Chapter Text
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and Harry Potter are not my creations, and I make no profit from writing this fanfiction. This story contains spoilers for both Sherlock and Harry Potter, and includes quotations from the novels, television series, wiki, and other sources.
Ode to Joy
C hapter I
“Wake up, Al,” Harry James Potter said gently, brushing a strand of dark hair from his son’s forehead. “It’s your birthday today.”
A sleepy groan came from beneath the tangle of bedclothes. Albus Severus Potter stirred, turning over and blinking blearily up at his father. His eyes—bright, vivid green, just like Harry’s—were still heavy with sleep.
“Dad?” he mumbled, voice thick with drowsiness.
Harry smiled fondly. He rarely had to wake his sons himself—most mornings, they were up before he was, bounding around with more energy than he could manage before a cup of tea—but today was special. Today, Albus was turning six, and the entire Weasley clan was gathering at the Burrow for the celebration.
“Come on, sleepyhead,” he said, nudging him lightly. “You’ve got a whole day ahead—cake, cousins, and more noise than anyone can handle.”
Albus gave a small, groggy sigh and flopped his face into the pillow again. “Is it really today?” he asked, his voice muffled.
Harry chuckled, brushing his son's hair back again. “It really is. And you won’t want to miss what Kreacher’s cooked up for breakfast. I’m fairly certain I smelled treacle pancakes coming from the kitchen.”
That did the trick.
Albus sat up a little straighter, blinking faster now. “Treacle pancakes?”
“Mmm,” Harry confirmed, eyes twinkling. “With whipped cream.”
Albus rubbed his eyes and gave a slow, sleepy grin. “I suppose I can get up, then.”
“That’s the spirit.”
Just as Harry turned to leave the room, the door burst open with a dramatic bang.
“ALBUS!” came the unmistakable voice of James Sirius Potter, as he launched himself into the room like a human Bludger.
Albus yelped as his older brother landed squarely on the bed beside him, bouncing the mattress and nearly sending the younger boy flying.
“James!” Albus protested, swatting at him. “Get off!”
James grinned, utterly unrepentant. “Oi, birthday boy! What are you still doing in bed? It’s practically lunchtime!”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “It’s seven in the morning, James.”
“Exactly!” James said, hopping off the bed and striking a pose. “You’re wasting valuable time!”
Albus couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips, despite the rude awakening.
“Alright, you two,” Harry said, shaking his head with a fond sigh. “Get dressed and come down when you’re ready. And James—try not to tackle your brother again before breakfast, yeah?”
James held up his hands in mock innocence. “No tackling. Got it. But I still call dibs on the first slice of cake.”
“In your dreams,” Albus said, now wide awake and climbing out of bed.
“Better hurry, then,” James called over his shoulder as he dashed out the door. “You don’t want to keep Grandma waiting, do you? She might start the party without you!”
“I doubt that,” Albus muttered under his breath, but his smile had grown wider now.
Harry lingered for a moment, watching Albus stretch and start looking for his socks, a quiet joy settling in his chest. Six years old. It hardly seemed possible.
Whatever the day held, he already knew it was going to be a good one.
XXXXXXX
Downstairs, the kitchen at 12 Grimmauld Place smelled of toast, sausages, and something sweet—Kreacher had outdone himself. The old house-elf had prepared a breakfast fit for a king, including Albus’ absolute favourite: treacle pancakes with enchanted whipped cream that glittered faintly gold in the morning light.
The three of them sat down together at the table. Harry poured juice for the boys while Kreacher hovered nearby, looking unusually proud.
“Thank you, Kreacher,” Harry said sincerely, nodding to the elf.
“Kreacher is honoured to cook for Master Albus’ birthday,” the elf croaked, bowing low. “Master Albus is kind to Kreacher.”
Albus beamed. “Thanks, Kreacher! This is brilliant.”
“Hmm,” James muttered, stuffing his face with sausage. “You only like him ’cause he lets you sneak extra pudding.”
Albus kicked him lightly under the table, earning a quiet chuckle from Harry.
XXXXXXX
After breakfast, the Potters stepped into the Floo one by one. With a swirl of green flames and a slight whoosh of warm air, they arrived at the Burrow.
The kitchen was already full to bursting—laughter rang off the walls, children darted between legs, and the scent of Molly Weasley’s famous beef stew drifted comfortingly through the air, mingling with the crackle of logs in the hearth.
“The birthday boy is here!” Ron Weasley called out the moment they stepped from the fireplace, arms spread as if announcing a champion.
“Uncle Ron!” chorused James and Albus, grinning widely as they ran into his waiting arms.
Ron scooped up Albus with ease, spinning him once in a dramatic twirl before placing him back on the ground. “Six years old, eh?” he said, ruffling the boy’s hair. “That means you’re officially old enough for your first prank on George. It’s a Weasley family tradition.”
“Ron!” Hermione's voice rang out as she entered from the garden. “Don’t go encouraging him.”
“Oh, come on, Hermione,” Ron replied, smirking. “Let the lad live a little."
Hermione gave him a pointed look, though the corners of her mouth twitched in amusement.
“Ron. Hermione,” Harry said, stepping forward with a warm smile. “Morning.”
“Hello, everyone,” Hermione greeted, pulling Harry into a brief hug before turning her attention to the small boy at Ron’s side. “And how’s our little birthday boy today?” she asked, kneeling to his level.
Albus straightened with great seriousness, chin tilted slightly upwards. “I’m ready for my big day, Aunt Hermione.”
James, who had wandered over to join Fred Weasley Junior by the cupboard, leaned in and stage-whispered, “Don’t let him fool you. He was practically drooling on his pillow an hour ago.”
Fred snorted. “Birthday drool. Classic. My dad would be proud.”
At that moment, Molly Weasley bustled into the room, hands on her hips and eyes scanning the room. “Where are my grandchildren?”
“Grandma! Grandma!” cried both boys, dashing into her embrace before she even had time to take off her apron.
Molly let out a delighted laugh, pulling them close. “Oh, both of you have grown so much. I swear, Albus, you’ve shot up like your father did at your age.”
“Well, I’m six today, Grandma,” Albus informed her proudly, chest puffed out.
She chuckled, patting his cheek. “Yes, my love, I haven’t forgotten.”
The noise swelled around them as more family members arrived through the Floo—cousins, uncles, aunts, and even a few familiar neighbours. The chatter turned to cheerful chaos as the children scattered into the garden, already drawn by the charms Molly had cast earlier that morning. Golden and red balloons floated lazily in the air, changing colour when touched, and enchanted streamers trailed overhead like ribbons of sunlight.
James grabbed Albus by the arm, tugging him towards the back door. “Come on! Everyone’s already out there. Race you to the orchard!”
Albus hesitated for just a second, glancing back at Harry with wide, excited eyes.
“Go on,” Harry said, nodding towards the door with a smile. “Just don’t trip over your own feet this time.”
Albus grinned and tore off after his brother, his trainers slapping lightly against the wooden floor as they vanished into the garden.
The door swung closed behind them with a creak and a soft bang, and Harry lingered for a moment, just watching the sunlight pour in through the kitchen windows, casting golden light over the chaos of Weasleys, warm stew, and birthday excitement.
It was good to be here. It always was.
XXXXXXX
The back garden was alive with laughter and chatter, children darting between magical decorations whilst teenagers reclined in the shade of the apple trees. Overhead, golden and silver streamers shimmered, their colours shifting with every stir of the breeze, whilst enchanted bubbles drifted languidly through the air, bursting with a soft chime of light.
Among the chaos were the usual suspects from the ever-growing Weasley clan: Molly Junior and Lucy were giggling near the shed; Victorie, tall and elegant, was helping Dominique adjust the charm on her glittering hairpins; Louis hovered nearby, nose deep in a Quidditch magazine. Fred Junior and Roxanne were orchestrating some mildly suspicious activity behind a conjured screen of ivy. And under the shade of a large elm, Rose and Hugo were playing wizard chess on a floating board that occasionally tried to float away.
Neville Longbottom’s children—Frank and Alice—had come along as well, both sturdy and good-natured, helping set up broomsticks for a game later. Lorcan and Lysander Scamander stood at the far end of the garden, deep in animated discussion, gesturing wildly at a cluster of garden gnomes.
“…I’m telling you, that one’s definitely displaying migratory behaviour,” Lysander said earnestly.
“Don’t be daft, it’s hiding from Aunt Hermione’s cat,” Lorcan replied with equal conviction.
Albus scanned the crowd, then lit up.
“Rosie!” he called, weaving between picnic tables and a set of floating rings James had enchanted for mid-air tag.
Rose looked up and beamed. “Happy birthday, Al!” she said, standing to greet him with a quick hug. She handed him a small, neatly wrapped parcel, tied with twine and sealed with a wax 'R'.
Albus grinned. “Thanks!” he said, tucking it under his arm.
They sat down on a nearby bench under the old apple tree, the branches swaying gently above them.
“It’s a shame Scorpius couldn’t come,” Rose said thoughtfully, brushing a leaf off her robes.
“Yeah,” Albus agreed, a slight frown tugging at his brow. “But he sent a gift. Aunt Andromeda said it came by owl this morning. All the way from Austria.”
“Oooh.” Rose's eyes lit up with curiosity. “Bet it’s something rare. He always sends interesting things.”
Following the end of the Third Wizarding War, Narcissa Malfoy had reconciled with her estranged sister, Andromeda Tonks. It had been slow-going at first—cautious conversations and years of old wounds—but gradually, the bond had begun to repair. And it was during one of Narcissa’s early visits to her sister’s home that her grandson, Scorpius Malfoy, had met Albus and James.
They had taken to each other instantly.
Scorpius, with his quiet confidence and curiosity, had balanced James’s loud energy and Albus’s quiet stubbornness in a way that worked far better than anyone could have predicted. The three became inseparable—much to Ron Weasley’s ongoing bewilderment. That his daughter had joined the trio not long after, and become just as close to Scorpius, left him in a near-permanent state of mild alarm.
On the Malfoy side, Draco had been just as surprised—perhaps more so. But, like Ron, he had grudgingly accepted that the bonds between children often ignored old grudges.
“Maybe he’ll come over next week,” Albus said, gently rolling the parcel from Rose in his lap. “He told me he wanted to show me the model broom his grandfather gave him.”
A moment later, James came charging past, waving a handful of sweets he’d pilfered from a floating tray. “Oi, Al! We’re setting up for Quidditch in the orchard.”
Albus stood, parcel still in hand, excitement returning to his face. “You coming?” he asked Rose.
She shook her head. “I’m on Hugo-duty until cake. He’s decided he wants to breed Puffskeins.”
Albus gave her a look of deep sympathy and jogged off to join his brother, laughter trailing behind him.
XXXXXXX
Harry stood at the edge of the garden, watching his children laugh and run, their robes fluttering behind them. They were close—inseparable, really. James teased mercilessly, but he would hex anyone who dared upset his brother.
Six years. It had been six years since Ginny died.
The dragon pox epidemic had swept through like wildfire. St Mungo’s was overwhelmed, and Ginny, still weak from childbirth, had succumbed to the illness before they could stabilise her.
Harry closed his eyes briefly.
He still remembered that night. The way the healers had looked at him. The sound of Albus crying in his cot. The silence that followed.
He had been left with two young children, grief hanging over Grimmauld Place like a storm cloud. But the Weasleys—his family—and his friends had rallied around him. They helped raise James and Albus. They came over with food, books, toys. Hermione organised a schedule. Ron brought jokes. George brought explosions.
And the house-elves had kept things running. Kreacher and Winky—bless her heart—insisted on staying, taking care of the house and helping with the boys.
Now, Harry had a good career as Head of the Auror Office, two wonderful sons, and a life that, despite its scars, was full and warm.
Still, his friends had grown increasingly persistent about his... personal life.
“You should start dating again,” Hermione had said gently over dinner the week before.
“Ginny would want you to be happy,” Ron added.
Even Molly had spoken to him—bless her, she had barely been able to meet his eyes when she said it.
“My daughter would be the first to urge you to move on, Harry,” she’d whispered. “She wouldn’t want you to be alone.”
He had smiled, a little tiredly. “I’ve got James and Albus. I’m not alone.”
“Harry…”
She’d dropped the subject. Others hadn’t. Ron kept suggesting the new shop assistant at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. Hermione hinted at a handsome Auror in Magical Law Enforcement. Fleur had even introduced him to a visiting Veela cousin who had declared she’d always wanted to meet “ze 'ero of the Battle.”
Harry had politely declined them all.
“The cake’s ready!” Molly Weasley’s voice rang out from the kitchen window, cutting through the late afternoon hum of the garden like a bell.
Harry blinked, pulled abruptly from his thoughts. He’d been watching Albus and James race kids broomsticks across the orchard, lost in a swirl of memory and soft sunlight.
“James! Al!” he called.
“Coming, Dad!” came the eager chorus from somewhere beyond the shed.
The children flooded back inside like a herd of Hippogriffs. Molly had outdone herself—an enormous chocolate cake, three tiers tall, decorated with enchanted golden stars that twinkled like fairy lights. The centre read in frosting: Happy 6th Birthday, Albus!
The kids' eyes went wide.
“Blimey,” Fred Weasley Junior whispered. “She’s trying to give us a sugar coma.”
Molly clapped her hands. “Alright now, everyone—on three!”
The room burst into song, loud and gloriously off-key:
"Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday, dear Albus,
Happy birthday to you!"
Albus stood front and centre, positively beaming, his cheeks glowing pink as the final note echoed around the room. With a quick glance at his father and a breath of determination, he blew out the six flickering candles in one big puff.
The room erupted into applause.
“Cut the cake!” Ron yelled enthusiastically from his chair at the far end of the table.
“Ronald Weasley!” Hermione hissed, scandalised, though there was no real venom in her tone
Everyone laughed.
Plates were quickly handed around, and generous slices of cake distributed. The first bite confirmed what everyone already suspected.
“Mmm… delicious,” Ron said, already three helpings deep and licking chocolate off his fork.
“Honestly,” Hermione muttered, though she smiled fondly into her teacup.
Across the table, Rose and Hugo exchanged a knowing look and snickered behind their hands at their father’s predictable sweet tooth.
The rest of the day unfolded in a pleasant haze—games were played in the orchard, broomsticks were raced, stories told, knees scraped and healed. The older Weasleys chatted in clusters, mugs of tea in hand, while the younger ones alternated between sugar-fuelled chaos and sudden naps under garden trees.
As twilight descended and the first stars began to appear, the garden slowly emptied. One by one, guests took their leave, calling goodbyes over shoulders and stepping into green Floo flames with fond farewells.
Harry helped Albus and James gather their presents—Albus’s stack had grown impressively tall—and shepherded them back through the Burrow’s fireplace. With a familiar whoosh, the three of them disappeared into the emerald light.
They arrived home at Grimmauld Place to the hush of evening, the soft pop of the Floo fading behind them as they stepped into the dimly lit drawing room. The familiar scent of old wood, parchment, and something faintly herbal—courtesy of Kreacher’s cleaning charms—greeted them like a familiar embrace.
James and Albus, both yawning now after a long day of sugar-fuelled chaos, dropped their armfuls of presents onto the rug with a dramatic thump.
“Alright,” James said, flopping onto the floor. “Time for the last few!”
They began tearing through the final stack, parchment wrapping and colourful string flying in every direction.
“I got books from Aunt Hermione,” Albus said, turning one over in his hands with a thoughtful expression. The cover shimmered faintly—The Young Arithmancer’s Guide to Runes—with neat annotations already scribbled on the inside flap in Hermione’s familiar handwriting.
Harry smiled, settling into his armchair. “I’d have been more surprised if you hadn’t.”
“Aunt Hermione loves books,” James muttered, pulling a packet of Fanged Fizzbombs from his own pile. “At least Uncle George gave you something that explodes.”
“I like reading,” Albus mumbled, gently tucking the book beside him like it was something precious.
Eventually, the last ribbon was untied, the last box opened. With a lazy flick of his wand, Harry cleared away the mess—wrappings, string, and crumpled parchment whisked into the bin by unseen hands.
The boys curled up on the couch, half-dozing now, surrounded by their gifts and a contented silence.
“Can we play Quidditch tomorrow, Dad?” Albus asked, his voice quiet, dreamy.
“Yeah, can we?” James echoed, already slumping sideways, his head nearly on his brother’s shoulder.
Harry groaned theatrically. “You two’ll be the end of me.”
“Please?” they said together, eyes gazing up at him in perfect synchrony.
He sighed, helpless against their double assault. “Fine. But I’m Seeker.”
“Yes!” James and Albus whooped, high-fiving before James rolled off the sofa and both boys darted upstairs, their remaining energy carrying them up the staircase two steps at a time.
Their laughter echoed down the corridor and faded as their door clicked shut.
Harry stood for a moment in the stillness of the living room, now bathed in the amber glow of a single lamp and the faint flicker of firelight from the hearth.
Yes, he thought.
He was happy.
XXXXXXX
The next morning, after a quick breakfast at Grimmauld Place, Harry brought James and Albus back to the Burrow. The day was bright and breezy—perfect weather for flying.
Ottery St Catchpole, once a quiet Muggle village, had changed considerably over the years. The Muggle residents had been quietly relocated—part of a long-term agreement between the Ministry of Magic and a very senior Muggle government official. In their place, the village had become a thriving wizarding community.
Harry remembered when Percy had first mentioned it, puffed up with pride as he explained how the whole thing had been “masterfully orchestrated” with minimal disruption. He’d gone on and on about the brilliance of the unnamed Muggle official involved, to the point where Ron had jokingly accused him of having a secret affair with the man.
"Honestly," Ron had said at the time, elbowing Harry, "I've never seen Percy so starry-eyed since he worked under Crouch. D’you think he’s writing poetry this time too?"
Harry had snorted into his drink and hadn’t dared ask.
These days, Ottery St Catchpole boasted a public Quidditch pitch, a small magical primary school for children under eleven, several charming shops, and even a wizarding park complete with self-rocking swings and a treehouse that could talk. The Burrow itself remained exactly as it had always been—slightly crooked, absolutely magical, and brimming with warmth.
As they walked up the familiar garden path, James and Albus spotted their grandparents through the open kitchen window.
“Grandma! Grandpa!” they called together, racing the last few steps.
Molly Weasley hurried out, drying her hands on her apron, and pulled them into a firm, loving hug. Arthur followed behind her, chuckling warmly as he ruffled James’s already-messy hair.
“Playing Quidditch today, are we?” Molly asked, glancing at the toy brooms in their hands.
“Yes, Grandma!” they chorused, excitement sparkling in their eyes.
“They’re already down at the pitch,” she said, gesturing in the direction of the village. “Ron, Hermione, Rose, and Hugo went ahead just after breakfast. I think Ron’s trying to convince Hugo he’s the next Viktor Krum.”
James’s eyes lit up. “We’ve got to get there before Dad takes Seeker again!”
“You’ll do no such thing on an empty stomach,” Molly warned, herding them briefly into the kitchen and handing them each a small pouch of snacks. “You’ll thank me later.”
Harry smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Molly.”
“Don’t let them fly too high too soon,” Arthur added, though his tone was more out of habit than worry.
“I’ll keep an eye on them,” Harry promised, and with that, they made their way down the footpath leading to the pitch.
The day passed in a happy blur of whooshing brooms, playful shouting, and warm sunshine. Ron played referee, though he was frequently distracted by trying to relive his own glory days. Hermione cheered (and occasionally scolded) from the sidelines, while Rose and Hugo switched between teams to keep things fair.
Albus flew with quiet concentration, cautious but determined. James, meanwhile, zipped around like a wild Bludger, all energy and laughter. Harry found himself smiling more than once at the sight of them—free, happy, and utterly themselves.
They stayed until the sun began to dip below the treetops, and the golden light painted the pitch in soft hues.
After a hearty dinner back at the Burrow—roast chicken, buttered carrots, and a treacle tart that Albus declared was better than birthday cake—it was time to return home.
“We’re heading back now,” Harry said, rising from the table. “Thank you for the dinner, Molly. Arthur.”
“Oh, any time, dear,” Molly replied, hugging him as tightly as she had the boys earlier. “You know you’re always welcome.”
Arthur nodded warmly. “Don’t be a stranger, Harry.”
“Goodbye, Grandma! Goodbye, Grandpa!” the boys called as they made their way towards the fireplace, cheeks flushed with food and laughter, arms full of leftover treats.
Green flames whooshed once more, and the Potters were gone.
XXXXXXX
James and Albus sat slumped on the sofa in the drawing room, their hair windswept and cheeks still flushed from hours of flying. They looked completely worn out, legs tangled beneath them, shoulders drooping in identical postures of exhaustion.
Harry leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching them with quiet affection.
"Go on—have a warm bath, then off to bed with you," he said gently, his voice tinged with amusement.
"Alright, Dad," James replied, his voice muffled by the cushion he’d face-planted into.
With great effort, the boys peeled themselves off the sofa and shuffled toward the stairs. Harry was just about to turn and follow them up when Albus paused midway through the room. His gaze had landed on the wall to his right—the great, ancient tapestry that hung on the wall.
“Dad?” he asked suddenly, frowning a little. “Why have we never fixed this tapestry?”
Harry blinked, surprised by the question. The tapestry had hung there for as long as he could remember—unchanged, untouched. It had become background noise, the sort of thing one stopped noticing after enough years living in the house. Yet now, under the soft golden glow of the lamps, the details seemed sharper again, as if seeing it anew.
He stepped forward and looked at it with Albus.
The Black Family Tree.
It was vast, winding across the tapestry like a twisted vine. The ancient fabric was worn, its edges frayed and discoloured by time. Some parts had been gnawed by Doxies before Kreacher had driven them out years ago. But despite the damage, the golden thread that embroidered the family names still glinted faintly, catching the light with surprising resilience.
Near the lower left corner, among a tightly clustered section of names, was a small, blackened burn mark.
“We can’t see Great-Uncle Sirius’s name on it,” Albus said, tilting his head as if trying to make it out.
Harry’s expression softened.
“You’re right,” he said quietly.
That black scorch mark had once held Sirius's name—until his mother, Walburga, had blasted it off when he’d run away at sixteen. Sirius had told Harry the story himself, bitter but proud. It had been a point of no return. A rejection of everything the House of Black had stood for.
And yet… after all these years, to see only the burn mark, and not the man behind it, felt wrong.
Harry nodded slowly.
“We should repair it,” he said, almost to himself. “Sirius deserves to be remembered properly."
Albus reached out and touched the edge of the tapestry gently. “Can we really fix it?”
Harry looked at him, then back at the tapestry.
“I think we can,” he said thoughtfully. “Might need to ask Aunt Hermione—or maybe Professor McGonagall. But yes. I’ll find a way.”
Albus smiled, then yawned into his sleeve.
“Go on,” Harry said again, ruffling his hair. “Upstairs with you, birthday boy.”
Albus nodded and trudged up the remaining stairs to join James, his small footsteps growing fainter.
Left alone, Harry stood in front of the tapestry a moment longer.
He traced the burn mark with his eyes.
“We’ll put you back where you belong,” he murmured. “I promise.”
And with that, he turned and quietly climbed the stairs, leaving the ancient tapestry behind, its golden thread catching the light—waiting.
XXXXXXX
The next day, Harry met Ron and Hermione for lunch at the Leaky Cauldron.
It was their usual table by the window—tucked in the corner, just far enough from the crowd to speak freely, but close enough to enjoy the bustle of wizarding life outside.
Ron now worked full-time at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, managing the shop’s day-to-day chaos while George focused on new product development. Hermione, meanwhile, was rising quickly through the Ministry ranks. As a senior official in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, she was one step away from becoming Head of the entire department. And, knowing Hermione, that was probably her plan all along.
Between mouthfuls of shepherd’s pie, Harry finally brought up the subject.
“I’ve decided to restore the Black family tapestry,” he said, setting down his fork.
Ron blinked. “The old thing in the living room?”
“That one,” Harry confirmed.
“Why?” Ron asked, scrunching his face.
“It’s part of Sirius’ history. Our history now,” Harry replied. “Albus noticed his name was still burned off. It just didn’t sit right. Sirius made me his heir. He might not have cared for the family name, but he still was a Black. He deserves to be remembered.”
Hermione, who’d already guessed where the conversation was going, gave a small nod of approval.
“Do you know anyone who could fix something that old?” Harry asked her.
“There’s a new antique restoration shop in Diagon Alley,” Hermione replied. “Stothenham’s. It opened a few years after the war, when Knockturn Alley was demolished. A lot of the more dubious businesses got shut down or moved out. Some of the original shopfronts are still standing, but most have changed hands. It's much... cleaner now.”
“Cleaner?” Ron snorted. “Less cursed, maybe.”
Hermione ignored him. “We can go after lunch, if you like.”
Harry nodded. “Let’s.”
Stothenham Antique & Magical Restoration was located near the far end of Diagon Alley, nestled between a bookbinder’s and a small boutique. The shop was new, yet felt old—polished oak shelves, floating parchment scrolls, and glass cabinets filled with delicately restored artefacts gave it a sense of quiet reverence.
A pleasant-looking, middle-aged wizard with greying temples and a neatly trimmed beard stepped out from behind the counter.
“Mr Potter,” he greeted warmly. “It’s an honour to meet you. Welcome to Stothenham’s.”
“Mr Stothenham,” Harry said with a nod. “Thank you for seeing us.”
"What can I do for you today?”
“I’ve got an old tapestry at home,” Harry began. “It’s damaged—faded in parts, a few burn marks. I was hoping you could repair it.”
The man’s eyes twinkled knowingly. “Ah. The Black family tapestry, I presume?”
Harry was taken aback. “You’ve heard of it?”
“I make it my business to study magical artefacts of historic significance. The Black tapestry is one of the oldest recorded genealogical spells still woven into fabric. Most are lost to time. If it’s still intact, I’d be honoured to take a look.”
An appointment was made, and later that evening, Stothenham arrived at Grimmauld Place. With careful precision and a combination of restorative charms, enchanted thread, and some rather complex enchantment weaving, he worked for nearly two hours.
When he finally stepped back, the tapestry was whole.
Harry stared in quiet awe.
Sirius’s name was there again, no longer a burn mark but written clearly in fine golden script. A single vertical line extended downward from his name… connecting to Harry.
Harry felt something shift in his chest.
Sirius had indeed made him his heir—effectively adopting him into the Black family. And now, the tapestry acknowledged it. From Harry’s name, two more golden lines descended, leading to James Sirius and Albus Severus.
“Dad! Dad!” James shouted from the stairs.
Harry turned, startled.
“Look!” James pointed excitedly at the tapestry.
Harry squinted.
There—further down the tree, just to the side of an old, scorched mark—something was changing.
A new line of embroidery was glowing into existence.
A double line now connected Marius Black—a long-disowned squib whose name had once been obliterated—to a woman named Amelie Vernet. Below them, a vertical line extended to the name Siger. And from Siger, two more names branched out:
Mycroft and Sherlock.
For a long moment, Harry simply stared.
The magical tapestry, now fully restored, had begun correcting itself—revealing previously hidden names and bloodlines that had been magically removed by generations of prejudice.
And now it showed the truth.
The last generation of the Black family tree included Edward Remus Lupin, Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, Mycroft Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes.
“Merlin’s beard,” Harry whispered.
Albus, who had come to stand beside his father, looked up at the unfamiliar names. “Who are they?”
Harry didn't answer right away. Instead, he walked over to the Floo and grabbed a pinch of powder.
“I need to call Andromeda.”
XXXXXXX
Andromeda arrived ten minutes later, hair slightly windswept and face curious.
Harry ushered her straight to the tapestry.
Her breath caught. “Marius Black…”
“You knew him?”
“Uncle Marius,” she said slowly, eyes scanning the newly revealed lines. “He was disowned for being a Squib. The family never spoke of him. But I remember my mother once whispering that he was brilliant. Too clever for their taste. He took a small inheritance—enough to vanish—and went to live among Muggles. Changed his name. We never heard of him again.”
Harry turned back to the tapestry. “Well, we have now.”
Andromeda nodded, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “If this is accurate… then Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes are our cousins.”
“Second cousins, probably,” Harry murmured, still digesting the information.
“And as Head of the Black Family,” Andromeda added carefully, “the decision on how to proceed is yours.”
Harry stared at the glowing lines.
Two new names. Two new branches. One hidden legacy.
“Well,” he said finally, “I suppose it’s time we met our newfound cousins.”
Author’s Note:
Hello, everyone! First and foremost, thank you so much for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts, so feel free to leave a review.
This story has been rewritten from Chapter One, so I encourage you to begin again from the start.
I plan to revise all of my fanfictions in turn—correcting the grammar and refining the storytelling.