Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Beneath a starlit sky, a street caked in something other sat surrounded by the mundane. Hedge rows appear to softly glow in the moonlight, an echo of the boy who’d once sought safety beneath their boughs. Cats prowled the street seamlessly blending into the shadows, as if they themselves were shadows, a gift from the boy who’d named them friends. The Roses in front of the fourth house, underneath a previously barred window, looked softer than silk, but held thorns whose scratches bled for moons thanks to the blood that had watered them.

Above them in the house’s smallest bedroom, a boy fitfully slept. A boy who was more than even he knew. James Potter's messy black hair whispered of the ancient bloodline curse that sang through his blood. Behind fluttering lids, killing curse green eyes that matched the mother who’d given her life for his, spoke of long-forgotten magic. High cheekbones that matched his godfather's echoed the blood connection many wished to ignore. The scars that littered his frame spoke of this youth’s many adventures, but on this night, an echo of a different magic seemed to echo through the room.

As the clock inched towards the dawning of July 31 and the boy's fifteenth birthday, the magic seemed to grow. As the Scion of bloodlines who had once freely bled and sacrificed to create protections that would ensure their names endured woke to test him, his magic rose to meet them. Protections probed the boy who slept on, unaware of what happened around him.
As the magic of the protections of House Potter sorted through Harry’s magic and his memories, its fury and rage grew. It found an heir strong enough to wield it without being constrained by the old rite. If only he were unhindered by his lack of knowledge. It found a youth who had been forbidden from learning the history of his house, its power, position, or duties. For a moment, the protections mourned; they had found an heir whose strength could restore all that its creators had hoped, but who would fail all it had been created to protect without the knowledge he had been denied.

Its mourning grew as it foresaw its destruction. The only access it had to the world was through the heir, through the blood. The heir had no way of acknowledging it without knowing what he had been denied. Without being acknowledged, the magic, the protections of House Potter would be forced into the same slumber that the other protections he felt tendrils of on his heir had suffered. A silent, quiet slumber that held no end in sight. The eternal slumber of the forgotten and abandoned. The pull to sleep drew on it as the new day grew closer.

With oblivion closing in, it hesitantly pulled on the strongest still-active pieces of its magic. As that magic woke, it hesitated for a moment, feeling the tendrils of other protections begin to stir. The Black protections were a familiar darkness it had been partnered with before, but others stirred around it, as the magic in the room grew heavy, it did not know. Some spoke of ancient power, others whispered of protections nearly lost to time. Others echoed with strength that threatened even now, with them less than half awake, to overpower it.

A moment more, it hesitated; responsibilities came with these protections. His boy would have to acknowledge this blood. Would his boy be strong enough to carry all of them? Its hesitation lasted only a moment as it recalled the strength that had only allowed his boy to sink to his knees as venom from the King of Serpents had burned through his veins. It recalled the will that had allowed him to cast a Patronus before a horde that fed on his fear. Not even a dragon had stalled his courage; he would not falter before these magics, his boy would carry his blood to a new dawn.

As the clock struck midnight and July 31 took its first breath, the protections that flooded the room activated one of the last rites available to its blood. Calling upon the blood that had forged it, it pulled its boy from breathing nightmares of fangs and cauldrons to a room that echoed in shadows and mystery. No doors or arches showed the room's exit. The walls were covered by a myriad of vines, in a multitude of styles and types. Some were so tiny they could hardly be separated from the one beside them. Others were as large as a man's arm. One was an inky black that blended with the very shadows around it. Another had flowers that almost seemed to drip blood.

As the mind of the boy that slept was pulled into this room, the protections that had flooded the room seconds before began to fade; in its wake, chaos reigned. In an ancient castle, the boy remembered with fondness numerous devices flashed and whistled, before falling silent and still as the magics connected to them died. In a hall of orb-filled shelves, a voice older than the building it sat in echoed as its orb glowed.

Harry woke with a start in an unfamiliar room with no exit, his magic sang of safety even as he moved for a wand he did not find.

“Settle, child,” a voice echoed from the darkness, making him look around, seeing only walls covered in vines. Eventually, a man dressed in an extravagant red tunic, with silver accents, and an iron sword emerged from the shadows. Despite his ephemeral form Harry was struck by the familiarity of the features this being had. Its messy black hair, high cheekbones, hazel eyes, and lean build reminded him uncannily of his few pictures of his father. Harry could see the echoes of pride and familiar anger as their eyes met.

“Be at peace, child, we have much to speak of, and little time.” The being says, Harry narrows his eyes, wary of taking anything at face value after all he’s seen.

“Who, what are you?” he demands, and the being smiles.

“We have no name. We have descriptors and titles, but our creators never named us, for we are the heralds of rites Wixen desired long ago to fade into myth and legend.” The being says.

“Heralds?” He whispers, a tremor of fear in his tone. A memory flashes for a moment through his mind. Neville’s warning from a quiet third-year night echoed in his ears. A response to something Hermione had said, a correction delivered with a solemnity neither she nor Harry had been willing to question. ‘Heralds are not omens. Omens are warnings that something may happen. Heralds bring about events.’

“Do you know, child, the importance of this night?” The Herald asks him, and part of Harry wants to be defiant. His summer hasn’t been pleasant; he’s been abandoned by seemingly everyone, and he wants rage and screams, not quiet questions, answered by polite answers. Something about this being, however, whispers power. An ancient will that Harry can tell should not be questioned or challenged.

“I don’t.” He answers quietly and uncertainly.

“This is the night that marks fifteen years since your birth.” The being answers, and Harry blinks before moving to speak. “On this night,” the being continues, making him fall silent, “the magical core of a Wixen such as yourself starts the second of multiple core settlings. The first begins at eleven, allowing you to start channeling the magic of your core outward. This one will enable you to access more potent magics and abilities. For those from bloodlines who have raised those protections, it is also the night of the bloodline testing.”

“Bloodline Testing?” He asks weakly, somehow understanding that these protections had summoned this Herald.

“Four times your father's blood has willingly bled to raise, restore, or replenish the Protections that have been cast over your family. Tonight, you are subject to the activation of one of the strongest of these rites.”

“What Rite?” He asks.

“The Rite of Ancestry is activated when one such as yourself has been denied by its carers through negligence, ignorance, or purpose, the knowledge of their history, power, and blood. Once activated, the Rite will summon the family Herald, who will choose, as needed, mentors who will impart to you the history, magic, power, station, and strength of your name.”

“My name?”

“For Wixen, a name can be everything. It is the legacy left to you of those who have gone before. Wixen Society is built on blood. How can a society bound by blood not honor it?”

“I refuse to participate in some pureblood nonsense.” Harry snarls and nearly steps back at the sudden coldness that emanates from the being before him. Even the Ivy that lights the walls begins to wilt.

“NONSENSE”, a voice like an eldritch force echoes from all around him, sending terror down Harry’s spine. “YOU IGNORANT FOOL WOULD CALL THE PRESERVATION OF THE BLOODLINE PUREBLOOD NONSENSE! YOU WOULD SPIT ON THE BLOOD IN YOUR VEINS. BLOOD THAT HELPED FORGE ROME. BLOOD THAT STOOD AGAINST A DRAGON'S MIGHT. BLOOD THAT ONLY KNELT TO A CONQUERER WHEN THEY WERE OATHBOUND TO PROTECT OUR PEOPLE, EXPECTING NOTHING BUT DEATH. YOU MOCK THE MAGIC IN YOUR BLOOD THAT ONCE HELPED FORGE AN EMPIRE.”

“I don’t understand!” Harry shouted, trying to be heard as the voice overwhelmed him. The pressure in the room felt like it would rip him in two. The pressure finally relented as the Herald reappeared, his outline still blurry.

“Your name is the legacy of every Wixen who has borne your name before you. Do you think James Potter fought against this generation's Dark Lord out of pride?” Harry looked at the being in shock.

“He fought…” Harry trailed off. He wanted to say he’d fought for his mother, but it felt hollow somehow.

“James Potter fought not against the persecution of those born to the mundane. For all that James desired Lilly Evans, they only started their courting in truth after she began honoring the magic in her veins. He fought because he saw the threat the Dark Lord could become. He fought because to do otherwise would be to stand against the words of House Potter.”

“Words?”

“Law, Order, Command. In all that House Potter has been, from simple commanders to mighty lords ruling over thousands, those three words have been the promise House Potter has made to all those who have looked to them. Nothing would be asked of House, Ally, Servant, Enemy, or Liege by Law, Order, or Command that they would not follow through, or do themselves, whether it be alliance, trade, battle, or politics. They bore the consequences of their mistakes with all the grace and dignity and grace they possessed while doing everything in their power to make things right.”

“Your forefathers were willing to sacrifice everything to correct a mistake. When they failed in their duties, they ensured the safety of their people and willingly surrendered to the sword. When battles were lost, they fell with the men they commanded. A Potter's command has destroyed entire bloodlines and spared traitors. James Potter foresaw that the world the Dark Lord aimed to build was not one that would allow House Potter to live in. House Potter has helped forge kingdoms, created and killed kings. They have refused to stand by a tyranny that serves no purpose. This is what James Potter fought for, this is what you mock as PUREBLOOD NONSENSE.”

“I did not know.” He whispers weakly, quiet and uncertain at this insight into his father that he’d never heard before.
“I am not saying that he did not also fight for the rights of the mundane born, I’m saying that he would not have risked the life of his heir if he had not fought for more.”

“So the Rite?” Harry questions sheepishly, and the figure smiles, shape growing more defined.

“As I said, they will teach you the value of your name, its history, magic, power, rank, and responsibilities. However, once awakened, your magic will spread.”

“Spread how?” he demands.

“Spread to other bloodlines, names lost to time, whose power slumbers within your blood. No matter how many protections a house lays to defend its blood from fading, or its name from dying out, death comes for all things. When the mainlines of such houses fall, the magics and protections of those houses begin to slumber. If they slumber too long or grow too weak, they fade into death's realm. So long as they slumber, however, they can waken and stir. The Rite of Ancestry can stir these Houses' Family Magics and Protections, and they may lay claim to you as a Heir to their names.”

“What happens if they do?” he asks uncertainly.

“Then it will fall to you to reawaken and restore these lines, and eventually provide these lines with heirs of their own.”

“They won’t be Potters?” Harry asks.

“Each of them will be gifted something from the Potter bloodline, as you were born a Potter, but the children you have for other lines will bear the names of those lines.”

“And if I refuse this rite?”

“Then the House magics will slumber; they may waken for a child of your blood, or they may fade into death. If they fade, your children will have lost much, and the price will be paid by far more than just your children.”

“Why would they fade?”

“The magic expended to pull the Rite forward, to create this room, that calls me from my own slumber, and allows us to converse is vast. The Rite ensures that the family magic is active and able to restore the reserves it has spent in doing so. Without it…” the being trails off.

“It’ll fade,” Harry whispers, and something within him seems less at the very thought of allowing the Potter Magics to fade. He bites his lip, finally looking at the being.

“I have a madman hunting for my head.” He states, “I can’t promise I’ll live to have my own children.”

“No one ever can.” The being answers, “But perhaps by giving yourself all that much more to fight for, you will be that much stronger. House Potter is neither young nor weak; it remembers magic that once bathed kingdoms in blood. Magic that has been long forgotten hides in the footnotes of our histories, as do secrets that would make the realm tremble. A word to the wise, however.” Harry looks at the being and sees a glimpse of something more hiding within. “Do not follow your father's path. James Potter allowed others to control his battlefields and allowed himself to obey another’s command. IF war is your fate, remind them that a battlefield a Potter walks is only ruled by those the Potter allows.”

He pauses, mulling over the other man's advice, and nods his understanding. The magic in the room begins to build as the others' figure grows hazy. He understands, though, that this change is not out of anger; it is preparation. The time has come for him to decide. Magic grows thick and heavy as he thinks things over.

He thinks of Ron, eager to cast away the Weasley name; his disregard has always rubbed him the wrong way. He thinks of Hermione, whose derision of any Wizarding tradition has annoyed him, whenever he’d grown interested in what he missed growing up at the Dursleys. He thinks of Dumbledore, whose secrets Harry has started to despair of ever learning. He thinks of Tom, who will never allow him to escape; it will be victory or death, and he does not foresee any offers of neutrality from that front.

He doesn’t know much about the Wizarding World; his keepers have ensured he remains blind, but he wants to learn and discover the things that his parents had fought for. Looking to the future beyond the coming war, he allows himself to dream for a moment. He remembers the dreams he’d had before he entered Diagon Alley; he’d dreamed of a family, he’d dreamed of children, of giving them something he'd been denied. He sighs as he realizes that this is it. He can pass this on. This is a Legacy made up of more than a parent's sacrifice, something he'd been denied.

“I accept,” he says barely above a whisper.

“So, mote it be.” The Herald whispers as the room begins to glow. He looks beyond the vines, to the cracks he can see now in the stone beneath. The magic in the room grows even heavier before everything goes white.