s not sure what to think of it; Lupin—Remus might be his father’s friend, but he is nothing more than a professor to Harry and has never sought to be anything else. That the man is trying to better their relationship now puzzles him, but he’s not sure how to ask for explanations.

Kreacher clucks impatiently.

“Kreacher be getting the elves he’ll poach for House Black. Masters go to the Chamber. We be meeting here.”

“Alright,” says Harry, amused at the elf’s bossiness.

The trip doesn’t take them long. All in all, it is the need for Sirius and Remus to get over their shock after seeing the basilisk’s corpse that prolongs it.

They stayed silent when Harry showed them the bathroom entrance, and Remus levitated them down with expert skill that had Sirius smiling appreciatively and commenting that the werewolf always was talented at Charms.

When they get there, the monstrous serpent is sprawled motionless, its once vibrant green scales turned dull and lifeless.

Its body, easily the length of several trees laid end to end, fills the Chamber, leaving little room for manoeuvre. A closer look reveals the intricate patterns etched on its armoured back, once formidable protection but now a chilling reminder of its power. Foul-smelling vapours rise from the gaping maw lined with rows of long, yellowed fangs. Each one is the size of a sword, their tips glinting wickedly even in the dim light. A closer look reveals a viscous, dark liquid dripping from some fangs.

Harry looks at it blankly and raises his wand. It take a few seconds to get what they came here for. Sirius conjures a box to hold the fang in.

As they go back, he feels their gazes on him and tries not to be self-conscious about it. He’s not sure what they want from him.

Kreacher, Winky and Dobby are waiting at the Shack. They stare at him with lamp-like eyes before blurring into motion.

Winky hugs his leg and cries her thanks while Dobby jumps up and down, claiming the greatness of Harry Potter.

Harry pats their heads awkwardly, unsure what to do. Remus hides a smile behind his sleeve but makes not move to help. Sirius does not even try to be discreet; he just barks out a laugh and teases Harry.

“Harry the elf whisperer,” he calls him with a cheeky grin, which has Harry batting his hand at him in playful reprimand.

Kreacher sneers, “Kreacher had to negotiate the deviant elf’s salary. Heir Black owes him for this," then turns to the box Sirius is holding. “Can Kreacher see it?” he asks.

His master watches him intently with wary dislike, before he turns to Harry and sighs. He nods, opening the box and tilting it lower for the elf to inspect its contents comfortably.

Kreacher makes a sound of trepidation, before he seems to remember where they are and snaps his finger. An unpleasant twist later, they are back at Grimmauld.

Kreacher turns to Dobby and Winky and growls, “the oaths will be sworn tomorrow. Go, now.”

“You’ll swear yours again too,” warns Sirius, “or I’ll have your head mounted with the others.”

"Sirius,” sighs Remus.

“What? It’s either this or he blabs to Narcissa.”

Harry grimaces, but he says nothing. It’s true, after all. Kreacher swore loyalty to House Black, not to Sirius specifically. He cannot order him not to speak to Narcissa.

“You could always disown her and Bellatrix,” suggests Remus.

Sirius flinches.

“I... don’t want to.”

He looks away.

“Cissy... in memory of the happy moments of our childhood, I would prefer not to do that to her. Besides, true disownments must be done in Blackmoore, and the Aurors have a permanent posting there.”

“Blackmoore?” asks Harry.

Sirius passes a hand through his hair.

“One of the few magical cities in England. It was founded by Antares Black in the fourteenth century, if I remember it right. That’s where the Rook, our family castle was built. My grandfather never left that thrice damned place. He died in it.”

He looks sad about it, so Harry steps forward and presses a hand to his bicep, at the same time Remus does the same. They stare at each other awkwardly before Harry removes his hand.

Kreacher makes an impatient noise.

“Right,” says Harry.

He gestures at Sirius, who hands over the box to Kreacher. The house elf takes it eagerly and then dives into a cupboard to pick up something. He reveals a locket emanating such malevolent energy it’s almost shocking.

“What is this?” he murmurs.

The locket abruptly opens in Kreacher’s hands, who yelps and drops it.

A coiled serpent starts to appear, and Harry remembers the basilisk. Said serpent morphs into a young man with short hair bearing an uncanny resemblance to Sirius. But when he opens his mouth, and his tongue is forked.

“Master Regulus,” whispers Kreacher.

“Don’t let him speak,” yells Sirius, his voice breaking on the word ‘him’, “stab it. Now, Kreacher”

But the house elf doesn’t hear him. He stands, transfixed, and looks at his beloved person. Harry reaches forward and takes the basilisk fang from his hands.

The locket morphs into a red-eyed version of James Potter, who smirks and says, “you won’t kill your father, won’t you, Harry?”

“You’re not my father,” he hisses, and runs the locket through with the venomous fang.

“No,” howls Sirius as he watches James’ figure writhe in pain.

Remus holds him back, and they watch the slow death of the cursed artefact with panting breaths.

The noise has alerted everyone around the house, who rush to their floor. Someone bangs at the door, and it takes a beat of time for Harry to remember why he should open.

Mrs Weasley is hysterical, and her husband’s ever do not soothe her in the least.

“What in Merlin’s beard was that?” exclaims Ron, echoing the sentiment of everyone in the room.

“I don’t know,” murmurs Harry, “but it belonged to Voldemort.”

The next day, the headmaster is sitting at the kitchen table when Harry comes down from breakfast.

He and Sirius have just finished witnessing the three elves’ oaths, and Harry has asked Kreacher to talk to him later that day. He wants to know more about blood magic, and the spell or ritual Kreacher has implied existed but was not for protection like he always believed it to be. He tries not to think too much about what it means for the years he spent at the Dursleys.

When Dumbledore comes, he barely acknowledges Harry. He only asks Sirius about the destroyed locket, and frowns when Kreacher refuses to relinquish it, then frowns deeper when Sirius asks Harry if he would be willing to order Kreacher to give it away.

Harry hums.

“No. It is his property, a gift from Regulus Black.”

Sirius flinches at this. He still is swallowing the fact that the brother he called a coward, too soft to fight back against his parents and their ideology, died opposing Voldemort in the bravest possible way.

Kreacher’s story had come in fits and starts the night before. He told them about the Inferi Cave and Voldemort’s orders, Regulus’ reactions to them and his ultimate sacrifice. He hadn’t been able to tell them what exactly the locket was, but Harry had an entire library to research it, and though he is loath to disturb anything in Regulus’ room, he thinks there might be clues there too.

Harry turns to the house elf.

“Kreacher, would you consent to lending the locket to the headmaster provided he swears to give it back?”

The house elf stares up at him, his eyes unreadable. After a minute of silence, he nods slowly.

“Kreacher agrees.”

Dumbledore looks at something behind Harry, though his attention is obviously on the boy.

“You are making many decisions that endanger your safety and others’, my boy. Your emancipation being the first, and now your intrusion into Hogwarts on a whim when you could have simply informed me. I would advise you to think a bit more before you act. The good of the magical world is at stake, here, I hope you understand this. We cannot afford to lose you to Voldemort.”

Harry blinks innocently.

“I don’t see how that is any concern of yours, headmaster. We do not have that kind of relationship.”

I don’t trust you anymore, he means. I won’t rely on your support when you’ve never given it in any shape except in the form of arbitrary house points and a sorting hat.

When the school thought him to be the Heir, Dumbledore did nothing to curb the harassment he faced. When he was forced into participating in the Triwizard Tournament, he only got placating words. And when Cedric died... Dumbledore gave a speech and sent him off to the Dursleys. He had no words of comfort for Harry, and even fewer for Amos Diggory. Only silence, and reminders of the threat Voldemort poses to the world. As if there is no time or consideration to be had for mourning when a teenager dies, because war has no sympathies to give.

And now that he knows that the blood protection the headmaster used as an excuse to leave him at the Dursleys might be a farce, he’s not willing to take his word as gospel anymore.

He will make his own choices.

Dumbledore might be a war general, but he is not Harry’s. They are not fighting the same war, and it has taken him some time to understand it. He’s not sure what Dumbledore is fighting for.

Harry fights for his own survival and for the safety of his people. He fights for justice and equality in this rotten world, yes, and he fooled himself into thinking the headmaster was doing the same. But while Dumbledore is playing chess, he doesn't yet understand that Harry's not a piece on his board. Harry would rather play topple the castle.

Dumbledore’s brows furrow again, and he shifts. Harry straightens with anticipation, expecting him to finally look him in the eye. But the old man only sighs.

“Youth will always be wilful, I suppose. I hope you do not learn to temper yourself the hard way, my boy.”

And he leaves after this without another glance, though not before holding out an imperious hand to Kreacher and waiting until he gives him the locket.

“I will return it in a month,” he promises.

Harry watches in his wake, entirely speechless. When he finds his voice, he says the first thing that comes to mind.

Unfortunately, it is a line of enquiry he would have preferred to keep from Sirius.

“Could you tell what the blood magic you can detect is meant to do, Kreacher?”

“What?” asks his godfather.

“Kreacher says there’s blood magic tied to me but it’s not protective in nature. He says my protection is soul magic.”

“But there are blood wards around the Dursleys’ house,” argues Sirius. “I saw them when I... visited as Padfoot.”

“I think those were meant for Aunt Petunia’s protection, not for mine. They probably strengthened whatever mum was trying to do, but I don’t know what that was.” He pauses. “Besides, it doesn’t make sense to me, which is why I was hoping Kreacher would elaborate. Voldemort couldn’t touch me as Quirrell and that was supposedly because of the protection. He used my blood to counter that, and he could touch me after. Clearly there must be a protective element.”

“Kreacher can find out,” croaks the elf. “It will take time.”

“That’s fine. I can wait.”

The house elf smiles. It doesn’t fit his face, thinks Harry distantly, but he’s glad Kreacher feels better. Remus theorised the locket leeched on him, which explains a lot about his general sourness. Sirius had grumbled that the elf had always been like that, but his friend patiently pointed out that his memory was full of holes and likely distorted. As a result of the dementors’ negative influence, he might remember Kreacher as being worse than he was.

“But Kreacher can explain what he already knows. Heir Black burnt the Dark Lord when he tried to touch him, yes?”

Harry nods.

“It is the influence of Sowilo.” He points at Harry’s forehead. “The rune of the sun, inner fire of the soul. The Dark Lord was weak to the soul magic when he inhabited a body that did not belong to him, but his resurrected flesh is his property. And he took from you to make himself. Not just blood, but your will. Willpower is of the soul. It is linking blood magic with soul magic.”

“Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken,” remembers Harry. “I see. That’s disgusting.”

He blanches. Does that mean Voldemort benefits from the Potter immunity?

Sirius can seemingly read his thought, because he shakes his head. He doesn’t explain but his certainty settles Harry.

The next days are calm.

Harry spends most of it in the Black Library, though he sometimes forces himself to enjoy his friends’ presence. Hermione has calmed down a bit, and she is embroiled in furious research for S.P.E.W. She claims she needs to rethink her strategy.

Ron steers clear of her, instead following Harry around and grumbling when he goes where the redhead can’t reach him. It’s now obvious to the rest of the house that Sirius has sectioned off a corner for himself and Harry to use, and the elves are vigilant in making sure no nosy people follow them to the upper floor.

Only Mrs Weasley and Hermione tried, so far. Harry is not surprised.

In such a little amount of time, Dobby, Winky and Kreacher have transformed Grimmauld Place into something habitable. Harry even negotiated with the latter to move the wall containing Walburga’s portrait somewhere she won’t bother everyone. Kreacher had tsked and told him to do it himself, then led him to what used to be Orion Black’s office. There Harry started being taught how to manipulate wizard-space by the apathetic portrait of Sirius’ father. His godfather had taken one look at the office and heaved.

Remus had told Harry when he asked that Walburga was easier to remember for Sirius because of how horrid she was. Orion was not a good man, exactly, but he strived to be a good father until a magical curse took that away from him. By the end of his life, he shut himself up in this room and never came out of it. He died the same year as Regulus, and Sirius having already fled home, he was never able to find out how.

When Harry asked Kreacher, the elf twitched and murmured Orion took his own life. Harry doesn’t think it would help Sirius to know now, but he vows to tell him the truth when he asks.

Before he knows it, the morning of the hearing comes. It is half-past five when he wakes up, but half of the household has risen to support him. Harry is surprised at it; even Ron dragged himself out of bed and made sure to be there for him.

Harry wonders if it’s the distance he forced between his friends and him that push them to try harder. He can’t help it; he can’t help but to find their concerns frivolous in the face of what he has to do. Solve his father’s murder, win a war, survive. He loves his friends, but Hermione is more worried about her OWLs and Ron about the nth bad season the Chudley Cannons are experiencing. He gets it; the war seems like a distant thing to them when Voldemort is laying low. Still, it frustrates him.

Hermione frets at his left side while Ron hovers at his right. Harry ends up spending more time comforting them than settling his own nerves.

“I’ll be fine, I told you. They have no recourse.”

Harry tries to enjoy Mr Weasley’s obvious enthusiasm at the muggle underground, but he just wants to get this over with.

“Here we are,” says Mr. Weasley brightly, pointing at an old red telephone box missing several panes of glass and stood before a heavily graffitied wall. “After you, Harry.”

He opens the telephone box door. Harry steps inside. Mr. Weasley folds himself in after him and closes the door.

It’s a tight fit; Harry is jammed against the telephone apparatus, which is hanging crookedly from the wall as though a vandal tried to rip it off.

Mr. Weasley reaches past Harry for the receiver. Harry watches him silently as he inputs the code.

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business.”

Chapter Text

“Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services.”

“This is us, Harry,” says Mr. Weasley, leading Harry into a corridor lined with doors. “My office is on the other side of the floor.”

The young wizard keeps remembering the statues in the middle of the fountain. Tallest of them all was a noble-looking wizard with his wand pointing straight up in the air. Grouped around him were a beautiful witch, a centaur, a goblin, and a house-elf. The last three were all looking adoringly up at the witch and wizard.

If this was what the Ministry of Magic found tasteful to display in their hall, can he really trust in their idea of justice?

He tries to keep the notion out of his mind and asks Mr. Weasley about the enchanted windows. He observes the offices of Aurors distractedly until they bump into Kingsley Shacklebolt, who show them what he’s been doing to lead the DMLE on a false track regarding Sirius’ case.

Mr. Weasley takes Harry to his office, where the man’s associate warns them the hearing time and location has been changed. They are late. After that, it’s a whirlwind of movement; they hurry to the courtroom while cursing the pettiness of everyone involved under their breath.

“Those courtrooms haven’t been used in years,” says Mr. Weasley angrily. “I can’t think why they’re doing it down there — unless — but no . . .”

They go down to the Department of Mysteries, panting all the while.

“Courtroom . . . ten . . . I think . . . we’re nearly . . . yes. I can’t come with you, Harry, you’ll have to go alone.”

Harry clenches his jaw, but nods shortly before facing the door. He breathes out, then turns the heavy iron door handle and steps inside.

He gasps; he cannot help himself.

The large dungeon he entered is horribly familiar. He has not only seen it before, he has been here before: this was the place he visited inside Dumbledore’s Pensieve, where he watched the Lestranges sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban.

The walls are made of dark stone, dimly lit by torches. Empty benches rise on either side of him, but ahead, in the highest benches of all, are many shadowy figures. They had been talking in low voices, but as the heavy door swung closed behind Harry an ominous silence falls. A cold male voice rings across the courtroom. “You’re late.”

“And you’re uncourteous,” he retorts. “Who has heard of changing the date of a hearing the day of? If this farce can even be called such, considering I am being trialled in the room that saw Voldemort’s worst Death Eaters sent to Azkaban.”

Murmurs rise at his brazen words. Inwardly, he grimaces. Perhaps he could have kept the antagonism to a minimum. There is plenty of time for it after all.

“The Ministry does as it must,” blusters the voice. “Other pressing matters await the attendees, and as such, the meeting had to be moved. An owl was sent to you this morning.” A pause. “Take your seat.”

Harry drops his gaze to the chair in the centre of the room, the arms of which are covered in chains. He has seen those chains spring to life and bind whoever sat between them. His footsteps echo loudly as he walks across the stone floor. When he sits on the edge of the chair the chains clink rather threateningly but do not bind him.

He looks up defiantly at the people seated at the bench above. There are about fifty of them, all, as far as he could see, wearing plum-colored robes with an elaborately worked silver ‘W’ on the lefthand side of the chest and all staring down their noses at him, some with very austere expressions, others looks of frank curiosity.

In the very middle of the front row sits Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic. A broad, square-jawed witch with very short grey hair is on Fudge’s left; she wears a monocle and looked forbidding. On Fudge’s right was another witch, but she is sitting so far back on the bench that her face is in shadow.

“Very well,” continues Fudge. “The accused being present — finally — let us begin. Are you ready?” he calls down the row.

“Yes, sir,” says an eager voice Harry recognises.

Percy Weasley sits at the very end of the front bench. His eyes, behind his horn-rimmed glasses, are fixed on his parchment, a quill poised in his hand. Harry makes a low, scornful sound. Percy twitches, but does not look up.

“Disciplinary hearing of the twelfth of August,” announces Fudge in a ringing voice, and Percy begins taking notes at once, “into offenses committed under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery and the International Statute of Secrecy by Harry James Potter, resident at number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. Interrogators: Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister of Magic; Amelia Susan Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister. Court Scribe, Percy Ignatius Weasley —”

“— Counsel for the defence, Constance Dagworth-Granger,” says a sharp voice, the owner of which Harry recognises by name.

Grimfang, his account manager, had told him she was a lawyer and a friend of his grandmother. He contacted her on Harry’s behalf as soon as he got his letter about the notice of expulsion. Harry had initially planned to stall until she could arrive, but it seems he wouldn’t need to.

“— Witness for the defence, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,” said a quiet voice a beat after.

Harry turns his head so fast he cricks his neck. He watches his headmaster with round eyes.

“Ah,” says Fudge, who looks thoroughly disconcerted. “Dumbledore. Yes. You — er — got our — er — message that the time and — er — place of the hearing had been changed, then? And – er – what's this about counsel?” he adds sharply, his eyes narrowing at Constance.

“Surely you were not about to hold a trial without a lawyer present to defend the client?” says the lawyer, raising her brows.

“Yes — well — I suppose we’ll need chairs — I — Weasley, could you — ?”

“Not to worry, not to worry,” replies Dumbledore pleasantly; he takes out his wand, gives it a little flick, and a squashy chintz armchair appears out of nowhere next to Harry. Dumbledore sits down, puts the tips of his long fingers together, and looks at Fudge over them with an expression of polite interest.

Master Dagworth-Granger does the same, though her chair is much less ostentatious, and she pointedly stays standing in front of it.

The Wizengamot is still muttering and fidgeting restlessly; only when Fudge speaks again do they settle down.

Yes,” says Fudge again, shuffling his notes. “Well, then. So. The charges. Yes.” He extricates a piece of parchment from the pile before him, takes a deep breath, and reads, “The charges against the accused are as follows: That he did knowingly, deliberately, and in full awareness of the illegality of his actions, having received a previous written warning from the Ministry of Magic on a similar charge, produce a Patronus Charm in a Muggle-inhabited area, in the presence of a Muggle, on August the second at twenty-three minutes past nine, which constitutes an offense under paragraph C of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, and also under section thirteen of the International Confederation of Wizards’ Statute of Secrecy.”

“You are Harry James Potter, of number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey?” Fudge asks, glaring at Harry over the top of his parchment.

“Yes.”

“You received an official warning from the Ministry for using illegal magic three years ago, did you not?”

“Yes.”

His relaxed tone seems to unsettle the Minister, but the man presses on.

“And yet you conjured a Patronus on the night of the second of August?”

“Yes,” says Harry.

“Knowing that you are not permitted to use magic outside school while you are under the age of seventeen?”

This time, Harry does not answer. He looks at his lawyer, who clears her throat.

Fudge’s eye twitches. “Yes, Master Dagworth-Granger?”

“Mr. Potter’s defence has submitted evidence for the perusal of the Wizengamot. I believe it is now an appropriate time to share it with the jury.”

“What paperwork?” demands the Senior Undersecretary with a sugary tone.

She is an older woman with the most unpleasant fake smile Harry has ever seen. She is dressed in pink from heads to toe, and her veneer of politeness shows so many cracks it’s a wonder she isn’t oozing venom.

The witch with the monocle on Fudge’s left ruffles through the paperwork placed in front of her before pulling out a bound parchment. As she does so, Harry belatedly remembers she is the head of the DMLE and his classmate Susan’s aunt.

“That would be this, Madame Umbridge.”

Umbridge’s face spasms, though she gets it under control when Harry’s lawyer asks the Head of the DMLE to copy and distribute the recorded evidence.

Master Dagworth-Granger waits for everyone to have had time to read it – though Harry suspects she is more interested in seeing the Minister turn into an increasingly darker shade of purple – before explaining its contents with the patient tone of an adult teaching a child.

“What you have in your hand is a declaration of emancipation filed with the Ministry hours before Mr. Potter cast his Patronus spell--”

Madam Bones cuts across her in a booming voice. “You produced a fully-fledged Patronus?”

“I did,” confirms Harry, “it’s a stag. Always a stag.”

“You learned this at school?”

“Yes, Professor Lupin taught me in my third year, because of the dementors.”

“Impressive,” says Madam Bones, staring down at him, “a true Patronus at that age . . . very impressive indeed.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Harry recalls bitterly.

“It doesn’t make it less impressive.”

Some of the wizards and witches around her are muttering again; a few nod, but others are frowning and shaking their heads.

“What?” he challenges. “Do you not believe me about this too? Since it’s been established that I now am an adult under the law due to the Triwizard Tournament’s ruling, I can perform the spell right here?”

“We’ll not allow you to cast spells about in the courtroom, boy!” barks Fudge. “You might not have been underage casting, but you were still using magic in front of a muggle.”

“Yes, a muggle. My muggle cousin to be exact.”

“It is in the file,” points out his lawyer helpfully. After a beat, she murmurs loud enough to be overheard. “This is the most unprofessional trial I have ever attended.”

The Minister looks like he’s about to retort, when he turns his head and chances a glance at his audience. People are looking at him speculatively, as if wondering how long he intends to draw out this masquerade. Before he can regain control of the situation, someone derails the conversation.

“If you are an adult, you can be trialled as one for the murder of my son,” calls out a voice in the assembly.

Harry flinches, but he forces himself to look up. Amos Diggory looks down at him with hard eyes.

“I did not kill Cedric,” he says quietly, “and if a trial is what it takes to prove it, then I will go through it.” Amos’ expression twists then; he is as aware as Harry is that the champions had to sign a waiver accepting their potential death during the competition, and Harry would be exonerated on that basis alone even if he had been guilty. “But if you prefer, you can review my memories with a Pensieve. Professor Dumbledore has one—”

The man shoots him a warning look, but he inclines his head.

“I also have one,” announces Madam Bones, “and I am quite curious about the events of the last task. If Mr. Diggory doesn’t object...”

“I don’t.”

“Then we will reconvene at the end of this trial. Had you any other questions, Minister? It seems to me like all that needed to be addressed has been brought up, but it is up to you. You are after all the one who dragged us all here for a disciplinary hearing.”

In the complete silence that greets these words, the witch to the right of Fudge leans forward.

“The Chair recognises Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister,” says Fudge, who straightens and stares at the woman eagerly. He seems to think she will get him out of his predicament.

“I think it is relevant to note that Mr. Potter misuse of magic predated the most recent case, and that a ruling of emancipation that quite conveniently occurred the day of the incident does not absolve him of being judged for his reckless behaviour.”

Fudge brightens and exclaims, “that’s true! That’s true, there was the Hover Charm three years ago—”

Harry rolls his eyes and calls out, “Dobby!”

A pop sounds out in the courthouse, and the house elf appears.

“Yes, Master Harry Potter?”

“Did you, or did you not use a Hover charm in my room three years ago?”

“I did, Master Harry Potter!” says Dobby, his giant ears flapping.

“Thank you, you can go.”

Another pop, and the elf is gone.

“Anything else?” he asks sardonically to the dumbfounded Minister.

“That’s not the only — you blew up your aunt, for God’s sake!” Fudge shouts, banging his fist on the judge’s bench and upsetting a bottle of ink.

“And you very kindly did not press charges on that occasion, accepting, I presume, that even the best wizards cannot always control their emotions,” says Dumbledore calmly, as Fudge attempted to scrub the ink off his notes.

“And I haven’t even started on what he gets up to at school —”

“— but as the Ministry has no authority to punish Hogwarts students for misdemeanours at school, Harry’s behaviour there is not relevant to this inquiry,” said Dumbledore, politely as ever, but now with a suggestion of coolness behind his words.

“Oho!” said Fudge. “Not our business what he does at school, eh? You think so?”

“The Ministry does not have the power to expel Hogwarts students, Cornelius, as I reminded you on the night of the second of August,” says Dumbledore. “Nor does it have the right to confiscate wands until charges have been successfully proven, again, as I reminded you on the night of the second of August. In your admirable haste to ensure that the law is upheld, you appear, inadvertently I am sure, to have overlooked a few laws yourself.”

“Laws can be changed,” counters Fudge savagely.

“Of course they can,” says Dumbledore, inclining his head. “And you certainly seem to be making many changes, Cornelius. Why, in the few short weeks since I was asked to leave the Wizengamot, it has already become the practice to hold a full criminal trial to deal with a simple matter of underage magic!”

People shuffle uncomfortably in the upper rows as he says so. Fudge reddens more and his undersecretary stares blankly at Dumbledore.

Harry... does not care. This back and forth shows well that this hearing is a farce meant to reinforce the Ministry’s power. It is their attempt to remind both Harry and his headmaster that they are useful as symbols, but that their encroachment into “politics” is a problem. Dark Lord defeaters they may be, but the evil they fight should stay in the abstract. People want peace now, so they and their warnings are obsolete.

“As far as I am aware, however,” Dumbledore continues, “there is no law yet in place that says this court’s job is to punish Harry for every bit of magic he has ever performed. He has been charged with a specific offense and he has presented his defense. All he and I can do now is to await your verdict.”

Master Dagworth-Granger looks disgruntled at having her defence disregarded for the sake of peacocking. She only seems appeased when an overwhelming number of hands raise in Harry’s defence.

The only thing he notices is that Amos Diggory’s hand is among them.

“Very well, very well . . . cleared of all charges.”

“Excellent,” says Dumbledore briskly, springing to his feet, pulling out his wand, and vanishing the furniture he conjured. “Well, I must be getting along. Good day to you all.” And without looking once at Harry, he sweeps from the dungeon.

Master Dagworth-Granger mutters, “what a weirdo.”

Harry chuckles. He can’t bring himself to be mad. “That he is.” He pauses and adds, “thank you, Master Dagworth-Granger.”

“Oh, please, call me Constance. And it’s nothing, lad. Dorea would have had my head if I hadn’t come to your rescue. You’ll come by for tea, won’t you?”

He thinks about asking the woman if she might be related to Hermione. There is something about her that reminds him of his friend, and the name only reaffirms his suspicions. But he doesn’t know how to bring it up, so he doesn’t. He’ll have other occasions, he reasons.
“Of course.”

“And don’t hesitate to write me if these dunderheads try to harass you again, I’ll tell them what’s what. Or I’ll try, I’m used to a much more organised courtroom. Now you have a meeting with Madam Bones. Do you want me there for it?”

Harry thinks about it for a moment before shaking his head.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll be in and out.”

Harry is right that the appointment doesn’t take long, though it is emotionally harrowing. He should have expected Cedric’s father to cry again. It was still uncomfortable to witness. All the while, he thinks of his own father, whose soul is likely trapped in limbo.

Tomorrow, he promises himself. Tomorrow he’ll go with Sirius and take care of the necklace.

Madam Bones seems like she has a lot to think about. Before he is about to leave, she tells him.

“I hope you’ll understand, Mr. Potter, that I will not be able to confirm the resurrection of the Dark Lord to others without my integrity being put into doubt.”

Harry never expected anything else. If the Head of the DMLE suddenly starts claiming Voldemort is back right after meeting him privately, he’ll be accused of coercing her by magical means.

“I will have to manage this carefully,” she says, stroking her chin. “But I should be able to sow doubts in the words of the Minister and prepare my department in the meantime. I will be your ally in this, in whatever way I am able.”

“Thank you, Madam.”

“Will you be declaring for your seats at the next hearing?”

He nods. “That will be the night before I go to Hogwarts, right?”

“Indeed. I wish you farewell, Mr. Potter, and good luck.” She sighs. “It seems like we will all need it.”

When he leaves her office, Mr. Weasley is waiting for him outside. He tells him he has seen Mr. Diggory leaving first and looking upset. The man apparently asked him quite unsubtly if he could join the Order. He redirected him Dumbledore’s way. Harry doesn’t know what to say to that, and so he says nothing.

They briefly pass by Mr. Malfoy accompanying the Minister. The man is as he has ever been though he seems to be offended by Harry’s lack of care for his snide barbs. In that he is very similar to his son, thinks Harry amusedly.

Back at Grimmauld, he is surrounded by his friends who ask for the verdict.

“I knew it!” yells Ron, punching the air. “You always get away with stuff!”

Do I now, he thinks with a grimace. But he doesn’t wish to ruin the merry atmosphere; instead, he takes it in stride and guides the conversation towards the ruling.

Sirius and Remus get there soon after. Harry’s godfather swoops him in his arms and congratulates him with a soft voice.

“I told you all it would be fine, didn’t I?” he asks, grinning.

Chapter Text

The night after the hearing, Harry dreams of Charlus Potter.

His grandfather is just like he remembered from the Mirror of Erised, though diminished by his illness. His white hair is a mess like every Potter he's met, and there is a mischievous spark to his gaze Harry remembers seeing on his photo album pictures of his father.

The man is laying on a hospital bed next to a woman Harry guesses to be his wife, Dorea. She has Sirius' grey eyes and dark hair, the height to his cheekbones, but her Sri Lankan heritage gives her a warmer tone. Harry's godfather mentioned that Dorea's mother was a scion of House Marasuriya, a prestigious Sinhalese House. It is allied with the Rajasinghe, the Samaraweera and the Chandrapala, three Houses who have recently married into House Potter. She is reading, her hands trembling on the book she holds. She is beautiful despite the illness that eats at her.

They are both dying, quarantined in a private room of St Mungo's, away from everyone who might catch their illness. Harry spots a purple, scale-like rash on their limbs, and smells sulphur as he approaches.

"Oh, you're wee Harry, aren't you?" asks the man when he lays eyes on him, his voice sad.

He struggles to sit up, and Harry scrambles to help him. The air around the couple is sizzling. It is almost unbearable.

Harry's grandmother looks up at the noise.

"Who are you talking to, Charlie?"

"The Last Potter," says Charlus. "He's our grandson."

"Ah," says the old woman, closing her eyes in grief. "Does this mean our Jaime will...?"

"I'm afraid so. And I'll be leaving ahead of you, love. It's time for me to Embrace the End, it seems."

His grandmother sighs. "I'll not be long after you, I'm sure. Tell our grandson I wish I could see him. I'm sure he's very handsome. He is, isn't he?"

"He's lovely," confirms Charlus. "Looks exactly like James, but with his lady's eyes." His expression turns into something complicated as he says so.

Dorea hums. "Miss Evans does have lovely eyes."

Harry swallows thickly.

"I'm sorry."

Charlus shakes his head. "Don't be, lad. I'm happy I get to meet you at least. You're still in your ma's stomach at this time, you know. I was scared I wouldn't get to meet my only grandson."

"Grandfather?"

"Yes, darling?" asks the man, leaning forward.

Harry falters. He doesn't know what to say. He can't bring himself to tell the man what happened to his son, but he needs to see if Charlus might know something that could help.

"Did the family have any enemies?"

"Besides that nasty Dark Lord running around? I don't believe so. We did have a feud with the McKinnons some time ago, but that's resolved now. Same thing for the conflict with Old Cantankerous Nott. I wrote about it in a journal if you want to hear more about it, it should be in the vault. But don't worry, my father ensured we didn't inherit any old resentment. With Grindelwald and all the messy business at the start of the century, we had enough to worry about. Why do you ask, lad? Are you in trouble?"

Harry wants to laugh and ask when he is ever not in trouble, but the sound would come out too harsh and bleak. He can't bring himself to show this cynical side of him to his grandfather while he's on his death bed.

"Nothing Sirius can't take care of," he lies, and the man lights up.

"Dorea, love, Sirius is raising Harry. Isn't that nice? I'm glad you aren't alone, darling. I can tell you a few stories, if you want. It would do me good to reminisce, I think. Before the End."

Harry's grandmother chuckles, though it soon turns into a sulphur-filled cough. "Don't mind me, Charlie, tell our grandson about his parents' antics." His heart warms at the easy acknowledgement of Sirius' place in his life. "I'd like to hear it too."

And their grandson spends the next few minutes listening to tales of Sirius and his father's summers in Potter's Plot. Charlus' voice grows more feeble as he goes on, and Dorea's attention seems to drift. Soon enough their eyes both close and the teen finds himself keeping vigil as they slip from the arms of Hypnos to those of Thanatos.

Harry adjusts the covers on top of his grandfather, glad that the death spell lets him affect his surroundings as long as he doesn't use magic. He watches things blur around him until the dream suddenly ends, and he wakes up in a cold sweat and a heart heavy from melancholy.

Hedwig flies to him and nuzzles his hand, more awake in the middle of the night than at any time of the day. He pets her idly, before standing up to get ready for the day. When Sirius comes to wake him, he is already ready. The dark bags on his godfather's eyes show that he hasn't slept at all.

Harry hugs his godfather without a word. He did not plan to say a word about his dream, but Sirius seems to read something in his gaze, because he asks.

"Who did you dream about?"

When Harry tells him, Sirius is solemn. He murmurs, "that's a nice dream," and says no more on it. Harry agrees.

Dawn hasn't yet pierced the sky when they leave Grimmauld. No one is awake yet, and the elves make sure to block off any noise they might make by leaving. Sirius and Harry established a precedent when they disappeared multiple times to go to the Black library, so no one will question it if they are absent for some time.

Sirius apparates them in front of the wreckage of a house Harry recognises all too well, then turns into Padfoot. The teen wonders if he's doing it to avoid being recognised, or if it's just an instinctive response to the terrible memories this place evokes in him. He gets no time to ponder on it, however, because Padfoot starts leading him into the village.

Harry follows him, looking around to observe the neighbourhood he might have grown up in if things had been different. Godric's Hollow is a sleepy town centering around a village square with only a church, a post office, a pub and a few retail shops. In the middle of the square stands a memorial statue of his parents holding a baby version of him. Harry hates it even more than the devastated Potter Cottage suspended in time. He hurries his pace, glad to put it behind him.

Cottages line the streets, and Harry is so busy wondering how many wixen families counted among his family's neighbours that he almost misses the graveyard. A chill courses through him as they arrive at the gates. Padfoot seems to feel the same, because he shivers from head to toe and almost takes an involuntary step back, only stopped by a glance at Harry.

"Let's go," says the teen to give himself courage.

And they go in, passing through the gravestones. Other soldiers seem to have been buried here, notes Harry as he reads "They gave their life so others might live," engraved on a stone. He notices two names, that of Kendra and Ariana Dumbledore, and wonders who they are in relation to the headmaster. He hasn't much time to do so, however, as Padfood stops again and growls. Harry looks ahead and see a dark figure crouching in front of a pair of headstones.

"Is that my parents'?" murmurs Harry.

Padfood's ears perk up and he nods. Harry walks slowly, his wand in his hand. As they get closer, the silhouette's form gets clearer. An old woman is pulling the weeds around the gravestones, bowed over the ground by age and effort. She is short, barely level with his chest. On her head is a moth-eaten black shawl. As she turns, her shawl reveals a head of scant white hair through which the scalp shows clearly through. Her eyes are thick with cataracts and sunken into folds of transparent skin, and her whole face is dotted with broken veins and liver spots.

"Come closer, son, Old Batty can't see you from this distance," she croaks.

"Batty... Bathilda Bagshot?" asks Harry, moving forward.

He almost regrets the leap in logic, but the old woman nods. What is she doing here in the middle of the night, he wonders warily. He does not lower his wand.

"The one and only. And you're young Harry. Not so young, anymore, though. Last time I saw you, you were yay high," she says, showing the gap between her thumb and index. "I see you've inherited your parents' mutt. That thing used to terrorise the neighbourhood, chasing after them. It must be mighty old by now, although not as old as me," she chortles. "Come, come, let me see you."

Harry walks until he's facing his parents' graves.

Bagshot scrutinises him and says, "You look like your father. But your eyes... they're my apprentice's eyes alright. I wonder if you're as ruthless as she was."

Harry would have probably wondered at the choice of words if he had not been so absorbed by the sight in front of him. He does not need to kneel or even approach very close to it to make out the words engraved upon it.

James Maahin Potter, Born 27 March 1960, Died 31 October 1981

Lily Rose Potter, Born 30 January 1960, Died 31 October 1981

At the bottom of these already heartbreaking words is a biblical quote. It reads, "the last enemy that shall be destroyed is death." His expression twists as he reads it. He wonders if Aunt Petunia chose it.

"Came to pay your respects, did you? It's about time."

She clicks her tongue. Harry bristles, but keeps his tongue. He has questions to ask this woman, and it wouldn't do to antagonise her. Padfoot growls though. The teen pets the dog's head to settle him.

"Do you do this often," he asks, pointing at the bag of weed she's already filled.

She shrugs. "Once every dark moon," she says, pointing at the sky. The last crescent of the waning moon looms proudly in the sky. "I start every evening and make my way through the whole cemetery." Her eyes narrow. "If you have a question to ask, boy, ask it."

"You said my Mum was your apprentice," he blurts out. Now that the fog of grief has lifted a little, he remembers why this sentence should bother him. Sirius didn't mention it. "Would you tell me more?"

She hums. "I took four apprentices in my lifetime, and taught them more history than I've allowed the people of this country to forget. They weren't historians by vocation. Rather, they were students who would know what to make of the teachings of the past. That is how I like it. I do not need successors who will write more stuffy books about things people don't care about. I need people with the will to rewrite the future."

"My first apprentice was my nephew, and the second a dear friend of his, who was our neighbour. They both went on to do great things. Sometimes terrible things, but great," she adds belatedly, sounding as if she is quoting someone. Harry remembers Ollivander saying the same thing about Voldemort, and he is not sure he wants to know. "My last students... one of them died before she obtained her Mastery. She was your godmother, I hear. And the other was your mother. My most brilliant student. The most reckless, as well. Where dear Gellert and Albus were unrepentant idealists, she was a pragmatic, and knew how much a life is worth."

"After dear Marlene died, Lily halted our lessons. She wanted to focus on you, and on her personal projects. She came by for tea and for advice, but it was rare. She didn't like it when I visited. She said I'd know what she was doing and I'd try to stop her." She tuts. "Foolish girl. I didn't need to see to know she was finishing what Marlene had started."

"What did she start?" asks Harry breathlessly.

Bagshot does not respond immediately. Instead she starts cackling, loud and hard enough to shake her whole body and startle Harry.

"She engineered what Fate only should dictate, of course. The McKinnons are cursed, Harry Potter, and your mother shared their blood for the sake of the Greater Good. Now look at the mess she's made," she adds, gesturing at him and the gravestones before she starts to laugh again. As she does so, she picks up her bag of weeds and starts walking away, seemingly deaf to any of Harry's attempts to get answers. Sirius hinders him in his attempts to run after her, biting at his pant leg to keep him in place.

"What did you mean, Mrs Bagshot?" Harry says multiple times, his voice growing fainter as the old woman disappears completely.

Sirius, having turned back into a human as he was distracted, embraces Harry and shushes him.

"She--" starts to say Harry. "She knows something."

"She said enough," growls Sirius."

"Enough? She was speaking in riddles!"

"The weapon Dumbledore wants us to guard is a prophecy, Harry. I don't know the exact phrasing, nobody but Dumbledore does, but it apparently says that you are the only one who can kill Voldemort." He pauses and shudders. "Bagshot is saying that Marlene and her clan manipulated Fate to create a prophesied enemy. There is only one way to do that, and it is through a mass sacrifice." He growls. "She has to be lying. She can't be right, or it means..."

Sirius stays quiet. He shakes his head.

"She's lying. Come on Harry, James is waiting."

He pulls out his wand and the warding stones he took from Grimmauld Place before handing them to Harry, who numbly places them as instructed. He wants to ask again, but his father should be the priority. There is time to interrogate his godfather, but James Potter has waited long enough.

Harry murmurs a notice-me-not charm while Sirius levitates stone and dirt into a pile. With magic, it does not take long to dig up a grave. The normal protections around wixen tombs do not sense ill intent and recognise the Potter blood in Harry, so they have stayed dormant. Soon, they find themselves staring at a coffin.

Sirius presses a trembling hand towards the wood, but flinches before he can bring himself to try and open it. Harry and his godfather exchange a dismayed look. Can they really do this?

It doesn't feel real. Harry is visiting his parents' graves for the first time, and this is what he's made to do. A tear slips down the teen's cheek. He bites his tongue. Blood floods his mouth. He raises his wand, and murmurs, "Alohomora."

The coffin springs open. The first thing Harry sees is the necklace. Then he hears the keening sound of Sirius, whose eyes instinctively closed at the noise. He takes his godfather's hand and leans forward.

James Potter lies intact in his bed of silk. He does not breathe, but neither has he decayed. Harry exhales shakily, and puts his wand in his pocket. Then he delicately reaches forward and grasps at the necklace. He gasps.

As he touches the accursed artefact, he feels his core vanishing in his chest, leaving instead a gaping hole where the centre of him would be. He had once feared he had no magic at all, but Harry now understands that every inch of him subsists on it. He unclasps the necklace and pulls it away from his father. He almost throws it, until he regains his senses and realises he cannot. The necklace may yet give him the answers he seeks.

As he does so, he hears a rattling of breath. He turns and sees Sirius, looking as if he's seen a ghost. He looks back, and his father' grey skin turns back to a warm brown. Harry does not dare hope; he puts the wix trap in his bag and brings his hand to his father's torso.

His chest does not rise.

But a foreign yet familiar magic warms his fingers, and he wonders.

Chapter Text

"Is he alive?" asks Sirius urgently.

"I don't know," gasps Harry, his eyes blurring. "He's not breathing, but— here, feel."

He takes Sirius' hand to James' upper body. His godfather whimpers in apprehension, but gamely attempts to find a pulse.

"He's warm, but he's not breathing," says Harry. "I don't know what it means."

"It's similar to the effects of the Draught of the Living Death," murmurs his godfather. "I'm not a healer, I don't— I don't know." He blinks rapidly before making a decision. "Let's take him to Grimmauld, and we'll figure something out."

They levitate Harry's father out of his coffin and wrap him in his invisibility cloak. Harry pauses at its presence in his bag; he does not remember having taken it with him. He must have forgotten, he tells himself, and puts it out of his mind.

Sirius wants to leave immediately, but Harry convinces him to put everything back where it once was. They don't want people to notice what they have done. It doesn't take long. Soon, Harry is side-alonged to Grimmauld, holding his father tightly in his arms. He reluctantly lets go once they arrive, and they levitate him to the entrance.

Harry opens the door to see Remus arguing with his House elves.

"Nasty wolfman must return to his room!" howls Kreacher.

"I will not repeat myself, Kreacher, where did they go?"

"You is not a Black," argues Winky, "you is not giving orders to Kreacher! The Master is having some very rude guests," she huffs.

Dobby nods fiercely.

Remus is unmoved, at least until he notices Harry and Sirius staring at him from the entryway, their expressions hollow and shattered.

"Heir Black!" exclaims Kreacher at the same time as Dobby and Winky cry out, "Master Harry!"

Their ears droop at the sight of their pale faces.

"What did Harry Potter find that makes him so sad?" asks Dobby.

Sirius and Harry exchange a look.

"Let's go to the library," says Sirius.

"What is going on," explodes Remus.

Harry sighs. "We will explain upstairs."

Harry asks Winky to keep an eye on the guests and call if someone insists on checking on them. Dobby and Kreacher follow them in. The walk to the highest floor is near silent. Grimmauld seems to sense their sombre mood, because it shifts the staircases and make sure they encounter no one. Soon enough, they are in the Black library.

As soon as the doors close behind them, Harry unveils the body of his father. Remus makes a choked sound.

"You— why would you do this?" he says to Sirius, wounded.

"Do what, dig up my best friend?” Harry's godfather laughs harshly. "To spite you, why else?" he spits.

The teen puts a hand on Sirius' forearm in an attempt to ground him.

"I said we will explain, didn't I? So let us do it instead of jumping to conclusions."

Remus passes a hand over his face. He nods then, and waits. Harry is about to start when Sirius puts a hand in front of him.

"Swear a Secrecy Vow," he barks.

Remus recoils. Harry stares.

"What?" says Sirius defensively. "You made me swear one too."

"I know. I was getting to that," retorts Harry. " I know it's hard, but..." He searches for his words, but finds nothing. Instead he says, defeated, "can you lay Dad on the couch?"

His godfather closes his eyes and nods. Before he moves, he presses a kiss to Harry's temple. The teen is warmed by it, and sends him a grateful look before he turns back to his former professor.

"I can't tell you more if you don't swear not to tell."

Remus looks at him and says gently, "I can't promise that. What if you got into something you can't handle and you're in over your head? I will need to tell Dumbledore."

Harry bristles.

He raises his wand, "then you leave me no choice. Obli—"

"Wait!" exclaims Remus. "Wait. Is it that serious?" he breathes out.

Sirius snorts from where he's sitting on the couch. A short glance at him shows him passing his hand through James' hair, looking forlorn.

"What about desecrating Harry's father's grave doesn't scream serious?" he scoffs, before adding. "Besides, you know what James would say."

"It's always Sirius," quotes Remus with a fond, grieving look.

Kreacher makes a grimace of disgust.

"Make a Vow, Remus. Please," says Harry.

Remus hesitates, then nods and holds up his wand.

"I will keep your secrets. I swear it on my magic."

A swirl of copper and ochre wraps around Remus' ribcage, binding him to his word. Harry breathes out.

And starts talking.

When he's done, Remus lowers himself to the ground unsteadily, looking as if he's taken a blow to his chest. Harry heaves, overwhelmed by it all. He drops the necklace he had pulled out of his bag to show Remus on the floor and sways. Sirius hurries to his side and lowers him into a sitting position parallel to Remus, rubbing circles onto his back.

Dobby is crying his eyes out on the side, and even Kreacher looks a little teary. He looks at Harry with new eyes.

"Alright, darling?" says his godfather, and the only thing Harry is able to think about is that the endearment Sirius uses must be something he borrowed from Charlus Potter.

"There's something else," he suddenly says as he thinks of his grandfather. "In my dream... Grandfather said... I asked him if our family had any enemies, and he said my great-grandfather made sure we didn't. He said he resolved a dispute with Cantankerous Nott and... that the Potters used to feud with the McKinnons."

Sirius inhales sharply.

"Lily can't have... Marlene though... did Marlene ever talk about her family being cursed?" he asks Remus. "I didn't know her well, but she liked you, did she say anything?"

Remus thinks.

"The McKinnons were known as a warrior clan. There hasn't been a war in a long time, but that reputation followed them. They numbered a lot of historical figures. Some Dark Lord vanquishers, swordmages and war generals. They were said to be cursed because the clan almost died out multiple times. They always built back up, though. She didn't say anything about prophecies."

He wracks his brains, searching for more answers.

"Marlene said the clan was diminished, and that a lot of people were trying to give up the name or marry out. She didn't seem concerned. There was still about a hundred of them. Maybe less. They were all killed by Voldemort." He frowns. "Weren't they?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't want to believe Marlene did this, but her clan might have seen the devastation Voldemort was causing and decided to sacrifice themselves for the sake of the Wizarding World." At Harry's horrified look, he explains, "You need to understand, Harry. We were losing. Badly. The Ministry was scrambling, and people were turning on their neighbours. The Order did what it could, but we lost two-thirds of our members within a few years of civil war. It was a slaughter."

Harry doesn't know what to say to that.

"Grandfather said the feud was documented in a journal. It must be among the letters I took out of the vault." He remembers seeing a few bound journals among the substantially more significant amount of parchment letters, but he had not had the time to look through them. "I can come and get it."

Sirius and Remus nod, though they're still staring at each other. In truth, Harry could just ask Kreacher to go and pick up the journals, but Harry thinks it's going to do them good to talk without him being there. He hopes, at least.

He checks on his father before leaving. The man still looks the same. Warm, but terrifyingly still. Harry asks Sirius and Remus if they know any healer.

"I was already planning on writing to Andromeda," admits Sirius. "I'll tell her she'll need to make a Vow and see if she accepts. Otherwise..." He makes a grimace of revulsion. "Otherwise we'll have to ask Snape."

Harry wants to protest at the idea of entrusting his father to his potions professor. The man's loyalties are only vouched for by Dumbledore and he hates James Potter. The very idea is discomforting. But if Sirius' cousin doesn't help them, they'll have no other option.

He nods, then shrugs on the invisibility cloak and makes his way downstairs. Picking up the journals and finding the one corresponding to the right era does not take long; thin as it is, it is more akin to a leaflet than anything else, but the name of his grandfather is engraved on it. Harry also rummages for anything written by Charlus' father, Dishan Potter. He finds two parchments. One of them is about the fact that his marriage was a scandal in Sri Lanka because his wife claimed Naga ancestry while the Potters have historically intermarried with people who belonged to a caste claiming to be Yaksha descendants. Harry notes this and wonders if this might explain his ability to speak to snakes.

He lingers a little bit, this time looking at Regulus' belongings. He wants to give Sirius and Remus more time to talk things out. It is uncomfortable to look through the things of a dead man, especially someone who was so dear to Sirius, but the very real fact that Regulus worshipped Voldemort and kept paper clippings of all his appearances makes it worse.

Harry comforts himself by remembering that Regulus had died trying to kill Voldemort. Which reminds him.

"Kreacher," he calls quietly.

The elf opens the door. He's taken to saying outside to guard Harry's room when he's not cooking. Harry finds it a bit overzealous, but he appreciates it.

"Yes, Heir Black?"

"I don't want to disturb Regulus' things. Can you find the research he's done into the locket we destroyed?"

Kreacher nods enthusiastically. "I will have it sent to the library."

"Thank you." Kreacher sniffs, still uncomfortable with gratitude. "And, er, did you get a chance to find out about the blood magic my mother...?"

He can't bring himself to continue. Thankfully, the elf doesn't make him do so.

"Kreacher found something," he admits cautiously. "But he is not sure it is accurate. He would prefer to be sure. Give him two more days and Kreacher will tell you what he's found."

Harry nods. Since nothing else keeps him there, he makes his way back upstairs.

As he does, he hears noise from Ron's room. He recognises Hermione's voice. He suspects Grimmauld is making sure he can hear. The townhouse has been much more responsive since the three elves have started taking care of it. It also helps that Winky has been doing some subtle renovating, which has deeply improved Sirius' mood —despite everything— and in turn added some light into the magic of the house.

"— his head's always in the clouds, and he keeps shutting himself up who knows where with Sirius, who's clearly not doing well. I doubt it's making him feel any better. He's so distrustful now. And wounded. I'm worried... I'm worried he'll go somewhere we can't follow, and we won't be able to be there for him."

"What do you suggest?" replies Ron tiredly. His voice sounds sympathetic, but lost. Unmoored. He relates to what Hermione has said, realises Harry. He just doesn't think anything can be done about it.

"I... I don't know."

Harry keeps going, but he promises himself he'll do better by his friends. They might not relate to his struggles and he sometimes feels like the gap between them will widen until it swallows him whole, but he loves them. He doesn't want them to feel neglected or worse, discarded.

Sirius and Remus are still sitting on the floor, but this time they are leaning against the couch Harry's father is laying on. Their eyes are red-rimmed, but their faces bear thin smiles. It is a small thing, barely there. But there is light in their eyes. There are piles of books in front of them.

"Alright?" he asks.

Sirius chuckles. "You're not slick, darling. Yeah, we're alright."

"What did you find," asks Remus.

Harry pulls out the journals, and lets his former professor have at it. Judging by his restless energy, Remus wants to be contributing.

"Hm," he says as he skims through it. His voice sounds increasingly horrified as he does so. "This says that the McKinnons engage in ritual mass sacrifice to call down Fate in order to defeat great evils. They'd leave a few survivors, one of whom would be the prophesied vanquisher." He pauses. "It sure explains their reputation."

"What does it have to do with the feud?" asks Harry, though he definitely wants to go back to the idea that his godmother was part of some kind of death cult.

"Your great-grandfather's aunt married into the clan and was sacrificed along with the others. This started a feud, which only ended when Dishan Potter forced the clan into a Vow. They were not to attempt it again." He pauses and quotes, "No great evil is worth the death of an entire bloodline."

"Do you mean... they killed themselves?" asks Harry, horrified.

Sirius shakes his head. "If they Vowed to House Potter, they couldn't have. But..." He licks his lips. "But... they might have pushed Voldemort to target them personally. If they didn't do it themselves, it wouldn't break the Letter of the Vow. They would just have to start the ritual, hide their chosen survivors, and wait for death."

"But no one survived."

"Lily did," Sirius says quietly.

"What went wrong?" wonders Remus, though he winces at the way it sounds.

"They might not have hidden well enough. Lily joined House Potter within months of her blood-adoption, and it didn't make the news. Voldemort wouldn't have known about her, but the others were fair game. Marlene especially, as she was part of the Order."

She was finishing what Marlene started.

"There's no use speculating. I'm the McKinnon Head, so the land belongs to me. We should look for clues there," proposes Harry.

The two adults nod. They resolve to plan the trip after Andromeda has answered.

"And what about the necklace?"

"I checked the design and cross-referenced it with what I could find of goblin wars and wix hunts," says Sirius, gesturing at the books in front of him and Remus. "It's made of iron, which rules out goblin craft. And," he adds, giddy, "the blood of the person who powered it is in the runes."

"That's the good news," says Remus. "The bad news is that Sirius is going to need to relearn hemomancy to identify it."

Sirius pouts. Harry chuckles. That is such a small hurdle compared to digging up his Dad's grave. Harry will just have to be patient. He's not good at it, but at least he's not waiting while he's languishing at the Dursleys.

"Should we try the ghost tracking spell first?" he suggests.

Sirius and Remus exchange a look.

"Might as well," says the former, raising his wand.

They try the spell twice. Each of them. But it does not work.

"Either James is not a ghost, or he's somehow Unplottable," says Remus.

"Shouldn't it point to his body if he's inside of it?" asks Harry anxiously.

Sirius shakes his head. "No, It's the death signature you track with this spell, not the soul. Soul-tracking spells exist, but I suspect they wouldn't work on you and your father, considering your immunity."

Remus tells them they have nothing to do but wait. He convinces Sirius to try and get some sleep. It's still early, he reasons.

Harry begs off going back to bed when the adults ask. He's slept, and it's already 6 a.m. (He can't believe so many things happened in merely four hours.) He tells them Kreacher is going to sort and send up Regulus' research, and he'll be going through it. Sirius tries to convince Harry to wait until they can do it together, but he soon understands it's a lost cause. He presses a kiss on top of his head. Remus squeezes his arm, then they leave the library. Harry is left alone with his thoughts.

As he waits for Kreacher, he thinks of the revelations of the day.

The McKinnons, so desperate to see Voldemort dead they were willing to die to bend Fate to their will. Why? What could motivate them to sacrifice this much? Maybe Harry isn't altruistic enough, but this makes no sense to him. He can't see what the threshold would be, how helpless one would have to be to resort to such means.

A hundread dead, if Remus is to be believed. All that for a prophecy that led to a baby being targeted, and a whole population to rely on him to end a war.

Harry is not worth this, and he does not deserve that burden. Worse, Voldemort is not worth that many lives. And he doubts any other evil the clan faced before that was worth the people they sacrificed to defeat it. He wonders if they preached the value of martyrdom, ingrained it into their bloodline until such a thing appeared normal. Expected, even.

And he can't get this nagging feeling out of his head that someone convinced the McKinnons that Voldemort was a great enough threat to warrant their sacrifice. A death cult ready to bleed for a cause is a useful thing to point at your enemy.

***

The day is quiet. His morning research didn't give him anything conclusive; Regulus looked through many different books, and Harry has not found the right one. It's fine. He has all summer. Or at least the remaining two weeks of August.

Harry makes an effort to spend time with his friends, but even he can tell his efforts are just half-hearted. Ron and Hermione do not begrudge him that. They do their best to fill in the gaps when he trails off, preoccupied. Hermione goes on several tangents about House elves, their upcoming OWLs, organising a duelling club. She even tries to talk about Quidditch, which draws a laugh from Harry and has her feeling proud of herself for an hour. He does agree the duelling idea is a good one.

Mrs Weasley mother-hens him all dinner, but she keeps her misgivings about Sirius to herself. They have a nice evening. Before it's time to turn in, Ron takes Harry aside and asks.

"You'll tell us what's going on with you, yeah?"

Harry closes his eyes, and whispers, "When it's all over, I will. But you'll have to make a Vow. It's heavy stuff. Family stuff."

Ron presses his lips together.

"Anything, mate. We're just worried."

The day after is just as quiet. Harry and Remus take the morning to research, and laugh at Sirius' attempts to master hemomancy.

"Laugh it up," says his godfather, waving his wand faux-threateningly. "I'll be the one laughing when it's time to teach you."

They emerge for lunch, and talk about Harry's fifteenth birthday. He does not shy away from how unpleasant it was. He spent it at the Dursleys, with only a notecard for company. Sirius makes a whole production of bemoaning this, and enlists Fred, George and the elves to decorate Grimmauld and prepare an appropriate celebration. Harry gets gag gifts from everyone, and the tension eases further. He goes see his father before he turns in, and spends his mock-birthday evening with him, hoping that he's not staring at a corpse.

The next morning, things happen in quick succession.

First, the Hogwarts owls arrive, and with them comes Hermione and Ron's prefects' badges. Harry is relieved; he won't have to deal with that at least.

Ron is surprised. "I thought it would be you?"

Harry tilts his head. "Why would it? Do you realise how many rules I've broken?"

"We've all broken rules," protests Hermione, "that shouldn't disqualify you."

Harry concedes the point. He thinks it over. "Okay, okay, think about it this way. If you were a first-year, would you rather be reprimanded by the Boy-Who-Lived, who you either think to be a demented liar or believe the sun shines out of his arse, or by Ron Weasley, who has a good head on his shoulders, is kind and might let you off if he thinks you broke the rules for a good reason?"

Ron is blushing such a deep red Harry can almost see steam coming out of his ears. Fred, George and Ginny are snickering at him. Hermione, on the other hand, is warning that he'd better not let anyone off, and that he must accomplish his duties properly.

"I do think Dean might have been a better choice if they wanted someone sensible though," teases Harry.

"Oi!" protests Ron, though some tension seems to have left his shoulders.

While they're talking, another owl arrives, this time addressed to Sirius. Harry straightens.

"Is it—?"

His godfather nods and opens the letter. "She says she's coming this afternoon."

Harry barely has the time to process that before Alastor Moody barges in, brandishing the Daily Prophet and howling that it must be Voldemort who's done it. The headlines announce that Bathilda Bagshot laughed herself to death.

Sirius, Remus and Harry exchange a grim look. That is one avenue lost, thinks the latter, but no matter. He's pretty sure she wasn't the one who made the necklace in the first place. He has no proof, but it's a gut feeling. Besides, what could he even do if she was the culprit? Resurrect her to kill her again? Hah.

Not even an hour after receiving this news, Kreacher tells Harry he needs to talk to him.

He has found out what the blood magic around him did.

"It is being annihilation magic. It is meant to destroy, not protect," he croaks, frightened and begrudgingly impressed in the same measure. "Harry Potter's mother attached the equivalent of fiendfyre to his chest, and it is only setting off when the Dark Lord threatens Harry Potter's life."

Ah.

He should have known.

Chapter Text

Harry is pacing in the library, wearing at the floorboard.

"What did you mean by it?"

Kreacher's wrings his hands in a way that looks painful. Harry grimaces and gets down to his level. Sirius and Remus watch him, concerned. They have only just entered the library, and have not yet heard about Kreacher's findings.

"Kreacher meant what Kreacher said," mutters the elf. "Harry Potter's mother carved Sowilo into his skull, and linked the soul magic inherent to House Potter to the blood magic that reacts to the Dark Lord. Kreacher sees the blood magic in Harry Potter's scar and around his heart, but it is stronger up here," he says, tapping a finger on his temple.

Harry abruptly remembers the elf's words about the scar on his forehead.

“It is the influence of Sowilo. The rune of the sun, inner fire of the soul. The Dark Lord was weak to the soul magic when he inhabited a body that did not belong to him, but his resurrected flesh is his property. And he took from you to make himself. Not just blood, but your will. Willpower is of the soul. It is linking blood magic with soul magic.”

"The soul magic protects, the blood magic targets," continues Kreacher. "And because the Dark Lord now is of Harry Potter's blood and he stole Harry Potter's will, Sowilo considers the Dark Lord both kin and enemy. It confuses it, and while the soul is not so easily fooled, the blood can be duped."

He says it with great distaste, and Harry understands it must be difficult for him to admit to shortcomings in the Black family's preferred branch of magic.

"Lily must have known Voldemort couldn't kill you," interprets Remus. "It was a hard gamble, but he always used the Killing curse against those he considered his greatest enemies. It was safe to assume he would do the same here. Lily knew the Killing curse wouldn't take you, but she needed to ensure Voldemort stayed dead after that."

"So she strapped a bomb to my head," sums up Harry before he frowns. "Wait... all the Potters I've seen had the lightning bolt, er, the Sowilo rune on their body after being hit by the Killing curse. Mum didn't do that."

Harry forgot that he was the only one who met the Potters in his dreams. Kreacher seems so knowledgeable, and the elves in general are so much more sensitive to magic, but it doesn't mean he has all the facts.

Kreacher blinks. "Then something is wrong. The blood magic is concentrated in Heir Black's scar. There must be a reason for it."

"Is it active?"

The elf nods.

"Then it must be fighting something in Harry's scar. Before the tournament, you said you had dreams of Voldemort— Sirius? What's wrong?" asks Remus, seeing the man preoccupied. He offers an apologetic smile at Harry for the change of subject.

"I don't know, it's just. It seems... short-sighted," says Sirius, his words hesitant. His eyes keep straying back to Harry's father's body. "Lily sacrificed herself to power whatever this was. It can't have been something as easily circumvented as this, surely? An annihilation failsafe going defunct by blood sharing is not much of a failsafe."

He narrows his eyes.

"Harry. Take off your shirt."

Harry complies and unbuttons his shirt, though he watches his godfather with confusion.

Sirius points his wand at him and casts, "Ad Sanguinem Revelio, Lily Potter." The spell fizzles out. He frowns. "Ad Sanguinem Revelio, Lily Evans." Nothing happens. He clicks his tongue before trying something else. "Ad Sanguinem Revelio, Lily McKinnon."

Pain blooms in Harry's scar. He brings a hand to his forehead, but Sirius takes his wrist before he can touch it.

"Wait," says his godfather.

The pain recedes, and Harry feels something slithering down his face, his neck and then to his chest. Sirius and Remus' eyes are intent on his torso. Harry tries not to bring his arms around himself out of self-consciousness. Instead he keeps himself still and follows their gaze. The shadow of a pattern draws itself on his middle, starting from his clavicle to his belly. There are four circles drawn in a shimmering blood red, three of them placed in a triangular symbol with another at the centre. Harry discerns astronomical symbols, runes and Latin spell-script. Sowilo as well as Kenaz, the rune of fire, and Yr, the death rune feature multiple times.

"What is it?" he asks. He cannot even begin to read what he is seeing, let alone get anything from it.

Remus keeps staring, fascinated. It takes him a moment to respond.

"Like Kreacher said, it's an annihilation curse powered by a kindred sacrifice and tied in with soul magic. But if my readings are correct, it should not just burn Voldemort. It creates cleansing fire, and it is meant to target the core of him."

His soul, understands Harry. The spell should have eaten at Voldemort's magic until it reached his soul, and made sure he was no threat to the world of the living and beyond.

"Then why didn't it work?" asks Sirius urgently.

"The locket," says Harry faintly. "And the diary. Souls can be splintered and bound. If Voldemort's soul isn't whole, Mum's curse cannot reach him entirely. And if it is targeting my scar... there must be part of Voldemort's soul inside of it."

Kreacher's eyes widen. He snaps his fingers, seeming to have remembered something. Regulus' research materialises in front of him, levitating in front of his nose. He rummages in the papers before brandishing one parchment with a look of triumph and horror.

"Horcrux," whispers Kreacher. "Harry Potter's scar is a Horcrux, and the annihilation curse fights against it. It is not strong enough to destroy it."

Harry sways on his feet. Crouched as he was in front of Kreacher, he falls to the ground faster than he can steady himself. Sirius reaches out to straighten him, his face twisted in worry.

"Why is it not strong enough?" murmurs Remus, still looking at the array drawn onto Harry's skin. He summons a parchment and paper to him, then begins drawing out the array. "It should have worked, but it only seems to keep Voldemort at bay where it should at least have destroyed the wraith form you described, and the... Horcrux in your scar. It didn't even react to the diary and the locket, and the only thing it seems to do is to connect you to Voldemort."

I need to die, thinks Harry with a bleak sense of understanding.

Voldemort will stay immortal as long as he live, and therefore he needs to die. This is what his life has culminated in. He will be the last McKinnon martyr.

"You're gonna have to kill me," he enounces as he picks up his shirt and starts to button it.

He sees the truth of it in his godfather's eyes, as well as Sirius' stubborn refusal to accept it.

"Absolutely not!" barks the only parent he has ever known, and Harry can't help but smile.

"Not for real, Sirius," he reassures. "You'll need to use the Killing curse on my scar. It should get rid of the Horcrux, right? And I'm immune, so..."

Remus shakes his head. Harry notes his hands are trembling.

"Even if it was a viable option, we would not succeed. To cast the Killing curse, you have to mean it. And besides, we should not attempt anything so reckless until we understand the mechanism of the curse Lily placed on you. It is either faulty or we are missing something. If it's the former, it might backlash against you once the Horcrux is gone. That's not a risk we'll be willing to take."

Harry concedes the point, and checks on his godfather, who is breathing heavily. The expression on his face is anguished, almost haunted. He has planted his nails into his arm to the point of drawing blood and the teenager is abruptly reminded that Sirius is not yet stable, as much as he has improved.

"Never say that again, Harry, you hear me? You gave me such a fright, I—" He shakes his head. "Please don't do it again."

Harry embraces his godfather, rubbing soothing circles on his back. Sirius is shaking, and the hug is too tight, but he does not want to let go. His godfather might shatter if he does, and Harry knows he will follow him there.

"I'm sorry. I won't, promise."

They spend some time researching the annihilation curse and delving deeper into the particulars of Horcruxes. It is foul magic, and Harry loathes Voldemort more for understanding it. As it is, they have no way to know how many he has made, or where he's kept them. It is already unthinkable even to a family like the Blacks to make one, let alone three and more. They have more luck with Horcruxes than they do with their research on what Harry's mother did. The boy does not like it.

The more he delves into what happened on the night of Halloween 1981, the more loose threads he finds. The McKinnons and their strange suicidal practises, Cantankerous Nott's grudge, the mysterious manufacturer of the witch trap around Harry's father's neck, James' stasis state, Lily's links to Marlene and Bathilda Bagshot, and her annihilation curse.

There is so much he still doesn't know, and so little time to find out about it all.

They go down late for lunch, and as a result are scolded by Mrs Weasley. They take her complaints in silence, then sit down with everyone. Lunch is quiet, preoccupied as they are. Harry keeps pressing a hand to his chest without meaning to, thinking of the bomb essentially strapped to his chest.

Andromeda's arrival causes a commotion. The only person who was seemingly warned of her visit is her child, who greets their mother at the door with a kiss on the cheek before sending an amused look at Sirius.

"Everyone will have questions tonight," they warn. "I told Ma' I'd hold them off until she leaves, I don't want her to be hounded. But once she's gone, you're on your own. Your explanations better be good."

"Sure," says Sirius and lets Tonks and Remus push Molly away from the staircase and into the living room.

Only the Weasleys, Tonks and Moody are in attendance today, so it is relatively quiet.

"Hi Andy. How's it going?"

"Hello, Sirius. It's always a pleasure to see you."

"Is it? I wouldn't have thought so, considering the circumstances." He turns to Harry and makes a movement of the head to encourage him to step forward. "Here's my kid, Harry, next Head of House Black."

"Er, nice to meet you."

Winky, who is standing by the door, clicks her tongue and mutters, "Master Harry be needing etiquette lessons."

Andromeda smiles kindly at him. She is beautiful, like all the scions of House Black Harry has met. She has Sirius' heavy-hooded eyes and long lashes, the sharp lines of his face. She is slightly tanner, and her eyes are wider, her hair lighter and more curled. She looks more like her sister Narcissa, though her expression and bearing is much warmer and her lips fuller.

"Nice to meet you, Harry. Am I wrong in assuming that you will be my patient today?"

Sirius shakes his head before Harry can respond. "I'll not say no to a check-up if you can swing it but no, your patient's waiting for you upstairs. In the library."

Andromeda pauses in surprise, before nodding and following them to the highest floor of Grimmauld Place. Harry can tell she has been here before, not only by the way she seems totally at ease in the townhouse, but also because the magic greets her like an old friend it has lost touch with. Tentatively, but with warmth. Andromeda greets it back, and seems to like the changes she sees to the decor. She discusses them with Sirius, who regales her with some anecdotes on the difficulty they'd had in getting there. He heaps all kinds of praise on Harry, who tries to get him to stop with silent gestures of his hands.

"You did well," says Andromeda, to which the boy blinks in surprise, his hands stopping mid-motion.

Sirius chuckles at his discomfited expression, though he sobers when they finally reach the doors to the library. Once they stand in front of them, he pauses and turns to his cousin.

"Your Vow, Andy, please?"

She gives him a searching look before saying smoothly, "of course."

When she makes her Vow, the swirl around her ribcage is a dark purple and a soft green colour.

Sirius opens the doors with an unnecessary flourish, and the fond smile on Andromeda's face shows the cousins' previous closeness. It is soon replaced by a look of shock and dismay when she sees who it is she is meant to examine.

"What is the meaning of this," she says, her tone too flat to properly convey her question.

Her once warm silver eyes have darkened, and she now looks like Sirius did when he had Wormtail cornered.

"I know it looks bad," starts Sirius, "but that's why you're here. I don't know what's going on with James, but he's not dead. Or at least not fully. We don't know. That's why we called you here."

The naked hope in Harry's godfather's eyes is almost unbearable as the man explains in broad lines what led them to dig up his best friend. Harry feels uneasy about trusting a Potter secret to a stranger, but he would rather trust Sirius' favourite cousin than Snape with something like this. The man hates Harry's father and is either Voldemort's spy or Dumbledore's, which doesn't encourage the boy to trust him with James Potter's health.

When Sirius is done, Andromeda closes her eyes and breathes out. "I see," she says, lifting her lids again and walking towards the still body on the couch, drawing her wand.

Harry tenses without meaning to, and palms his own wand, but lets her do as she pleases. Andromeda murmurs spells he's never heard of before, and he does his best to memorise their incantations. Harry walks up to Sirius, who is anxiously hovering above the couch. He presses an arm to his godfather's elbow, both a silent gesture of comfort and a mean to ground himself with the contact.

After a seemingly endless handful of minutes, Sirius' cousin lowers her wand and stares at the man.

"He's... not dead, but he's not quite alive either," murmurs Andromeda, her eyes wide in disbelief.

Harry feels like his heart's been ripped out. Sirius makes a keening sound at his side.

"Your father has been turned into a revenant." Seeing the boy's confusion, she clarifies, "Revenants belong to a specific category of undead that possess both a body and some form of spiritual cognition. Something like this would have been impossible if it were not for the witch-trap nullifying his immunity, but it's been known to happen to regular wizards. They're usually cursed to eternal unrest, though." She hums. "I don't believe this was done on purpose by whoever put the necklace on him. They likely thought it would kill him, not trap him long enough for his magic to change into that of a living dead."

He doesn't know how to tell the healer that this is no comfort to him, but it seems Andromeda reads it in his gaze. Her lips twist.

"If my readings are correct, he was in the process of becoming something akin to a draugr — a spirit barred from the afterlife and chained to their own body — but you freed him from his curse before this could be done. It is a good thing, since they only raise themselves from their graves to enact revenge on the living. You would not have liked what he would have become if he had stayed like this for a decade longer."

Harry's chest tightens at the thought of his father, trapped in his own grave for years and years, his mind slowly eroded by his own fear, grief and anger until only a beast remained, moved only by resentment and driven by a desire for revenge.

"What does that mean for him?"

"It means I can't do anything to help. I heal the living, I have no expertise in the undead beyond recognising them. I'd counsel you to negotiate with a necromancer skilled enough to lay him to rest properly, but they are few in numbers these days and..."

The boy wants to protest and say that he wants his father, desperately, and that they called Andromeda here and entrusted her with his family's secret to help James, not to let him die a second time. But he can't get the words out.

Thankfully, Sirius has more poise than he does. He interrupts his cousin.

"Could a wizard of House Bones help?" Harry looks at him askance, both curious and wounded. His godfather grimaces and explains, "The wizards of House Bones always come back eventually. It's an old curse, and it's never failed. So they engrave seals into their bones to make inferi rather than revenants when they die — the soul is freed even when the body isn't, then they burn their corpses when they die. I saw it happen at Edgar Bones' funeral, Amelia did it herself. I wish James was ..." alive "... but he doesn't deserve to stay in this state. If it must be done..."

Harry chokes down a sob. He pushes down his grief to focus on the problem at hand.

"That sounds... would it even work?"

"I doubt it," says Sirius with a ragged breath after he has turned the idea over in his mind. It must hurt to say so after he suggested the idea himself. "The seals are engraved after Bones children reach Hogwarts age, and it's likely they will not work on a liminal being."

She shakes her head regretfully. "That's not all. Those kinds of rituals will not work on your father."

"Because it's soul magic," deduces Harry.

Andromeda nods.

"What else is there to do?" asks Sirius, rubbing his face tiredly.

"You awaken him, and pray he's still himself. And if he's not, you put him down."

She is gentle but firm about her pronouncement. Harry still takes it like a punch to the gut. Sirius too, it seems, and Grimmauld Place seems to sense their anguish. The library dims and the walls and bookshelves warp on themselves, hovering over them. Andromeda is unphased. She simply stares ahead, with the air of a healer used to giving terrible news to the relatives of her patients. Harry breathes deeply, and sends his magic along the walls of Grimmauld. After a beat, the library returns to normal.

Harry wonders if there is anything he can do to ensure his father will come back sane if they do go through with this. He sifts through what he recalls of the hours of research he put in, but he looked at information about ghosts, not revenants. The only time he ever heard about anything to do with this category of living dead is... a half-remembered snatch of conversation from his dreams makes him pause. If he recalls correctly, Achini Potter's youngest son Sajin said something about Kandyan dances and purifying demons and cleansing the restless dead. He presses his lips together. He won't say anything about it until he has more information.

"How do you suggest we awaken him?" questions Sirius, focused on their more daunting task.

Harry glances at him, and realises he's not asking because he doesn't know. Sirius is the Head of House Black and has been taught as Andromeda about who provides what type of service in magical society. He's asking because the answer is one he does not like, and he cannot bring himself to verbalise it.

Andromeda is unamused by Sirius' avoidance, but she answers gamely enough. Harry can tell she wishes she had better answers for them.

"The only family who might be capable of raising a revenant without soul magic is House Nott."

Harry remembers Theodore Nott, who thinks his own father is wrong for following Voldemort, who helped him find the apothecary he needed and told him to hide his magic to avoid being targeted by Death Eaters.

Maybe it's not entirely hopeless after all.

Chapter Text

It takes some time for Harry to convince Sirius to let him approach Theodore Nott, but he gets there after some fast talking.

It certainly helps that the only other option is to let one of the first and most fervent followers of Voldemort close to Harry's father.

Andromeda examines James once more and determines that he can wait long enough for the young wizard to convince his classmate to help. His unique condition means that he takes well to prolonged stasis spells, and as long as she checks up on the state of his internal organs on a regular basis, it should be fine. Harry gives himself until the winter holidays. He'll make the best of it. In the meantime, he needs to know more about House Nott, and the feud Dishan Potter settled with Theodore's grandfather. He doesn't want outside factors to get in the way of his self-imposed mission.

He means to get to it immediately, but Sirius' cousin strong-arms him into getting a check-up. His godfather, traitor that he is, reveals their worries about the Horcrux, ramping up Andromeda's feeling of urgency.

It takes a thorough examination of his scar for her to determine that there is perhaps a soul shard inside of it. Apparently, his mother's curse makes the scar's energy readings extremely difficult to decipher, so much so that Remus has the time to come back and check on them, a look of pure exhaustion on his face as he tells them that he's convinced Molly Weasley to let things go, but only barely. He warns that she is one secret meeting away from snapping.

"Gee, I wonder how it feels to be kept in the dark," deadpans Harry, drawing a small smile from a focused Andromeda and a barking laugh from Sirius.

Remus only looks impossibly more tired, and the news they give him do not help matters.

At the end of Harry's examination, Andromeda announces that he's as healthy as can be expected, considering.

"I don't like that your arcanic veins are so accustomed to foreign magic flowing through your body. Your family line must have adapted to the... blessing," she says dubiously, obviously unsure what to think about the idea that Death itself granted this boon to House Peverell, "that makes you immune to soul magic. But add that to the McKinnon blood magic and Voldemort's traces on you, and it makes for quite an unstable mix. Yet your system has integrated them seamlessly."

"How is that a bad thing?" asks Sirius.

"Well, the end goal is to remove the Horcrux and render the blood curse obsolete, isn't it? What do you think will happen to Harry when you remove these influences from his body? I fear it will unbalance his magic."

"But the McKinnon magic is not foreign to me," points out Harry. "My mother, blood-adopted or no, was one of theirs, so their blood flows through my veins."

Remus looks thoughtful at that, but makes no comment.

Andromeda concedes the point. She sighs. "We know so little about the effects of blood adoptions on the body and magic of wixen. They're so intricately tied to family practises, no House will allow researchers to look at them. But very well. I suppose we will see when we get to that point." She turns to Sirius. "I'll do my own research. There must be a way to handle this without firing a killing curse at a fifteen-year-old."

Harry carefully doesn't say anything. He won't upset Sirius further with his thoughts on the matter.

After saying goodbye to Andromeda, who promises to come back weekly to look at James' situation and gives a kiss to him, Sirius and her own child, Harry first heads to his room, where he searches his notes for any mention of Cantankerous Nott. He finds that the situation was less a family feud and more a personal grudge against the Potters. As far as he can see, it gives him nothing helpful to bargain with Theodore Nott.

Cantankerous Nott had apparently pushed for an engagement between his daughter Petronilla and Harry's grandfather. He claimed that his wife was a seer and that she had foreseen that the union of a Nott and a Potter would be instrumental in the death of a Dark Lord. He had approached Charlus with this proposal at his father Dishan's funeral, who had been killed by Grindelwald personally, and a handful of months before Harry's grandfather was set to marry his grandmother. Charlus of course took it as an insult and refused outright. Cantankerous was mortally offended and made things very difficult for the Potters after that. He was only appeased when Charlus' brother Fleamont decided to try and court Petronilla to appease the man. Grindelwald was defeated barely a month after their courtship, of course, so the whole thing was forgotten. Charlus' little brother apparently married a half-blood of no note named Euphemia Diggory — huh — and Harry saw him die in a potion accident without even knowing that was his great-uncle. Petronilla had, according to Harry's grandfather's notes, eloped with a witch from a nomadic coven and never been seen again.

Harry is sick of seers and their prophecies, manufactured or not, and the fact that it never occurs to anyone that their wording is always deliberately vague. The word "union" could be interpreted in many ways. He thinks that the most interesting part of this whole thing is that Cantankerous, blood supremacist as he was, did not side with Grindelwald like many of families of the people who followed Voldemort had. He wonders what pushed Athanase Nott, Theodore's father, to the path he has chosen.

He thinks about it as he goes downstairs and prepares himself to face the music. Sirius said he would do damage control, but Harry suspects bringing Andromeda to Grimmauld Place has once more kicked the hornets' nest.

Sure enough, it doesn't fail. When he gets to ground floor, Mrs Weasley is ranting about Sirius' lack of responsibility, his reckless endangering of the children by bringing people in without Dumbledore's approval, and how he better not be dragging Harry in his childish antics and exposing the boy to things he is too young for.

Harry thinks about letting it go.

He really does.

But Mrs Weasley says, "He is not James, Sirius, and he will never be! Playing hide and seek with him to relive your glory days will not change this. He's not James. He's not!"

And that. That hurts.

Harry's voice is as cold as the ice in his veins when he asks quietly, "Why are you here, Mrs Weasley?"

"Pardon?"

He sees Ron and Hermione tense from the corner of his eyes, his oldest best friend taking a half-step forward in an unconscious attempt to shield his mother from his rage. Fred and George are the ones who stop him, a hand on each shoulder holding Ron back with a silent request to wait. To trust.

(The twins always understood his moods best.

Ron and Hermione are the people he would bare his soul to. Fred and George have no need of it. They're not as close as he is to his best friends, but they see him in a way few people do. He'll always love them for that.)

"What are you doing in this house? Everyone else in the Order comes and goes, staying for meetings and plans that don't seem to do anything but talk pointlessly about how much we don't know about what Voldemort's doing and guarding something on Dumbledore's behalf. You're here because my friendship with your son has made him a target, and you spend your days talking about cleaning things."

He makes a scornful sound, thinking about Dumbledore's pointless errands. He won't deny the power of prophecies, but they would be better off destroying any evidence of it and calling it a day instead of wasting manpower guarding it when they had better things to do. Seriously.

He says nothing about Snape's uselessness as a spy. That would only derail the conversation further than he's already taking it.

"I don't see anyone training for the incoming war, or brainstorming ways to spread information about the likely plans of attack and possible ways to counter them. No one's studying war tactics or figuring out where we're going to hide muggle-borns when they start getting hunted. No one's setting up wards or making healing potions in preparation for when we might need them. We might be children but you're not, Mrs Weasley."

It turns his gaze to Tonks, Moody, Shacklebolt and Jones while he's at it. It's not the point he was trying to make at the beginning, but it's too important to keep his thoughts to himself.

He takes a deep breath and continues. "You're not. Most of you in the Order have lived through the First War with Voldemort. You've certainly learnt something of it that you could contribute, but you're only waiting anxiously for word of your esteemed leader to get moving."

"We're researching ways to take down Voldemort," he says, pointing at himself, Sirius and Remus. Mrs Weasley draws herself up and opens her mouth, but he stops her before she can admonish him. "Whether you think I should be doing this or not is irrelevant. I'll do it anyway. He's after me, and he's willing to kill to get his way. I won't make it easy for him by standing still and hoping he waits until I'm of age."

"We're doing what we can, and if you prefer to spend your days getting in the way of the house elves, that's your choice. But I expect you to respect the fact that we have better things to do and stop acting like you and Dumbledore own the fucking place. If you want to be somewhere you can control, you might as well go home."

He does not wait to get a response to leave. He doesn't think there is anything they would say that he would care to hear. Instead he walks back up to Regulus' room. He sits on the bed and stares at the paper clippings about Voldemort and his Death Eaters' acts during the war, trophies kept by an idiot kid who thought he was joining a band of revolutionaries instead of violent reactionaries. Harry remembers the second kid he watched die by muggle hands. He was betrayed by a muggle-born child whom he thought he could trust after having witnessed him do accidental magic. Bastian Potter only wanted a friend.

Harry doesn't doubt that there are portraits in Grimmauld Place who told the same stories to Regulus Black. It does not excuse anything, but it explains them somewhat. Making the enemy forget you exist does not mean the consequences of what they have wrought doesn't still have an impact on you. After the Statute of Secrecy was implemented, the resentment wixen felt was left to fester, until it boiled over. That is the flaw of a society that does not want to mend its own wounds, and instead pretends like they were never there.

Some time later, Sirius knocks on his door, and opens it quietly once he has gotten his assent. His godfather sits next to him. For a while, he doesn't speak.

"We're not researching ways to take down Voldemort," he comments.

"Are we not?" murmurs Harry. "We're researching Mum's curse, and we've found out about the Horcruxes that keep him tethered to the living plane. We've learnt why I killed him the first time, and it will help us end him as many times as it takes. We might not have started with that, but that's because Dad is our priority right now. I always meant to come back to this." He pauses, then adds bitterly, "Or for someone else to pick up the slack."

Sirius chuckles.

"You've been looking at the Order and finding them wanting this whole time, huh?"

Harry hums. "Not really. I understand that it doesn't feel quite real to them. It only will feel different when the bodies start dropping," he says, keeping his eyes firmly open so he doesn't picture the sprawled body of Cedric Diggory in his mind's eye.

"You made good points, though. We should be more pro-active. Especially now that we're at a stalemate."

He means that they can do nothing more about Harry's father for now, he understands. They cannot contact Theodore Nott without drawing suspicion. Visiting the McKinnons' clan land will have to wait for the next week because the full moon is coming up and Remus will need to recover before they go. Three pairs of eyes are better than two, after all, and Sirius has promised not to leave his friend behind on their next excursion.

"Tomorrow," says his godfather, his eyes gleaming with new-found resolve, "I'll put you through your paces. If you have to face Voldemort, you won't do it defenceless."

The visitors of Grimmauld walk on eggshells around Harry, but his words seem to have lit a fire under everyone's arse. Mad Eye Moody in particular seems to have taken them at heart, because he keeps dragging off some of the adult members of the Order and returning them exhausted and cursing Harry's name, casting baleful looks at him though they don't quite work up the nerve to say anything.

Hermione makes lists and contingencies, pestering the veterans of the First War about Death Eater tactics, most common war injuries and the best ways to set up escape routes. Ron, who is relieved that his first best friend didn't end up insulting his mother and that the second has finally stopped talking about House elves, chimes in with his thoughts about war tactics.

Fred and George reveal they were already working on joke products that can be used for self-defence and escape. They say Harry's speech gave them a few new ideas, and disappear throughout the day to conduct experiments.

Ginny questions her father on the best ways to protect the wider population from the type of muggle-baiting Death Eaters like to engage in. Mr Weasley is used to dealing with more minor offences, but he likes the thought exercise, and it's obvious Ginny is learning a lot from it.

Mrs Weasley watches on, her anxiety evident. After lunch, she takes some time to talk to Harry and apologise for her heavy-handed approach and what she calls her "nagging".

"I don't mind you nagging," he tells her. "It means that you care. I do mind that you make Sirius feel inadequate, though."

She sighs.

"I know. I'll apologise to him as well. It's just..." She closes her eyes painfully before opening them back again and gazes wistfully in the distance. "Sirius... the both of you, really. You remind me a lot of my brothers."

She does not say more, but later on, after Sirius and Harry have had a successful duelling practise, Mr Weasley comes find them and quietly tells them about Gideon Prewett, who had the eyes of a Black and fiery red hair, and about Fabian, who had riotous black hair and Molly's warm brown eyes. He tells them how they were tortured and how it was Molly who found them, gored like they were animals and left to rot for their defiance.

"They were her little brothers," says Arthur Weasley when he is finished, "and they were wild, full of life, and so, so brave. They died biting off more than they could chew, and it's haunted Molly's nightmares for years. She thought they were invincible, and trusted them to handle themselves on the battlefield. And they did, until they met their match. Now she's scared that her children will suffer the same fate, and she does count you as her child, Harry, no matter how you might feel about that. This is hard on her. If she could shield you all from this war and duel You-Know-Who herself to keep you from it, she would."

Sirius knew all this, but the Prewetts had been quite a bit older than he was, and their deaths hadn't been one he'd mourned as much as regretted. He hadn't made the connection between Molly's shrill objections and the very real fears hiding beneath them.

Harry does not regret the things he said, but he does think there might have been better ways to say them. He'll learn from this. He hopes.

Harry dreams of Sri Lanka.

He dreams of a secluded place in the middle of a monsoon forest, where men are gathered for a performance. A stone structure in the middle of this untouched biome welcomes two dozen men, whose grave faces are off-set by the grand ceremonial attire they are wearing. The air is heavy and smells like incense and petrichor. The men are so quiet Harry can hear the water nearby, and he wonders where he is.

The rhythmic thud of the drum echoes through the air and interrupts his train of thought, the heartbeat-like sound announcing the start of something great. Hand cymbals follow it, and the dancers, clad in a white loincloth and headdress, salute a seemingly imaginary crowd that is really only him. The beadwork across their chest and the jewelry that adorns their heads and bodies attract Harry's eye first. Until they start dancing. Their movements are a whirlwind of intricate footwork, each step a calculated explosion of energy. In one breath and a succession of rhythmic steps, they become a horde of galloping horses, symbol of the warrior spirit, their anklets chiming at each movement.

One particularly good dancer catches Harry's attention. His arms, adorned with delicate silver bangles and brass shoulder plates trace intricate patterns in the air, mimicking the graceful flight of a peacock. The stylized hand gestures convey a rich tapestry of emotions and narratives – the dance flows from telling one story to another, honouring each of them with the elegance and strength of dancers doubling as acrobats and storytellers.

He believes the dancers to be muggles and already finds impressive. His jaw slackens when the man he had been looking at steps forward, the others moving aside to make space, and slams a foot on a stage with graceful brutality. Harry almost expects the ground to split, but instead the anklets glow and gold fire starts encircling the dancer's feet. A snap of the wrist, and the bangles on their wrist do the same. One by one, the dancers set themselves alight, and rising from their chest, the glow of their own magic brightens the colourful beads in a kaleidoscope.

"Cleansing fire," he murmurs.

Harry is distracted by it, though only long enough for something else to catch his attention. A giant snake coalesces above the dancers, feeding on their magic as it is summoned. Unlike the basilisk, instrument of death and suffering, there is something almost holy about the gold and green creature whose spiked scales and adorned brow look intense. The creature slithers in the air, slicing the wind as its body possessively coils around the dancers and stares ahead.

Harry turns and gasps. A woman is bound to a stone platform, soundless and unresponsive. Harry only recognises her for a Potter by intuition, as her face is half obscured until she turns and he sees her better. She is young, and her head has been shaved entirely. She seems familiar, but he's seen so many Potters die by now it does not mean much. What he does note is her eyes are pitch black from iris to sclera and the magic around her is malevolent, a clear sign of demonic possession. It is she who is being watched by what he now knows is a naga.

Of course they're not dancing in the middle of the forest for no reason, he thinks with dismay, mad at himself for not having questioned it. Harry never dreams of peaceful things. His visions are only of death.

The rhythm of the dance sharpens, the drums beating harder and harder and Harry feels his heart race with them, and the naga raises itself up before it strikes. It moves to swallow the woman whole, and then dissipates in a shower of golden mist. The woman is left sprawled on the floor.

But like the killing curse, it only lasts a moment, and soon she heaves and draws herself up. Harry extends a hand to her, but she does not seem to see him. It's a good thing, because he does not know what his expression looks like. He only now recognised Achini Potter, the woman he had watched die of old age weeks before.

This ritual, he thinks with trepidation, might be the key to helping James Potter.

If he can learn this magic, he can cleanse his father from the resentment of the undead before Theodore Nott awakens him.

When Harry wakes, having committed to memory as much of the ritual as he could manage, he pens letters to the Heads of the Houses Marasuriya, Rajasinghe, Samaraweera and Chandrapala, hoping one of them might be of help.

Chapter Text

They apparate to the McKinnon land at dawn.

They appear in front of a great house in what seems to be a village square. Marlene McKinnon was the daughter of the head of the clan, and she had many siblings. It figures their house would be the biggest in the neighbourhood. The clan lived on the bank of Loch Fhionghuin, a magical location inaccessible to muggles. Remus says he went there once to talk to Marlene about a pack of Greyback-affiliated werewolves lingering in the area. There are dozens of inhabited houses around the lake. The air is heavy with magic. It is cold for a summer morning, even for Scotland. The biting wind makes whistling sounds as it passes through broken windows.

Remus leans on Sirius after they touch ground, dizzy from the side-along apparition. He is still recovering from the full moon and should not have been doing magic, but he insisted. He very justly reminded them that he was the only one who knew where to go. Harry watches him with concern, a hand on his arm. Remus offers him a reassuring smile, which he returns with half a grimace. This trip is nerve-wracking. He does not know whether they will find answers to their questions or more mysteries to unravel.

Harry looks around. This must have been a thriving community once. A dozen families, more than a hundred people, all dead in the name of Fate. He thinks about the seer prophesying the union of a Potter and a Nott meant to defeat a Dark Lord. It most likely refers to him and the boy in his year, but what does that matter? Isn't the very basis of prophecy that things happen as Fate decrees? Harry is not fighting Voldemort because of destiny. He does it because the man killed his parents, killed Cedric, threatens his friends and seems intent on killing him. Maybe prophecy set events in motion, but what does that matter? It is the decision people make that have weight, not this pointless dance around what is and isn't written in the stars. Voldemort might have wanted to thwart Fate enough to target a child, but Harry follows his own path.

Without a prophecy, he would still seek out Theodore Nott to help his father.

"Was it really worth this?" he murmurs.

A wail startles him. Coming from the lake, an apparition flies towards them while making a terrible noise, their face distorted by grief and anguish. Sirius and Remus pull out their wands and step in front of Harry. He himself palms his own holly wand, prepared to use it.

"She's a caoineag. A Weeper," says Remus, lowering his wand. "She can't harm us, and we can't touch her either. They do not interact with the living."

They watch the advance of the spirit. It's a woman, with long hair and wearing funeral attire, a blend of dark colours and tartan which Harry assumes to be unique to the McKinnon clan. She indeed does not seem to have harmful intent. She stops in front of Remus and Sirius like they have the plague, reaching for Harry with trembling hands. Her lament continues, a haunting sound that should make Harry shiver, and yet. He feels soothed by it, almost entranced. Without thinking he steps forward, pushing his godfather and former professor. Memories of the long minutes he spent sitting at dying Potters' bedsides flash through his mind. His hand raises. The caoineag tilts her head and reaches for his hand, grabbing the back of it and directing it to her cheek.

Her tears run across his hand. They are cold to the point of burning against his skin. The tracks mark an unnatural path from his palm to the inside of his wrist, and he wonders if that scar will match the lightning on his forehead.

"Harry!" gasps Sirius. 

"This should not be!" exclaims Remus, sounding shocked behind him "Caoineag are not supposed to—"

He tries to focus on them, but their voices sound like they are underwater. Instead, Harry stares at the spirit, mournful.

"You did well," he finds himself saying. "You cried for them and stayed until their death. You did well."

The spirit's weeping is quieter now. He keeps going, the words pushed out of him by some innate knowing of this creature. 

"We are alike, you and I. Portents of death for a family that is no more. They were warriors, your people, and you gave them the farewell they deserved. Their gamble has paid off, see? I am their champion. I carry the will of the clan if not their history. Will you show me how they died?"

He does not know why he thinks this creature will help him, but his intuition is right. She takes him to the lake with a gentle hold on his hand, and gestures at him to kneel. He follows her instructions, ignoring the hands on his shoulders trying to hold him back. They pass through him as if through water. His pants turn wet, but the cold does not bother him. Harry's hand is guided to the lake. The water tugs at him until he falls into the clear liquid like in a Pensieve.

Harry stands in the middle of a circle of wixen. He sees flashes of a similar tartan as what the caoineag wore here and there. People wear robes of all colour, though red is the most prominent one. They are all kneeling in front of a very elaborate ritual circle. They pray in Scots Gaelic, their heads bowed in front of the markings on the floor. Harry hears the Morrigan being mentioned multiple times. Every time the deity is spoken about, the circle glows and a shiver runs down his spine. He hears the caw of a crow and the whispers of Lawrence Peverell.

"We were named Friends of Death," echoes in his ears as the McKinnon clan surround him. 

The clan's prayers are interrupted by a door slamming open. A man enters, his eyes wild. He looks to be in his fifties and has a thick beard and eyebrows to match. He says something in Scots in an urgent tone. The people inside exclaim and rise, reaching for their wands. Behind him, Harry sees coloured lights he recognises. They are signs of a duel. He goes through the door and climbs up the stairs facing it. When he passes the threshold, the sound from outside reaches him, no longer obstructed by the magic that kept the room contained. He hears the shouting of spells, the familiar laugh of his parents' murderer. Harry hurries. He recognises one of the people duelling Voldemort instantly from pictures of his parents' wedding.

This is Marlene McKinnon. His godmother. The sister his mother chose for herself. The apprentice of Bathilda Bagshot.

She is a good duellist.

Voldemort is better. 

"Who told you?" she snarls at him, desperation sharpening her deep voice into something shrill as she volleys spell after spell at the man invading her home. 

The dark lord sneers. "Did you think we weren't watching your pathetic clan? What were you hiding these children for? Not that it matters. They're all dead."

Harry's hand raises to his mouth. Voldemort killed those who were chosen to survive the sacrifice. The McKinnons might have prepared the ritual, but they were still caught off-guard.

Marlene grins. It is a baring of teeth more than a smile, and her eyes betray the pain she is feeling. Yet she chooses to take the news as triumph. She knows her clan is doomed, but it will live on in others. Relatives from other Scottish clans. Lily. Should Voldemort keep targeting Scottish wixen, the clan will still live on in the sister she chose. They might have been betrayed, but it does not matter. Their call has been heard by the Morrigan. The hands of Fate will bring victory to their allies and doom to their enemies. The McKinnon clan will be the bane of Lord Voldemort.

Harry blinks. How does he know this?

You are kindred.

His heart hurts.

He glances at the people still fighting, and finally notices Voldemort did not come alone. Seven death eaters were with him. Three of them are dead. He notes one has been unmasked. Harry moves closer to discern his face, and gasps. That is Athanase Nott, the father of his classmate. The man is engaged in battle with eight of his clansmen. He is keeping them on the back foot, though they fight hard against him. The fight rages on. Another death eater falls. More clansmen come out of the ritual room and launch into the fight, but Voldemort's magical reserves are seemingly endless. He has not broken a sweat, fighting Marlene to a standstill as he kills her kin left and right. Harry wishes he could help, but like in his dreams, none of what he tries affects his surroundings in a meaningful way.

Thankfully, two women, likely Marlene's sisters, flank her and start gaining ground on the dark lord. The once-man narrows his eyes in displeasure when a fire spell clips his shoulder. He kills the older one, who stood at Marlene's left with a forceful Avada Kedavra. Harry shouts and falls to his knees at her side just as Marlene howls her rage and throws a bludgeoning hex at Voldemort. She and her remaining sister redouble their efforts. Marlene manages to hit Voldemort with a cutting curse. It slices at his torso. She readies a second spell and—

A killing curse hits her from the back. Athanase Nott stands behind her, bowing to his lord before returning into the fray.

Voldemort cuts down the last sister with a hiss, his eyes glowing red. The battlefield seems to pause, half of the duellists pausing to stare in disbelief at the three fallen women.

"Watch, McKinnon clan, the fall of your head's pathetic daughters, and know that death awaits you! There is no escape for the unworthy!" claims the bane of Harry's existence as he stares in disbelief. 

His surroundings blur and he soon finds himself alone with the three dead bodies in front of him in a great expanse of darkness. Three shades rise from them and face him. 

"Kindred," they speak in unison. "Our champion."

"Marlene?" he asks, hesitant.

"Kindred," repeats the figure in the middle. The shade flickers, eyes materialising on the once faceless visage. They are a familiar vivid green. "Son of my sister, gift from the gods. Speak."

"What did Mum do? Bathilda Bagshot said she was finishing what you started. What were you trying to accomplish?"

The shade of Marlene McKinnon shakes its head.

"We were always warriors and champions of Fate, but there was too much magic in our blood and not enough in our wands. By making ritual ingredients of our own bodies, we invited weakness in our bloodline. The Vow your father's family forced upon us weakened our clan further, and no champion borne of it would be enough to tempt the Morrigan's crow into cawing a prophecy into being. My sister did not believe in Fate, but she found meaning in sacrifice. She thought there was nothing more powerful than the convergence of blood and soul magic. I found the ritual killings so dear to my clan more akin to forfeit than victory, but even I knew only Fate could stand in the path of the Dark Lord. I confided in her and she came to me with a solution. She was bright and principled, your mother," murmurs the shade, "but pragmatic. She knew how much a life was worth, down to the pence. I planted the seed in cursed soil, kindred, but she was the one who watered it with blood."

Her voice becomes more distant. The green eyes disappear. The three shades merge into a greater figure holding a spinning golden thread which wraps around his throat.

"The Sister betrayed the Hearth to kindle the flame. The Bride betrayed the Hart to break the taboo. The Last Friend of Death will be its Master. Years before your birth, kindred, the Bride was a Huntress."

The figure tugs. Harry tumbles into the void.

When Harry emerges, he gasps and falls face down into the muddy bank. 

"Harry!" Remus cries out.

The teenager rises on his hands and knees, wiping the dirt out of his face and clothes as best he can. He grunts thanks to his older companion when the man casts a cleaning spell on him. He raises his head and gasps.

Sirius is curled into a ball on the floor. Remus has a hand on his shoulder. He is frantically attempting to help him regain consciousness, but it does not seem to be working. He is saying Harry's name mindlessly, his entire figure wracked by tremors as he flickers between his human form and that of the grim. Harry hurries to Sirius' side. His right hand finds his wrist, his left the back of his hand. He sighs in relief when he feels the erratic beat of his pulse. 

"We thought we'd lost you," murmurs Remus, wiping his eyes. "And Sirius had some sort of... reaction to the spirit. It's easier to say he's a dog, but it's not quite true. He is the grim."

Harry has not considered that before. Sirius, like him, is associated with death. Considered an omen of death in divination, the grim is also a guardian of the dead, protecting them in their rest against sacrilege. His hand clenches around Sirius' arm. His godfather grunts and opens his eyes.

"I'm not dreaming, am I, Moony?"

His voice cracks in the middle of his whisper. His guilt at his godfather’s anguish is a bruise on Harry's soul. 

"You're not, Sirius. Harry is fine, see?"

"I'm here," says Harry. 

Silver eyes stare blearily in his direction. A slow smile forms on Sirius' lips. 

"I'm glad."

There are still tremors coursing through his fingers, but he is more present than before and his Animagus form seems to have settled back below his skin. Harry slowly relaxes. They stay like this for a long time, letting Sirius regain his bearings. During that time, the young wizard tries to keep the revelations he heard from rattling his mind. It is the man who rises first, taking Harry away from the lake with a wary look at the shore and shaking himself like a dog as if trying to remove an unpleasant touch creeping onto his skin. It is only when they have stepped closer to the empty buildings that Remus asks what he has seen. Harry takes a deep breath and explains.

"My vision... I saw the McKinnons' death. Their plan did not work right because they were betrayed, but from what I heard..."

He gives a brief overview of Voldemort's invasion, his claim that he killed the children who were hidden, Marlene's thoughts slipping into his own mind and revealing there had been a traitor.

"I don't know if there really was a traitor, though. The Potters knew about the kindred sacrifice. It's possible that others knew as well." He pauses. "I think Mum giving birth to a child of prophecy was always the plan. After Marlene died in my vision, I saw her shade and it spoke to me." He repeats what he heard from the shade, putting emphasis on its parting words. "The Sister betrayed the Hearth to kindle the flame. The Bride betrayed the Hart to break the taboo. The last friend of Death will be its Master. Years before you came, kindred, the Bride was a Huntress."

Remus closes his eyes as if in pain.

"James was a white stag." 

Harry gasps. They never told him. He remembers reading about these creatures. White harts are messengers from the otherworld, both that of the fae and that of the dead. They have the perennial ability to evade capture, and appear when someone is transgressing a taboo. He wonders if Voldemort saw one when he made his first Horcrux. His jaw clenches. He pushes the thought away. Every clue he finds leads to the same culprit and it hurts Harry to even contemplate it.

"I don't think it's a coincidence that both of us turned into portents of death," muses Sirius almost absently. "At the time, I thought it meant I always should have been a Potter. Now..." 

"Mum did all this, then? She and Marlene planned it all to kill Voldemort, from marrying Dad to getting her adopted into the clan. And I'm sure the blood in that necklace is hers too," he says with a blank expression. 

Sirius and Remus exchange a look. Harry's eyes widen.

"You knew, didn't you?" 

"I figured out the spell to identify blood yesterday," admits Sirius. "I thought it failed at first, so I tried it again. I wanted to wait until we came here to tell you. Maybe try another time. I wanted to be wrong."

His tone is so pleading Harry cannot find it in himself to be angry. He just feels numb. 

"It still does not explain why she tried to kill Dad or anything about the annihilation curse."

Remus closes his eyes.

"I think it does, Harry. At least partially. Marlene's shade told you Lily found meaning in convergence. She ensured you were the last Potter and the last McKinnon, two families dealing in blood and soul magics, and in the power of life and death. For that she needed to kill your father and herself."

Then that means...

"The Sister betrayed the Hearth to kindle the flame. She was the one who betrayed the clan," he breathes out.