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Chapter Text

Early July, 1993

Harry was done.

Done with it all, he’d decided. He didn’t want to be here, not anymore. He couldn’t be here, not with who he was. Not with who the Dursleys wanted him to be.

And so, here he was. Leaving for good.

He hurriedly glanced at the clock in the sitting room, 02:00. The Dursleys were all long asleep. With Uncle Vernon’s snoring, he wouldn’t have to worry about being too quiet, either, Harry sighed in relief. He smiled to himself as he quickly closed his trunk and shoved his wand in his back pocket. Picking up the trunk, Harry slowed his step, and tip-toed his way to the front door, creaking it open and pulling it softly closed.

He turned, facing the dark street. Harry looked around cautiously, none of the neighbour’s lights were on, not even Mrs. Figg’s, he noted with surprise. Generally, she stayed up quite late—well, he never really knew what she was doing so late, but he always noticed her lights stayed on for some time after everyone else turned theirs off. He looked away, carefully stepping down off the porch and onto the driveway.

Harry clenched his trunk tight as he walked down the street, strolling well into the middle of the road. He looked up at the sky. He hoped Hedwig was making her way okay. Earlier that day, he’d sent her out of her cage, and told her to fly out to the Burrow. Harry bit his lip, the Burrow was pretty far. About 4 hours by train, he remembered.

He shook his head, She’ll be fine. It’s not that far. Owls are fast.

The light from the moon was strong, and as Harry stared up at the sky he noticed the many stars visible that night. His worries always seemed to leave him underneath the sky. Usually, if he was lucky, there’d only be one of two dots, sparkling above him. Tonight, there was a symphony of them. The sky was so glittery, in fact, that Harry almost didn’t think about the fact that he had no idea where to go.

Almost.

He blinked, tearing his eyes away from the sky. Right, He sat down on the curb, biting at his nails, Where to go. He still had some time, he reasoned, at least a few hours, before people began waking up. He could walk to Ashford Station, but, even then, no trains would be running right now. Well, none to Devon. Not to mention, he didn’t have any pounds. Galleons are useless, he thought, deflating further.

Harry frowned, there had to be some sort of wizarding travel, right? He knew about apparition, but he couldn’t do that yet. Floo, too, but you couldn’t just do that from any fireplace—he was pretty sure, at least. He didn’t know where Vernon put his broom, either. So, flying was out.

Harry unlocked his trunk, pulling random clothes and shoes and robes out and aside, until he reached his books at the bottom. He flipped through a few of the textbooks, finding nothing, until he found a book Hermione had given him. A Comprehensive Guide to the Wizarding World: For Muggle Born and Raised Wixen, Harry turned it over, remembering how Hermione had practically shoved it into his arms on the train, telling him how she’d bought it over Christmas, and only just got around to it, what, with her extensive reading list, and all, and how it’d been brilliantly helpful.

The back read, Entering a new place can confuse many, whether they be different countries, or simply places we didn’t know existed before, but there is no need to fret—this book will help you learn all you need to know. Within this guide, you will learn about several topics, including, but not limited to: tips on getting around Hogwarts, Hogwarts Sorting, major fields of study and professions, basic etiquette, ancient and noble houses, inheritance, holidays and beliefs, transportation, the political and judicial system—

Harry’s eyes caught—transportation. He grinned, silently thanking Hermione.

He sifted through the table of contents, flipping to the correct chapter.

There are several methods of transportation used all over the magical world, as one would expect. They don’t differ all that much within the European Union, although Asia and the Americas have slightly different methods, which I shall not touch on today. For more information on magical transportation in other continents, I suggest looking in the ‘Further Reading’ section of this guide, listed on page 556. As for magical Britain, where I suspect many of my readers are learning from, and, thus, is the specification for this chapter, there are five major methods: portkey, floo, apparition, the Knight Bus, and brooms.

Additionally, steam trains are used solely for transportation across the country, namely, for incoming Hogwarts students, but as they are not very magical, and not widely used, they are not mentioned here.

Having learnt the first few already, Harry skimmed to the Knight Bus’ portion.

                                                                                                          -The Knight Bus -

The Knight Bus is a rather new service, at the time of this book’s publishing, only having been created in 1865, as a commission from the then-Minister Dugald McPhail. Since then, it has been the primary choice by wixen throughout London, traversing across the city. It does go outside of London, venturing all the way to Birmingham, but it is mainly used by wixen within London.

Every bus takes the form of a triple-decker bus, similar to the double-deckers in Muggle London, and is completely invisible to Muggles. The Knight Bus primarily runs through the night, from roughly 22:00 to 04:00. Because of this, there are no seats on the bus, unlike the ones you might be used to, having beds instead.

The Knight Bus has no stops, and instead must be summoned. To call the bus, simply raise your wand into the air, wait for a few seconds up to three minutes, and the bus will quickly appear. No matter the journey, it costs eleven sickles to ride. Thirteen sickles will get you hot chocolate, and fifteen will get you water and a toothbrush in a colour of your choice.

Note: For reference on the transaction rates from pounds to wizarding currency, please refer to page 400 for the self-updating rates.

Upon entry, tell the driver where you wish to go, and choose a bed. The bus is much quicker than Muggle buses, and the drive will be approximately four times faster than a Muggle bus or automobile. Do not be afraid to fall asleep lest you miss your stop, as the driver will personally let you know, and promptly wake you up to leave.

Harry finished reading, eyes leaping back to how to summon it. This was perfect! He almost couldn’t believe there was such a convenient thing. The magical world was pretty annoying sometimes—I’d never use a quill again, if I could, Harry shivered—but this was amazing.

He pulled his wand out of his pocket, it said just to lift it in the air, and it'll come, right?

Slowly, Harry stood and lifted his right arm, wand in hand. He stood there for a few moments until—WOOSH!

A bright purple blur flashed down the street toward him and he stumbled back onto the grass behind. The blur quickly came to a stop as it reached him, Harry blinked, looking up at what seemed to be the bus.

The doors flew open, revealing, what Harry thought to be, a quite shaggy man wearing a conductor’s hat.

He had short stubble and at least one tooth missing.

“Welcome aboard the Knight Bus, every wixen—and vixen’s—favourite emergency reckless transportation, the name’s Stan Shunpike, who are ‘ya and where d’ya want to go?” The man rattled off.

Harry blinked, standing up, “Ha—” He stopped himself, “Henry, er, Evans.”

The man, Shunpike, looked him up and down, rather boredly, Harry thought, “Alrigh’ Henry Evans, where’re ya goin’?”

Harry bit his lip, “You don’t go to Devon, do you?”

“Nah, I’m ‘fraid not.” He shook his head, “Anywhere else?”

“Er, Charing Cross?”

“We do go there, Evans,” He turned back to the wheel, “Hop on, eleven sickles in the hat,” He gestured to the very hat hanging by the door, “Thirteen for hot chocolate, fifteen for water and a toothbrush.”

Harry picked up his trunk and fished out eleven sickles from his pocket, dropping them in the hat as he stepped on.

The doors slammed closed, and the bus hurled to a start, throwing Harry into the side of one of the beds.

He groaned as he recovered, only to find himself, and his trunk, thrown into a bed on the other side. He quickly sat down.

He wanted to let out a breath, but the bus was going so quickly, weaving in and out through traffic and pedestrians, that he found his stomach lurched every time he tried.

After around 10 minutes of this, the pace slowed, and Harry could tell they’d be there soon. At last, he grabbed his abandoned trunk off the floor and placed it in the net above the bed. He leaned his head back on the pillow. Harry looked out the window beside him, only to see their zooming past of other cars, and, despite the late time, the ever-busy central London.

I haven’t been in London in a while, Harry realized. Not since the start of last term, at King’s Cross.

Harry watched the people outside, best he could with their faces smudged by the speed at which they were travelling.

Several people were in suits, probably hurried businessmen staying late, but several were standing around in casual clothing, sharing smokes. He watched with fascination. Never had he been out this late, especially not in central London.

Aunt Petunia always said London at night was for ‘drunks and druggies’, but it seemed so… so alive.

Privet Drive is always so quiet, Harry thought, but this is just… everything.

As soon as it had begun, the slowed pace stopped, and they were wheezing through again. Harry clutched the sides of the bed, wincing up at his trunk which was rattling around in the net.

Suddenly, they came to a stop, and Harry lurched forward. His trunk came crashing down behind him. Phew, He sighed with relief, closing his eyes.

“Evans?” Shunpike called from the front, “Charing Cross!”

He snapped to attention and quickly gathered his things, rushing to the front, “Thanks,” he muttered stepping off the bus.

Shunpike nodded, “Hope you had a great time on the Knight Bus today, giv’ a shout if ya need me again, Evans.”

Harry nodded back, jerkily. “Sure, thanks, sir.”

Shunpike raised a hand in a wave, the doors closed, and the bus was off in a blur.

Harry looked around, the bus, now nowhere to be seen. Everything became muted around him again, as the sound of the bus left and the sounds of the city faded into the background. He blinked, before he turned to the right, vaguely sure of the way to the Leaky Cauldron.

Okay, he wasn’t that sure. Well, he vaguely knew it was somewhere in Charing Cross, but he didn’t remember it all that well from when Hagrid took him.

He frowned, standing still beside a wall. He wished he just remembered.

At once, Harry felt a tap on his right shoulder. He looked over, only to see nobody there. Suddenly, a pulling sensation brought itself to his chest, and he felt compelled to go to the right, and keep going to the right.

And so he did.

He kept going so far that he was almost near the end of Charing Cross Road, when he felt himself pulled to a stop, in front of a bookshop.

Harry walked a bit past the shop, seeing… a record shop right next to it, and then… some sort of, blurry thing in between? What? Harry thought, squinting.

Suddenly, as though it materialized the second he blinked, the Leaky Cauldron was right in front of him, dinge and gloom and all. Harry looked around him, but none of the people walking seemed to notice its sudden appearance.

He walked in through the door, hesitantly, opening it to find the most desolate he’d ever seen a pub be.

Tom, the barhand and innkeeper, was almost asleep, and seemed to have been wiping the same glass over and over. There was only one other person in the entire space, a witch who was lying with a goofy smile on her face and several drinks and overflowing ashtrays on her table. They both only glanced his way as he walked to the bar.

Harry looked up at Tom, “Hello?”

Tom blinked several times, trying to wake himself, he furrowed his brows, “...Sorry?”

“Er,” Harry started, “Can I have a room please?”

“Rates are extra this late, lad.”

“Okay,” Harry glanced down at the floor, and up at Tom again, “...Can I have a room?”

“Alright,” Tom sighed, reaching under the counter and tossing him a key that read 12A, “Four galleons.”

“Thanks, sir.” Harry put the coins on the counter, not paying attention to the steep price, and grabbed the key, walking up the stairs on the left.

He rushed in the room as soon as he was up the stairs, shutting the door behind him. He dropped his trunk, and jumped onto the bed. Laying sprawled out on top of the covers, Harry stared up at the ceiling, in slight disbelief.

He did it. He actually did it.

There was no doubt about it. He had left the Dursleys. And, if he had his choice, there was no way he was going back.

He let out a breath of relief, somewhere between a sigh and laugh. Harry almost couldn’t believe it, he’d dreamt of this since before Hogwarts. He almost couldn’t believe how easy it was—why didn’t he do this before? It only made it easier that he had magic, and money, now. He could stay at the Leaky as long as he wanted.

Harry frowned, unless the Ministry found out. But why would they care, Harry thought, they haven’t cared before.

Professor Dumbledore might, He grimaced. He liked Dumbledore, sure, but, a sweltering feeling formed in his gut upon the thought of the Headmaster finding out. He never seemed to believe him when he told him how much he hated the Dursleys. Why would he believe him now?

Harry’s eyes widened, Would he send me back?

No, he wouldn’t do that… would he? Harry sat up abruptly, bringing his knees up to his chest. I can’t let him find out. He won’t find out.

Harry shook his head, laying back down, curling up on his side. I can’t go back.

He blinked away the tears that formed in his eyes.

I can’t.

Chapter Text

Harry’s breathing was shallow. 

His chest went up… and down… and up… and down. He opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling as he sprawled out across his bed in the darkness of the room. The thought came to him that he didn’t actually know what to do. 

He didn’t know a whole lot of anything recently. What was he doing here? They’d come looking for him, he knew it, alone, in an inn— what am I doing here?

No, I know why I’m here, Harry grimaced, rubbing at his eyes. 

He glanced to the side, to the window beside his dresser where heavy curtains blocked all light from entering. 

He forced himself to sit up, pushing himself up from the bed. Harry pulled the curtains to the side and light came bursting through, revealing specks of dust and dirt in the air. 

Harry blinked harshly at the brightness, looking down at the street below. He stared for a while, just looking at the shops starting to roll up their steel gates and turn on their lights. He looked as people began to exit their townhouses and inn-rooms and make their way toward, well, wherever they were heading. 

Harry smiled. 

He turned away from the sights of the street, and went to drag his trunk over to his bed. Pulling it up onto the mattress with a huff, Harry opened it and eyed the books inside with newfound determination. 

He had some money left, he pulled the loose coins out of his pockets, counting 4 galleons, 4 sickles, and 13 knuts. Harry frowned, it wouldn’t last him very long. 

Only a few more nights here, then , Harry bit the side of his cheek, if I could get some more money… 

His eyes dragged back to the window, finding Gringotts sparkling tall at the end of the street. He almost felt called to it, but he pulled himself back to the book. 

I can’t go to Gringotts, Harry sighed, Hagrid still has my key. Maybe there’s another way? 

Harry picked up the book that had been so helpful the night before, flipping through it, looking for something, anything about Gringotts and money… only to find details about opening up accounts and goblin etiquette. He skimmed, disinterested, through the etiquette section, hoping if he was nice to them… maybe they’d let him go to his vault without his key. 

‘Always greet a goblin with a typical wixen greeting, as spoken of previously, a strong Well Met is appreciated’, Harry read, ‘Always leave with a hopeful wish against their enemies, or wish for their health and/or success, examples include: ‘May your enemies die upon the blades you forge’, or ‘May your coffers overflow evermore’, or even, ‘May you and your family live long and live well’. 

He shut the book, grumbling about its uselessness, and shoved it back in his trunk as he pulled out his school robes, forgoing the tie. He carefully slid the scratched bag under his bed. I should get a new trunk , Harry winced as it clattered against the floor. He quickly dressed and headed out the door. 

The pub below was busy, bustling, and loud. He looked around the corner, and despite the early time, it seemed that many of the people staying had already come down for their morning teas, coffees, and even whiskys. 

Harry went down the stairs slowly, sticking to the wall like a shadow, trying to avoid being seen. He didn’t really want a repeat of his first trip to Diagon Alley. 

He ducked his head down as  he weaved in and out through the people standing around. He walked toward the back, where he tapped the sequence as he remembered and ambled through the stone as it opened into the Alley. 

Harry’s eyes sparkled and a smile was brought to his face the second he walked out, it was just as magical and wonderful as he’d remembered it. 

He strode right into the sun, glancing around at the storefronts, the lights, the silk and velvet robes the passerbys wore. 

A man stood with a cigarette in hand in front of the bookshop across the way—his robes were a gorgeous navy blue, and buttoned nearly completely up his neck, leaving a little room for a pale blue silk something , just poking out of his dress shirt beneath. Harry stared enviously, if Gringotts let him get to his vault, robe shopping was the first thing he’d do. 

He shook his head, looking down the street at the bank, he started toward it, trying not to get distracted by the robes and fashions and businesses and intrinsic magic that he’d never really stopped to notice before.  

Having finally made it there, Harry stepped up off the cobblestone street, and up onto the sleek marble steps of the bank.

He hadn’t really looked at Gringotts the first time he was here, quite a bit too preoccupied with the leftover anxiety of the pub, and the fate he’d be met with back at Privet Drive, but now that he was truly seeing it… Gringotts was massive . 

Marble encased the whole structure, and, in fact, the building took up almost a whole block. The columns in the front reached up to the top, 30 meters at least , and looked hand carved with various symbols that Harry didn’t quite recognize. 

Even the steps had the same symbols carved into their edges, and Harry tried his best not to step too roughly on them as he made his way up and into the building.

The heavy wooden doors opened the moment he stepped near them and his awe increased tenfold as he walked inside.

Red velvet carpet lined the entire hall, the tellers' stands were matte black, and almost looked to be made of obsidian. Typing clicked away at typewriters that didn’t seem to have anyone writing at them, and several of the stands had goblins who were speaking firmly to the wixen standing before them as parchment and quills floated to the sides, scratching ominously.

Harry took a breath, shaking himself from his shock as he cautiously stepped toward one of the free tellers. 

He stared up at the goblin, “Er, well met.”

“Well met.” The goblin stared down at him, “What business?” 

“I would like to get some money from my vault, please?” Harry said, “But, I, well I don’t have my key.” 

The goblin nodded, “Do you have a guardian with you today?”

Harry shook his head, “Do I need one?”

“No,” the goblin said, “You can still access your vault without your key, though we do need to conduct a blood test to confirm your identity—thus, the guardian for consent purposes,”

He paused, scanning Harry with his eyes, “However… if you are legally emancipated, which I believe you to be, then you may simply follow me.” 

Harry looked up puzzled, he wasn’t really sure what that meant, but he could say he was that. 

“Name?”

Harry looked around, whispering, “Er, Harry Potter.”

The goblin nodded, like this confirmed what he’d thought the whole time, “Please follow me, Mr. Potter.” 

He stepped off his seat and a door opened within the panel beside. Harry walked through and saw the goblin walking ahead of him as they made their way through a hallway not dissimilar to the larger one, just more… tunnel-like. 

After a short while, the hallway opened up into a larger room, an office of some sorts. The goblin sat down behind the desk, and Harry followed, sitting in one of the chairs across. 

“Mr. Potter,” the goblin began, ringing a bell from a string that hung behind him, “Your account manager will be here shortly. For now, let’s conduct the test, shall we?”

As he began to look through the drawers beneath the desk, Harry gained the courage to ask, “Excuse me, but, what’s your name, sir?”

The goblin looked up, “Ragnok, Mr. Potter.” 

Harry smiled, “Thank you, Mr. Ragnok.”

“Simply ‘Ragnok’, Mr. Potter, there is no need for the Mister.” 

Harry nodded quickly, “Oh, yes, sir. Sorry— Ragnok.”

Ragnok looked pleased at him, before he finally grabbed a small, sharp needle and parchment from the desk. He placed it in front of Harry, demonstrating, “Simply prick your finger and let the blood spill onto the parchment.”

Harry nodded, grabbing the needle and very quickly pricked his finger, letting blood spill out. He pulled the needle away and placed it down. As the drops hit the parchment, red words began to form as it soaked in. Harry glanced down at it, reading,

True Identity: Harry James Potter 

Parents: Lily June Potter nee Evans and James Fleamont Potter 

“Very good, Mr. Potter. If you would like, we also offer an inheritance test as well to all unaccompanied minors, it will be one galleon taken from your vault.”

Harry asked sheepishly, “Sorry, but what’s an inheritance test?”

“No need to apologize, Mr. Potter,” Ragnok said, “An inheritance test is a simple blood test very similar to the one you’ve just done, only it shows the heirships and titles you’ve inherited from relatives and those who’ve willed such things to you.”

I should’ve guessed that, Harry nodded, slightly red, “I see.”

He bit his cheek, “Can I do one of those, as well?”

“Of course Mr. Potter,” Ragnok grabbed a different piece of parchment, and a slightly more ornate looking needle from the desk. “It is the same process as before.”

Harry repeated his poking, this time into his right pointer, and let the words spill out upon the paper. 

Name: Harry James Potter 

Titles: Lord to the Noble House of Potter, Heir Apparent to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black

House of Black? Harry thought, confused. His eyes widened, Lord?

"Yes, Mr. Potter,” I said that out loud, Harry thought, red blossoming onto his cheeks as Ragnok spoke,   “Your lordship of the House of Potter was likely willed to you by someone in your line, or your father, and simply went to you as his only child. As you are emancipated, the lordship was given to you, and not just heirship.” 

Harry’s face screwed at the word emancipated, still not quite sure what it meant. Something to do with being an orphan, maybe?

Ragnok paused, “As for your heirship apparent to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, I suspect Lord Black must have willed you as his heir, but, as I am not your account manager and do not have access to the wills, I cannot be certain. It could have been won by your father by duel.”

Harry frowned, “What does the ‘apparent’ mean?”

“It simply means that your heirship cannot be displaced by the birth of another, ergo, if Lord Black has a child, that child will not be the heir, unless you abdicate. You are first in the line of succession and will remain as such.” 

Harry nodded, about to speak before a door behind Ragnok’s desk opened, and another goblin with grey hair walked out. Ragnok nodded towards him, standing up from his seat, “Well met, Brimlock.”

The goblin, Brimlock, Harry noted, nodded back, “Well met.”

“Well met,” Harry spoke up. 

Brimlock looked toward him, and replaced Ragnok’s seat, as he walked out of the room. Ragnok turned before he left, “May your coffers flow rich with gold.”

“Thanks,” Harry looked up, “Er, May your enemies… drown in their blood?”

Ragnok smiled, exiting through the door that Brimlock entered from, which shut automatically behind him. 

“I am Brimlock, Mr. Potter, the account manager to the Potter Vaults, and,” He looked down at the parchment, “The Black Vaults now, as well.”

“Nice to meet you,” Harry smiled, 

“Yes, Mr. Potter, same to you.” Brimlock shuffled around with the papers on the desk, finding a sheet that appeared to have several columns and numbers written on it. “What need do you have of Gringotts today?”

“I just wanted to get some money from my vault, sir,” Harry started, “It’s just that Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, well, he has my key from my last visit.” 

Brimlock frowned, “I see. We can make you a new key, and disable the old one’s use, if you would like, Mr. Potter.” 

Harry’s brows furrowed, “Is that necessary?”

“Very much so, Mr. Potter, as anyone with the key can access and withdraw from your vaults.” He stared into Harry, “I assume you do not want that.”

Harry shivered, “Probably not, sir.”

“Good.” Brimlock said, “As for your money, may I suggest we go over some other things first? There are some pressing issues with your investments, as well as your properties.”

“I have properties?” Harry blurted out. 

“Yes, quite a few.”

“Please tell me, then.” Harry quickly said. 

Brimlock nodded, “After your grandfather, Fleamont Potter’s death, I am ashamed to say that his potions endeavours have been rather neglected. As you may know, the late Lord Potter created many potions, all of which he patented and sold off to manufacturers and esteemed potioneers, all of the sales of which the vaults receive a small percentage of.

Your father did not become Lord Potter before he died, and thus, had no focus on these businesses. When Mr. Fleamont Potter passed away in 1986, several of these manufacturers decided to pull out their money as the terms in their contract regarding updated formulas and methods was no longer being adhered to.”

Brimlock sighed, “Although we have tried our best to get them to stay, unfortunately, many of these investors have pulled out of the deals. Lord Potter preferred to manage his own investments, and forbid us from interfering in any of such affairs. Since then, although the Potter Vaults still contain quite a large fortune, it is nowhere near as large as it would be with these royalties. Our fees for keeping such a large vault will likely exceed the amount of money incoming in some ten odd years or so, and thus, is the problem.”

Harry blinked, feeling quite a bit lost, “So… there’s not as much money as there should be, because you can’t help?”

“I… wouldn’t say exactly that, Mr. Potter, but yes.”

“I see, well,” Harry bit his lip, “How about I let you guys assist again?”

Brimlock visibly brightened, “If that is what you wish, please repeat the words ‘I, Lord Potter, hereby allow Gringotts to make changes, interfere, and assist with growing investments made by myself and the generations before myself from here on out.’, followed by ‘So mote it be’."

Harry repeated the statement, “So mote it be.” 

He felt a light feathery feeling settle around them, Brimlock clarified, “That’s the magic, Mr. Potter.” 

“Does it always do that?”

“Yes, Mr. Potter, though,” Brimlock stared at him curiously, “Most wixen don’t seem to feel it.” 

“Oh,” Harry said.

Brimlock smiled, “Now, onto your properties, currently, you have ownership of quite a few. There’s Othala Manor, in Hampshire, which is historically where the Potter family has resided, then Cadsmund Keep, a mediaeval castle in Aberdeen that has been passed down from the Peverells, Godric’s Hollow, your parents’ home, and then a smaller seaside cottage, Grassleeds. That one is unplottable, I believe.”

The goblin slid some papers across to Harry, who stared down at them, shocked, “As you can see, the Black’s have significantly less properties, although they do have many artifacts and quite the fortune within their vaults. Sometime in the late 18th century, I believe, they ran into some debt problems and sold off quite a bit of their land.

“The Blacks have three primary properties, as well as some vacant lands up in Scotland, and one in France. There is a manor in Richmond, Ethel Estate, a townhouse in London, Number 12 Grimmauld Place, and a country home, Château des Campanules, somewhere in the Loire Valley.”

Harry blinked, mouth agape, “Blimey, I didn’t know they had so much.”

Harry paused, “Well, I knew we were rich, not like, Malfoy rich.”

“Blimey, indeed, Mr. Potter,” Brimlock chuckled, ignoring the second comment, “Now, these properties are in… various states of disrepair, the worst of which, quite obviously being Cadsmund Keep. The manors are not terrible, as is the townhouse and the chateau. Godric’s Hollow and Grassleeds are not in excellent condition, I must say, but Grassleeds could be saved—your parents’ home is technically under ministry tenancy, as a heritage site, and cannot be altered with.”

“Oh,” Harry frowned slightly, still shaken, “What can I do, then?”

“If I may, Mr. Potter, I suggest touring your properties and coming to a conclusion at which you wish to deal with then. I do not believe attempting Cadsmund would be wise, but it is completely manageable with the others, and your choice in the end.”

An idea popped into Harry’s head as he spoke, “Wait—so, I own all these, right?”

Brimlock nodded.

Harry leaned toward the desk, “Then, if I tour them, can I—could I live in any of them? Make them my own?”

“I see no reason why not, Mr. Potter.” 

Harry grinned, “Thanks so much, Mr. Brimlock.”

“It is my pleasure, Mr. Potter,” Brimlock’s eyes softened, ignoring the Mister, “And it will be Gringotts’ pleasure to give you some complementary travel to each you would like to visit.”

Harry tilted his head, “Like, portkeys? Or floo addresses?”

“No, Mr. Potter, portkeys are under strict management from the ministry, and unfortunately not all of the floos are open.

“We will provide something much better, if you so wish: one of our staff may apparate you to each home.” 

“Isn’t that a bit much,” Harry squirmed, “I mean, I really can just take the train.”

“Nonsense, we are pleased to provide such services to our loyal customers. Will you be ready tomorrow, Mr. Potter?”

Harry blinked a few times, “Er, Sure—what time?”

“Whenever you wish, Mr. Potter.”

“Uhm, well, is 10:00 okay?”

“Absolutely, Mr. Potter, and may I ask where you wish to go?”

Harry paused, looking down at the list in front of him once again. He took in the details of them all, for a short while, before he at last said, breathless:

“All of them, sir.”

Brimlock smiled at him, “Very well, Mr. Potter, now we shall see about getting your money to you, and, of course, there are signet rings to be had.”

Harry looked at Brimlock dumbfounded. 

Chapter Text

Harry stared at the shiny rings on his hand. 

The first was an ornate thing, made of silver metal. Diamonds curved around in the sides in little spirals, circling toward the flat centre, on which a single iris was engraved. Harry remembered the irises he’d planted for Petunia, just a few autumns ago. Harry remembered how they thrived. 

He smiled looking at it. 

His eyes drew to the only other ring, stationed on his right middle. This one was for the Blacks, he recalled.

It was a thin, gold band, engraved with stars, constellations, and the like, several of which had rubies within them. On the inside, there was something engraved in French. Harry frowned when he first saw it, grumbling about how he was never allowed to be in the French classes---Dudley couldn’t be. He blinked, well, I guess I can now. 

He silently wondered if the Blacks were French. They have a whole manor in France, He reasoned, it’d make sense.

Another thought came to him, where are the Potters from?

There was so much he didn’t know. He definitely had to buy some more books.

“Lord Potter?”

Harry’s eyes shot up to be face to face with a tall, blonde, very smiley man.

“…Er, yes?”

“Excellent,” The man smiled wide, teeth showing as he did so, “I am Alistair Selwyn, Heir to the Noble House of Selwyn.”

“Well met, sir.” Harry paused, then jolted, “Oh! Harry Potter, Lord to the Noble House of Potter, and er, Heir Apparent to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black.”

For a moment, it seemed like Selwyn looked quite shocked, mouthing something akin to ‘Black?’,
but he quickly recovered, joyous persona returning once more, albeit with a slightly slowed speech.

“I’ve been sent from Gringotts to escort you to the properties, are you ready to leave?”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded, standing from his lean on the wall, “Where are we headed first, again?”

“Anywhere you wish,” He chirped.

Harry looked around, before glancing back at Selwyn. His eyes went back to his hands, “Can we go to Othala?”

“Of course,” Selwyn held out his arm for Harry to grab onto, and then they were away.

For a moment, the world meshed into a swirling mess of colour and shape and light, all converging and somehow expanding at once.

Then, the ground snapped back into view, and it all collided into a single point as Harry found himself stumbling onto the grass. He grimaced, covering his mouth with his hand.

Harry glanced up at Selwyn, “Is it always like that?”

Selwyn laughed, “You get used to it.”

Harry frowned, before his eyes widened as he looked up at the house before them. His mouth fell agape. “This is Othala?”

The house was a great big thing, Harry thought, rather like the castles and homes he’d seen them visit on that antiques show on TV—the few times he’d been allowed to watch, that is.

The walls were a yellow-ish stone that Harry couldn’t quite name, with rectangular sash windows aligned perfectly symmetrically on each side of the home. White plasterwork adorned the tops of the windows and doors, things which he’d really like to get a better look at. There were two main wings, each coming out of the sides of the main section.

The surrounding gardens had low fences around them, and bushes and wildflowers spotted around the edges, but for the most part, it was all lush grass—interchanged by small ponds and large trees. Harry noticed several white marble statues situated around the grounds, and walking paths almost imperceptible weaving through them all. Harry squinted, mouth agape, there was even a gazebo, quite far out.

Overall, the house gave the impression that it was a number of things, namely: certainly old, certainly respected, and certainly rich.

Selwyn offered a hand to Harry who quickly accepted and stood up.

“It’s beautiful,” Harry marvelled,

“It is,” He agreed, “Othala Place is where the Potters have resided for years. I believe it was built in the early 18^th century, designed by one of your ancestors, Lenius Potter. Of course, it’s been updated and changed throughout the years.”

He continued as they began to walk up the hill, Harry caught between listening intently and marvelling at the sheer size of the home, “I’m told the house is outfitted with running water and was updated for electricity in the late seventies. It has twelve bedrooms and fourteen bathrooms, as well as a drawing room, library, 3 dining rooms, and 2 sitting rooms.

“Of course, there are also several house elves who have been running the property since the late Lord Potter’s death, they have been alerted to our arrival and should be expecting us.”

Harry looked at his guide curiously before they approached the gates, which flew open, revealing one of the very same elves Selwyn had been speaking of just a moment before.

They had big brown eyes, and was clothed in a heavy red fabric, that Harry thought looked quite a bit like a curtain.

They took a breath, and smiled at him, “Welcome, young master, Heir Selwyn, to Othala Place.”

“Well met,” Harry blurted out, he was starting to like this whole etiquette business, it made all this socializing a whole lot easier.

Selwyn repeated this greeting, to which the elf did the same before they spoke excitedly, “I am Whimsy, my Lord, head house-elf!”

“Nice to meet you, Whimsy,” Harry held out a hand to shake, which Whimsy looked at curiously.

“Is this a… new custom, my Lord?” She stared at his hand.

“Er,” Harry went red, “It’s a, a muggle thing, don’t worry about it.”

Whimsy blinked and it seemed like it was forgotten. “Yes, my Lord!”

She started once again, “Are you ready to tour the home?”

Harry nodded enthusiastically.

With that, Whimsy turned and walked to the front door, Harry and Selwyn following her into a wide room with a tall ceiling.

“This is the entry hall,” Whimsy dutifully showed them, “The stairs in the middle lead up to the second floor where the sleeping chambers are, as well as some other rooms.”

Harry glanced at the large staircase in the center of the room, before he followed the elf through the left doorway into a white room Whimsy explained was the reception room. From there, they toured a wide variety of rooms, leading in from several hallways---a grand dining room, with a connecting white breakfast room, the first drawing room, cloaked in blue with a massive chandelier that Harry almost feared would crash on him and couches that radiated an energy that seemed to all but push him away, curious doors which Whimsy explained once lead to the servants’ quarters, and then into Harry’s favourite place thus far:

A green drawing room with tall ceilings, intricate moulding, plush couches, and an overall feeling of loveliness. Even the rug exerted friendliness and familiarity, although that may have been the interwoven symbols’ job—they looked suspiciously like the ones on Gringotts’ steps.

“This room was not used all that much,” Whimsy stated plainly, to Harry’s surprise, “It is a shame, it truly is nicely fitted.”

Harry nodded, brows furrowing as they all turned away toward the end of the room’s heavy doors.

Whimsy snapped and the wooden doors opened, widening to a large hallway, lined with shining golden frames and a deep red rug.

He almost took a step back from the sheer presence that radiated from the hall.

“All the Potter Lords and Ladies are painted and framed here,” she said as they strolled through the sunlit hall.

Harry glanced hesitantly at all the different portraits, some were animated, and looked down at him fondly as he passed by, but some older looking ones seemed more like the regular, immobile paintings he’d been used to. Several of the ladies in the portraits wore heavy silk dresses, but many wore clothing that he thought were likely robes---yet an incredibly regal, formal style he’d never seen before.

They came to a stop in front of a portrait near the end of the hall, this one’s frame had a date and inscription on a small wooden plaque at the bottom. It read, Fleamont Charlus Potter and his wife, Euphemia Ianthe Potter nee Masalis.

Whimsy curtsied before the portrait, looking somewhat saddened, “Master Fleamont,”

In the portrait, a tall, older man with salt and pepper hair and round glasses stood before them. He wore deep blue robes and smiled down at the elf as he spoke. “Whimsy, darling girl, who is this, might I ask?”

“The new young master, my lord.”

His gaze shifted completely to Harry, “Your name, boy?”

Harry winced, “Harry, sir, Harry Potter.”

There was a small silence.

Harry’s eyes widened, he mentally slapped himself. “Lord to the Noble House of Potter, Heir Apparent to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black.”

Gosh that’s long to say, Harry thought.

The woman beside Fleamont smiled. She had olive skin, and black hair with almost no grey in sight---though it was clear she was likely her husband’s age, if not older. Her eyes were almost lilac.

“It is a pleasure to meet the newest of our line,” She said, “I am the, I suppose, now, late Lady Potter, though you may call me Euphemia, dear.”

She wrapped an arm around her husband, “This my husband, Fleamont.”

Fleamont looked at her adoringly as she did so and moved to be closer to her. She scoffed playfully and shifted away. She looked back at Harry, and her face shifted to hesitation, “Might I ask…?”

Harry nodded, tilting his head.

“You… are James’ boy, yes?”

“As far as I know,” He glanced down at his hands.

Euphemia’s eyes went glassy as she averted her vision. Fleamont caressed her hands, frowning.

“You look just like him,” She whispered,

Harry’s mouth fell slightly; he blinked.

Fleamont looked at them with such a gaze that Harry felt he should probably go. “It was nice meeting you,” he said softly as they walked away.

And just like that, Harry was suddenly and completely overcome with the feeling that this was not the house for him. This was not the place for him. He strayed behind Whimsy and Selwyn, following through the rooms they’d wandered in before. The house took on a new sort of aura, something Harry couldn’t quite shake.

He knew they had died in this house. He just knew. People had died in every house in Britain, but this felt different. It was different.

It was almost like he could still feel their lingering presence there, in the little details that he hadn’t cared to notice before. He couldn’t get his eyes off them, now. Small things, things the house elves either hadn’t bothered to change, or maybe they’d kept them deliberately. There were still letters in the library, unfinished. In the blue room, was a book placed face down, a little daffodil bookmark laying discarded just a few inches aside.

The house was big, and old, and nonetheless beautiful, but, frankly, there was an emptiness about it. An emptiness that Harry didn’t like the sit of.

The feeling only continued as they ventured up the gorgeous stairs, into, yet another, gorgeously old room.

It was beautiful, light, and airy. And yet. It wasn’t quite right anymore. It couldn’t be quite right anymore.

The upstairs was much lighter. All the walls were white, even the bedrooms, each of which were adequately named after flowers. Harry thought it was somewhat poetic that the Potters seemed to be so intwined with flowers, and that their daughter-in-law’s family had the same such obsession.

There was the Bluebell Room, an, evident to name, completely blue guest room that Harry thought was actually genuinely nice, the Rose Room, another guest room painted in pale pink and soft silks, and at the end of the hall was the Daffodil Room. This room was a pale yellow, but you almost couldn’t tell that by the sheer number of posters that covered the walls.

Whimsy appeared to be trying not to frown, “This was the late young master’s room.”

A sadness overtook Harry that was unlike the one of the portrait hall. He had never met his dad, and he certainly had never met the version of him that had lived in this room. There was no reason to be sad, he told himself. Yet, the three of them stood still in the room, as if a single breath would disturb its memory.

He gazed over the room, looking at the yellow duvet and the unmatching red sheets beneath. Looking at the pile of books and papers left strewn around the room. Looking at the little buzzing models of snitches, and the few broken brooms shoved beneath the bed that, no doubt, were only still there because his dad had never told anyone of them, and because the house elves had no wish to move them.

Harry was the first to move, quickly striding out into the hall, blinking away the tears that threatened to fall. It was only a moment before Whimsy and Selwyn joined him.

He only glanced at the Iris Room before turning to Selwyn, who looked at him knowingly.

“I apologize, but it appears we must cut our visit short,” Selwyn addressed Whimsy, smiling softly, “There are oh so many properties left to tour, and just so little time, you must understand.”

“I understand completely,” Whimsy fiddled with her fingers, gaze drifting to Harry, “We hope you enjoyed your visit, young master.”

Harry exhaled, closing his eyes, “Thanks, Whimsy.”

He rubbed at his face, before opening his eyes and looking at Selwyn, who extended an arm strangely to him, for the short time he’d known the man, solemnly. Harry reached out and grabbed it before they were whirled away in the same burst of colour as they had arrived through not so long ago.

They landed on a harsh, hard ground. A far cry from the plush grass of Othala, and yet, it brought him some modicum of comfort.

Somehow, Harry did not land face first, and instead held his stride well this time, standing still on the cobblestones, just looking slightly green.

“I presumed we’d want to visit somewhere different, next.” Selwyn, smiled softly at Harry.

Harry took a breath, rubbing his hands down his face, “Yeah, that was a good call.”

Harry blinked, looking around, slightly confused, “Are we in London?”

“Yes, Lord Potter.”

“Why… are we in London?”

Selwyn’s sparkle seemed to have returned, much to Harry’s still dreary demeanor, “Why, Lord Potter, but to visit the next property.”

“Where is it?”

Selwyn began to walk to the opposite side of the street they were on, towards the dark row of townhouses that lay across. The man didn’t bother to look for cars, and Harry ran across the road, quite panicked on his behalf, to catch up with him, hurriedly checking they were not going to get hit.

Selwyn came to a stop before the in-between of houses numbered 11 and 13. He waved his wand quite broadly, not caring for any of the muggle who might have seen him do so.

Almost all of Harry’s melancholy state had been shocked right out of him by his guide’s blatant disregard for the very statute of secrecy that had been pushed toward him for his entire time in the wizarding world.

Suddenly, though, his shock was placed somewhere else, as the houses bulged and changed as something expanded out through their middle---another bloody house.

It was set slightly farther back than the houses beside it---the houses which had just been where this house was---and was made of a dark, almost black brick. Even the door was a dark black, with a great, silver knocker that appeared to be a metal mould of some sort of shrunken head.

For some reason, unbeknownst to the, at this point, bewildered Harry, Selwyn walked up the door and knocked.

The door creaked slightly open, revealing a wrinkly house elf, wearing a white cloth of some sort.

The elf looked past Selwyn, staring right at Harry.

They screeched back in the house, “The young master mudblood is here!”

Harry heard a positive, incoherent scream back from within, as the elf leaned back towards them.

“Kreacher,” Selwyn greeted.

The elf, Kreacher, nodded at Selwyn, returning his stare to Harry, he grumbled, “Kreacher must let young master mudblood in.”

The door creaked further, and Harry stepped into the bleak house.

Chapter Text

The moment he stepped in, Harry could tell he had never been in a house quite like this.

Yes, Othala---with its velvet furniture, silken drapes, and, Harry grimaced, magical portraits---had its charms, but where Othala was steeped in wealth, Grimmauld was steeped in magic.

It was so intense that he almost stepped back outside. Like standing in the middle of the ocean, waves hitting you back and forth, surrounding your every move, leaving you nowhere to go. The magic hit him in every corner, every nook, every fold, it closed around him, inspected him in a way no one could describe as carelessly, ensuring that under no circumstances would he be a threat.

By the time it was finished---and somehow Harry knew it was simply doing a job, something that could be finished---Harry got a feeling that settled around him: it was pleased.

Harry blinked himself back to reality.

Selwyn looked at him, confused, “Are you… alright, Lord Potter?”

Harry took a moment to breathe. “…I think.”

He shook his head, shaking out his arms by his side, Harry looked around, eyes focusing on the elf before him. Was it… Kreacher?

The elf was staring at him head on. He looked thoroughly displeased, and like he intended to show it off. 

Harry glanced between Selwyn and Kreacher, Selwyn looking mildly amused at the elf, Kreacher looking back with disdain.

“There is no need to be rude, Kreacher,” Selwyn teased.

“Kreacher is not being rude, Heir Selwyn,” Kreacher sniffed, “Kreacher is being appropriately.”

“You mustn’t forget Lord Potter is not just that,” Selwyn rolled his eyes, “He is Heir Black as well. And right now, he is here to tour this house to see if it is worthy of not being sold off or left abandoned for more years to come.”

Kreacher sneered, “Masters must get on with the tour, then.”

Kreacher turned around, leading them out of the small foyer and into a short hall, before a tall staircase.

Harry observed their surroundings, like he’d always done---like he’d gotten used to doing, looking all around at the black wallpaper, black mouldings, and deep brown wooden floors. He looked closer at the walls, focusing on little elements he had not noticed before. They were little stars, constellations, in facts, and they sparkled slightly as sunlight and lamps shone over them.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. He spun around, to see Selwyn looking at him, smiling. He rather suddenly noticed how close he was standing to the wall.

It was at this moment that he really saw the massive frame on the opposite wall. A portrait of a pale woman in a black, pinstriped dress with incredibly puffy sleeves. It buttoned up to her neck, her hair just touching it from the elaborate updo it was put into.

Harry met her eyes, stealing his breath. They were a pale, stark grey, and mimicked smoke almost exactly. They reminded Harry of mist, of fog. Of silver.

Her mouth was set thin.

Selwyn and Kreacher bowed toward the portrait. Kreacher’s expression looked most improved, Selwyn’s slightly calmed.

She glanced over them carelessly, eyes settling on Harry. She stared.

Getting the feeling he was committing a social faux pas without even knowing, Harry slowly lowered himself into a bow, averting his eyes to his own feet.

There was a moment before she spoke, “Rise.”

Harry jolted up looking at her, much faster than the two beside him. Her mouth tilted downwards, and Harry winced.

“You,” she gestured to Harry, “What is your name?”

“Harry Potter,” the words stumbled their way out his mouth.

Her eyebrow quirked.

“Lord to the Noble House of Potter,” he remembered, “Heir to Most Noble and Ancient House of Black.”

“A pleasure.” She considered him for a moment before she spoke, “I am Lady Walburga Black, and you may address me as such, though my Lady, and Lady Black are both suitable.”

Harry nodded slightly, watching as her eyes shifted to Selwyn, and her mouth quirked into a slight smile.

“Alastair,” she greeted.

Harry hadn’t thought such a subtle smile was possible of Selwyn, and yet.

“Aunt Walburga,” he said softly, “It is a true pleasure to see you after so long.”

“Yes,” she held her hand out before her, scrutinizing her nails, “I don’t believe you’ve been here since my wretched son ran away to those blood traitors.”

Selwyn hesitated, “No, I don’t believe so.”

“Well, better late than never.”

She glanced over to Kreacher, “Kreacher, you mustn’t delay any longer. They’ll think us bad hosts.”

Kreacher bowed, “Kreacher be starting, Mistress Walburga.”

“Get on with it already!” She snapped.

Kreacher rushed around the corner and through the door, leaving Selwyn and Harry to hurry after him.

Plush carpet met Harry’s feet.

“This be the sitting room,” Kreacher grumbled, “It be where Mistress Walburga and Masters Orion and… and them sat for Yule, before leaving for the forest.”

It wasn’t necessarily what Harry had expected. Of course, this whole house wasn’t necessarily what he’d expected.

The room had a purple theme, with deep, almost black-purple velvet lounges and chairs, and walls of just the same colour, if not a different texture. Several orange-lit lamps, some with broken panels, others almost new, decorated theroom, and a small chandelier hung from the ceiling. The walls weren’t overly tall, thankfully not much like Othala’s, but still a height that Harry was sure any rich Victorian would have found respectable.

Harry caught onto the end of Kreacher’s sentence, “They celebrated Yule?”

Kreacher sounded like he was struggling not to call Harry several artful names, “…Yes, young master, all good wixen celebrate the Sabbats.”

“I don’t know anyone who celebrates Yule,” Harry frowned.

“Then young master doesn’t know any good wixen,” Kreacher sniffed.

The elf rushed once more into the next room, leading Harry to lose his train of thought and quickly get carried away to the noticing that Grimmauld seemed to only have archways.

He shook himself away from there. Rushing after Kreacher, they walked into what appeared to be the dining room.

“The dinner room,” the elf said stiffly, beginning to walk back into the hallway, “The breakfast parlour be just through the arch over there.”

“Wait,” Harry stopped him, “Hang on, what are the Sabbats? I’ve never heard anyone mention them.”

Kreacher stood with his back to Harry, “The Sabbats are important dates that all good wixen celebrate. Dates the mudbloods have tried to have taken away.”

Harry furrowed his brow, following Kreacher back into the hallway, “I don’t understand,”

Kreacher snarled, pivoting at once to face Harry, “Kreacher will not explain things to master mudblood that he has no business knowing!”

Harry stepped back, wincing.

“Kreacher.”

Harry’s eyes snapped toward the portrait, to see Lady Black fuming, a foul snarl set on her face.

“If the boy wants to learn, by Merlin, do not forbid him!” She screamed, “Those mudblood, blood traitors have stolen away our culture! It is important to teach the youth the good things!”

She calmed slightly, muttering, “Lest their minds be poisoned by whatever nonsense they teach at Hogwarts nowadays, the boy has never had a chance to learn, so he must now.”

Kreacher froze, before abruptly lowering himself to the floor and mumbling what Harry could only distinguish as endless apologies and promises to punish himself for his ‘impertinence’.

Lady Black rolled her eyes, “Get up, elf. You may burn your hands for this, if you wish, but just let the boy tour the house and get it over with.”

She glanced to Harry, saying very sternly, “Boy, do you wish to learn about our ways?”

Harry blinked, hesitating to answer, “I, er, I think so.”

“Well don’t just think, know next time you go asking dangerous questions.” She sniffed, “Finish your tour yourself, the elf won’t be of much help. And do go find the library, there will be answers there---if you are allowed to enter.”

Ominous, Harry thought.

“Kreacher be off, Mistress,” Kreacher muttered to the floor before disappearing.

Harry looked between Selwyn and Lady Black, and decided it’d probably be best to do what she said. He turned and walked up the creaky stairs, leaving Selwyn to trail behind him.

He stepped up the last stair, walking onto a small landing into a hallway. Each door in the hall had a silver plaque adorning them. The first door said, Sirus Black. The next, Regulus Black. He wasn’t necessarily sure which of these were the ‘wretched son’ that Lady Black referred to, but Harry figured it was best not to find out and strolled further through the hall looking for anything else of note. The rest of the doors just read, Guest Room.

“They are charmed to change depending on which guest is currently staying there,” Selwyn piped up.

Harry nodded, peering into some of the open rooms. Most were covered in dust and grime, having several objects lying about in them that Harry didn’t dare to touch. Sighing, seeing no ominous library in sight,             Harry turned the corner once more, and headed up the next set of stairs.

There were a lot of stairs in this house, he realized, starting to be quite out of breath. As he reached the landing, Harry glanced over to Selwyn, who seemed to be perfectly alright.

“How are you not dying?” Harry muttered as he caught his breath. He really was out of shape.

“I visited Grimmauld quite a lot as a child, going up and down these stairs, playing hide and seek,” Selwyn said, amused, “I was quite a bit younger than the other children, though, so I must admit it was never much fun.”

Harry hummed, walking into the next hallway. This one was slightly different.

Replacing the inlaid constellations, and the deep violet walls, this floor had a less intimidating presence, with simple---albeit quite scratched---green wallpaper, yet the same black moulding. This hall was also longer, with several more doors than the floor before, most having similar silver plaques reading Guest Room, and two reading, Powder Room. Nothing Harry much cared for, if he was honest.

They made their way up, what, hopefully, was the last set of stairs. This floor had uncharacteristically red walls. This floor had different plaques, still silver, yet the first read something new, The Lord Black’s Quarters. The one beside read, The Lady Black’s Quarters. At the very end of the hall, were two doors, one reading, The Heir Black’s Quarters, the other, The Black Library.

Harry focused in on the last door, the Library.

He walked slowly toward the door, he reached towards the doorknob, and the moment he twisted it yet another wave of magic shot through him. A single word, from somewhere Harry had no idea, came to his mind: Worthy.

Harry stepped in without thinking, as if something was pulling him in. The door slammed behind him, leaving Selwyn locked out in the hall.

The Library was just… so much. All at once, Harry felt the magic pulling him in every which way, every direction, but there’s one way Harry felt much stronger than the rest. Almost in a trance, Harry walked toward it.

The feeling led him to a large tome in a crowded bookshelf on the far wall. Harry heaved it out, and it fell open onto a page with large-print, medieval style writing, reading, Lady Magic.

Harry furrowed his eyebrows just before spinning around as he heard a booming voice coming from the opposite side of the room. The magic pull came to a sudden stop.

“I see it led you to the Grimoire,” the voice sounded.

Harry looked up, coming face to… somewhat face, with a life size portrait of an elderly man, cloaked in black.

The Grimoire? Harry mouthed silently.

“It’s only ever led Lycoris there,” The man mused, “I wonder why.”

“Who are you?” Harry blurted out,

“Lord Arcturus Black, Order of Merlin, First Class.” He looked down at Harry, “You are Lord Harry Potter, Heir Black. Rather young to be a Lord, aren’t you?”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but found himself cut off by the Lord, “Though, I suppose Lucretia became a Lady quite young too, though, that was by marriage. You’re an orphan, yet not all orphans become Lords.”

He paused, almost like he was expecting a response, so Harry started, “I, er, I think I had no other family who could inherit, Lord Black.”

Lord Black put his hand up to stop him, “Firstly, call me Arcturus. Second, I was not asking for explanation, Mr. Potter.”

Harry flushed.

“Nonetheless,” Lord---no, Arcturus, Harry reminded himself, said, “This is quite curious. I implore you to look around, I am quite curious as to where it will lead you next.”

He stood for a few seconds, before Arcturus gestured to him to move, and so he did, trying to focus his attention away from the portrait. Harry looked around the room, attention slightly redirected as he marvelled at the sheer number of books.

He felt himself pulled back to Arcturus’ portrait by the very sudden thought, “Hang on, sorry, how did you know who I was?”

Arcturus waved the question, huffing, “Oh, I have eyes and ears all about the house.”

“That’s not creepy at all,” Harry muttered.

“None in private places, of course.”

He grumbled, “Oh, and that makes it much better.”

“I would argue it does, actually.”

Harry rolled his eyes, deciding it better not to argue with a decades old portrait. He wandered over to a shelf, conscious of the eyes watching him from behind. Harry picked up a random book, flipped it open, and suddenly realized how strangely at ease he felt. Maybe it was to do with the magic, he mused, Hogwarts is like this sometimes.

Harry skimmed the text, blood rituals: success, adoption, fertility---eugh, he thought. Not for today. He shelved the book back.

He glanced back at the grimoire, which had been set down on the desk in the corner. He hadn’t remembered placing it there, he frowned, but walked over to it, nonetheless.

“Goodness, it really does want you to see it,” The portrait spoke behind him. Harry ignored him.

Harry flipped through the book, finding himself drawn to a particular page, the very one he’d been drawn to before.

He read further, Lady Magic – Our Lady in Life, Death, and Love.

A knock came at the door, Selwyn’s slightly frantic voice coming through. “Er, Lord Potter?”

Harry jolted up, “Yeah?”

“I’m afraid something’s… happened,” The man sounded like he winced, “If it’s alright, I wonder if we might leave.”

Harry’s brows furrowed, but he came to the door and opened it despite this.

Outside, in the hall, Selwyn was scowling---for the first time Harry’d ever seen him have such a face---and cradling his arm, of which his robe’s sleeve appeared torn and bloody.

“There seems to be a… bit of a Doxy infestation, my Lord.”

Harry blinked, “Merlin, that’s not great, is it?”

“No, Lord Potter.”

“Uh…” Harry glanced back into the Library, a slight tug pulling him back in, “Yeah, blimey, yeah you can definitely go. I was just wondering,”

Harry bit his lip, continuing hesitantly, “I think I’d like to stay here, actually.”

Chapter Text

The moment after Selwyn left, after Harry led him back down the stairs, assuring him that, yes, he was sure, and no, he didn’t want to come back in the morning to make sure he was sure, and shutting the door on the man before he could ask any more questions, Harry found himself with a renewed sense of purpose.

This purpose being to sleep. As soon as possible, preferably.

His body was so incredibly heavy, that Harry wasn’t even sure he was really him anymore. He felt rather more like a sack of potatoes. His eyelids were fluttering shut, but he found it in him to blink hard a few times, and soon he was slightly more awake.

He could barely even think about the so-called Doxy infestation. What even are Doxies?

Harry blinked a few more times, swallowing a yawn before he said half-way firmly, “Er, Kreacher?”

The elf suddenly materialized before him. He seemed much more subdued than before, though Harry wasn’t quite sure what had changed. Shame, maybe?

He looked at Kreacher more closely, only to see he still held a firm look of disdain, just slightly more concealed. Kreacher grumbled, “Master Fake-Heir wants for something?”

“Er, yeah,” Harry started, “I’m staying here for now. Can I ask where I could sleep?”

“The Heir Room is upstairs,” Kreacher huffed.

“I can use that?”

“Unless Master would rather sleep in the dungeon. Master would suit it well.”

Harry grimaced, “…I’m alright.”

Kreacher shrugged.

Harry stood for a moment, awkwardly, “Uh, thanks, Kreacher. I’m going to, well, I’m going now.”

Kreacher bowed stiffly, before disappearing.

He let out a sigh and made his way upstairs again. There were too many stairs in this house. Up past the first floor, the second, and finally the third, he stood on the landing. Harry looked out into the hallway, noticing the wall lamps were now lit. It is a bit late, isn’t it? Harry thought, walking into the hall.

He strolled past the Lord and Lady’s rooms, stopping at the Heir’s Quarters. He twisted the handle and creaked open the door.

The room wasn’t especially large, Harry supposed, but still much bigger than he’d expected for a house of this size. But it was nearly the size of Privet Drive’s kitchen and sitting room combined, so there was that.

It was somewhat empty. The walls were the same black as the first floor, with the same exact moulding, and the same brown wooden floors. A bay window on the far side of the room looked out on what seemed to quite the dreary back yard.

The bed was a standard, four post frame with, also black, velvet curtains canopying it. Its sheets were fitted with a dark grey, and a heavy black duvet draped itself neatly over the mattress. There wasn’t much else in the room, besides a rather ornate armoire and matching side tables. Harry wondered if it had been emptied out after whoever lived here had moved. Or Harry considered grimly, died.

The only personal effects he could find were single brooch on the nightstand, circular with silver framing a painted crow, and a simple, thick gold ring with a crest Harry didn’t recognize on its centre.

Harry fiddled with the brooch, before placing it aside and all but falling into the bed. He felt something beneath him, standing up quickly to examine it. A set of black silk pyjamas, embroidered with a small crest similar to the ring.

Harry shrugged, deciding it couldn’t hurt to try them on.

They were like butter on his skin. In that moment, Harry decided he’d never want to wear anything else again and fell back into the bed.

It wasn’t particularly soft, but it was much softer than the flimsy mattress he’d slept in at the Dursleys, so Harry wasn’t particularly picky.

He gathered the duvet and blankets around him, getting comfortable, he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

Harry snapped awake.

He blinked a few times, adjusting his eyes to the dark. He glanced over to the window, seeing only pitch black. Harry grimaced, sitting up.

He always had a hard time sleeping in unfamiliar places. He remembered the first few nights at Hogwarts, waking up every hour or so despite the cozy blankets and curtains surrounding him. For all Privet Drive was worth, he never had any trouble falling asleep there. He had never considered it home, well, not since he was a small child, but it was familiar.

Harry slid off the bed, tiptoeing across the floorboards and creaking open the door. He knew nobody was there for him to wake, but, well, habit makes fools of us all. Walks helped sometimes.

The lamps had all shut off in the hallway, and Harry wondered if they were on a schedule or if Kreacher put them out himself.

He creeped out, stepping slowly down the hall and the stairs. He’d only just made it to the second floor when he felt himself stop, feeling a tug in his core. Harry turned around, following it back up to… the library. Harry frowned. He didn’t want to deal with the library right now.

He snapped himself back around and struggled, pushing himself down the stairs again, and, at last, the feeling relented as he stepped off onto the ground floor.  

Harry let out a breath, glancing around as he did. He looked up at Lady Black’s portrait, seeing the curtains before it to be fully drawn, the lights around, put out. He walked down the hallway, glancing into the sitting room and dining room as he passed. The hallway just kept going. Kreacher really hadn’t shown them much before he disappeared.

Two other portraits greeted him sleepily as he passed, coming to a stop at a set of wooden doors.

He creaked them open, peaking his head into the room to see a small, circular table with 5 chairs sat around it. A set of large, stained-glass doors lay on the opposite side, in a matching pallet of purples. The room was truly cloaked in a soft lilac. It was much lighter than the other rooms in the house, and Harry wondered if it was ever used. He stepped in, carefully avoiding the furniture, he made his way to the doors and pushed them open.

The cold night air hit him harsh. Harry shivered as he stepped outside onto what looked like a small, stone-walled terrace. Moonlight bathed the space.

Nearest to the door was a small gazebo-like shack with broken glass windows. Harry could see in easily, noticing a few broken brooms, spades, and shovels alike. On the far right Harry noticed something different.

Garden beds?

Harry strolled over toward them, kneeling beside the nearest one. Grey, wilted leaves sprouted out of the dirt and mulch. Dead, dying plants encompassed the bed. Every one was the same, even the large bed at the end, although this one seemed to have slightly different dead plants, like the ones he’d seen in Herbology.

He frowned slightly. He’d never been much good at Herbology, but at, at Privet Drive he’d found some strange solace in the days spent outside, tending to the garden. Once, he spent even longer out than Petunia had instructed him to, though she hadn’t noticed. All he’d accomplished with this foray was beautiful tulips and getting locked out of the house. Harry snorted, at least he’d had something nice to look at as he slept, that night. His smile fell slightly; it was cold then too.

He sat down on the stones. Harry stared blankly at the shrivelled leaves.

“Kreacher thinks master should be going in, now.”

Harry turned to meet the voice: Kreacher. He hadn’t even heard him approach.

“What’s the time?” Harry whispered,

Kreacher grumbled, “The third hour.”

“Oh,” Harry heard himself say, “I should probably head in.”

He stood up, about to walk back, before Kreacher spoke, “Master be following me.”

Harry furrowed his brows, opening his mouth to speak, before closing it again. He sighed, following Kreacher back through the doors.

They walked through the lilac room, and out into the hall, making their way almost to the dining room before Kreacher stopped. He turned to the side, and it was just then that Harry noticed a dark door on the wall behind the stairs. Kreacher walked toward it, waved in front of the handle, and then turned the knob.

The door opened onto a set of green carpet-lined stairs, leading down to a dark stone corridor.

Kreacher walked down the stairs, Harry cautiously following behind him.

The stairs opened into a wide hall with several rooms across the walls. Most of them had small, dingy silver plaques reading Storage Room, but one read Kitchen. Harry’s vision strayed toward it before hurrying to catch up as he saw Kreacher walk ahead, turning a corner.

Kreacher came to such a sudden stop that Harry almost ran into the elf.

He stepped back, brushing himself off, as he looked at what Kreacher was staring at. A stone wall sat before them, a long one, with a single set of wooden double doors in the middle.

Kreacher walked toward them and gently pushed them open. A large, open, stone space.

There wasn’t all that much actual furniture in the room, just a few benches with tables like he’d seen in potions class, and some tall storage racks. Chalk, books, and various jars with preserved items rested on each shelf.

When Kreacher spoke, it was barely above a whisper, “This be the workshop.”

“Master Regulus used to use it,” Harry stayed silent, but the elf continued, “The workshop was his favourite place in the house. The workshop be very cold, quiet.”

“Master stored lots of things in the workshop,” Kreacher looked anywhere but Harry, “New Master can use it too.”

“What, what happened to him?”

“Master Regulus wanted to do a noble thing,” Kreacher sniffed, “He thought he had done wrong, so much wrong, and he wanted to do right for once. He never did wrong, he never had to do what he did.”

Harry opened his mouth to say something, only to find he couldn’t quite think of something to say.

Instead, he took a step. He walked towards the shelves, and looked.  

He looked at the little things, the things that could tell him things. He noticed the bookmarks placed at the ends of certain books, and at the beginning of others---none in the middles. He noticed the pure number of spell-crafting books, and, surprisingly, the small number of potions books. He noticed the single, empty mug sat on the shelf, filled with remnants of what should have gone bad by now.

He walked aimlessly around the room, hands brushing against chalk dust, he made his way to the ladder on the far left. Harry ran his hands among the grooves in the wood, the well-worn spots where someone must have made a habit to step on when going up. Harry grabbed onto the sides of the ladder, testing a spot with his foot for sturdiness.

“Thanks, Kreacher,” he said quietly, hearing a crack from where the elf stood.

Harry looked up through the glass trapdoor at the top of the passage. He began climbing, slowly, with intentional steps onto the worn-out wood.

When he finally reached the top, he pushed the door up, sticking his head out into the night air. He blinked; he was in the garden. Right beside the garden beds he’d spent so much time inspecting.

Harry climbed out onto the terrace with a newfound understanding. He wondered if Regulus had been a death eater, if he had betrayed Voldemort. Or, maybe, Harry thought hopefully, he had simply fought hard and well.  

Harry shivered as he walked through the terrace back into the house. It was somehow much quieter than it had been before. Though Harry could see the sun beginning to rise and filter through the door’s stained-glass panels, and begin to hear birds chirping outside, a sort of silence had settled over him. He made as little sound as he could as he walked back up the stairs, past the first and second floors, to the third, and towards the Heir room. Towards his room.

The door creaked as he stepped inside. Harry sat down on his bed, mattress bending slightly to his weight, and bundled himself back up in the blankets.

Harry closed his eyes, and sleep came before he knew it.

Not just this, but he didn’t wake until morning. True morning, when the sun was set full in the sky, and the birds had stopped their singing. When he did wake, he felt a warm feeling in his chest.

He slipped out of the silk pyjamas he’d found and slept in, shouldering on his school robes.

Stepping on creaking floorboards as he did just the night before, making his way down the stairs, past the library, towards Lady Black’s portrait. Harry pulled the curtains open to meet the lady’s face, her scorn from the day before forgotten. Her mouth was set in a simple line.

She blinked, adjusting to the light. “Is that you, elf?”

Harry smiled up at her, “It’s Harry, Lady Black.”

“Oh,” She said, “I take it you’ve decided to stay here.”

He nodded, and she examined her nails with a frown, muttering, “I really do need a retouching scheduled.”

She glanced back at Harry, looking him up and down, an idea coming to her head, “Boy, how about you go to Diagon Alley, today? That wardrobe is appalling.”

Harry frowned, looking down at his school robes, they weren’t that bad. He just didn’t really have anything else, well, other than Dudley’s hand-me-downs.

“While you’re there, you must go to Adonis Portraiture.” She sniffed, “My paint has been getting worse and worse over the years.”

He nodded, understanding dawning on him, she wanted him to do something for her.

She looked pointedly at him, “That’s not all. Go to Twilfitt and Tattings first. I mean it when I say you need more clothes. The House of Black is to be well represented, not looking like we cannot afford to clothe our wards.”

Harry smiled.

Chapter Text

Diagon Alley was just as it always was, which wasn’t surprising.

Kreacher had shoved him in the breakfast room to have some toast and eggs, before just ten minutes later, shoving him back into the foyer and out the door. He then had very promptly grabbed onto Harry’s arm, said, “Master will be feeling bad soon,” and whirled the world away in a spin of colour that was over just as quickly as it started, and left them standing in a small alcove off the main Alley.

Kreacher was right, Harry thought, feeling very green and rather like he couldn’t quite stand up straight without belching.

“Master must go to many shops today.” Harry looked up at the elf, who was standing looking, not-so-oddly for Kreacher, quite pleased at how uncomfortable Harry was.

“My Mistress has told Kreacher that Master must be going to Twilfitt and Tattings first.” Kreacher sniffed, “Mistress said there will be no avoiding this, and that Master must prove himself worthy to the House of Black.”

Harry groaned, nodding, as Kreacher rambled off the rest of the shops he was apparently to go to. And he thought this would be fun, huh?

Kreacher was almost done when Harry interrupted, “I get it, Kreacher.”

The elf turned his nose up and disappeared with a crack.

Harry pushed himself off the wall with a groan. He shook his nausea off, sucking in a breath, and letting it out slowly.

Okay, Kreacher said I had to go to the robe store first, then Flourish and Blotts, some other place, Sapientia, then… er, what was it, oh! Yeah, for a new trunk.

 He grimaced; he wasn’t so sure on that one. Harry quite liked his trunk. It’d done a lot for him, over the years.

He shook his head, deciding he’d cross that bridge when he got to it. Hopefully never, but well, it was up ahead.

Harry stepped out onto the street.

There were, unsurprisingly, few people. It was a weekday, after all. It was kind of nice.

He got a few glances as he started to walk past the shops, and toward the South Side of the Alley, but nothing as bad as his first trip. Harry shivered. Never again.

He liked Hagrid, but he was certain he’d never want to be in Diagon with him. Never.  

Harry walked further down the Alley, making sure not to trip on any of the cobblestones and various creatures crawling about the streets as he made his way.

He was at Twilfitt and Tattings before he even knew it. Harry came to a stop as he approached the store, an average, if not gilded-edged, storefront. The sign had several flowers engraved, Harry recognized them as peonies. The paint around it almost seemed wet. 

He gently pushed the door open. As he stepped inside, a soft bell rung to announce his presence and he looked over to see a young woman to the right hunching around a cloth mannequin of some sorts, pinning dark fabrics overtop it. She furrowed her brows at the fabric.

She glanced up at him. She blinked, before turning around to the back of the shop to yell, “Ms. Zhu!”

Harry heard a short scuffling in the back before a door opened and out came an older woman with tied back jet-black hair, dressed in robes of the same colour with slight golden accents.

She noticed Harry immediately, putting on a slight smile, “Welcome to Twilfitt and Tattings, Mr. Potter. Please ignore my assistant, Leta is not often with clients.”

The young woman, Leta, frowned, as the seeming Ms. Zhu continued, “What brings you here today?”

“Kreach---,” Harry started before stopping abruptly. It felt weird calling Kreacher anything but his name, he grimaced. “My house elf… er, advised that I go here for some new robes?”

Ms. Zhu nodded, “A very wise elf you have.”

She waved her hand, and some books came floating toward them as she guided Harry to sit down on the lounge in the window. The books floated down onto the table in between them and flipped open as Ms. Zhu waved her hand again, stopping at a single page with many illustrated drawings.

“Have you been to any fittings previously?”

“I got my school robes at Madam Malkins?”

She shivered, “No, then. Would you be looking to getting a full wardrobe today?”

“Er, yes, please.”

“I suggest we get down to business, then, Mr. Potter,” She said firmly, “Have you thought about what sort of robes you would like? We offer several types, as you can see, as well as custom fittings and creations.”

Harry looked down at the book, glancing at all the illustrations. They were in a variety of colours, each with varying coverage, style, and ornamentation. Closed robes, open fronts, ones that looked more like three-piece suits than anything he’d seen people wear in the magical world.

Yeah. He was lost.

“There are some suggestions to be made, if you’d like, Mr. Potter,” Ms. Zhu interrupted.

Harry nodded and she continued, pointing at a few styles as she did.

“Wixen of your age are generally in need of less pieces than adults, you see. If your school clothes are fine, well, there are simply few occasions where you will not be wearing them.”

“That being said,” she said, “There is, of course, the summer, and the weekends, and sleepwear as well. Getting eight sets of robes for each season should be sufficient, and at least three night sets are the standard, though many of my clientele have more.”

She put on a charming smile as she flipped a few pages to much more ornate robes, “I would also recommend at least one set of formal robes, if you do not have any. They should be sufficient for several events, though if you will be attending any particularly formal gatherings, robes are generally custom commissioned for such times. Of course, we can deal with those on other occasions.”  

Ms. Zhu flipped back to the first page, licking her lips as she looked through the styles, she glanced back up at Harry. She stood up, brushing her hands against her dress, “Please look through as you please, and you may ring the bell when you have chosen your styles. Leta will come assist you and get started on measuring.”

Harry nodded, understanding slightly more of how this would work.

She walked away, heels clicking on the wooden floor as Harry began to flip through the illustrations.

Tall men and women drawn wearing long robes covered the page. Some spun, some walked around, and some even waved. None of them gave the same ‘sentient’ feeling that Harry got from other portraits. He looked past their movement and marvelled at the different robes.

They were in assorted shades of black, purple, green, white, and even red. Some buttoned up to the neck and flowed down in skirts with no sign of anything beneath. Harry wondered if anything was supposed to be worn beneath these robe styles. Others looked like they had more flowy cape elements, fanning out at the sleeves, but a tighter underlayer with wide legged trousers.

Harry suddenly zeroed in on a drawing. It depicted another tall man, this time wearing a robe with a large, flowy overcoat. It covered most of the outfit, buttoning in slightly at the waist before opening again. A black high-necked garment of the same fabric lengthened to a skirt stopping at mid-calf, with wide trousers beneath. He gaped at it.

There were others that interested him as well, yes, many of which having similar elements of flowy capes and detailed embroidery, but this one? Harry knew he wanted it.

He reached up and pulled on the rope that hung beside him, and a bell rang out somewhere in the shop.

Leta came out from the back quickly. She looked quite defeated, like a child who had just been scolded for something they didn’t think was all that bad.

She smiled at Harry, guiding him to the other side of the shop, near the window where three mirrors and a small circular rug had waited. Harry stepped onto the rug as Leta told Harry she’d be just a moment, as she went to get swatches, measuring tapes, and more things that Harry didn’t quite catch.

Harry picked at his nails. He looked up at himself in the mirror. He stared.

It’d only been a few days since he’d left, and yet he almost felt as though he’d grown. Physically grown, that is. His sleeves, which last enveloped him much more than his peers, seemed like they had shortened slightly to show where his hands met his wrists. Not just this, but his pants as well had shortened much more considerably, no longer draping past his heels, they sat nicely around his ankles, just brushing the tops of his shoes.

Harry squinted looking at himself, he had gotten taller. That shouldn’t have been possible. People don’t grow that fast, Harry furrowed his brows.

Before he could ponder on how in the world he’d gotten inches taller in just a few days, Leta rushes back in carrying many barely identifiable items.

She placed them down on the table beside him, and asked, much more dignified than a few seconds before, “If I may, Mr. Potter, what styles have you decided on today?”

He blinked, trying to remember, “Er,”

She only smiled more.

“I, er, I think I wanted style… 40, 47, 16, and… 32.”

“I’ve been told you wanted a full wardrobe today, yes?” Harry nodded, “Then shall those styles be the basis for each season’s pieces?”

“I think, yeah?”

 “If you’ll just wait a minute,” she said, before adding as an afterthought, “sir.”

She walked back into the door at the back of the shop, before coming out a second later trailing behind Ms. Zhu.

“Our apologies for the disorganization today, Mr. Potter,” she sighed, “If I may admit, a large rush order was just put in for Lughnasa, and we have only finished today. This and the influx of such orders for the past solstice have left us rather busy recently, you see.”

Harry nodded, trying to make it seem like he understood. Lughnasa?

“Please forgive our carelessness,” She clapped, and fabric swatches rushed toward Harry, floating “To help us narrow down our fabrics and finishes, do you have a specific range you’d like us to stay in for today?”

“Er,” Harry said. He knew he had quite a lot of money, but how much were you supposed to spend on a wardrobe?

“Not really. However much the things I like are?”

“Excellent, Mr. Potter,” she beamed, “Now, for summer, are there any fabrics or colours you were thinking of?”

Harry shook his head and Ms. Zhu smiled charmingly, “No matter. For your complexion I would generally recommend cooler, high contrast colours, and, of course, neutrals like black and white will always be gorgeous.”

“As for fabrics, many of my clients like wool-linen blends for their trousers and high structure pieces as it provides lovely shape retention, as well as the breathability of linen.” A few blue and green swatches drifted toward his hands, Harry rubbed them. They were both nice and soft, light. “I would recommend a few sets of trousers and shirts. Linen is a very good ‘catch-all’ fabric for summer, and, in fact, I often have clients come in requesting entire linen summer wardrobes.”

“I’ve been told you prefer styles with more wide-legged trousers, shall we mark down a few sets of these?”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Harry said, “I’m fine with wool-linen too. I’m fine with whatever you think.”

Ms. Zhu nodded, behind her, Leta scribbled down something on her notepad. “For blouses, this is a style that would likely fit within your preferences.”

Leta brought over the book from earlier flipping to a page Harry hadn’t looked at. The blouse was very flowy, white, and had the largest sleeves he had ever seen. Harry was hooked.

“I’ll do that one.” He blurted.

Leta snorted and placed the book back on the table, went back to her notebook, scribbling once more as Ms. Zhu nodded again. “Excellent choice, Mr. Potter. We also do embroidery on these pieces, is there anything you would like?”

Harry thought for a moment, before answering hesitantly, “Maybe… some lilies?”

“Of course. For the blouses themselves, I would recommend whites, creams, and perhaps some light yellows. Do you have any preferences?”

Harry shook his head.

“As for the trousers, I assume black, navy, and white are all amenable to you?”

Harry nodded and a large flowy fabric floated toward him. “Now, the styles you chose are all quite warm, Mr. Potter, though, I must admit, most wixen fashioning is very much suited to the colder months. However, most wixen also tend to prefer traditional clothing, and in turn that means cloaks. We can fit a few cloaks in such as the ones in style 47 and 16, but I recommend we do gauzy cotton for those.”

He felt the fabric before him and fell in love. “I reckon I’d be fine with anything you pick.”

Ms. Zhu laughed, “Thank you, Mr. Potter. Does that go for colours, as well? If so, then I suggest we do some light blues and creams for your cloaks---they would go very well with your appearance.”

Harry nodded and all the fabrics whooshed away, replacing with heavier ones, “For spring, I recommend very similar pieces to your summer wardrobe, although if you agree, I believe adding some more floral prints, light pinks and yellows to your choices would be simply stunning on you.”

Harry shifted, Vernon always said pink was for po…, he stopped himself, shaking his head. Vernon’s full of crap anyways. “I’d like pink, but florals sound brilliant.”

“And so, it is done. Moving on,” She floated some heavier fabrics toward him, “For autumn and winter, we can do very similar pieces as well. Materials like wool, velvet, and silk are popular for all sorts of pieces. Many of my clients prefer sweaters beneath their robes in cooler temperatures, if you would like that.”

“I love jumpers,” Harry marvelled at the ways the velvet felt beneath his fingers, “Could I do some ones with patterns?”

Ms. Zhu nodded, “Are there any specific ideas you would like?”

“Snitches!” Harry said abruptly, before blinking sheepishly, “Er, could you do snitches? And maybe some lion ones?”

She smiled, nodding. “Of course, Mr. Potter. I assume red and gold are preferred?”

Harry nodded vigorously. She continued, “Excellent. I would also recommend some more neutral ones, blacks, blues, greens, even fuschia would look excellent for your complexion. This goes for your cloaks as well, generally we do silk linings with heavier woolen and velvet outer fabrics.”

Harry nodded again, gosh, he was doing a lot of nodding. “What do you think would be best?”

“I would suggest a few blue wool and velvet cloaks with perhaps a light pink lining, and one can never go wrong with black. Of course, your complexion would go well with many colours, but I would put your palette as primarily colours like green, blue, pink, and even light yellows. If you are amenable to this, I would make these the primary colours of each season’s pieces.”

“That sounds brilliant.” Harry said, almost yawning. He frowned, he didn’t think he was that tired.

“Excellent, then we are almost done.” Ms. Zhu snapped her fingers, and all the fabrics went away, “All that is left are shoes. Generally, my clients tend to prefer materials such as dragonhide and ashwinder skin. They are both fire and water resistant, and quite resilient. Do you have a preference?”

Some boots floated toward him. Harry thought they looked the exact same. “Both are fine.”

“Is there anything you had in mind for style?”

“Honestly, anything is okay.” Harry yawned. He was getting a bit tired.

“I see.” She waved her hands and everything vanished. “Then we are done for today, Mr. Potter.”

He blinked, blurting out, “Really? You don’t have to… take my measurements, or anything?”

“No, Mr. Potter,” She smiled, “You may not have noticed, as this is the only thing she can be subtle with, but Leta generally takes measurements through levitating her tapes during consultations. These appointments can take quite a long time, you see, and often clients don’t adore being made to stay longer than they must.”

Harry glanced over to Leta, who seemed to be confused on whether that was a compliment or not.

Ms. Zhu gestured for Harry to follow her, and they walked toward the small desk in the centre of the shop. She looked at Leta who handed her the notebook she’d been scribbling in the whole appointment.

“We generally do a 50% deposit to secure your choices. In this case, 800 galleons, sir.”

She slid a sheet of parchment toward him; a needle accompanied it.

He looked back at Ms. Zhu, and down to the parchment. I guess it’s like Gringotts? He picked up the needle and poked himself in the finger, letting the blood drip down onto the paper. He set the needle down.

There was a slight pause as Ms. Zhu said, “Do you have a signet ring, Mr. Potter?”

“Er, yeah.” He lifted his hand. Leta gasped.

“Leta, please.” Ms. Zhu glared sharply at her assistant. She turned back to face Harry, “Whichever House’s vault you shall like to use, please push the ring into the blood, like wax.”

Harry looked over his rings. It was Lady Black who told me to go here.

 He pressed the Black signet ring into the parchment. He lifted his hand, to see a small star impression left on the paper.

“Excellent, Mr. Potter.” She smiled, “We shall owl you when your final fitting and balance are prepared.”

“Brilliant,” Harry said, “Thank you.”

“It is our pleasure.”

Harry walked out of the shop, almost falling. The moment he made it outside he slumped down on the bench before it.

He closed his eyes. He didn’t know robe shopping could be that exhausting. Fun, yes. But long.

Harry leaned back on the bench, not noticing the very distinct presence sat beside him.

“Potter,” They greeted, and Harry jolted awake, turning to look beside him.

He vaguely recognized the boy. He had short black hair, pale skin, and features that made Harry think he should have remembered him. And yet, he didn’t. He looked somewhat familiar.

The boy inclined his head, “Theodore Nott, heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Nott.”

Understanding dawned on Harry. “You’re one of Malfoy’s cronies,” he blurted out.

Nott’s face screwed up in disgust, “No, I don’t consider myself one of… those.”  

“Oh,” Harry flushed slightly.

Nott went back to flipping through the magazine in his hands. “I wasn't aware walk-ins were taken more seriously than appointments, these days. You've just about made me late for it."

“Sorry? I didn’t mean to hold you up,” Harry furrowed his brows, feeling the need to explain himself, “Er, I was getting a full wardrobe.”

Nott glanced back at Harry, he hummed.

They sat in silence for a moment before Harry decided to get up. “I’m, uh, going trunk shopping now. Nice to meet you?”

The boy stared at Harry, “Where?”

“What?”

He sighed, “Where are you going trunk shopping.”

“Why do you care?” Harry stared.

“Because I just listened to Ms. Zhu have to explain to you that having just school robes is not sufficient for the average student, especially the student of your calibre, nor is it acceptable for anyone, for pretty much the last two hours.”

Harry frowned, had it really been that long?

Nott gestured back to the shop, “And, frankly, you don’t seem to even know what your taste is. If you go into any old trunk shop and look just as confused as you did in there, you will leave with the most expensive, horrendous trunk the shopkeeper is trying to get rid of.”

Harry stared back at him. “It’s just a trunk.”

“It is not just a trunk, it is---” He stopped himself, annoyed, “Potter, do you even know where you can buy a trunk?”

Harry stayed silent, before angrily saying, “Again, why do you care?”

“Well, for starters, I just watched you pay with the Black signet ring.” Nott pointed out, “The Blacks are the single most prestigious House in the British Magical Isles. A Black cannot be buying a second-hand trunk.”

Harry crossed his arms. “Okay, well, lovely, thank you for that information. Now, why don’t you just let me make a fool of myself in peace?

“You know, Potter, I never had much of an opinion on you until now, and it is quickly declining.” Nott sighed, “For some absurd reason, I have an inability to watch people degrade their family names. Prestige gets you access, and to see others disregard this access is, frankly, infuriating.”

Nott stood up. “I still have an hour or so until my appointment. I know a good place for trunks.”

He began to walk off.

Harry reluctantly hurried after him, “You were just saying I was going to make you late!”

Chapter Text

Harry panted as he caught up with the boy.

“You would have very well made me late,” Nott sniffed, “If not for Ms. Zhu practically pushing you out of there beforehand.”

He sputtered, “Ms. Zhu didn’t push me out!”

Nott rolled his eyes and continued walking up ahead. Harry furrowed his brows, following behind. He decided to look around.

They were going back in the direction he came from, sort of. They passed by the alcove Kreacher had apparated Harry into, passed by the Inn, passed by the Magical Menagerie, and kept walking.

Harry almost tripped as Nott came to a sudden stop. He looked up at the storefront before them; a black metal façade greeted them, carved plaster adorning the top where it read, Helios & Selene subtitled with, Traveller’s Attire. White horses neighed from their spot carved beside Helios, while a gilded chariot accented beside Selene.

A large, panelled window on the front displayed several trunks of assorted sizes, along with hats, gloves, bags, and even maps.

Nott took no time to walk up the steps, and gently pushed the door open, walking inside. Harry followed behind him. As they entered the store, a bell rang out and Harry blinked as he saw the inside of the store did not at all match the exterior. In fact, it was at least five times larger.

Far more people than Harry had expected wandered around them. No one person wore the same piece, or even style. Varying levels of detail, fabrics, and cut.

Patrons weaved around the two of them as they exited and entered the store.

Unlike at Twilfitt & Tattings, no one came to greet them upon entry, but a small piece of parchment and quill hovered toward them instead. Nott swiftly took them and gestured for Harry to follow him as he weaved through the crowed to the quieter end of the store.

Harry glanced at the different trunks and bags on display. Many trunks were leather, or at least, leather-like materials, though several of the bags were fabric. He reached out to feel one of the alleged leather trunks and noticed a slightly scaly texture upon doing so. Dragonhide? There was a combination lock on the top with strange symbols Harry assumed were maybe letters in a different language.

Nott looked over at him expectantly and Harry reluctantly ambled over.

“Is there anything you like, or are particularly accustomed to?” He said, much more subdued.

“Er,” Harry scratched the back of his neck, “Not so much.”

Nott hummed, “Understandable. You do not have much of a sense of taste.”

Harry frowned, but Nott simply turned and walked toward a trunk close to them.

The gold plaque before it read, The Elpis.

“Elpis was one of the daimones from Pandora’s vase--- or box,” Nott tilted his head, “They are never all too consistent with that, but I suppose it’s not too important. She was meant to be hope, but she is often a symbol of resilience. I would guess this is one of their stronger trunks. Water resistant, perhaps?”

What? Harry mouthed, before looking closer at the plaque to see it did, indeed say, Water, Fire, and Spell* Resistant, a Heavy Duty Trunk for the On-the-Go Wixen.

*Excluding all Dark Spells.

“How did you know that?” Harry blurted out.

Nott glanced at Harry boredly, “I was… interested in Greek mythology for a short time, when I was young.”

“Oh,” Harry blinked, “That’s… cool.”

Nott quickly looked away from Harry, simply raising a hand and looking over at the register. A sales assistant briskly walked over.

“Welcome back, Mr. Nott,” he smiled at them, eyes shifting over to Harry, “good sir.”

“Well met, Alfred,” Nott replied, declining his head slightly, “My… friend is looking into a new trunk. He is a student and will need something long lasting, suitable for someone of at least my family’s calibre, if not more.”

Alfred nodded, about to speak, before Nott cleared his throat.

“He is not… very adjusted to our world yet.”

The associate, Alfred seemed to have a dawned understanding as he stared into Harry. He glanced at Harry’s forehead and nodded. He looked back to Nott. “Very good, Mr. Nott. Is there a range we are interested in today?”

Harry was about to speak before Nott cut in before him, “We are open to everything.”

Harry huffed but stayed silent. Did Nott have to speak for him?

Alfred nodded as he went and stood before them. He lifted the trunk they were looking at before.

He addressed Harry this time as he spoke, “The Elpis is an immensely popular choice for young men of your position, Mr. Potter. It is quite sturdy and has a beautifully charmed Dragonhide exterior as well as built-in warding to ensure only the trunk’s owner can access the interior.”

Harry leaned in to look at it, previous annoyance forgotten, as Alfred clicked the lock and opened the trunk. He set it down on the shelf it was originally on, “It is outfitted with a velvet lining, and consists of three compartments, interchangeable by this switch.”

He flipped a switch on the outside of the trunk, and suddenly the compartment lowered, and another one came in its place from somewhere Harry had no idea.

“Organizational charms?” Nott asked.

Alfred shook his head, “Is this something we are interested in today?”

Nott looked to Harry.

He blinked, frankly, he’d have thought Nott would feel the absurd need to speak for him again.

He paused, thinking of the mess that was his trunk. He frowned; he still wasn’t all that sure about getting a new trunk. His trunk basically held his life.

Then again, it was only from a yard sale. He rarely had anything new in his life. Harry bit his lip, “I’d like some organization.”

“Very good, Mr. Potter.” Alfred said as he clicked the trunk shut and set it back upright. He walked them to a different trunk.

“The Demeter Trunk,” He ran his hand over it, “Another popular option. It features a dark leather exterior, pine underneath, of course, gold accents, and a password protected lock. You may set any word of your choosing, say it aloud to the trunk upon holding the lock, and that shall open it. The password we have set for the day is Olympic.”

With a soft click, it opened. Alfred pulled it fully open, “The interior lining is a cream Pima cotton. There are four compartments, each accessible through a similar switch system as with the Elpis. This is standard for our products, I must admit. The first is for clothing, charmed to fold each piece in seconds. The next is for books, and sorts by alphabetization. The third is set for food, with several preservation charms. Heating and cooling additions are available as well, for an extra price. The last is for more… magically sensitive items. Our clients generally put potions or charmed pieces in it, as it is resistant to corrosion, explosion, and is covered by a warranty should these charms fail.”

He gently closed the trunk, “The Demeter is one of our more… luxurious trunks. If I may say, the price reflects this.”

Alfred and Nott remained silent, looking at Harry. He got the feeling he should say something.

“That’s fine.” Harry said without thinking, he paused. He had just spent… a lot on his wardrobe. Well, at least it seemed like a lot. Brimlock had said he had money. Quite a bit of it, actually. But being frugal never hurt, did it? “Could we, er, see some others though?”

Nott huffed beside him, but Alfred simply nodded, and they walked past a few other trunks, making their way to a display near the back of the store. Alfred was about to speak as they stopped in front of a reddish-brown trunk, but Harry stopped him suddenly.

His eyes caught on a black trunk in the corner. “Er, actually---can we see that one?”

For a moment, it looked as though Alfred had grimaced, but in just a second his professional demeanor returned. They walked over to the corner.

“…This is the Hecate. Helios and Selene trunks all, of course, have magical elements to them, but as one of our earlier lines, these pieces tend to be more… experimental. All the trunks in this line, the Aeolian line, have magical elements unseen in our competitors’ pieces, or even our modern pieces.”

Harry leaned in to touch the trunk, it was a sleek black-purple material. Leather-like, but Harry guessed it probably wasn’t leather---it had a certain scaly sheen to it that he was beginning to recognize. The latches were a shiny silver. Small embroidery featured on the corners, purple leaves with black dogs circling each other.

“Dragonhide exterior, a nice cedar interior to avoid moths. Subtle embroidery on the edges--- although that can be removed or adjusted.” Alfred touched the latch in the centre and a key suddenly appeared in his hand, leaving Harry gaping at how that worked, “The Hecate also features a mechanical lock for our clients who prefer that more traditional look. Of course, it is not completely what it seems, as its key is not the type to be carried around.”

“Upon purchase, you will be asked to supply a drop of blood which will be bonded to the trunk to allow it to recognize your magical signature. The trunk will only supply a key to those whose magical signature it recognizes. This display trunk is keyed into all our associates’ signatures.”

Alfred hesitated as he spoke next, lowering his voice, “I must admit, this line has been fading in popularity over the years, mainly due to heightening suspicion of… blood magic. Of course, it is completely safe and legal, but some clients have expressed a certain... distaste of the subject.”

Alfred inserted the key into the lock, twisting it until it clicked. He opened the trunk.

“The Hecate, although, again, not as popular as some our flashier trunks, is certainly the most secure. There are additional warding elements available, for an extra cost, including an alarm that will alert the owner should anyone unregistered attempt to open the trunk.”

“Apart from this, the bottom of each compartment is lined with black silk, while the edges are left exposed cedar. The top of the case does not switch as the bottom does but has several pouches to store all sorts of items and is charmed for preservation and anti-corrosion.”               

He flipped a switch on the outside and, just as said, the top remained unchanged while the bottom lowered quickly and was replaced by a similar looking compartment. “The Hecate contains three compartments, each with their own expansion charms to provide extra space. Only one is specialized, the second compartment, which provides an alphabetical sorting for texts of all sorts. It also has a built-in disillusionment-like ward set to hide any items you wish others not to see. This applies to all items entered, and to any unsuspecting individual, all items in this compartment will appear to be classic novels. To those keyed in, they will show their true nature.”

Alfred gently closed the trunk, setting it upright on its display once more.

“Perhaps you would like to see another trunk?” He suggested hurriedly, “Our newest line has some similar elements.”

“Er, no,” Harry shut him down just as quick, staring past Alfred, at the trunk, “I’m getting this one.”

Nott’s eyes widened beside him, but he quickly corrected himself, cool disdain returning.

“Are you sure, Mr. Potter?” Alfred said.

Harry nodded, “Yeah, yeah. Now what about that warding?”

Alfred opened his mouth, closed it, then decided to hide whatever of his personal opinions about the subject away, and opened it again, “The wards will be an extra 6 galleons. Many also choose to have plaques added with their name, would that be preferred? The Hecate’s standard is in silver.”

“All that sounds brilliant,” Harry grinned, “Thanks.”

Alfred nodded, somewhat resigned. “Of course, Mr. Potter, I shall have a trunk adjusted in the back for you, an associate will see you at the register.”

He bowed and walked to the back, disappearing into a door.

Harry smiled, almost bouncing on his heels as he walked to the register. He paused as he noticed Nott stood behind him.

He stared at Harry in slight disbelief.

Harry’s smile fell, frown returning. “What?”

“I am simply shocked that you…” Nott shook his head, blinking his shock off. He bit his lip, “Actually have some semblance of taste. I had thought you had it stolen away by the fae.”

Harry furrowed his brows.

Nott suddenly looked past Harry. He turned to see an associate waving them over.

The two of them walked to the counter. The associate lifted the trunk onto the counter. “That’ll be 36 galleons, 18 knuts.”

Harry reached into his pocket and shelled out the coins, placing them in the small tray in front.

She then slid a small vile and pin toward him, which he very quickly used to prick himself. She poured the drop onto the trunk’s lock, and it glowed a light purple before returning back to normal.

She smiled at him, “Thank you for your business, we hope your trunk suits you well.”

Harry nodded at her in return and prepared to heft the trunk off the counter, only to find out it weighed almost nothing at all.

“Featherlight charm,” Nott interrupted, “All of their trunks have them.”

“Oh,” Harry breathed. Pleasantly surprising.

They walked out of the shop, door ringing softly as they stepped outside.

Harry bit his lip, “Thanks, Nott. You… were helpful.”

Nott rolled his eyes, “Of course I was.”

There was a pause as they stood, before Nott looked down and said, “You were not as… unrefined as I thought you were.”

Harry blinked.

Nott suddenly froze as he looked up, out into the alley. He blurted out, “I have to leave.”

Harry barely mouthed, what? before the boy ran out into the main street toward a scrawny house elf. He bent down beside it and seemed to ask something hurriedly. The elf frowned before it nodded and grabbed onto Nott’s arm. Nott’s shoulders dropped in relief. They disappeared with a crack.

Harry blinked. He furrowed his brows, what happened?

He frowned as he stepped out onto the street again. He squinted as the sunlight hit him. He’d figure out what was wrong with Nott later.

Why did he care anyway?

He shook his head; he had stuff to do. Nott wasn’t important. He had… book shopping to do. Somewhere.

Harry began to walk down the way he’d remembered Kreacher telling him the bookstore, Sapientia, was.

Harry’s frown only got deeper as he got closer. That was weird. Really weird.

No, He slapped himself, much to the strange looks of passersby, not important. What if… no. Not. Important.

He blinked. Huh. Nott. Important. Harry shook his head, shaking his thoughts away with it.

He approached the area, stopping as he found himself right next to the entrance to Knockturn Alley. Suddenly, all his thoughts and previous worries left him. Confusion took their place.

“What is up with this day?” He muttered to himself as he reluctantly walked in.

He pulled his hood over his head, hoping to obscure his face slightly.

He grimaced, Kreacher had said that the bookstore was… Harry sighed in relief. He stopped in front of the second store in the alley. Sapientia, the sign read.

The store had a black and silver exterior, with a simple sign extruding. Underneath the main text, it read, Rare and Desired Books.

Harry pushed open the door and stepped inside, eager to be free of his previous worries, not to mention Knockturn Alley.

The shop was dark. Shelves lined the walls, but it seemed the only lights were shining in from the street and the exuding out of the few lamps sat scattered around the store.

There was a plush Persian rug covering the floor, and Harry looked up to notice at the far end was a small desk where a woman with pale hair sat staring at him.

“Well met,” she said calmly. “Meja Greengrass, of the House of Greengrass.”

“Well met,” Harry said, the greeting starting to become reflexive, “Harry Potter. Heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, Lord of the Most Noble House of Potter.”

She nodded, unfazed, “Please, look around.”

Harry hesitantly began to walk around. He walked to one of the shelves, examining all the different titles.

None of the books seemed to be organized in any particular way, fiction books intersected with ones about the worst types of legal poisons. Wand Lore texts sat beside copies of Quidditch Through the Ages.

He pulled one out at random, a black unornamented cover read, Advanced Warding: Home, Body, and Mind. Eberhard Fiedler. English Translation by Octavius Brendt.

Harry flipped through it briefly before pushing it back into place. He pulled out another book, this one reading, Turning Wishes into Will: The Beginners Guide to Spellcrafting, Wandless Magic, and Blood Magic. His eyes widened as he flipped through it.

Harry tucked it under his arm as he was suddenly reminded of something. He turned to the woman at the register, “Er, excuse me.”

She looked up at him, and Harry noticed she had sat down and started smoking.

Harry continued, “I was wondering if you had any books on, on the Sabbats?”

Something sharp shined in her eyes, “A moment, if you would.”

She stood up and vanished into the back of the store.

Just a minute later she emerged holding a stack of novels.

She dropped them on the desk, and beckoned Harry over.

As he walked over, leaning to examine the books, she gestured to the top few, “These are some introductory texts onto the Wheel of the Year celebrations, and general magical culture. The two after are more in depth, focusing on Lady Magic.”

She heaved them off the pile, “These next few, I must admit are not particularly what you were asking for, though I believe they may provide some… interesting insight.” 

“Look at which ever you like, there is some seating in the corner.”

With that, she sat back down, picked up a book of her own, and started reading.

Harry blinked but quickly grabbed as many of the books as he could and hurried over to the armchair in the corner of the shop. Sitting down, he dropped the pile beside him and looked over the titles; A green spined ‘Introduction to the Wheel of the Year’, a black spined, ‘Magical Society: A Guide to Wixen Culture’, a red one reading, ‘Our Dear Lady: The Theology and Reality behind the Personification of Magic’, and another green spined one, ‘An Abridged History of Magical Religion and Belief’.

They all sounded quite interesting if Harry was to be honest. He’d never seen any books like them in the Hogwarts Library. He reckoned this was probably the sort of stuff Hogwarts didn’t bother teaching, or, maybe, didn’t want to be taught.

Then again, he wasn’t sure he’d have picked them up without prompting, anyway. Strangely enough, in the last few days he’d found himself much more interested in studying than he’d been in the last 12 years of his life.

He scanned over the last few, reading their titles; ‘The Complete Guide to Magical Affinities, Rites, and the Politics Surrounding Them,’ ‘Light Magic Versus Dark Magic: What Defines Them?’ then, ‘The Rise and Fall of Dark Magic,’ and, at last, ‘A Compendium of Dark Spells’.

Harry paused as he read them. He shifted in his seat, frowning. A Compendium of Dark Spells.

It seemed to emanate from the bottom of the pile, a pull tugged his hand toward it, but he shook himself out of it. He instead reached for the Guide to Magical Affinities. It seemed… safer. Somewhat, at least. He got the feeling the tug was satisfied as a warm feeling settled in his chest.  

Harry flipped through the first few pages, landing on one ornamented with purple, yellow, and grey spirals and stars floating within the margins. It read,

Magical Affinities are almost exactly as the name suggests: A wixen’s magical affinity is the type of magic they are inherently aligned with, the type of magic their body, soul, and magical core respond best to.

As mentioned previously, Magical Cores are where a person’s magic originates. Although magic strums throughout the entire body, a wixen’s magical core is what truly has an affinity.

Typically, a wixen will have an easier time with whatever type of magic they are aligned with than any other types of magic. There are 3 types of magic which all spells are categorized by, Light, Grey, and Dark. *

*It is also important to note here that this description is specifically designed to inform of the magical nature of affinities. The categorizations of magic are also political in nature and definitions and examples may vary depending on the source.

Light Magic is characterized by its connection to emotions and the soul. As covered previously, all magic comes with a cost. For light magic, this cost often comes in the form of a not definitively physical element. For example, light spells often cause intense fatigue or emotional exhaustion. At times, when magically exhausted, a light caster may become incredibly hostile or blunt. Some light spells are more emotionally intense than others and thus can lead to increased likelihood of magical exhaustion. Light magic can often be less precise due to the often less precise nature of the soul and emotions.

It is interesting to note that Light casters are often very charismatic due to understanding themselves and others well. They are often good politicians and public figures.

Examples of Light spells include the Patronus Charm (Expecto Patronum), and the Cheering Charm (Incipere Gaudia).

Grey Magic is characterized by its utility and instinct. They neither stem from emotion, nor will, but instead need. Grey spells are not very costing in physical nature or emotional nature, and very neutrally aligned. As a result of this, grey casters are unlikely to go into magical exhaustion lest they are casting incredibly frequently as no one spell is more costly than another. Grey casters often have very good survival instincts and self-preservation skills. They are generally friendly and cooperate very well with others.

Examples of Grey spells include the Levitation Charm (Wingardium Leviosa), the Wand-Lighting Spell (Lumos), as well as the Fire-Starting Spell (Incendio).

Dark Magic is characterized by its connection to the body and intent. Dark magic is known to be especially costly in the physical manner, with spells often requiring blood, tears, or other sacrifice of some kind. It is also known for its requirement for intense willpower and known intent. Dark magic is based on pure want, and to achieve success, one must know exactly what they wish to accomplish, and how to do it. It is also often quite precise because of this fact. Dark casters are often very focused, blunt, and at times stoic, they are often good teachers.

Examples of Dark spells include the Cruciatus Curse (Crucio), the Killing Curse (Avada Kedavra), and the Lullaby Healing Incantation (Vulnera Sanentur).

There are also spells which do not quite fit into any of the categories. These are Mixed-Magic Spells.

Wixen of any affinity have the ability to use spells from every type of magic, the only caveat being increased difficulty with spells outside of your affinity. Light users often have increased difficulty with dark spells than with grey, and vice versa, whereas grey users tend to have less difficulty across all affinities due to the neutrality of their cores.

This fact changes once a user decides to undergo a Magical Rite (pg. 36) …

Harry almost gaped as he read it. Why had no one told him about this? It was clearly a huge part of magic, of understanding magic. And yet no one mentioned it.

Harry frowned, huffing as he stood suddenly and heaved the stack of books determinedly over to the register. He dropped them firmly in front of the woman.

She looked up from her book. The gleam in her eye only brightened.

“I’ll get them all, thanks.” Harry breathed out.

She smiled with her teeth, “18 galleons, 6 sickles.”

Harry licked his lips, “Can I pay by signet ring?”

She simply slid a parchment and needle toward him. He poked his finger and pressed the Black ring into the parchment. Greengrass then waved her wand, and the books shrank down to nearly the size of 2 chocolate bars, floating them over to Harry who pocketed them, and quickly sped out the door.

“Thanks!” He hollered back, turning just enough to see her nodding approvingly.

His cheeks flushed as he hurried out of the alley, pausing for breath just at the corner.

He was… excited to read. Excited to learn. Never once in his life---well, his life with magic---had he ever been so excited.

He paused, realization filling his expression.

Merlin, Hermione’s gonna be on my back about this, he groaned internally, smile remaining firmly on his face.

Chapter Text

Azkaban was cold. It didn’t matter the season; the cold found a way to seep into the prison.

In winter the snow piled in the courtyard and seeped into the cells, frost bit at your face and gnashed at your fingers until the blood retreated back into the depths of your chest, keeping you just warm enough to survive. Nothing more, nothing less.

In summer the breeze from the sea came in swathes. It came once you’d been sufficiently warmed from the brief reprieve of cold, and once the ice and snow had melted leaving cool puddles in its wait---the only clean-enough water you’d have in months---and it smashed its way, quickly and harshly, into your very soul, leaving your spine to shiver and your skin to shrivel.

Sirius had known of this fact. He’d known of it quite well, really.

Always, as a child, whenever he found himself making a bit too much mischief for his dear old Mummy’s likes, Sirius would be dragged down to the cellar and told that if he didn’t stop his ways, if he didn’t grow up, well no one would be surprised at where he’d end up.

A guaranteed future in Azkaban. Cold, chilling, dirty, disgusting Azkaban, where oh so many of his family members rotted.

Funny, isn’t it, Sirius thought bitterly, she was always right, wasn’t she?

He never did stop, and he ended up right where she said he would. Sirius imagined she must have smiled as she read the headline. She always liked to be right, he scowled.

Nearly twelve years he’d been in prison.

Twelve years. And yet during those years he’d always found himself brought back to those days as a child. Cold, shivering, hungry in the cellar. Maybe it was fate he was here.

Sirius squished himself into the wall as he felt the cold creep back into his cell. He glared out through the bars, at the empty cell across from him. There had been a man there, previously.

Sirius had thought he looked like a Black---which was all but the only reason he had even paid him any mind---with the practically trademarked dark curls and grey eyes, but he was quite old and had never spoken to Sirius in any of the time he’d been there, so it was pretty much a pipe dream.

He had died sometime in the last month, and the Dementors hadn’t seemed to notice. The man’s body sat there decaying for at least a few weeks, until two aurors came in and removed him. The smell still lingered, but they hadn’t seemed to care.

Sirius almost envied the man.

It wasn’t as if he wished to die, not to any extent that he would act on it, but who was he kidding---he just didn’t particularly wish to live anymore. It was only a matter of time, anyways.

Being Padfoot helped against the Dementors, yes, but he didn’t help against the lack of food.

Sirius scoffed as he spotted a Dementor floating down the corridor, letters in hand. No food, no water, barely a mattress, and yet the Ministry couldn’t find it in them to deprive their precious prisoners of letters. Not that many of them had anyone writing to them but Gringotts. Sirius guessed that was the point.

They had nothing but money. Only their money. Precious, feeble money. Sirius scoffed, what good did money get you in a cell? Even the notoriety of being a Black didn’t help him. He glanced back at the Dementor as it stopped before him.

It tossed a letter into the empty cell, not grasping that no one was there to receive it. It then turned to Sirius and tossed him a letter of his own.

It was a tan envelope with a black wax seal engraved with a rune that Sirius knew well, Fehu.

His wrists shook as he pulled and pulled at the envelope until it opened, a small piece of parchment fell onto the floor. He quickly grabbed it before it could reach the puddles that still sat from the snow and scanned it.

Gringotts sent letters once a month, dry updates on finances, investments, and the like. He vaguely remembered his grandfather getting such letters. They were very routine, and very boring, but well, since there was certainly nothing else to do, Sirius relished in whatever he could get.

His eyes widened as he read.

Notice --- Change in Inheritance

Gringotts Bank
Lord Sirius Orion Black
Cell 94, Azkaban

Lord Black,

This letter has been sent as of July  12^th to inform you of a change in inheritance. Your request, made February of 1992, to instate Harry James Potter, son of Lily June Potter and James Fleamont Potter, as the heir apparent to the Black House and Estate has been processed and officiated.

On July 7^th, Mr. Potter claimed the heirship and is now legally and magically the Black Heir Apparent. The Black signet ring has been claimed and received by Mr. Potter.

Gringotts is pleased that you have continued to entrust the Black family’s wealth and honour to our services. Your monthly statement of assets shall be sent off on July 15^th to be received within 6 business days of said date.

May your cell warm as your enemy’s freezes,

Black Account Manager
Senior Gringotts Associate

Brimlock Kilnerson

Sirius grinned, just for a moment, before it dropped into a curious stare as he spotted a small newspaper clipping on the cell floor, just where the letter was dropped. He zeroed in on the photo, smirking as he noticed it. Rat.

**

Harry had spent most of his week hidden away in his room, studying.

He never really thought he’d be doing that ever. But here he was, studying. For some reason, it felt much easier when it wasn’t for school.

He’d made his way through his pile of books so quickly he’d frankly been shocked when he reached one of the last ones, and grimaced when he saw which it was. A Compendium of Dark Spells.

Harry shook his head and very firmly opened the bedside drawer, placed the book within, and pushed it shut. Even after all he'd read, all he'd learnt, for some reason, something in him told him he wasn't ready yet. Anyways, even if he'd wanted all that badly to start on it, well, he couldn't practice any of the spells he learnt could he? He groaned, the Trace really got in the way of everything. He sat back on his bed.

He stared up at the canopy’s ceiling. He just about knew every inch of this room, now. Every day for the past week he had been cooped up in his room in a practically self-imposed quarantine. His days had consisted of little variation. He’d go downstairs, eat whatever breakfast Kreacher had laid out, go back upstairs, lock himself in his room, and read. Ron would be horrified.

But it was all just so fascinating.

His favourite had been ‘The Complete Guide to Magical Affinities, Rites, and the Politics Surrounding Them,’ if not closely followed by ‘Turning Wishes into Will: The Beginners Guide to Spellcrafting, Wandless Magic, and Blood Magic’, though he hadn’t delved so deep into that one just yet, not as he had with his favourite.

Apparently, at least, according to the book, definitions of affinities varied wildly depending on the text. Some claimed that only those with truly evil hearts could have dark affinities while only those with truly pure hearts could have lights, while, shockingly, others claimed that there was no such thing as light or grey affinities. According to them, Dark wixen were the only ones with a true connection to Magic.

Harry nearly scoffed as he read that, why would there be such thing as a dark affinity but nothing outside of that? It just didn’t seem right to him.

Not only this, but apparently ideas of light and dark magic had changed much over the years.

Depending on the current government, or popular political ideas at the time, dark magic could be anything from an evil strain of magic only meant for suffering to something sacred passed through bloodlines. The same went for light magic, which Harry gaped at as he read. In the late Middle Ages, light wixen were deemed as manipulative and false, and persecuted for any attempts to use their magic. It was often used as a point of sympathy, now, but Harry still thought that it was crazy they would do that. Wixen were already being hunted by the Muggles, then, why fight each other too?

There was something else though, something that Harry found himself entranced by as he read.

Supposedly, there were also rites within the magical community.  A rite, as it explained, was basically any kind of ceremony, ritual, act, or even social custom. In magical terms, they generally related to connecting with magic.

The most standard type of rite was an ‘affinity rite’, typically performed on any of the Sabbats---Holidays that wixen of the Isles started, but even some muggles celebrated, such as Samhain, Mabon, Yule, and many, many more---at thirteen.

It was pretty much exactly what it said on the tin, an affinity rite told you what kind of affinity you had. In the past, nearly every British wixen completed one, but now it was much rarer. Only people of more traditional families bothered anymore.

The next most common was a declaration rite, but the book didn’t go too much into them. A declaration rite was what affirmed a wixen as either dark, light, or grey. Someone with a dark affinity wasn’t really restricted in what types of magic they can cast, but once they declare, all other types of magic become increasingly difficult for them, some even impossible. Apparently, a declared wixen’s personality could also change quite drastically from their usual self after their declaration. Some became blunter, others more generous, and some more temperamental, or others even violent.

They even, for a reason unbeknownst to Harry, had included a story of a boy who had, after declaring dark, gone and drowned his bully in a well.

After reading that, he’d quickly set aside the book for later, not having picked it up since. Despite this, he’d learnt so much from it already. He still guiltily thought of it as his favourite.

He’d pretty much read most of the books he had bought, and even the ones he hadn’t finished, well, he’d at least skimmed them. No matter the strange stories in these books, Harry itched for more. If he was honest, though, Harry was getting kind of sick of Diagon Alley.

 He’d come back twice since his first visit, the first, as he’d very quickly realized after Lady Black’s snide comments about her paint got too loud to stand, was a very fast visit to the artist’s studio she’d first asked him to go to. His next visit had been a very tedious and boring one to get a pair of shoes. He hadn’t even particularly disliked his trip to Twilfitt and Tattings, as at least they had been quick about their measurements, but for some reason his cobbler had different tactics and, though Harry had never heard of a shoemaker taking measurements, had taken a solid hour and a half of simply measuring his feet, and asking him all sorts of questions about Harry’s current shoe collection to assign him to the ‘best shoes for him’.

They weren’t even all that great in the end. A few boring pairs of black and brown oxford that he could’ve gotten at any department store in London. He rolled his eyes just thinking about it.

Harry sighed, sinking further into the mattress.

Suddenly, though, he opened his eyes and sat up. Hello? He almost slapped himself. He was in an old house, an old house with a massive library, and several rooms with several books, and most certainly several secrets.

Harry stood and almost skipped to the door. It creaked as he slipped out, the lights in the hall still lit casting a shadow on his figure as he walked.

Instead of the tug he was expecting, he felt no semblance of any… presence as he made his way further and further from the Library. He shook his head and continued walking through the hall.

He reached the door that read, ‘The Lady Black’s Quarters’. Shrugging, he turned the handle, pushing in the door, only to find it barely budging beneath his touch. He tried again, frowning. Harry sighed, locked.

He’d been quite excited, but really, well. This exploring business wasn’t going so great so far.

He moved on to the Lord Black’s Quarters, twisting the handle again to thankfully find it unlocked. It opened with a click, and he peered in.

The room was much bigger than he thought it could be, extending far past the wall where his room ended. It was cloaked in a heavy, dark wood. Most of the furniture was in various shades of deep greens, with a massive canopy bed, decorated with a multitude of pillows and heavy blankets, at the far end of the room. Tall wooden bookshelves sat against the wall across from the door. Tomes and novels filled its shelves, alphabetically arranged.

He peered over them. Some of them seemed interesting---quite a few about wandless magic he noted to look over later---but nothing worth taking immediately.

His eyes shifted to the centre of the shelves, spotting a clearing with a single portrait of a regal woman with dirty blonde hair that he hadn’t noticed before. Unlike the other portraits in Grimmauld, this one didn’t move.

Despite this, it seemed like the silk of her dress almost shone where the light hit it. The silk’s deep folds letting the light hit and reflect in all directions. The true richness of the purple almost made Harry forget that you weren’t supposed to touch paintings until he was right up before it and reaching out.

He blinked and withdrew his hand quickly. Harry frowned, tearing his vision away from it.

As he stepped out onto the Persian rug once more, it made it much easier to forget about the portrait and sink into the glory that was the room. And the dust, he realized suddenly, falling into a bit of a coughing fit.

He sucked in a breath as he recovered and looked around the room once more. There were even more bookshelves opposite the bed, of which two armchairs and a small side table sat in front of it. Beside the bookshelves, he noticed, was a simple door. He walked over to it almost immediately.

Harry twisted the handle and looked in onto… a bathroom. His shoulders dropped, slightly disappointed. Of course, it made total sense that there would be an ensuite, but, well, when you’re exploring an old house, sometimes you just wish for a fun room.

The bathroom tile was white, seemingly unfitting to the rest of the house’s décor, with a ribbon of green dotting the halfway mark on the wall, to which it transitioned into a dark green wallpaper. A clawfoot tub sat to the right of the door, while a long vanity and a small closet sat to the left. The closet door opened up to a small toilet room, which, again, while unsurprising, was still disappointing.

Harry sighed, just about to turn and leave, before he noticed a white door by the vanity, almost completely blending in with the tile.

He very quickly lasered in on it and went to twist the handle pushing it in just a crack before it jammed. He peered into the crack, seeing some sort of… dresser, or something, placed in front of the door.

He could just barely see the rest of the room, with a somewhat similar canopy bed to the Lord Black’s Quarters, but all purple finishings. There looked to be something, like a huge book or box sat at the end of the bed, but, alas, he couldn’t quite tell what it was.

Harry pushed in again, to no avail, face screwing up in frustration as he stayed, peering in for a moment.

Maybe he’d come back again, he sighed, frowning as he turned away and closed the door behind him.

He swiftly left the bedroom and headed back out into the hallway. He walked through the hall, trying to shake away the disappointment as he made his way back past the Lord and Lady Black’s Quarters, and towards the Library. Just as he opened the door, he felt the familiar pull yet again, just this time he twisted his head back down the hall.

Almost against his will, he felt his eyes wander to a staircase in the far corner. Huh. He hadn’t noticed that before.

Harry glanced back to the Library, giving it a remorseful look---he really had been meaning to go in this time, but by now, well, this… pull had only ever brought him to cool stuff, he sort of trusted it to do its thing---before he walked back again down the hall, stopping in front of the staircase.

It certainly hadn’t been there when he first toured the house. It could have… opened, I guess, Harry thought, I haven’t been out the room a lot this week. Still odd though.

He walked up the stairs, stepping out onto a landing just to feel a kind of satisfied wave drape over him. It reminded him of the Library.

He stepped out into the room, if you could even call it that. It was incredibly dark, and just as long, and he could only really tell that from the singular sconce all the way at the far wall.

He wondered if the Trace worked in places so magical. He’d seen people his age do magic in Diagon before, so it was definitely possible. He groaned, squinting into the dark.

A Lumos would be the handiest thing in the world, if he could cast one.  He shook his head, better not to test it until he was sure. It wouldn’t do any good to have aurors knocking on his door, wondering why he’s not with his relatives.

Maybe though… He thought for a moment, before saying hesitantly, “Kreacher?”

A loud crack echoed through the room. Harry just barely saw the elf’s outline in front of him.

“What does Master want now?” He said, and although Harry couldn’t quite see, he was certain Kreacher was scowling.

“Is there any way you could… er, turn a light on in here?” Harry asked.

Kreacher snapped and a dozen balls of light appeared in the room, illuminating it to the point where he could now see it was less of a room and more of a dead-end hallway.

He glanced past Kreacher at the wall across from him, his breath suddenly caught.

It was probably the largest tapestry he’d ever seen.

A massive tree overtook the entire piece, branches stretching out to each and every corner of the wall. The leaves and flowers adorning it shifted and flew around the canvas, artfully avoiding what seemed to be… faces?

He whispered, “What is this?”

“This,” Kreacher lifted his head up, almost looking as though he was restraining an urge to smile, “Be the Black Family Tapestry. Every member of the Family be recorded here, since before Kreacher was to be existing.”

Harry read over the names below the faces; it really did go back far. Arcturus Sirius Black, Harry recognized, as with Walburga Violetta Black a bit farther down. But there were far more beyond them, hundreds of faces and names overtook the hall, stretching from wall to wall, ceiling to floor. The ceilings even seemed higher here.

The lowest on the tree didn’t even reach the bottom, straying near the middle of the trunk. A black... scorch mark, or stain of some kind sat above the name, where the picture should've been, Sirius Orion Black, then, to the side and below him, Regulus Arcturus Black.

Harry's hand jerked out, nearly against his will, reaching out towards the tapestry. He yelped, sharply pulling his hand back not even a moment later. He turned his hand to look at it, seeing blood drip down from his index. It… pricked him. He furrowed his brows.

Kreacher made a strangled sound behind him.  

Harry glanced back up to see… a new branch forming just below Sirius Black’s. A scramble of black below, a cacophony of colours meshed and weaved within the tapestry all on their own to form a new picture.

He gaped, reading. Harry James Potter.

His own face stared back at him.

He glanced down. A single drop of blood dripped onto the carpet. 

Chapter Text

Blood seeped into the carpet.

It wasn’t much, just the very drip that had fallen from his finger, but somehow it seemed much more than it was. It swirled and swished, much like the tapestry had just seconds before, and almost imperceptibly, faded into the design as it curled to become apart of it.

Harry glanced up. The tapestry was changing too.

All over the canvas, names and faces and branches fizzled into existence. Except… that couldn’t be right. Hundreds of names, of pictures, each one older than the last. They must’ve been there for ages.

Most of them were women---a Melania Macmillan beside Arcturus, an Irma Crabbe beside Pollux Black---but there were men too. An Ignatius Prewett sat just above Sirius and his father, with features vaguely reminiscent of Ron’s.

Harry frowned, before stumbling back suddenly, as a wave of magic washed over him. He hit the wall with a thump.

It curled around him, almost… inspecting him, just as it had done the first time he’d entered the home. It rushed around his arms, his legs, his stomach in a light prickling sensation, leaving a trail of sparks in the corner of his vision. It lightly weaved between his fingers.

Harry doubled over as it shot into his chest. Swirling in his core, it gave a warm, fuzzy feeling to his mind, before, just as quickly as it came, fizzling out into the rest of his body. Suddenly, all of his tension drained, left him, his shoulders dropping.

He hadn’t even realized he’d closed his eyes until it was over.

Kreacher stood over him, an uncomfortable expression on his face. An undeniable sense of shock radiated from the elf.

Harry let out a shallow breath. He furrowed his brows, looking up at Kreacher expectantly, “…What …. happened?”

Kreacher blinked, several times. He opened his mouth to respond, only to close it. His body seemed to shake tersely as he spoke next, “The Family Magics be… joining… with Master.”

“Master is… accepted… now,” the elf strangled to say, “All Masters and Mistresses not of Black Blood must be accepted by the Magics. Master is now…”

Kreacher grimaced, quivering as he turned around and disappeared with a crack.

Harry frowned further as he glanced down at his hand. The blood was gone, leaving no sign of a scar or cut in its wake.

Accepted. Harry wasn’t… completely sure what Kreacher meant by that. The magic had accepted him. Him.  

Well, alright he wasn’t dense, he knew at the very least vaguely what the elf meant. The magic was sentient, sort of---he couldn’t deny it now. It had always lingered in the background of his life here. Floating in the corners of his vision, pulling him to places, just like it’d pulled him to the tapestry. In the back of his mind, this fact had registered, yes, but… he let out a sound of frustration as he looked up at the canvas. He hadn’t really… thought about it, not yet. The idea that magic was something that could be sentient.

It was a bit insane, but if God existed, then why couldn’t magic be sentient? Then again, Harry had never really believed in God. After all, why would he have had to suffer so much if God was real? Some sort of test? He’d been through enough of those.

Bad comparison. Harry sighed, frowning.

Magic was sentient. Or, at least, the Black Family Magic was sentient. And it had accepted him as one of its own. It deemed him… worthy. The idea squirmed in his mind, he’d been, well, allegedly ‘worthy’ of many things before---mainly of the title the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived---but this felt different. It felt heavier, more important. And yet, he was surprised to notice, something in him relaxed at the thought.

Truthfully, Harry had never really deemed himself worthy of anything. He accepted things as he was given them, sure, but was he really worthy of them? Everything he’d been given, his heirships, his money, even his friends, deep in his chest, though he would never tell anyone, Harry wasn’t quite sure he deserved any of them.

Some days, he’d even worry about if this was all a dream, if he’d wake up the next morning, in his tiny cupboard at the Dursley’s, getting yelled at to make breakfast. It wasn’t as if he’d done anything to deserve all the good he’d gotten, so why would it be real? He couldn’t think of a time he’d truly felt worthy in… his whole life, really.

Except this.

For some reason, this was his one exception. He felt completely and utterly assured that this magic, this acceptance, was something that was truly and completely for him. It was something he was always meant to have, and something he always would have. This was not just a thought, but a fact that beamed as true within his very core.

He rose to his feet. Unbeknownst to him, a smile bloomed on his face.

He glanced over at the tapestry once again, vaguely noting some of the new faces. Lucius Malfoy had even appeared, off beside Narcissa Black. Though he grimaced at the idea of now being somewhat connected to the man and his son, he simply couldn’t bring himself to linger on it any longer.

Harry lightly stepped out of the hall, walking down the stairs, towards his room. He was ready.

***

Sirius laid his head against the wall and tried, as subtly as he could, to scan the hallway from the side of his vision.

Moonlight flooded in from the courtyard, almost shining into his cell from the opposite side’s window. He’d long since abandoned his bitterness at being placed in one of the few cells without a window, but it definitely would have made his plans simpler.

As thin as he now was, even he couldn’t fit through the cell bars. But Padfoot could.

A week back, or so, he had tested it. He’d transformed in the dead of night, the only time the Dementors weren’t regularly patrolling the halls--- of course, they didn’t affect him much, but he’d learnt it was better to be cautious---and all the other prisoners were either asleep or so deep in their own heads that it wouldn’t much matter if they saw him anyways.

He was much thinner as Padfoot and slipped through the bars without much notice.

His paws touched the concrete floor and he began the slow crawl down the halls, the stairs, and into the courtyard.

He’d only seen it once, when he’d been admitted. It had felt like walking to his gallows, and, well, you don’t spend so much time looking around when marching to your death, do you? Now, though, he realized just how barren it was.

The tower’s ceiling was open, with the sky and stars shining onto the cracked floor. Dirt spread through the cracks, but no grass, no weeds, no life could even consider growing. Not here.

Sirius sniffed the ground, following the bare scent of where he knew the Aurors had come from not so long ago to collect the dead. He crept out of the tower and into the main prison, passing by empty cells and somewhat filled ones, into Azkaban’s main courtyard.

Unlike the tower’s, no cells decorated the sides of this one, simply a few barred windows. Luckily, they were just about the same width as his own cell’s, and Sirius hopped up onto the ledge and slid through just as easily.

He jumped down from the exterior ledge, paws landing harshly on the rock.

Sirius swivelled looking everywhere around him. No Dementors, no Aurors, just the sea.

Waves crashed on the shore, back, and forth, and back, and forth. Salty, tangy, but above all, fresh air.

Sadly--- though, maybe not so sad as it was about time he was leaving this forsaken place---he didn’t have time to linger. Sirius scanned the horizon, trying to pick something, anything out of the fog.

There had to be an island somewhere. It was much too far to swim to Britain’s shore, but if he could just make it to an island, then he could apparate. He got it, okay, he got why Azkaban had anti-magic wards and an absolutely insane version of the Trace, but it was really bloody inconvenient.

He turned to the right suddenly, something peaked out of the fog.

His eyes widened as he transformed back. Sirius grinned as the shape came further into view, mountainous cliffs, yes, but just a bit of a shore to land on was all he needed. Bingo.

Chapter Text

Sirius spat harshly, coughing and coughing salty water out of his lungs.

He gripped the sand, elbows laying firmly on the ground while he heaved. His hair, longer and more matted than it’d ever been, hung over his face.

He panted, squeezing his eyes shut, until coughing finally eased.

His arms shook as he tried to push himself up. They buckled under him, and he fell back down.

He took a deep breath and flipped himself over. He relaxed almost immediately, the softness of the sand, a cushion.

Sirius stared up at the sky.

The waves crashed all around him. He could hear them loud and clear, bashing against his ears, yet all it seemed he could focus on was the sky.

His chest rose up and down, slowing with every second. His teeth chattered and his body ached and shivered. And yet his eyes stayed trained on the sky, with an emotion he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Awe.

The clearest night you could ever wish for. Fitting, wasn’t it? The day he escapes from his clouded hell, the world itself begins to free.

Stars twinkled, and he recognized each and every one. Cassiopeia. Leo. The Pegasus. Cygnus.

Orion.

He tore his eyes away from the stars to notice the blank spot in the sky where nothing seemed to be. It was the moon. Darkened, out of sight, not hiding but enjoying its time with no eyes on it. There’s something peaceful about the absence of a spotlight.

He used to relish in attention, but it seems when there are eyes on you every hour of every day, something changes.

Sirius closed his eyes and sat up.

He sat there for a long while, listening to the crashing of the waves and the whistling of the wind before he decided he had probably sat there long enough.

He had work to do.

Sirius stood and began to climb his way up the rocks. They scratched at his hands, especially as he got up and further away from the water, as they dried and their sharp points revealed themselves. But he climbed, and he climbed, and he climbed until he reached up, eyes weary, hands bloody, and felt grass.

Sirius pulled himself up onto the cliff, face down in the meadow. He could’ve sobbed. It was all hitting him now. He had made it.

He looked up and pushed himself off the ground. There were no houses, no paths, no towns anywhere in sight. Just an open meadow, and an old, rotted wooden fence. It must have been farmer’s land at some point, but whatever it was, it wasn’t anymore.

He had hoped, maybe, for a small town or an abandoned house, somewhere he could get clothes before he apparated into London. He didn’t want to be recognized, after all that. It seemed he would just have to risk it.

Sirius turned around, facing the sea, the mist of fog in the distance surrounding what he knew was the prison he’d spent so long trapped in, and left with a crack.

Harry traced the wooden details of his dresser drawer.

Little flowers and ravens and berries crowded in the small face; each intricately carved. A snake eating its own tail encircled the simple brass knob.

He hadn’t really looked at it before, but now that he was looking… everything in Grimmauld Place had the same intricate touch. All carved, painted, sewn by someone who clearly knew what they were doing.

He pulled open the drawer and slipped a black book out of it.

It was weird, Harry thought, how many things he hadn’t noticed before. He sat back on the bed, looking at the book. He held the book above his face.

His eyes passed over the flowery, silver letters. Harry flipped open to the first page, eyes scanning over the cursive text.

The fact that there was no table of contents had become less weird to him with the more magical books he read. The fact that there was no author, less so. He flipped another page to see the word, emboldened in all capitals, PREFACE. Below, it read:

The world of dark magic is not all that dissimilar to the world of light magic, or even the world of grey magic, with one primary exception: the practitioners.

I myself would not dare to generalize the nature of all dark practitioners, but something must be said to all those embarking on this journey--- those of the dark tend to notice more. More about themselves, about others, about magic.

This is not to say that those of the dark are more intertwined with magic than all others, no, but I must admit, this author would not be surprised if a dark caster was simply inherently more proficient in magic than a light one. We are simply more focused that way.

Many expert practitioners do argue that it may in fact be something in the way we are raised that allows us to be so, not in the shade of our core. Most dark casters come from dark families, after all. Generally pureblood ones as well.

I will not speak to the science of this, as I am not a scientist, nor am I a historian, nor any sort of mediwixen, but I am regarded as rather the expert in my field of magic and thus feel at least somewhat qualified to give any young wixen in need of guidance that reaching hand they have been looking for, regardless of how focused or in-tune they are.

I was raised in a house full of magic. Of Dark, of Light, we didn’t really differentiate it then. I never knew any less. My family’s home had stood for centuries and would stand for more, and all homes as old as ours have a certain presence about them.

Perhaps this is why I am so knowledgeable, perhaps not, I do not know and probably will never know, but I do know that my childhood is where my love for all things dark sprouted.

My first spell, something detailed in the first few pages of this book, had to do with just this.

The dark is chaotic, it is abundant, and it is ancient. It is something that remains deep inside every human alive, wixen or not. It is in our genes to fear it; it is as simple as that. Those of us who are truly dark, however, the dark runs in our veins, in our hearts. We do not fear the dark.

Dear reader, you may have heard that dark magic is magic of the body. This is true in the most basic sense. This is also why most dark wixen’s first spell is usually appearance altering. Not because we are vain, no, but because we often like to fix ourselves into whatever we choose.  We don’t often like being constrained.

You may have forgotten, but where I was going with this rant was that my first spell was of such. When I was seven---much too old to be casting a first spell, mind you, but I’ve always been rather slow at things---it was night, and it was dark. My sister, Tillie, who is not of the dark but is loved nonetheless, was afraid. She couldn’t see.

Nor could I, and we needed to find our parents somewhere in the home. Something had come into our room. In the end, pardon the spoiling, it was just a bird, but in the moment, we were absolutely terrified.

I simply wished so hard to be able to see, and suddenly, it was as though a light flicked on in the room. A very pale one, yes, but all of a sudden, I could see shapes, outlines, wings and feathers of the small chickadee crouched in the corner. Night vision.

I don’t like birds, of course, so I still guided my sister out of our room, and toward our parents in tears. It wasn’t like we would’ve gotten hurt, no, but it was useful then and it is useful now.

This spell was cast unknowingly, yes, but dark magic has a way of bringing you to what suits you.

This compendium has been written to let the dark guide all young wixen easier than I had it guide me. Hopefully, you shall need not find yourself in a dark room with a chickadee and only the merest wishes of escape. If you do find yourself here, however, you will know that all you will need to do is rub your eyes and say the word, Adlineamenta. A doozy, I know, but I didn’t create it. For the details of this spell, I suggest you read on.

He turned the pages, staring at each with intent fascination. The second he’d flipped the cover, somehow, some way, he knew it was for him. He just knew it.

It was all so amazing. Spells for just about everything from cutting hair, to changing your opponents into useless lumps of clay.

He felt like he was ten again. When he first discovered the things he could do, the wonder he felt.

And here it was again.

Harry studied the pages. Their flowery script, their small etchings of flowers and crows and moons on the corners. There was a certain beauty to it, a beauty that continued in its words.

The book felt like a song, almost. A lullaby like he’d imagined his mother might have sang him.

 Harry closed the book softly. He slipped out from his bed and clutched it in his arms as he opened his door and walked out his bedroom, down the hall to the library.

He must have been reading for hours. The sconces were all lit in the hallway, gently illuminating Harry’s figure, leaving room for his shadow to follow.

Harry twisted the handle, opening it just a crack before---

Knock.

It rang out again. Knocking, again, and again, from the front door.

Harry froze.

He heard Kreacher downstairs crack into being, creaking open the door slightly. He ran to the stairs, dropping the book, he carefully stepped down a few stairs to the second floor. Harry sat as he peered down over the side of the railing, just enough to see the door.

He couldn’t quite see the outside, but Kreacher’s small body was tense. The elf was probably scowling. He tended to do that.

Harry only caught a few words at a time.

‘…Mistress won’t… how… Master is not being welcome.’

A man’s rough voice, then, ‘Well…good… old Mother… not your Master… she?’

Kreacher almost growled.

The voice sighed sharply, ‘…me in, Kreacher… my house.’

Kreacher groaned, and the door swung open.

Harry flattened himself against the wall.

His breath quickened as he heard the man’s footsteps trail into the foyer.

He was so stupid. How did he ever think this was his house? He shut his eyes tight. He was the heir! That meant there had to be a Lord or Lady, some head of house, out there. And they were here now.

The footsteps trailed closer to the stairs, and the man muttered something that Harry couldn’t quite make out. He couldn’t bring himself to look.

Oh Merlin. What was he doing? The man would come up the stairs, and he would see Harry sitting there, and he’d freak out. Harry had to do something before the man reached the second floor.

Tears welled up in his eyes. He scrambled to his feet and ran up the stairs as fast as he could. The man was coming up.

Harry ran into the first room he saw. He shut the door behind him and fiddled with the handle until it locked. He slumped behind the door.

He let out a breath. Harry looked up.

Wherever he’d entered was completely mismatched to the rest of the house; covered in a fine layer of dust, barren, and very, very red.

The walls were the same black as the rest of the floor, but the rest of the room was definitely different.

Red sheets and blankets covered the bed; a gold throw over the end of it. The rug was a similar red, but a beautiful Persian pattern, the type he’d always loved, but Aunt Petunia had always called foreign, with the type of disdain she usually directed at him. Even the curtains were red and gold. Their tassels swept the floor.

Before he had time to linger on the absurd decor much longer, Harry heard the thuds of steps make their way to the room. Merlin, not again.

His breathing quickened as his eyes widened. His nails dug into his palms. Doors can be opened with magic. Literally one of our first spells! He’d never thought himself all that smart, but gosh, how stupid could he be? Maybe Snape was right. He really didn’t have anything going on in his head.

The footsteps came closer, the wood creaking with every step---almost as if it were warning Harry---until they stopped in front of the door.

Harry felt the door handle rattle above him.

The man muttered, ‘For fucks sake, Kreacher.’

Harry froze as he heard the man’s next words, whispering. ‘Alohomora.’

The lock clicked and Harry scampered away, further into the room.

As the door opened, a shadowed form came into view.

The man had pale skin, and long, matted black hair. He was dressed in a tattered… prison uniform.

Harry bit his lip and braved a glance at the man’s face.  Grey, stormy eyes, almost exactly like the Lady Black’s, like Arcturus’.

For a moment, the man’s face was full of confusion. Mouth slightly open, brows furrowed. Then his breathing seemed to stop, realization flooding.  

‘Harry?’