Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Harry let out a less than quiet breath as the phone booth door clicked shut. He didn’t really think anyone was going to stop him, not yet at least. He was just walking down the street after all, and he doubted a stranger would recognize him. Honestly, he wasn’t entirely convinced someone who knew him well would recognize him right now. Not wearing his aunt’s broad rimmed black sunhat (he’d taken off the flower, but that didn’t really make it look that much better), or with a very thick robe stuffed mostly into his jumper, though it kept falling out so the whole thing had to stuffed into his trousers a little. It felt weird just walking onto the bus in his robes. He probably would have done it anyway, but sneaking out of the Dursleys' in a bottle green set of dress robes wasn’t something he was really up for trying that morning.

What was the code for ministry entry again? Oh, yeah. It spelled magic. How absolutely original. 62442 and he was in. The air shimmered as the box he was standing in began to expand and decend. Harry hastily shed his jumper, nearly toppling himself and accidentally removing the robe as well. He scrambled to everything back on and had his jumper thoroughly caught around his face when a pleasant female voice echoed lightly around the now brass and wood elevator.

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

Harry bit his lip and pulled the jumper down. He couldn’t very well say that he, the great and mighty Boy Who Lived, had come to see about the will of a man who most people didn’t even know was dead and possibly more importantly he was supposed to hate. Actually, it was really not an option to say he was Harry Bloody Potter at all. He didn’t have to be Hermione to puzzle that out. Might actually be a death sentence for him at this point, given his experiences with the ministry. Harry blinked, then snickered softly.

“Rigor Mortis, here to, uh,” Harry stumbled for a moment, “look at some things.” Hopefully that would be enough.

It was. A shiny badge shot of a small slot on the wall and presented itself, floating in front of him. Harry plucked it from the air and squinted. It read:

LORD RIGOURE MORTIS
LOOK AT SOME THINGS

“Have a wonderful day!” The voice chimed.

Harry blinked. Lord? He hadn’t said that. The spelling was odd too. The teenager shrugged, and pinned the little piece of brass to his robes. The elevator seemed to be going slower than he remembered, but that was okay. Harry rocked back and forth on his heels as he waited the last few moments for the brass box to reach its destination. His feet squished coldly in his soaked trainers, and Harry wondered idly if he should look into buying a new pair while he was in the city. He didn’t have much muggle money on him, but he might have enough to get a pair.

So lost in thought, he almost missed the little chime as the elevator door opened.

Harry blinked. He had to stop himself from doing something very stupid, like screaming in a public place or trying to run and plowing into a wall.

Waiting a small distance from the exit to the elevator were the absolute last people he’d wanted to see. There stood Lucius Malfoy, looking about as composed as ever, though the sheen of sweat on the edges of his brow and the way his faint smile looked like it could shatter at any moment somewhat soured the image of perfect pureblood Lord. Next to him Fudge, whose trembling hands squeezed each other white. There was a woman too, he didn’t know her but her stern and monocled form reminded him of a particularly cross McGonagall.

Fudge, the useless slimeball, stepped forward a single pace and bowed. At him. To him. Oh no. Maybe there was someone else next to him? Harry’s eyes swept all around. There was no one. The impressive entrance hall was impressively empty, unlike the last time when he had visited, when it was impressively loud and full and colorful. Oh no.

“Lord Mortis?” The Minister inquired, voice carefully steady and tone deliberately . . . Something Harry couldn’t exactly pinpoint. Something important. On either side of him the other two tensed, shoulders becoming impossibly straight.

Oh shite.

----------

A long squawking noise startled the minister from his mid afternoon grooming. Fudge sighed, set down his small tortoise shell pot of hair potion on his desk in between neat piles of parchment, and stood. He walked over to the tall, gilded grandfather clock set against the wall not five feet to the left of his desk. For all that the noise was truly obnoxious, the device itself was very helpful. After all, any competent minister should know when important people enter the building. Or at least when the name tag is made. It gave him a chance to meet and greet anyone worth knowing in person. Made a very good impression when the minister personally saw to the needs of whoever it was that day from the very start, no dillying or dallying.

The man wondered who it was this time. Maybe a diplomat of some sort he’d forgotten was coming? Perhaps some scholarly type he had never heard of before, here to unleash their newest discovery? He looked at the name written in the blank circle that replaced the clock face. He froze. Blinked. Rubbed his eyes. Looked again, eyes tracing the bold lettering, as if the ink might rearrange itself any moment now. It didn’t, the name printed above ominously still.

LORD RIGOURE MORTIS, it proclaimed.

Fudge felt his blood freeze, starting with his fingertips and spreading in a way that felt unbearably slow but could not have taken more than a second.

“Marissa!” He called, his voice a loud croak.

“Yes sir?” His secretary peeked her head through the door.

“Get me Lucius and Bones. Now.” He was still frozen, staring. “And clear the atrium.”

She blinked twice, opened her mouth once, closed it, and replied. “Of course sir.”

She closed the door.

Mortis. The name echoed in his head. There hadn’t been a single sighting of the family for over two centuries. And now one had walked into his ministry. His ministry. Heart beating in overtime, as if to make up for the ice still flooding his veins and pounding in his ears, Fudge stumbled back to his seat and collapsed into it. The large leather chair usually felt like a throne, but now it felt rather fittingly like a coffin. Mortis. The family was named so aptly. Necromancy was a whim to them. Death followed the Mortis name in what little of the family history was even known.

At least they were a secluded, paranoid bunch. Or so he had thought. If he was being entirely honest, it was the well held belief that the Mortises had died out. Perhaps it was more of a hope. Not that anyone dared breathe such a thing out loud. Now one had waltzed right through his front door. And he was not lucky enough to have it be a lesser family member, he had to contend with the Lord of them all.

For a brief moment it crossed his mind that maybe this was an impersonation. Perhaps a pretender or some joke? But no. That was impossible. No one would dare. The last impersonator had ended up splattered against a Diagon storefront two decades and some change ago. That hope was dashed.

He had no idea what to do.

He was very suddenly glad the charms controlling the speed the lift made the descent much slower for anyone of importance, so he could have some time to gather himself and get down to greet them. He had a little time, maybe a few minutes. It was something at least.

Amelia Bones marched into the office without so much as a knock. While she was a very important person in pureblood circles in her own right and the Department Head of the DMLE, that was not why he had asked for her presence here today. It was a little known fact nowadays that the Bones were a vassal family for the Mortises. It was barely a footnote to those who did know, at least on days not today, seeing as the family had been so quiet for so long.

Fudge lifted his head, hand pulling up with it to gesture weakly to the clock like an inelegant marionette. Bones looked annoyed, but didn’t comment and turned to the intricate golden pillar. She paled, a heavy breath pushing out of her. She turned wide eyes to the minister. Not a wise thing to do, he probably had less idea about what should be done than her.

Lucius took that moment to knock politely at the door, entering a half second later without waiting to be invited. The Lord took a moment to assess the situation, scanning the room for anything that could have frozen its occupants so effectively. It was obvious when his eyes caught the source. He choked on his own breath descending into a small coughing fit.

Fudge, sweaty and weak kneed, gestured for them to follow him and headed out the doors to the atrium. Three pairs of shoes clicked softly on the stone of the hall floors.

It was Bones who spoke first. “What . . . What are we going to do?”

An uneasy silence curled around the party. They reached a turn, only two more to the atrium.

“Maybe we should see why the Lord is here first?” Lucius suggested, having successfully wrangled most of his usual composure into place. Thee other two nodded to themselves, not having any better ideas. It would have to do.

The silence of the walk to the lift doors was tense. The silence waiting for it to open was bloody.

The gleaming doors parted with a pleasant “ting”. Fudge swore his heart nearly burst.

Standing there, eyes hidden in the shadow of a large cloth hat, was Lord Mortis. He seemed to loom over them all, back straight and shoulders hunched forwards just slightly. The Lord was shorter than he imagined, with dark hair wafting out from under the hat, brushing like feathers against unhealthy paled skin. Draped over the Lord’s frame were robes of obvious quality. Robes the poisonous green of the killing curse. Fudge held in a shiver and resisted the urge to dab at his brow with the kerchief in his pocket. The Lord stood deadly still, obviously waiting for them to make the first move.

Fudge strode forwards as confidently as his trembling legs were capable of. “Lord Mortis?” He enquired as politely as he could. Even though he could not read the brass nameplate the figure had pinned on, he was certain he was not mistaken as to the Lord’s identity. It was still polite to ask.

The figure twitched, but what they could see of Lord Mortis’ expression did not. Had he done something wrong? He had done something wrong.

Oh shite.

----------

Harry just knew he was in a deep, deep pile of dragon shit now. One that reached miles above his head. At least they didn’t know who he was? He was so dead.

Oh. They expected him to answer. If Lucius heard his voice he was screwed though. It would all be over. He tried to deepen his voice.

“I am.” Oh Merlin, did he sound lame. He had no idea what he was supposed to say. And he was sure he sounded like one of those seven year olds trying to imitate deep adult voices. He just knew it. Was he supposed to say something more proper? He already sounded like a massive, Malfoy’s Dad level git.

A wave of something . . . magical surged inside him, spilling out into the room with an almost physical force. It almost felt as it it was spilling into him and through him, something almost foreign but unmistakably his own. What the bloody hell was that? Great, just great. Absolutely fan frigging tastic. Just his luck he was some sort of magic fog machine and only now discovering it. He had the worst timing.

“Is there something we might assist you with, Lord Mortis?” Fudge looked like he was about to piss himself. Harry had to bite back a laugh. He might be completely, utterly in over his head and all of two seconds away from being discovered, but that was funny. He officially had another solid Patronus memory.

“I need to look at the will of Sirius Black.” There wasn’t really a way to just slip in and out quietly now, but he didn’t really know where to look in the first place so maybe this would speed things along. They could point him in the right direction and everyone could forget this ever happened. Yeah. Like that would happen.

The woman sucked in a soft breath. Fudge squeaked. Actually squeaked.

Harry crossed his fingers covertly behind his back and really, really hoped he wouldn’t be found out. Not after all this. Whatever this was.

----------

“I am.” Mortis spoke, voice deep and menacing, seeming to boom out across the room despite the low volume of the words themselves.

Lucius pointedly did not twitch as powerful Death Magic oozed and curled out of the robed figure, sweeping through the room like floodwater. It would be impolite to react. Possibly. He was entirely unsure as to what the etiquette in this situation actually was. He just hoped he did not offend the obviously powerful Lord. This was really not his day.

Fudge wobbled forward, sweaty hands folded together tightly. Lucius prayed he didn’t say anything that would doom them all.

“Is there something we might assist you with, Lord Mortis?” Honestly, the man looked like he was about to soil himself.

At least it was a useful question. The Death Eater held his breath, hoping Lord Mortis might reveal some hint as to the purpose of his visit. Anything at all. Maybe they could get the immensely, impressively powerful Lord out of here without too much trouble.

“I need to look at the will of Sirius Black.”

Lucius did not outwardly react Merlin damn it all. He was supposed to have Draco quietly claim the Black inheritance without anyone the wiser. Next to no one knew the man was even dead. It was supposed to be a win for his family. Not that he was going to bring that up. He might work under a Dark Lord of questionable sanity and a penchant for random violence, but he wasn't suicidal.

Bones sucked in a breath.

Damn it all to burning times and back again. Wills weren’t even dealt with or stored here. They would be with a close family member or the goblins. In this case he bet on the latter. It has to be some sort of test. Lord Mortis was testing them.

Lucius stepped forward before either of his companions could sentence them all to an early grave. “Right away Lord Mortis. If you would do me the honor of following me to a more comfortable waiting room, sir.”

Lord Mortis nodded slowly, the faintest waves of malice wafting off him like a perfume. Lucius started to sweat. Had he offended Lord Mortis? How had he offended Lord Mortis? Was there any way to rectify this before he and the rest of his living (and possibly dead) kin were turned to puppets to satisfy the Lord’s temper?

“Just this way, Lord Mortis.” Lucius knew he was visibly sweating now. He took a step back and half turned on his heel so he was more or less facing with his back to the lift, but with enough turn left that a he wouldn’t have to swing his head dramatically to catch sight of the Lord.

The soul wrenchingly terrifying waves of malice didn’t abate, but the did not increase either. Lucius almost sighed in relief, but that would have been uncouth. Impolite. Potentially fatal.

He started walking, carefully not too fast or too slow, in the direction of one of the ministry’s nicest and most comfortable sitting rooms. It was a very important place, where very important people discussed very important things. It was also likely a deciding factor in how dead he would be when this was all over. Lucius hoped it was good enough.

Lord Mortis’ footfalls were light, practically silent even in the empty atrium. The sound itself was a wet thing, one that made Lucius restrain a shudder.

An eternity later Lucius stepped up to the thick wood door and opened it with a slow grace, bowing deeply at the waist. He swung one arm across his body to present the open entrance to the Lord.

A snap of deepening anger cracked out from dangerous Lord and struck the bowing pureblood like a knife. Breath caught like a bludger in his throat. Lord Mortis stepped forwards. The Death Eater prayed it would be quick, but held little hope.

Lord Mortis stepped past him into the room.

Lucius’ tense muscles trembled in relief and he barely caught a whimper before it exited his throat.

Lucius straightened, pulling the last of his composure tightly around him. “Is the room to your taste?”He addressed the green robed figure.

“. . . Yes.” Lord Mortis spoke slowly.

“If you would excuse me, I will bring the will before you shortly.” The pale man swallowed around a sandpaper tongue as subtly as he could.

The seconds stretched by, then Lord Mortis gave him a single sharp nod.

Lucius bowed again and closed the door as quietly as he could, then slumped against it, knees all but giving out entirely. He let out a shaky breath.

“Is . . . ” Fudge trailed off, staring at his closest advisor with wide eyes, wringing his hands.

Lucius catapulted himself into a straight backed standing position, imaginary wrinkles from his robes with shaking hands. “I will be back with Black’s will as soon as I am able.” He strode forward and was in the lift before either of the other people in the room thought to open their mouths.

----------

Harry had been waiting in that room for a long time, and as comfortable as the couch was it was very bare and he was left alone with his thoughts. Which lead to his current issue: Harry was confused. Very, very confused. Malfoy’s dad had bowed to him. At least, he was pretty sure that had happened. They couldn’t have known he has himself, could they? No. No, they thought he was someone important. Someone important enough that Lucius Malfoy had bowed to him. Well, shite.

He sighed heavily. At least he was getting Sirius’ will. After he had died, and damn did that still hurt to think about, Hermione had grilled Ron about how wills in the wizarding world worked. Ron hadn’t known a whole lot, and Harry hadn’t been paying attention as well as he probably should have been. He hadn’t really been in the mood to talk much, or do anything much really, but his friends did their best to make sure he could get anything Sirius had wanted him to have. He was glad they had gotten it right about where the wills were held. Neither Ron nor Hermione had been exactly sure where will were kept, but they decided it made sense that they were held in the main government building. All he had to do was touch the will and, well, he didn’t know what would happen exactly, but Sirius had to have left him something. He hoped.

Harry bit the inside of his cheek, eyes tearing up and the back of throat burned. Sirius wouldn’t . . . he wouldn’t want him to cry anymore. He’d cried so much, if he owed his godfather anything he owed it to him to stop that and try to be happy. One deep breath and Harry shook his head once harshly, as if he could physically dislodge the reaction. He just wanted to stop feeling so helpless, wanted to break something. Badly. So badly it snapped inside him like firecrackers. He grit his teeth against tears and anger.

“Squeak!”

Harry opened his eyes, blinking away the spots that came from screwing them closed like he had. What? He looked around, brow furrowed and lips drawn in confusion. He glanced down at his lap once he’d swept the room to stare at the hands resting on his knees.

There was a . . . Was that a dead mouse? On his lap, a mostly complete skeleton of a small mouse sat perched on its hindquarters. It’s little face snuffled up at him. It was moving, and he was fairly sure that wasn’t just a figment of his imagination. Any trail of thought he’d had before crashed violently to a halt, leaving confused static in it’s wake. The little jaw opened a crack.

“Squeak.” More subdued this time, but he’d definitely heard it.

Harry pulled his brows down and together and tugged at his lip with gentle teeth, head spinning dizzyingly. He took a shuddering breath in and closed his eyes against the sensation. His magic was swirling around him chaotically, as it had been doing every time he got particularly emotional since fourth year. It surged beneath his skin, itching the inside and outside of his skin simultaneously. Which had been incredibly unpleasant at first but he had gotten used to, a bit, over time. It was particularly bad today though, and he cringed from it. It seemed . . . More today as well. He couldn’t explain why or how it felt like that, but it did he was sure of it.

The mouse squeaked again and even with his eyes closed his attention was pulled towards it. His magic caressed it gently, he could feel it like hands petting soft fur. That was new, and his eyes snapped open just as his magic surged past the feeling of fur to connect to the heart of the little creature. What was that?

It didn’t look any different, all bony and dusty, though it looked to him more alive. Another differentiation he couldn’t explain. Or even define properly. He could still feel his magic twining though the little thing, still feel phantom fur over hands that were nowhere near the skeleton. He wanted to know more, see more, as much as dread filled him at the sight in front of him . . . He was curious. His magic surged in response, curling and twisting and with it flesh began crawling up the little spine slowly, from the heart outwards. It was disturbing to watch, and after a second he blinked away the sight.

He groaned, perhaps a little loud but Harry thought it was impressive he hadn’t screamed, and dropped his head in his hands. He could no longer feel ghost mouse fur on them, which was a plus at least, he thought. Why did it always, always have to be him? Where had this even come from? Had Malfoy’s dad done something to him? He dismissed that. Probably not, even if the man was a grade A creep he wouldn’t give Harry a new ability, or whatever this was.

When he peeked between his fingers at the little thing, it looked almost like a living mouse, having finished growing all of it’s fur and flesh back. It looked just like any other little grey mouse, except for one thing. Faintly glowing killing curse green eyes stared back at his own.

Harry squeezed a strangled noise from the back of his throat. Why him, he repeated desolately, why him. He could have been normal. He would have been happy being normal. But no, of course not, he had to be The-Boy-Who-Bloody-Lived and all this other nonsense on top of it. Or perhaps because of it. Damn it all.

The mouse squeaked again, twice in quick succession as if telling him something, high pitched and urgent.

He really wanted to break something now.

The door swung opened with the faint creak of hinges and a small burst of cold air. Harry snapped his head up to glare at whoever had startled him out of his . . . not . . . brooding. Lucius Malfoy flinched back violently. Harry immediately felt a little better, and then a bit bad, and then just generally a little cross after that faded a split second later. He stopped glaring though, and felt his magic settle under his skin almost reluctantly. What was going on with that.

Malfoy’s Dad took one step forwards, then another after a small pause, then another with almost careful confidence until he was standing just a few feet away. What did he think Harry was going to do, kill him? He almost laughed thinking about it. As if he even could.

“Lord Mortis, the will you requested.” Malfoy’s Dad bowed low and held the small stack of parchment out in front of him.

Harry took the papers awkwardly. He didn’t really want to thank Malfoy’s Dad, you know with the whole Death Eater thing, and the whole he didn’t like him thing, but . . .

“Thank you,” he said slowly, trying not to sound rude. It’s not like the man knew who we was, and he didn’t want to give whatever important person he was definitely impersonating a bad name.

The man righted himself carefully. “Thank you, Lord Mortis. Is there anything else you require?”

Harry paused. Something else? He didn’t really think so. “No.”

Malfoy’s Dad bowed again and backed out of the room quickly. Almost desperately, he’d say.

A moment after the door was shut, the mouse thing on his lap squeaked again. Huh. He had actually forgotten about that. One sly glance down confirmed that, yep, it was still creepy as ever. He sighed through his nose.

The papers were the important thing though, and despite being a little scared to see what was on them, Harry started to read. His eyes scanned the pages, having to skip back to read a couple things more than once, just to be sure they were real. Sirius had left him everything. Literally everything. The Black Vaults, the Lordship, the Wizen-whatever seats, even Grimmuald place. He smiled a little even as he choked back tears. Maybe it was irresponsible of the man to leave a teenager in charge of all this, but he wasn’t sure Sirius had ever been called responsible in his life, and it felt good to know how much the man had cared about him.

He cleared his throat and tried to enunciate at best he could. “I accept.” His voice was still a little croaky, but it had been enough. The papers flashed, and a cover page slipped in in front of the rest. It was some sort of summary, but it was the very top line that drew his attention.

The complete possessions, lands, and titles of Heir Sirius Black are now passed to Lord Rigoure Mortis (Previously Harry James Potter).

Previously? Was he not himself anymore? What had happened? Did it have something to do with that stupid fake name tag? He took it off and squinted at the letters. Was that what this was all about? He hoped not. Hermione would just about hide him if a fake name tag had changed his name and caused whatever all this was.

Of course, he had to live to see her first, which meant now was the time to beat a hasty escape.

Chapter Text

It had been two days since his trip to the Ministry and Harry was still confused. It would be almost a month until the Order came to get him and took him to Grimmuald, assuming they were still there. Since Sirius didn’t own the place to loan out anymore they might not be, since it was, bafflingly enough, his now. Or maybe they thought he had willed it to the Order or something and were still there? He didn’t know.

He had thought of sending something back asking Hermione for help with whatever had happened, but he figured he wouldn’t get a real answer back, just something vague, and had resigned to waiting however long it would be until he saw her next. He hoped she could figure out what was going on. That they all could, really. If the two smartest people he knew couldn’t figure it out then who could?

Harry wondered absently if he should go downstairs and get himself something to eat. The Dursleys were out tonight, some sort of family dinner he wasn’t invited to. He could leave his room without being bothered. Though, he could do that when the Dursleys were still here too, considering they had mostly ignored him this summer. But, well, things had been weird ever since he had strode back into the house tiredly with a glowy eyed little mouse on the brim of his aunt’s hat and a set of green robes stuffed badly into his jumper. None of them had looked him in the eye since, and Aunt Petunia wouldn’t even take her hat back. It was new, and from what he’d overhead very expensive, and that anything could override his Aunt’s vanity like that was unsettling.

Speaking of unsettling . . . His new companion was definitely that. The mouse thing hadn’t shown any signs or leaving or going back to being dead any time soon, so last night he’d pulled out his history textbook and gone looking for names. He’d settled solidly on Uric, after Uric the Oddball. It seemed fitting.

A light scuttling drew his attention to the little menace, who was climbing up his blanket from where it hung off his bed and up towards his pillow. It sat there still as the dead, eyes glowing like some deeply disturbing "magic" beast from one of Dudley’s scary movies, right next to his face, raised it’s little nose to the ceiling, and squeaked. Harry burried his head in his pillow and groaned loudly.

At the very, very least nothing else had come back to life. No undead house cats, no rabbit Dudley had buried in the backyard six months after he’d gotten it for his birthday when he’d forgotten to feed it, no ghostly goldfish suddenly stalking him. Merlin he hoped he hadn’t just jinxed it. His magic stirred uncomfortably under his skin in response. Ever since the Ministry it hadn’t been able to sit still, alternating between moving very noticeably throughout his body or leaking out of it. He felt like a damned fog machine. As if in response, it started to spill ever s slightly from his fingertips. Harry groaned again. Why him? Why did it always have to be him?

Uric squeaked again.

Harry turned to stare at it. He wondered for a moment about the . . . You know, he wasn’t really sure what to call it. It wasn’t really a zombie or anything, and it’s mouse hood was dubious at best. The only thing he was sure it was 100% of the time was a headache.

He sighed and pressed the back of his head into the pillow.

There was a banging noise downstairs, a loud one. Sounded like a door being throw open, not apparation, but Harry was still on his feet in a spit second, blanket falling clumsily to the floor, groping for the light switch and casting the room into shadow. His magic was coiled tightly beneath his skin, heart pounding in his chest and his ears. Thank Merlin he had been out in the park earlier and hadn’t bothered untying his shoes. Panicked eyes swept the room, past Hedwig’s empty cage and his never unpacked chest in search of his wand.

It sat innocently on his desk, and a second later he had it in hand and slowly backed into the darkest corner of the room.

Uric did not squeak. Harry counted himself lucky on that one, though less lucky when it scurried over to rest beside his feet. He spared a glance to see if Uric's eyes glowed too obviously. Through some odd twist of fate there wasn’t even a hint of light.

But he didn’t have time to think of that, not when he heard footfalls on the stairs. There was more than one of them, he could tell that with certainty, but how many he couldn’t be sure. They were coming closer. Closer. He winced at a quiet creak. Third stair from the top, left side. It sounded like a gunshot with only his heartbeat as competition to take up the silence. He drew a breath in and held it. A steady hand held his wand trained on the closed door.

He felt Uric’s fur brushing against the top of his ankle, which zipped in the back of his mind, beyond the adrenaline, as incredibly odd.

The door swung open, nearly silent, casting faint light into the room.

Harry braced himself for spell fire.

The lights flicked on.

“. . . Tonks?” Harry asked, incredulous, the word practically forcing itself out of his mouth.

“Wotcher, Harry.” She responded, looking absolutely exhausted. Her eyes were a dull grass green which did nothing to make her slightly frizzy mousey brown hair looks any better.

Harry frowned. They weren’t supposed to be here, not yet. “Prove it.”

“Good lad.” Moody shouldered his way into the room, shooing Tonks further in.

Harry blinked once in surprise and the locked eyes with him. “So, prove it.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?” Moody snarked back at him.

“I don’t know.” Harry furrowed his brow. How was he supposed figure out if they were themselves.

Moody sighed sharply. “Ask me a question, something only I’d know the answer to.”

Harry frowned. “What do you complain about all the time? Uh, about my wand?”

“That you keep it where you can lose an arse cheek.” He huffed. “That wasn’t a bad one lad, now grab your things, we’re leaving.”

Harry slumped a little in relief, partially from that and partially because Tonks had added bright blue to her hair. He started slightly as Uric’s little claws latched onto his pants leg, climbing up it with speed. Moody’s swirling eye locked onto the little abomination and the man tensed.

“What,” he growled, “is that?”

Harry shrugged and responded with “Uric.” He knew it was’t a real answer, but he didn’t actually have one of those himself.

Moody’s craggy face contorted in displeasure, eye still locked on as it made it’s home in his front left pocket. He looked like he wanted to say more, but he was interrupted by the third member of their party.

Arthur Weasley stepped through the doorway with a bright smile. “All packed up Harry?”

“Yes Mr. Weasley.” Harry wasn’t sure if he was oblivious to the tension or just choosing to ignore it but he was thankful either way. He smiled at his best friend’s father and turned to the side of his desk, pulling his trunk over to the rest of the group and scanning the room to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. There was just some old parchment and a broken quill on the desk, a scattered pile of newspapers, and his Aunt’s sunhat lying at the end of his bed. Nothing he wanted to take. Hedwig’s cage sat in the corner, but he could just send her ahead the day of so he didn’t really need that either. Good to go then. He turned to look at the group expectantly.

Moody grunted and fished around in his coat pocket for a moment before pulling out a cracked frisbee. Harry grimaced. Great, another portkey. Still, It’s not like they could fly to Grimmuald or anything, with all the Muggles in London. If they were going there, which was still sort of up in the air. Harry reached out and grabbed the edge of the disk firmly. Once Arthur and Tonks had joined them, Moody muttered something unintelligible.

Harry groaned loudly as the effect of the portkey ended. He’d landed and immediately collapsed face first on the floor in a heap, he really wished he could be surprised about that. The floor was cool though, and it gave him a moment to compose himself. It took almost a minute for the world to stop spinning. Something squirmed in his pocket. Now that he was paying attention to it, he could feel the little body reforming in his pocket. It had probably been crushed when he’d fallen, and if he wasn’t so grossed out he might feel bad about that.

His mind turned without his permission to the time he’d accidentally stepped on the little beast. How he’d been unable to look away as the little body had knit itself back together. It was an experience he’d hoped never to have again.

Seconds Later he heard a muffled squeak. Harry choked on a laugh, which made a deeply embarrassing noise.

He pushed himself up off the sweet, steady floor with a low groan, head still swimming a little from his trip, and turned up to see Hermione watching him in quiet amusement and Ron behind her muffling a snicker behind his hand. They were in a rather bare looking bedroom with two beds, well worn wood floors, and boxes piled up on one bed and lining most of the walls. It all smelled faintly of syrup and gunpowder, which Harry thought was a very odd combination. The window outside, which sat just to the left of the pair, even in the dark and just lit by light coming off the house, showed a fairly clear view of the Burrow’s back garden.

“Nice to see you too.” He grumbled, pushing himself up to standing and choking down the bile that rose with it. He steadied himself and gave them both a slightly creaky smile.

Hermione crushed him in a hug, face thoroughly buried in his shoulder, and mumbled something that sounded heartfelt.

Harry laughed. “Hermione I cant hear you all the way in there.”

She mumbled something again, arms tightening, and Harry shared an exasperated glance with Ron. Harry hadn’t thought Ron could get any taller, but there he was having shot up over the summer, and was at least a head taller than Harry. He would even bet his friend was taller than Snape now, which made him feel a little smug.

Hermione stepped back and gave him an embarrassed smile. “It’s good to see you Harry.”

“You too.” He grinned back at her. “Erm, is there a meeting going on?” He’d expected a bit of a rush, or at least Mrs Weasley to be there waiting as well, but it seemed to be just the six of them in the room.

“As a matter of fact there is.” Arthur Weasley responded, voice bright and cheerful, setting his hand of Harry shoulder and throwing all three of them a somewhat soft look. “One we have to be getting to as a matter of fact.”

“Let’s go then.” Harry nodded. Good, they were finally going to let him in on some of this at least.

“Ah -” Arthur looked a little thrown. “Not you Harry, but Tonks, Alastor, and I.” He threw a slightly desperate look to the other two, looking like he very much did not want to be the bearer of this bad news. “Why don’t you three show Harry where he’ll be staying?”

“It’s the same as last time.” Ron tossed out, casual tone souring slightly.

“Ah, yes, well, perhaps some time to catch up then?” He gave them another, slightly thinner looking smile as he raised his wand and apparated out with a crack. Moody and Tonks were just a second after he was, Moody’s eye still locked onto him.

“We’re getting anti apparation wards when Bill comes in about a week . . .” Ron bit out, a bit weakly, rubbing his arm in an absent minded circular motion. “They’re still not telling us anything.”

Harry glanced down at where his hand was moving, breath catching in the back of his throat. The brains. The damage they did. “How . . . ” He couldn't force the other words out.

Ron shrugged smiled wanly. “They’ve healed up alright, just scars now. Don’t hurt or anything.” He wrinkled his nose. “Itchy though.”

Harry nodded, relieved. He knew what Ron meant, the scar on his upper arm giving a sympathetic twinge. Then his brain caught up to what Ron had said. “Nothing at all?”

Ron shook his head. “We’ve been trying but . . .”

“They still think we’re too young.” Hermione finished, face twisted like the words tasted as bad as they sounded. “And the meetings are always out of the house, at least after they caught us the first time we tried to snoop, so it’s impossible to even try to listen in.”

Harry frowned deeply, anger stirring inside him. Had they learned anything from the past year about the dangers of keeping him in the dark? Had Sirius’ death taught them nothing? Didn’t that mean something to them? What about their own children's injuries?

His magic whipped inside him, the boiling sensation of it drawing him out of his rage as it started to snap past his skin. He couldn’t let anyone get hurt by his emotions ever again, and he didn’t know if his magic, the way it was now, would hurt Ron or Hermione. He clenched his teeth and pushed a long breath out his nose. He’d get mad when he could yell at them to their faces.

“Harry?” Hermione asked tentatively.

“Yeah?” His voice was as forced a calm as he felt.

She cleared her throat. “How, uh, how many OWLs do you think you got?”

Harry laughed, of course she’d ask him about that. “I don’t know Hermione, but I do have something I need to talk to you about.” His voice dipped at the end, fading into nerves and a darker tone.

“Well, out with it then.” Ron sitting on one of the lowers stacks boxes with a grin.

Harry settled on the bed a second later, and Hermione found pulled out the chair from an empty desk. Even after he’d run over how to tell them in his mind a hundred times, Harry still wasn’t exactly sure what to say. Well, it was probably best to start at the beginning.

He took a deep breath, and began. “Well, see, you know how we talked about me going and getting Sirius’ will, and how it was probably at the Ministry and all . . .”

-----

Lucius Malfoy was in Turmoil. His hair, usually tied back and well groomed, hung over his shoulders unevenly. His office, in which he was wearing a hole in a rug that had lived there along before he was born, was not as tidy as it usually was. The parchment littering his desk was scattered and not stacked neatly. The chairs not perfectly aligned. A soft velvet blanket was thrown haphazardly over the lounge. Little things, but to a man like Lucius they were everything.

Lord Mortis’ one visit to the Ministry three days ago had thrown everything into chaos. He had yet to reappear since, and many were hoping it stayed that way. Lucius could not force himself to be that optimistic.

Fudge had Ministry workers combing records for anything relating to the Mortis line. Lucius prayed he found something. His Master wanted the Lord to join their cause. And while Lucius wished him luck with that, he hoped desperately that he wasn’t ordered to involve himself in those negotiations. Mortis’ were notoriously, often violently, neutral. He’d have more luck convincing the entire Weasley brood to switch sides in all likelihood.

Lucius had plans of his own though. He needed more information before he could truly act on any of them. He needed to know more about the Lord Mortis. Before that malice he felt at the Ministry came back to haunt him. He needed to ingratiate himself, or at least his family, to the necromancer. At least enough to buy their lives and hopefully their freedom. He had narrowly won back his Master’s favor by delivering the news of Lord Mortis’ return to their world, and while keeping that was vital to his family’s continued survival and status once the war was won, it would mean nothing if they were all dead first.

The problem was, he had nowhere to start. The Mortis family had been ghosts in the wizarding world for over a century, with not even a whisper as to what they had gotten up to in that time. No one had any idea at all. Except, of course, for Black. Sirius Black, who had been close enough to the Lord Mortis to leave him everything instead of his godson. It was a puzzle. How and when had Black of all people gotten that close to Lord Mortis.

Lucius ran a manicured hand through his hair, tousling it in thought and pausing in his pacing to stare at the crackling fireplace.

There was a knock at the door.

Lucius stepped over to the tall green velvet chair that sat behind his desk and lowered himself into it. “Come in.” His voice was raised just enough so that it would carry through the thick wooden doors.

His son peeked his head through, then slipped in casually. “Father?”

“Yes, Draco?” He leaned back in his chair and began sorting the papers on his desk absentmindedly.

“What’s been going on these past few days?” The younger Malfoy just about threw himself onto one of the highbacked leather chairs facing his desk.

Ah. Well, his little dragon had always been perceptive, even if he had inherited the Black penchant for dramatics.

“There has been a rather unusual appearance.” Lucius started, tasting the words on his tongue as he gathered his thoughts.

He got a raised eyebrow in response, and Lucius would be hard pressed to decide if the expression more mimicked Severus or his wife.

“Three days ago, Lord Mortis entered the Ministry to claim the will of Sirius Black.” Lucius bit back a sigh. He was still no closer to the why of that, either.

Draco sucked in a sharp breath, posture righting from it’s previous slump.

The elder hummed in agreement, pushing a lock of hair away from stormy blue eyes. “Beyond that . . .” He took a deep breath. “It seems I may have made some mistake, upset him in some way. Though the how and the why, those still evade me.”

He saw his son flinch backwards and the blood drain from his face. Lucius swallowed around the ashes in his mouth. He felt much the same way.

“What . . . What are we going to do?” The young Slytherin’s voice trembled, but it was better than many would have done in his position, and of that Lucius was proud.

He let out a quiet snort at that. It was a serious situation, but the ridiculousness of his next words still left him reeling a bit. “Somehow the late Sirius Black had gotten close enough to Lord Mortis to will him everything instead of his godson. What I need to figure out is how. From there, you and Narcissa would do well to prove your usefulness, even if my chance to do so has passed.” Let it never be said that Lucius Malfoy did not put his family first in all things.

“Maybe . . .” Draco started, worrying his lip gently between perfect teeth, “maybe Potter has some clue?”

That opened up other, more worrying possibilities. Like Lord Mortis knowing Potter. Like Lord Mortis caring for Potter. Like Lord Mortis opposing his Master. A shudder wracked Lucius frame.

“You are no longer to antagonize Potter. Try to make peace, if you can.” He knew his voice was croakier than he’d have liked, but the though of his son in the hands of a displeased Lord Mortis was not something he ever wanted to even think of.

“The Mudblood and Weasel too?” Draco frowned, lip curling faintly in disgust.

Obviously his son did not understand. Which meant it was his job to explain, in perfect and excruciating detail, exactly what the situation they found themselves in was. By the end his son was pale and shaking faintly, and while seeing the boy that way gave him no pleasure, Lucius hoped it would prevent any foolish action on his part.

Lucius wanted to break something. But he couldn’t, of course. He had so much work to do. A Dark Lord to please, bribes to place, the life of Sirius Black to trace back to infancy, and memories to study for the tenth time in hopes of perhaps finding what had gone wrong at the Ministry.

But perhaps he could use a break before he did something rash himself. A ride with his son in the back gardens to clear his head, perhaps.

-----

Morning came early. Not in the way where Harry was tired, and it was some odd in the afternoon but it felt early or all that. No, morning started at 4am when an awful shrieking awoke him. The ghoul in the attack at it again.

Breakfast was about an hour later, given the shrieking had awoken everyone but Ron, who had been pulled out of bed by the scent of bacon. The day was easy, slow. Harry hesitated to call it lazy, because there was a tension underneath it all. Even in these simple moments the war hung over their heads.

They flew around the backyard, not so much pickup Quidditch as just tossing a quaffle around. Dinner was cheerful and bright, and Harry treasured the warmth that filled the bones of the Burrow.

The next day followed suit, with some added degnoming of the garden.

Though Hermione and Ron had both promised to help him get to the bottom of what was going on with him, they didn’t have much time alone or many materials to study. So, even though uneasiness itched inside him, Harry made himself content with some happy summer days. He knew a little more now than before, at least. That had come from Ron, not Hermione. Apparently the Mortis family was some painfully old, incredibly powerful, widely feared family of necromancers that hadn’t been heard of in a very long time. Practically the wizarding equivalent of boogeymen. It wasn’t something harry had been exactly thrilled to learn. Hermione had been fascinated, and a bit cross that she was just as clueless as Harry was. But that just made them all more determined to solve the mystery.

On his third morning at the Burrow, Harry stumbled blearily down the stairs to find Dumbledore waiting for him in the kitchen. Molly, who had woken him up and told him to come down not long before, bustled about the stove finishing up and laying our breakfast. Arthur was nowhere to seen, but his friends and Ginny were starting to load their plates up with eggs and toast and sausage

“Good morning, Harry.” He greeted. “Tea?”

“Yes please sir.” Harry sat and watched as, with a wave of a wand, a cup of tea poured and laid itself in front of him all on its own. Magic really was wonderful sometimes.

“Now, I’m very sorry to disturb your morning Harry, but I’m afraid there are some pressing things to go over.” Dumbledore sighed, and reached into his robe pocket to pull out a roll of parchment. “Earlier in the summer, I asked the goblins if I could have a gander at Sirius’ will.”

Harry tensed. Oh no. Did he know? Was he about to be kicked out of Hogwarts for accidentally becoming a necromancer? Hermione had slowed her eating and was obviously listening in, and Ron was casting Harry glances every few seconds.

“I have a copy of it I got then right here with me. It’s more of an overview than anything.” He held the roll out to Harry, who took it a bit awkwardly.

He unrolled it and read it over. All things he knew already. Money and such, political sounding things, and two buildings. Was that what this was about? Grimmuald Place? He gave Dumbledore a curious glance.

“As you can see, Sirius left you, among other things, Number 12 Grimmuald Place.” He took a sip of his tea.

“Well, you and the Order are welcome to keep using it as headquarters.” Harry shrugged.

“Thank you very much Harry.” Dumbledore smiled at him kindly. “There may be a bit of an issue with that, however.”

Harry blinked at him, confused.

After a short pause Dumbledore started again. “You see, it is entirely possible that with how dedicated the Blacks have been to their lineage, That the house itself has been cursed so that only a Pureblood may own it.”

Harry nodded, remembering Sirius’ shouting matches with the portrait of his mother, the way he spat about blood purity like the words itself were toxic.

“This unforntuately means that the next pureblood Black in line would inherit it despite Sirius’ wishes.” He drew in a breath, beard rising and falling with his shoulders. “That Black would be Bellatrix Lestrange.”

Harry felt his blood run cold. No. There was no way he would let that woman, Sirius’ murderer, steal his house away. Even if Sirius had detested the place, it still reminded Harry of him and he refused to see Bellatrix’s grubby little claws anywhere near it. Dread and anger burned inside him.

“Luckily, there is a very simple way to test all of this.” Dumbledore nodded seriously. Harry blinked and tried to push away the storm inside him as the elder man swished his wand sharply.

Harry followed his hand, which seemed to be darker and a bit more shriveled than he last remembered. He opened his mouth to ask about it, but was interrupted by the arrival of a very small, very loud form.

“Won’t, won’t, won’t, won’t!” It screeched, voice raspy and high. Kreacher looked just as miserable as usual, arguably more.

“You see Harry, you have also inherited -”

“Kreacher won’t do it! Kreacher won’t!” It’s bloodshot eyes glared a hole into the old wizard.

“Now -”

“Won’t, won’t, won’t!”

“Now if you have inherited all that belongs to the House of Black, the easiest way to tell is if you simply give Kreacher here an order.” Dumbledore looked a bit put out at having to raise his voice above the racket, but plowed on nonetheless.

Harry looked at Kreacher.

Kreacher looked at Harry.

Kreacher’s eyes widened and he shut his mouth with a click.

Harry opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “Kreacher . . .” He started, but trailed off. He wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to say. Kreacher continued to look at him with some mixture of suspicion and submission. “Do a little dance.” It was the best he had really.

Kreacher hopped up and down oddly and waved himself around a bit, scowling but not spitting any more sour words. Ron muffled a laugh in a bite of toast, and Ginny didn’t even bother with that. Each were pinned with a truly nasty look form the elf. He stopped after a second and squinted a bit at Harry. “Is that enough, Master.”

Harry nodded. “Uh, yes Kreacher.” He gave Dumbledore a somewhat panicked look.

Dumbledore beamed at him. “Well, that solves that then. I’ll let the others know Number 12 is safe now.”

Harry smiled back at him. “Of course sir.” He looked back at Kreacher. “Erm.” He had no love for the elf. Just about the opposite in fact. Sirius’ death was as much his fault as anyone else’s, and that if nothing else made the sight of him turn Harry’s stomach. He really, really didn’t want him. “Do I have to keep him here, with me?”

“Of course not Harry.” Dumbledore assured him. “There is always room for him at the Hogwarts kitchens, and you could of course just send him back home to Number 12 as well.”

Harry frowned. The grimy little elf and the large, grimy house deserved each other as far as he was concerned. “Go back to Grimmuald Place.” He ordered.

The nasty elf gave him a little half bow and cracked out of existence.

“You did exellently Harry.” Dumbledore assured him, before turning to the Weasley matriarch, who was just settling down herself. “Now, Molly, I hate to ask of course, but Number 12 truly flourished with your touch.”

“If you want me there organizing the clean up just come out and say so.” Mrs Weasley huffed at him.

“I would appreciate that very much Molly. You have been doing such an excellent job of it.” The old man smiled.

“Well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt. Bill will he arriving in just a few days and I’m sure he can look after the Burrow for me. Children?” She turned a serious face to them. “You do not have to come if you don’t want to.”

“We’d love to.” Hermione couldn’t answer fast enough. Ron gave casual nod, and ginny just shrugged.

“Yeah.” Harry added.

“Well then, I do have to be off.” Dumbledore stood. “Thank you very much for the Tea.” He disapparated with a crack.

“Boys,” Mrs Weasley huffed, “no manners at all.” She nodded and gave the four of them around the table a stern look. “If you want to come with you four had best get packing.”

“After breakfast.” Ron responded, swallowing a bit of egg.

“After breakfast.” Mrs Weasley agreed. “Now Harry dear, make yourself a plate, and don't be shy about it.”

-----

“So, why are we here?” Harry sat crosslegged on his bed, watching his friends. Bill was supposed to show up some time that evening, which meant a few hours before the population of the Burrow had all loaded into the Floo and headed to Grimmuald. Mrs Weasley was intent on having it all set up and ready to go with dinner on the table when Bill arrived. Which meant lots of cleaning and dinner preparations all happening very quickly. Which was why they were all hiding out in his and Ron’s room, which was just out of the way enough, being on the second floor and all, that no one would stumble in on them and demand they help.

Hermione paused in her inspection of a nearly empty bookshelf, which had no doubt been cleaned of anything nasty or dark before the arrived. ”Isn’t it obvious Harry? What better place to learn more about what happened to you then here, surrounded by books on . . . On dark magic and history and who knows what else.” She paused a bit on dark magic, nose scrunching up just a little before plowing on. ”Even if the Order has started on cleaning the third floor, which it most definitely looks like they haven’t, we’d still have who knows how many floors that have been completely untouched.”

“Yeah mate, I’d kinda figured too, you know.” Ron poked his head out of his trunk.

Huh. That . . . Even with how uncomfortable they were with he idea, the thought that they’d be alright spending the rest of the summer here, exploring a dark, cursed building and researching dark and awful things to help him, they were still here and still determined. Harry felt a soft sort of warmth at the idea and gave them both a grateful smile.

“Si-” Hermione coughed. “Sirius said once that the Library was on the fifth floor.”

Harry nodded around the lump in his throat. Yeah. A library would help.

“Bill!” Mrs Weasley cried, voice carrying up the stairs.

“Time to go down then I guess.” Ron stood and stretched before heading to the door. Harry hopped off after him.

The downstairs, and the stairs themselves, were quite a bit cleaner than he remembered from his trip that morning. Someone had dusted very thoroughly at the very least.

Bill stood tall in the little living room, turning to face them with a bright smile. He also wasn’t alone. “Harry! Ron! Hermione! It’s so good to see you. You’ve all met Fleur haven't you?”

Harry nodded and smiled at her. Ron froze in the doorway, Hermione had to elbow him out of the way.

“It’s good to see you again Fleur.” She said.

“And you too, Hermione.” Fleur’s smile was dazzling and her thick French accent had eased a little since he’d seen her in the tournament, though not very much. “And you Harry. How have you been?” She looked concerned about him. That was okay. Harry was concerned about him too.

Harry shrugged at her. “Well enough I guess. How’s, uh, your sister doing?”

“Gabrielle,” Fleur gave him a playful wink. “And she’s doing very well, asks about you all the time you know.”

Harry blushed. “That’s good.” He muttered, head turned down a little.

“Anyway, now that we’re all here,” Bill started. To Harry’s surprise they were, with Mr and Mrs Weasley both standing, and Ginny hanging back a little. He’d just been distracted by the new arrivals and hadn’t really payed them much mind. “Fleur and I have an announcement to make.”

He put an arm around her shoulders in a sort of half hug and pulled her to his side. He looked down at her, and she looked up at him, and Harry felt decidedly awkward because somehow, that little gesture seemed entirely too intimate. “Fleur and I are engaged. We’re thinking of holding the wedding some time next year. At the Burrow, if that’s alright with you Mum.”

Mrs Weasley’s mouth had fallen open in shock. Harry did a quick sweep of the room. It seemed like everyone was just about frozen.

“Congratulations.” Harry said, a bit awkwardly. “The Burrow sounds like a great place for a wedding.” Not that he knew anything about weddings. He’d never been to one, or seen one on the telly, or in a magazine. All he knew about weddings was that they were very fancy, and very meaningful, and something you did when you loved someone very much. He’d seen a picture of his parents at theirs and his Aunt and Uncle at theirs, but both seemed very different other than the basic white dress thing. Still, it seemed like the thing to say.

That didn’t break the silence, it just settled after him like a thick, wet blanket.

“You must love each other very much.” He added, helpfully.

“We do.” Bill smiled at him thankfully.

“How did you, erm, propose?” Harry asked. He really hoped someone else started talking soon. Or at least moving. Or breathing.

“Bill proposed on our one year anniversary.” Fleur sighed and put one hand on her chest and looked at Bill in a way that mad Harry feel even more uncomfortable. “Right by the lake I pushed him in on our second date. There were lights and candles and it was so very romantic.”

“One year!” Mrs Weasley spluttered. Oh, thank Merlin. “Why that’s just . . . Irresponsible!”

“You and Dad did the same.” Bill frowned at her.

“Well, yes, but,” Mrs Weasley gave a huff. “Why don’t we all sit down for dinner. You can tell us all a bit about yourself Fleur dear.” She headed right back to the kitchen at speed. “Oh I do hope nothing has burned while I was away.”

Mr Weasley gave Bill a firm pat on the shoulder and smiled gently at Fleur. “I’d best make sure she doesn’t burn herself.” He chuckled, following after his wife at a much more average pace.

“Congratulations.” Hermione smiled at the pair. It was a bit thin, but she did seem mostly happy for them. Harry be he looked a bit thin too, caught up in all of this.

“Yeah.” Ron added cheerfully.

“Yeah.” Ginny added, not at all cheerfully.

“Well, dinner smells delicious.” Bill said, still sounding optimistic even if it was a little forced now.

“It does.” Fleur smiled.

“Yeah.” Harry booked it out of the room. Dinner sounded like a great reason not to talk to anyone.

To his surprise though, dinner went rather smoothly. Fleur chatted a little, mostly with Mr Weasley about his work, and some with Mrs Weasley about wedding plans. Though that last one got a little bumpy, no one was outright rude, which had to count for something.

Mostly though, Bill took up the silence by talking about his own work. Being a Curse Breaker sounded very exciting. He talked all about tombs and ruins and old rune arrays, which Harry thought was a bit boring but Hermione ate up, and how to avoid traps and protective curses. He told a lot of stories, one about man he’d worked with had a little bag of meat he’d throw at anything he thought might be cursed, and how that had saved them from a nasty one involving something he thought was a bit to graphic for the table and pointedly didn’t share. He’d said that with a wink.

Harry decided that Bill might just be the coolest person he’d ever met.

-----

“Come on Ron!” Hermione urged excitedly, like they were going on a safari and not exploring the most dangerous and dark building any of them had ever been inside of without any adult assistance or observation, not they they ever had that last bit.

“Hermione, I just don’t get how you can be so bloody excited about this.” Ron groaned in a soft whisper. They didn’t think there was anyone awake to catch them up, but they were using their inside voices all the same.

“Yeah.” Harry responded. The building was creepy. The walls were creepy. The paintings were creepy. The floors were creaky. And that was just during the day.

“Where’s your sense of adventure.” She huffed “We’re here for research.”

The boys identical groans spelled out what they thought of that.

“Damn.” Hermione swore. Fifth doorknob locked. Things were not goin well.

The next was the same, and the next, On their either try they hit a stroke of luck though.

The door swung open to a dusty study, with a dusty desk and dusty bookshelves and a dusty purple velvet chair in a corner.

Hermione pulled our a feather duster. “Time to see what we’ve got.”

Harry thought she was crazy “Yes Hermione.” He said.

The books were labeled all sorts of things, from “The Darkeste of Artes”, which Hermione cleverly plucked off the shelf, to “Chicken Racing For Sport In the Twelfth Century”. They had three books stowed away in a messenger bag Hermione had brought with them, and old leather thing that looked like it had a few run ins with a baseball bat, when Ron let out a louder than appropriate yawn.

“Wake me when you’re through, eh?” He said, and collapsed into the purple armchair. It let out a great poof of dust and a fearsome growl.

Oh. Oh no.

Harry was in action before his mind caught up to what he was seeing, which was embroidered tentacles attempting to pull his red haired friend into the cushioned depths. He kicked one, which didn’t do much good. He tried to tear another, similarly fruitless.

“Harry!” Hermione called.

The boy, dark hair swinging in a circle as his head whipped around, just barely caught the fire poker tossed to him. He started to do some real damage then. Bruising and beating purple upholstery. One or two times it tried to have a go at him, and he didn’t have enough vision in the dim room room see what Hermione was up to but he hoped she was doing alright in her battle.

It took several, breath stealing minutes before the two friends were beating a perfectly normal looking chair, their friend sprawled at their feet a few paces back.

“I think,” Ron panted, “I think it’s had enough.”

“Oh, Ron” Hermione sounded an impressive mixture of furious and concerned. It was a specialty of hers at this point.

“Oops?” Ron shrugged. Then coughed again. “Damn dust.”

“Why didn’t you yell?” Harry asked, helping his friend to his feet.

“One of the little buggers had me round the mouth.” He growled, then spat on the floor, presumably ridding himself of yet more dust.

“Ah.” Harry said intelligently.

“We’ve got to be more careful.” Hermione sighed softly. “You’ve got to be more careful. What if that trap had been worse?”

What if they hadn’t been able to save him? The thought lit up in all their heads bright enough to light the room clearly. Yeah.

“We will be.” Harry promised. Then he turned to Hermione hopefully. “Now, about those books?”

Chapter Text

“Ready?” Hermione asked for the third time as they prepared to take the steps to the fourth floor.

It had been a few days since their last, somewhat disastrous trip our for books, and in that time Harry would like to think they had learned a few things.

Number one, don’t just go touching bookshelves. It had lead to a rather painful welt on Hermione’s hand. Bookshelves can be cursed too it seems.

Number two, enough WD40 can take care of a good number of sticking charms, and when that didn’t work unscrewing the hinges could. Hermione had snuck out a window to visit a nearly muggle hardware store, and while they hadn’t been caught it had been a close thing. Lock picking, something that Ron had picked up from several of his brothers but was by no means a master at, was also a useful skill when the locks didn’t try to bite you. Literally. So muggle methods did occasionally come in handy.

Number three, don’t touch anything. A vase had come to life after Harry had bumped into it and tried to eat him. Harry had reflexively diffinido’ed it, and while no letter from the Ministry had come yelling about expelling him he hadn’t wanted to risk it again. That had been a tense day or two waiting.

Number four, Bill was a goldmine. His little shared tid bits about ward breaking and curse evasion had saved them several times already. If Mrs Weasley wondered where her bacon had gotten off too, it was in little bags the all carried with them to toss at anything and everything that might be cursed. Sometimes Harry felt like he was in the world’s scariest petting zoo and just feeding the exhibits. He’d seen everything from picture frames to stair steps devour his bacon and was beginning to get a bit of a sixth sense about curses from it.

It was with this knowledge that the three of them felt confident enough to aim for their highest priority goal: the library. It was on the fifth floor, three up from their bedrooms and two up from their highest point of exploration thus far. The house seemed to get deadlier the higher you went, but that wasn’t going to stop them. They needed the book and they needed them badly.

So they set off, bacon bags filled to the teeth and fireplace pokers at the ready. Because truly, in a world so ful of magic, this was exactly the setup you wanted to have when exploring the Black Family Manor. But they were nothing is not Gryffindors.

The boys nodded solemnly.

Harry dropped a strip of bacon on the first three steps. Number two was swallowed right up. Well, right, skipping that one then. He started first repeating the pattern and calling instructions bellow him. Hermione followed, and then Ron, and somehow, miraculously, they made it up the stairs in on piece. Something in the back of Harrys mind whispered that perhaps if that was his idea of success managing another floor and a half wasn’t the best idea. Harry ignored it dutifully.

The hallway was dim in the afternoon light, but then Grimmuald was always dim, and dusty, and murky. Harry crinkled his nose, sliding carefully though thin hallways crowded with tables and trinkets and odd looking objects he dared not touch.

There was a clatter behind him.

Harry turned, slowly, wide eyed. Ron was stating down at a vase knocked from a thin, tall stand. It didn’t move. It didn’t move.

Crash! Ron brought his poker down on it.

Ron looked up at them with a sheepish shrug. “Better safe, and all that.”

Hermione let out a grateful breath, and Harry smiled shakily at him. They made it to the end of the hallway safely.

Of course, this was where the difficult part came in. They had no map of the Manor, and were more or less fumbling in the dark to find the library. So when faced with the two turns ahead of him . . . Harry turned helpless eyes on his comrades.

“Left” Hermione suggested, half overlapped by Ron’s “Right.” The two traded disgruntled looks.

“Squeak!” Uric nosed from his shoulder, nuzzling to the left.

“Left it is.” Harry shrugged. Two against one and all.

“Yeah Hermione,” Ron snickered. “At least the undead whosawhatzit agrees with you.”

Harry didn’t see Hermione’s response, but he heard Ron’s soft “Oi!” shortly after and muffled a laugh.

The left hallway was a bit wider, and gave them more room to maneuver. They didn’t have to dodge between obstacles quite as much, that is. Harry would swear this place was laid out to be as unfriendly to visitors as possible.

Another left turn, then a right, both by popular vote and decided by Uric since his friends were too busy squabbling to come to a consensus.

Then they came to three doorways. Of course, Harry knew just what this required. He drew out his trusty bag of bacon and threw a little square at each of the doors. One zapped it fried with purple electricity, not promising. The second piece just stuck to the crusty wood. The third piece just flew through the doorway as if nothing was there.

Harry offered Uric a small slice of bacon. The little thing took the raw meat in its hands and began nibbling away. Harry wondered if normal mice ate raw meat, but decided probably not and that he probably shouldn’t think about it too much further. Uric squeaked at the second door. Harry nodded in understanding at it, even though it was just perched on his shoulder.

He opened the door and . . .

What was that?

Inside was a vague, dark shape taken up by an increasing number of eyes. They both stared at each other for a moment. The thing shuffled forwards. It began slowly opening a great maw with many teeth. A rasp of sulfurous air wafted forwards. Something was deeply, primally wrong with the image before him, and Harry felt his blood turn to ice. His heart beat like war drums in his ears. The thing began to ripple.

Harry turned crazed eyes towards his paralyzed companions.

Ron turned on his heels and ran, Hermione followed shortly after. Harry only paused to slam the door shut. They didn’t worry about curses, about nasty, man eating objects, and yes, Harry did see that music box sprout legs after being knocked over, and yes, Harry did feel oozing around his ankles. And no, Harry did not stop running until they were barricaded in his and Ron’s room, panting, wheezing, and absolutely unable to shake that nightmarish image from their mind.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Ron said through shallow breaths.

No one answered. The House of Bloody Black was what that was.

-----

In the days since the . . . Incident they had stuck to safer rooms on the third floor at most. They had found a few books that were, or might be, useful, but mostly they had struck out. Which was frustrating. This was supposed to be the Most Ancient and Terrible House of Black. They were supposed to have a bit more luck, even being unable to reach the library which . . . None of them wanted to think about again any time soon.

They had yet to be interrupted in their search even once, which made sense, seeing as the first floor was only mostly clean and most of the order staying there was busy finishing that up. Unfortunately . . . Well the lack of cleanliness seemed to be their downfall too.

The most useful resource they’d found so far was an old tome titled in important looking gold some Latin nonsense that translated to “Darkest of Houses” but it was so old and dense even Hermione was struggling to translate.

Which led to now, Harry lazing half under a desk in a thoroughly cobwebbed study flipping through one of the books they had smuggled into the bottom of his trunk. It had seemed interesting, all about aura based magics and the like. He had hoped t would have a clue as to why his magic was doing whatever it was it had been doing lately, but no suck luck. It was all about “Exuding Calm” and “Looking Scary” and while yeah, that was kinda wicked, it wasn’t what he was looking for at all. It wasn’t useful. At all.

Harry really felt like hitting something.

His magic, which he had been paying a lot of attention to since it the weird flares had started, crackled out of him in a sharp burst. That . . . Didn’t feel at all promising.

Something fell off of one of the ornate dark wood bookshelves, startling Harry so bad he hit his head on the bottom of the desk. It landed on the decrepit hardwood floor with a soft thunk and a cloud of dust.

Harry stared. The dust settled. A small, trembling humanoid figure lay there, little bones realigning and rotting flesh curdling back to something resembling life.

The doxy stood, wing fragments snapping into place, and raised its head to stare at him. With its glowing, killing curse green eyes. Oh no.

Harry groaned. This was great. Just great. Exactly what he needed right now. HIs collection was growing, and he was not happy about it in the least. The little thing chittered like a squirrel, head tilting delicately to one side. Harry considered it carefully. He reached out. It didn’t move, even when reluctant fingers wrapped around the tiny body and picked it up.

He should probably get back to searching. It was too bad the shelves in this room were so obviously cursed. When he’d first come in, he’d done the now customary bacon test, and it had lit up with yellow light and the meat had turned an off grey color. Not something he wanted to mess with.

He sighed and grit his heels into the floor in frustration as he stood. How was he supposed to find anything helpful if everything was bloody cursed?

He was careful in making his way back to his room, but he didn’t see even a hint of anyone at all. Which was good. He had no idea how he would have explained the doxie, or the book, or, well, anything at all.

Less fortunately, he was assaulted as soon as the bedroom door clicked shut.

“Harry” Hermione rushed, him, eyes gleaming wickedly and smile a mile wide. “I’ve had the best idea!”

Harry blinked, then grinned at his friend’s catching enthusiasm. “What?”

“We’re going to sneak into Knockturn Alley!”

-----

It was nearing midnight. The house was as quiet as the dead. Hermione led their little procession through the fog of fragile silence, creeping towards the front door. They’d have snuck out a window, wary of Mrs Black’s harpy impression waking the house, but the woman was, apparently, terrified of Uric. And seeing as the little mouse was sat grudgingly on top of Hermione’s head, the glow of its unnerving Avada eyes would be the first thing the portrait saw.

Harry tugged awkwardly at his robe’s collar under his cloak. Neither were his. Well, they were his now, but they hadn’t used to be. They had all pilfered robes and such for the trip from the bedrooms around the house. It was Ron’s idea, so they wouldn’t be caught out in their school things. It was also Ron’s idea to grab a few more for themselves, for casual wear and the like, just because the robes were nice and it wasn’t like anyone was using them.

Continued exploration had shown them exactly how valuable the contents of the old house really were. Aside from books there were all sorts of lovely treasures in the Manor. There was a lot of beautiful, if normally tarnished, jewelry that Hermione had adored. Old chess sets aplenty, mostly in good condition too. Ron had swooned over one done in obsidian and moonstone that was styled after dragons. Harry, personally, absolutely adored the old racing brooms. Sure, it wasn’t like he could ride any of them, and none of them could hold a candle to his Firebolt, but they were all works of art and one of them, according to Ron at least, trailed fire. Which was beyond wicked.

A floorboard creaked. All three flinched and paused, freezing midstep. Nothing stirred. Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. They continued.

The front door shut behind them and the tension melted from the air. So long as they were able to catch a cab and didn’t take too long in the Alley, they should all be back before anyone noticed they’d been gone in the first place. Harry had brought his gold pouch, and since he always just about shoveled gold in and never bough much of anything for himself, there was a rather lot of gold in there. Nearly three hundred galleons, a number which had Ron spluttering until he turned red.

They caught a cab easily enough, and no one paid any mind to three cloaked figures making their way through the Cauldron. Wizards were just like that, it seemed. Whether keen to mind their own business or just clueless though, Harry couldn't say. Though given how much they liked sticking their noses into his, he’d bet on the latter.

Diagon was practically deserted, the only building that wasn’t dark was Gringotts.

Knockturn, on the other hand, rustled like a flock of birds with the swishing of robes and dark murmurs and glowed with low lantern light. Not nearly as menacing as it looked during the day.

Ron was painfully tense, and Harry could tell Hermione was trying hard not to fidget as they crossed into they alley. There were hags next to stands piled so high with murky jars swimming with dark shapes that only magic could have supported them. Storefronts were dirty, with suspiciously normal items sitting in boxed glass on display. Hermione but a path through the sparse but omnipresent crowd towards a store whose front window was crowded with stacks and stacks of books.

Hinges creaked as they entered. Books piled in precarious towers and on tilted shelves filled the room. A counter space was just barely visible. There was a handsome man behind the small clear space raised one bored eyebrow, and went back to paging through a large yellowed tome.

The three shared a nod as they split up, browsing as efficiently as they could. Which for Harry was questionably efficient at best. He found one book, entitled Inheritances and Other Magical Maladies, and another book on the history of death magic, on his quarter of an hour of browsing. Ron only had one, and even just form the tilt of his shoulders Harry could tell he was quite put out. Hermione had a small stack, but Harry wondered how many of those were for her and how many held what they came for. She unloaded her books onto Ron and marched straight to the teller, back straight and boys trailing obediently behind her.

“Do you have any books on necromancy?” She asked the bored young man haughtily, arms crossed.

The handsome man jerked back, blinking stoney blue eyes in surprise. “Well well little miss, that’s quite a dangerous hobby you have there.” A vaguely mocking smirk played on his lips. “I’m afraid that’s one subject very much banned by the Ministry.”

Hermione snorted. “So, do you have anything or not.”

After a moment of curious scrutiny, eyes sweeping over the group as a whole, the other chuckled. “As a matter of fact, little miss, I do happen to carry something you may be interested in.”

The man ducked into a back room and came back barely a minute later with three old looking books.

His voice was ominously soft when he spoke again. “These are very rare finds, little miss. Are you sure you want to take this risk? I’d rather these weren't found and burned if you’re incapable of keeping them safe.”

“We know what we’re doing.” Hermione nodded.

The man chuckled, even as he took the books from the boys and tallied them up the total. “Maybe you do little miss. That will be 128 galleons.”

Ron choked on his breath.

Harry obediently counted out the amount, handing it over to too soft hands. Amused eyes followed them out, and it was only when the hinges creaked to a close behind them that Harry let out a sigh of relief. He could see Hermione shudder faintly. That man had felt . . . Off.

The young witch pulled out a familiar beaten leather messenger bag and slipped the books into it. Harry watched, fascinated. The leather didn’t even bulge. It wasn’t the time now, but he’d have to remember to ask her about it when they got back to Grimmuald Place.

Three stores, half a dozen books later, and one very creepy old man later they found they were all exhausted. There was one promising looking store left, but it was past a cluster of shimmering skinned, very loud, very handsome probably vampires. Hermione was tense, only outdone by Ron who was stiff enough for Harry to feel it and Ron was behind him.

“Relax.” The young savior hissed under his breath. Hermione slumped minutely and rolled her shoulders back. He assumed, hoped really, that Ron did something similar.

One foot in front of the other. Come on. You can make it. DOn’t look. Oh no, one is coming your way. Maybe he’s just crossing the alley?

The dark skinned, starry white toothed man came to stop right in front of him came to a stop right in front of him and leaned in. Harry did not tense. Bullies could smell fear, and he bet this predator could as well.

“Well hello there little tidbit. What mischief are you up to this fine evening?” His voice was sharp and warm, like cinnamon or bitter tea.

Harry sucked in a breath. How in Merlin’s name was he supposed to answer that? Was the other man flirting with him?

He felt tiny claws scurrying up his back up perch just under his ear. Out of the corner of his eye, killing curse green glowed faintly. Uric hissed like a particularly menacing kettle at the intrusion to Harry’s personal space.

The probably vampire backpedaled a few steps. “You don’t have to get pissy, tidbit, I was just asking.” His arms waved leisurely in surrender, face curving into a heavy frown.

“Excuse him.” Another voice cut in, arm curling around the probably vampire’s shoulders. Harry twitched, harshly clamping down on his startle reflex. He could hear Ron suck in a sharp breath behind him. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t seen the other coming.

The newcomer stuck his hand out, flashing an easy smile. “He’s always been a bit of an ass. I’m Ray, and I’d like to say, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Harry shook probably a vampire number two’s hand after a bare moment of hesitation, keeping silent. He had no idea what to say, really.

“Our Monarch is very interested in meeting you, if you’re ever in the mood.” TH pale man practically purred. He didn’t seem to mind his silence, and slipped a small lump of something into Harry’s palm with a wriggle of his hand.

“I wish you a good night, Lord Mortis.” The pale probably a vampire dragged his confused companion away to the eerily spectating group.

Harry stood, paralyzed, hand clenched around whatever it was he had been given. What was that? What had just happened? How had he known? What was going on?

“Harry,” Hermione murmured, “we have to go.”

Harry nodded, steeled himself, and marched to the final stop on their little less than legal field trip. The cold object he had been slipped sat heavy in his hand, then heavier still in the pocket he slipped it into.

It was complete bust. Of the two shelves of books on display there was nothing useful, barely anything dark truly. The shopkeeper was far too suspicious of them to help at all, to top it off. At least when they came out the probably vampires were gone.

Nobody else bothered them, but then the trio scuttled out of the alley as fast as they could without actually running probably had something to do with that.

-----

Lucius had struck gold. Well, no, a no name clerk at the Ministry had struck gold, and passed it up the chain to Fudge, who had called upon his most trusted advisor to interpret. But even still. Lucius was nearly giddy.

Lord Mortis had shown up performing magic on the Trace.

Which meant that the Lord was either underage himself, or posing as such very convincingly. Lucius would bet his fortune on it being the later. Which just increased his chance of finding the Lord by quite a substantial amount. Because it meant he has some idea where the Lord might be hiding, simple as following one clue to its logical conclusion. The Lord may just be hiding away at Hogwarts.

Draco had been informed of course, and the Dark Lord knew, because of course he did, Lucius wasn’t suicidal. All that was left was to bring Severus up to speed.

But that . . . That was for later. Now, he was going to have a lovely evening with his lovely wife. A private dinner on their balcony, a night in their rooms, together, alone. Lucius stretched as he stood, walking through the halls in contented silence.

Narcissa was waiting for him, looking more beautiful than any veela. She smiled at him, and Lucius smiled back. He had been so lucky to be betrothed to her. Powerful, elegant, cunning, gorgeous -

The door crashed open.

Lucius turned around, snarl on his lips, wand out and curse at the ready. The low level Death Eater he had assigned to keep an ear to the Alley gossip stood shaking at the door long terrified and resolute. He was breathing heavily, chest pumping up and down as is he had run up from the first floor apparition point.

“L-Lord Mortis,” were the first breathless, gasping words that came tumbling from his mouth. The elder Malfoy’s blood froze. “He was seen in Knockturn Alley with two companions. The vampires, they spoke with him.”

Morgana’s sagging tits. Two companions? Vampires? How was he supposed to deal with this?

-----

Harry never thought he’d ever describe Grimmuald Place as warm, but here he was all the same.

“Checkmate!” Ron grinned cheerfully, watching as his little stone rook decapitated one of Harry’s pieces. He couldn’t say which, really, he hadn’t been paying very much attention. “You know it’s no fun if you’re not even trying Harry.” Ron sounded a little pouty.

“It’s not like I could ever beat you.” Harry ducked his head with a smile.

“Well, you certainly can’t if you don't try.” Ron said. “Reset!” the chess pieces began to pull themselves back together and march back to their starting positions. “You’ll do better this time Harry, I’m sure you will.”

“Sure Ron,” Harry indulged. He turned in his chair, facing a couch a few paces back and to his right. “Hey, Hermione, you want to see Ron beat me again?”

Hermione raised her dark head from her book. “Not now Harry, I’m doing a bit of pleasure reading. But you boys have fun.”

Harry shrugged and turned back to Ron. Hermione had been so busy researching for him lately she probably hadn’t had much time to read for fun. Not that he could imagine what reading for fun looked like, but Hermione liked it so that was good enough for him. “So what were you saying again?”

“Oh yeah!” Ron lit up like a Dursley Christmas tree. “So Charlie was saying, in his last letter, that one of the ridgebacks had a clutch just the other day, and that the whole reserve was scrambling. Apparently ridgebacks don't do that much, I guess. Anyway he was saying that . . .”

Harry listened to his friend ramble on, first about his brother, and then about how much school next year was going to bite, and how NEWT level potions were going to eat them alive. Harry agreed with him on that one. He didn’t know how Snape could make their lives even more miserable but he was sure the man would find a way.

The game played out, and another one as Order members began to filter in. Tonks joined the pair on a chair close to them, and tossed Harry hints throughout the game, though even with them he ended up losing. Moody ignored them and headed straight for the kitchen, and Professor Lupin joined them after saying hello to Mrs Weasley, speaking in soft tones to Hermione.

It filled Harry slowly, the feeling of belonging. Of home. In this dark and dusty and condemned place. It was a bit odd, and sent him tilting a bit inside. Not so much the sense of belonging. That always did it a bit, but not so much. It was the feeling and the place and the people, Tonks and Professor Lupin and the others milling about, and the fact that Sirius wasn’t here with him. It was all a bit much, but as Mrs Weasley called for dinner in a loud and cheery voice he was very, very glad of it.

Chapter Text

“Hermione?” Harry asked cautiously, voice still clouded by sleep, approaching his friend like one would a cornered animal. “What are you doing?”

Harry could almost hear bones cracking as her head whipped up, eyes frantic, hands pausing their fervent search through the book stash the trio had moved to what had looked to be some Black or another’s old school trunk. It took s second, for her to really register his presence. Harry watched it happen with some amusement. She ducked her head and let out a low, strangled squeak in embarrassment when she did.

“Go back to sleep Harry.” She murmured, eyes darting back to the books. “I’ll explain in the morning.”

Harry snorted, but spoke in hushed tones. “Seriously, Hermione? It’s Merlin knows how early in the morning, I’m already up, and you're here digging through a small mountain of books with only, what,” he gestured at her vaguely, “that jar of bluebell flames. You’ve got me dead curious as to what you’re up to.”

Harry couldn’t tell in the light, Hermione looked like her face was on fire. Her eyes trailed uncertainly over the scattered books. “I’m not sure if I’ve found anything, not yet, not really.”

Harry nodded and sat. “Anything I can do to help then?”

“Maybe . . . ” Hermione worried her lip between uncautious teeth. “One of these books has a bit in it about the effects of emotions on accidental magic. It’s got a sort of dusty blue cover?”

The young wizard’s eyes swept over the mess his friend had made around herself. It was absolute chaos and in the waxing light of false dawn and the dim blue of the jar of everlasting bluebell flames, Hermione’s end of semester rune project lat year, everything looked a sort of dusty blue. Of course, Harry had something that could help a little. There was a not insignificant stack of everburning candles he had stacked away in his trunk for late nights and summers. He’d bought a lot when he’d first found them in Hogsmeade, thinking the everburning thing was an exaggeration, but so far he had yet to burn down even one.

It didn’t take long to get the candles set up. Hermione continued to empty and sort through the expanded chest, and while she did Harry got to work putting the rest of the books into neater stacks.

A month ago he couldn't have even imagined even touching some of these books, dark as they were. But now . . . He needed them to find out exactly what exactly was happening to him this time. Though, really, some of the books in the mix were just things they’d each found interesting.

Darkest Death: Secrets of the Grave. Ew, shudder.

101 Bloodiest Wizarding Battles. Probably Ron, if he had to guess.

Gamp’s Eighth Law as it Applies to the Arithmantic Process of creating Spells. If Hermione hadn’t picked that one, Harry was as fat as Dudley.

Creating Potions on the Battlefield. Also Hermione he was sure.

The next two books leaked malice like Lavender Brown did flowery perfume, and Harry didn’t even bother with the titles, wiping his hands on his pants to get rid of the nasty feeling once they were well and stacked.

Bloodee Rituals of the Fourth Centuree. Now that sounded unpleasant.

Next was . . .

“Hermione?” Harry called softly.

The witch hummed absently and half turned her head to look at him.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” He help up an average sized book with a faded blue cover and pages aged blonde. There wasn’t a title, any words on the cover having worn away some time ago. But then, Hermione hadn’t given him a title, just a sort of vague color description, which this book matched.

In quite literally the blink of an eye Hermione was flipping through the crisp pages. Hands clenched, paused. Hermione scanned down one page, and then the next, and then the next. There was a moment of silence, of stillness. She shut the book with a snap and a loud crow of triumph.

Ron fell out of bed with a thunk.

“Whazzat?” He groaned, prefacing it with a loud, pained noise somewhat resembling a dying bear.

Harry stifled a laugh, forcing it out in a snort instead.

“Ah, you okay Ron?” Hermione called. She successfully masked the amusement in her voice, but didn’t bother hiding her smile.

A weak rattling noise crawled out from behind the bed. Harry bit one knuckle to keep from laughing audibly.

It took almost half an hour for Ron to start speaking in coherent sentences, and until after breakfast two hours later for him to give the other two permission to speak about anything “thinky”.

Hermione was deeply impatient by the time the door finally clicked shut, sealing the three into the boys room. She threw herself onto Harry’s bed with a deep sigh.

“Can we talk now, Ron?” She bit out.

“Yes, Hermione, we can talk now.” He sighed softly.

She perked up immediately. “So, last night I was having a bit of trouble sleeping and decided to do a bit of light reading to settle me. I was going through the books we had gotten from Knockturn, one about old family lines and their traditions specifically. Apparently, when the Lord of the family, or any member really, can’t have children but wishes to continue their line, they have to adopt.”

“I’ve never heard of a pureblood family adopting.” Ron frowned.

Hermione grinned triumphantly. “See, that’s because you wouldn’t even be able to tell! If the Family Magics accept the adopted, then the adopted gets a huge dose of them, the Family Magics, that is. They’re absolutely fascinating. Everything I’ve read describes them almost sentient, a huge departure from most wizards attitu-”

Harry cleared his throat before she could go off on one of her distracted monologues.

Hermione stopped and cleared her throat awkwardly. “Thank you, Harry. Anyway, there have been a few cases of families adopting really close friends into their families as well. I couldn’t find the specifics of the process exactly, but there was this old story.” She paused for a moment and took a deep breath, practically vibrating and making eye contact with both boys to make sure they were listening. “So, supposedly there was this old family, I couldn’t find which, that only had one member left. She were old, and close to death. Which meant the family would have died with her. But she did this old ritual so that the Family Magics would live on, sleeping essentially until they could find a new host. Then, a few years later, this muggleborn snuck into a Wizengamot meeting to see more about this law that could have made it illegal to teach muggleborns wand magic, which is ridiculous. The number of purebloods out there wouldn’t have been enough to sustain the population, especially considering that halfblood births would in all likelihood decreased as the education gap between purebloods and muggleborns increased. I mean, there are few enough of us as it is, to sabota-”

Ron cleared his throat. It was his turn to cut off the rant this time.

Hermione threw him a grateful, if somewhat disgruntled look. “Well, see, the story goes that this muggleborn was caught, and would have been executed if he couldn’t prove he was from a pure family. So he claimed to be a member of that dead family, and the Family Magics judged him worthy, so he became one just like that. A member of that family, that is. There weren’t a lot of specifics really, about how it happened or what it looked like.”

“So that’s what you think happened to me?” Harry ’s brow furrowed. “Why I’m suddenly resurrecting the dead?”

“Well,” Hermione chewed on her bottom lip, “sort of. See, that could explain you being a Mortis, but not really the, ah, the necromancy.” She shuddered at the term. “But, the book mentioned a little later that sometimes when witches and wizards from old families hit their Magical Majority, the rush of Family Magics can cause accidental magic until they get used to it. There was barely a paragraph about it all though, but then, well, were you feeling particularly emotional when you . . . Resurrected . . . Those two?”

Harry thought back. “Yeah, a bit I guess.” To be completely fair though, he was emotional a lot.

Hermione smiled tentatively. “Then my best guess is accidental magic and whatever new connection you have to the Mortis Family Magics acting up.”

“Huh.” Harry muttered. He guessed that made sense. But . . .

“How do we make sure, you know, whenever Harry starts feeling his feelings or whatever, that he doesn’t raise half of Hogwarts’ dead pets?” Ron interrupted Harry’s thoughts, taking the words straight from his mouth.

“Well,” Hermione shifted nervously, “I’m not really sure.”

Well, damn.

-----

“What do you mean I have to learn Latin?” Harry stared up at Hermione, utterly baffled. Here he and Ron were, peacefully playing Gobstones, and Hermione comes rolling in like a storm saying ridiculous things. Him? Learn another language?

Hermione huffed. “You’re a pureblood, or halfblood, but you’ll be held to pureblood standards so that only really counts so much, Lord of an ancient house of necromancers Harry, you should know Latin.” She tapped her chin in thought. “And maybe Old English as well? Or Sumerian?”

Harry backpedaled quickly. “Okay, Latin, brilliant, where do I start?”

Hermione grinned in triumph and Harry got the very distinct feeling he’d just been played. It felt like a bunch of little legs up his spine, and he got it a lot more than he’d like hanging around as many brilliant people as he did. The young witch handed him a glossy muggle paperback and a dusty, obviously wizarding tome “Let me know when you’ve finished, or if you need help, and we can review.”

She flounced off happily, Hogwarts robe flaring behind her and a book of dark magics under her arm. Harry shuddered. Sometimes, that girl was absolutely terrifying.

Ron looked up from dutifully studying his stones. “You gonna work on that now?”

Harry raised an eyebrow at him. “Do you want to learn Latin?”

Ron shrugged a shuffle of his shoulders that looked as supremely awkward as he did. “I know a bit. Most wizarding families do, really, but yeah. I mean, if you and Hermione know it . . . It’s just practical right?”

Harry smiled, a soft and wide stretched and lopsided thing, then ducked his head to hide it. He picked up the muggle book, and flipped the glossy cover open. He groaned.

This was going to take a while.

He pushed it over to Ron, who brightened. “Hey, I know this stuff.”

Harry turned to him with pleading eyes. Ron snickered.

“Okay so, this one means . . .”

-----

Ginny flopped back on one of the puffy chairs that lined the edges of the most habitable of the first floor living rooms. In another corner, an older woman read from a bright red book. Other than that the room was empty.

Empty.

Just like her life.

She had come to Grimmuald, instead of staying at the Burrow with Bill and his new . . . Whatever that woman was because Harry and Ron and Hermione had all gone. She had thought they’d all be doing something together. Cleaning, or playing Gobstones, or doing summer homework, or something. Instead the three spent most of their time shuffling about Ron’s room or having disappeared completely. Up to something she was sure.

Up to what, she was less sure. And sure as shit they were leaving her out.

Hadn’t she proven herself? In Dumbledore’s Army, in the Ministry, in bloody everything. What was it she wasn’t good enough for? Wasn’t trustworthy enough for? She knew the three of them were a world unto her own, but surely she could do something to help if something was going on. Especially if it was serious. She could fight, and curse better than them too if she was allowed to use her wand, which she wasn’t because it was summer. It was summer and she was alone. Was there some secret they thought she couldn’t keep? She had kept their secrets before, hadn’t she? What was so very big that they couldn’t tell her, when they’d trusted her with so much already?

She let out a deep, deep sigh.

She would have confronted them but, well . . .

“Ginny!” Her mum called from the kitchen. “Come help with the cleanup!”

Bless her mum, but she was getting tired of rags and doxycide and big sacks of dark objects that she wasn’t allowed to look inside of.

“In a minute Mum!” She called back.

Ginny turned to look at the woman in the corner. She hadn’t even looked up. Still paging through that bright red book of hers. Ginny half wondered what it was, as she stood, and stretched, and stretched, and stretched, and finally started towards her mother voice.

Her mum puttered about a half clean room, absently waving her wand to start the mop going as she dragged a dusty rag through a shelf thick with cobwebs.

“Ginny dear, there are rags in the corner over there.” She flashed Ginny a warm smile. “Why don’t you start on the windows?”

“Yes, Mum.” Ginny sighed.

She walked over to the rags and grabbed couple and a bucket of the same pale blue liquid she’d been using to strip away dust from anything and everything she’d cleaned so far. It smelled like lilacs and she was slowly starting to hate the scent. The windows were thick with a pale yellow substance that she was fairly sure was not, at the very least, completely dust. She crinkled her nose and dunked her rag in the bucket.

“Why isn’t Ron helping with this?” She asked, putting the rag to the glass and beginning to scrub.

“He’s helping Harry grieve dear, we’ve been over this.” Her mum sighed. “That poor boy, all he must be going through. It’s so good of our Ron to help him through this grueling time.“

Ginny viciously bit back a sigh. Yes, poor Harry and so noble of Ron and Hermione to put up with him. They were up to something, and she knew it, and she was going to figure out what if it took her all summer.

-----

“Is it working?” Harry whispered, bending down more and squinting at Ron’s carefully moving hands.

Ron growled, twisting one hand sharply in frustration. “No Harry, it isn’t, now get your bloody head outta my light.”

Harry took two small, guilty steps back.

Ron had gotten better at lock picking with practice, but he was still far from a master at it. Still, it was the subtlest way they had of getting into most of the locked and warded rooms in this damned house. Their increasingly destructive repertoire of muggle methods for breaking into rooms seemed to be falling short on this door though. The doorframe surrounding the hinges was practically shredded from a few too many goes with a crowbar. The edges of the wood were greasy with whatever dangerous muggle fluids were contained in Hermione’s stash. Ron was trying one last time with his little picks before they pulled out their last resort. Taking a hatchet to a door seemed a bit obvious, but they were getting frustrated and this was the only door on this hallway they couldn’t open. No door was going to beat them.

Ron stepped back with a huff, visibly restraining himself from throwing the little bits of metal to the ground. Harry handed him the hatchet.

He had never seen anyone as enthusiastic about destroying anything as Ron did in that moment. Not even a baby Dudley with a new toy.

It didn’t take long to make a sizable enough hole in the door. Nothing attacked Harry outright when he stuck his head through, so he figured they were safe to enter at least. He stepped through and looked around.

It was an old study, which wasn’t new. They’d found a couple in their search and all of them had been heavily cursed and not much help at all. What was new was that it was clean. It looked like the owner had just stepped out a moment ago, at it least almost did. Ink had long since dried in its well, but the dark brown quill stood silent vigil over a neat and tidy desk. Harry swiped his fingers over the dark wood. Dot a speck of came up with them. That was a little disturbing, considering the state of the rest of the house.

Harry headed over to the similarly clean dark wood book cases, pulling out his trusty bacon bag. He threw one bit. It landed on the book and stuck there wetly. He aimed another a few shelves down. Same result. No nasty curses present at all it seemed. Most Blacks guarded their possessions jealously, and while that was usually nothing tipping a shelf over wouldn't fix, that this one was so open on top of being so clean, well, it was odd. Harry wasn’t entirely sure he liked it.

Hermione approached from the other side of the wall of shelves slowly, finger trailing a careful inch from the books themselves, scanning the titles. No guarantee the books were all uncursed, after all.

Harry turned away from the shelves to the desk. There was a very short stack of parchment on it, all in Latin. A day of practice in the language didn’t give him much to go on. Certainly not enough to make sense of anything in front of him. Maybe he’d get there eventually though. There was a book as well, sitting just next to them at a bit of an angle. It was also in Latin, and faint threads of magic looked like all that was keeping it together at this point.

Ron made a curious noise in the back of his throat. Harry looked up to see his friend studying a chess board in the back corner between a pair of green velvet chairs. He looked impressed. Harry had never seen Ron look impressed at a chessboard before.

Hermione squealed, startling him from the silence of the room.

“What is it?” Harry called, turning his head over his shoulder to glance at her. She had pulled a squat, royal blue book off the shelves. He couldn’t see her expression from where he stood, but the way she bounced on her heels seemed promising. Harry wandered over to get a better look.

Hermione presented the book wordlessly with a wide smile. Mind As Arte by Eridanus Black. They’d been looking for this one. It had been mentioned as a reference for parents looking to get their energetic young heirs to their more troublesome emotions. Occulmency, Legilimency, sure he’d known a bit about it, but other than Snape and a lot of yelling he’d had nothing to go on. The fact that anyone could waltz into his mind was still really creepy.

Apparently though, there were more ways to learn the skills than assault and a lot of insults. That was just the quick fix option. Harry wasn’t sure he was thrilled to be looking into all this again, but he didn’t have to deal with his evil bat of a potions professor so that should make everything a lot more bearable. Hopefully.

“Hey, Ron.” Harry beckoned his friend over.

Ron grinned and trotted up. “Find something good?”

“Yeah mate, looks like we’ve got work to do.” Harry’s smile sharped.

Ron barked a challenging laugh at him.

Oh, he was so on.

Hermione shook her head in exasperation and tucked the book under one arm. She stepped through the hole in the door, dancing over scattered debris. Harry bumped Ron with his shoulder on the way out with a little grin and followed. They didn’t even try to cover up the destruction. They were near the back of the third floor now, and at the rate it was taking the Order to clean up it would be at least a couple years before they got this far back. Nobody had gone past the landing to the third floor yet, and that was only Tonks on a dare. So they were safe for a while yet.

Speaking of safe though, they’d have to keep a keen eye out on the way back for any malicious household objects out for their blood.

-----

“There’s something wrong with the boy.” Moody growled, chair scraping back from the kitchen table as he sat.

“Of course there’s something wrong with him!” Molly scolded. “He just lost his godfather the poor boy.”

“There’s something else.” The grizzled auror argued. “Something dark.” He had felt it, he knew the signs. They had to get ahead of this before Potter was lost to them forever.

“How dare you -” Molly puffed up like an enraged bear.

“Now Molly,” Lupin soothed, sending Moody a warning glance. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that.”

To hell he didn’t!

“He had better not.” She turned and swished her wand, an overloaded tea tray and sandwich plate arranging themselves gracefully in the air and levitating over to the sturdy wood table.

“What makes you think that?” Kingsley asked casually, relieving the plate of a lightly steaming mini quiche. Good man, finally someone with some sense.

“I can feel it.” Moody responded with a huff, regarding the food with careful scrutiny. He didn’t think this group would or could poison the offerings, but he’d been wrong before. “And that rat he carries around, never seen anything like it.”

“Uh,” Tonks this time, the young auror had to have seen the little abomination too. “What rat?”

The younger generation lived to disappoint.

He turned a gimlet eye to the young witch. “It was with him when we picked him up from the muggle house, scurried up his leg.”

“I don’t remember anything like that.” Tonks frowned. What were they teaching at the auror academy nowadays? Blindness?

“Neither do I.” Arthur added, oh so helpfully. Of course he didn’t.

Moody harrumphed and took a swig of his flask.

“Have you seen it since?” Lupin asked carefully.

“. . . No.” He grumbled. Didn’t mean it was gone though. The wards of the house were quite strong, and he couldn’t see through the walls. If he could, he’d know exactly what Potter was up to.

“Well then.” Molly announced, “That’s the end of that.”

“It is most definitely not.” Mood slammed a closed fist down on the table. “The boy is practically a faucet of death magic!” He refused to let this be the end anything.

Lupin hesitated. “He has been smelling a bit like death lately. But that can happen, when you lose someone.” He let out a sad sigh.

Many members around the table nodded sadly. Black would be missed, of course. But that couldn’t be the call of all of this.

Moody growled something incoherent under his breath. This wasn’t over. He would make them see sense. He had to.

Chapter Text

Kreacher had been watching. New master was different. New master may also be a bit of an idiot.

New master was not like old master or old mistress or bad master. New master did not know what he held. Did not know the house would obey his commands. Did not notice how Kreacher straightened the corners of his folded clothes and made bed or swept dust from his room. Did not notice or know many things. But even for that, new master was . . . Creative. Showed much progress. Dirty blood traitor and dirty mudblood who followed him were also . . . Creative. Adaptive. Cunning. True Slytherin traits to be proud of. Proud Black traits.

New master was different in other ways from old masters. New master was darker. It sung around him in ways old mistress would have slaughtered legions for and in a way bad master feared above all. Soft and gentile and fierce. Untapped. Like death itself. It was magic Kreacher could obey. Did obey.

Dirty blood traitor and dirty mudblood’s magics also began to curl darker. The longer they spent in new master’s presence, the more they dove into the old tomes and brushed with curses, the farther they sunk. Not deep yet, no darker than the others in the house who had done battle. But purer darkness. Not human darkness, not the wicked taint of curse and vengeance and dirty nasty human things. The darkness that new master was, that old master was. The darkness of the trees and the night and death itself.

Kreacher did not know how to feel about this. Darkness was not for dirty blood traitors and dirty mudbloods, but these two belonged to his deliciously dark new master. Perhaps, Kreacher though, perhaps they were worth of it.

New master had been kind enough to send him home. Kreacher was thankful for that. New master had yet to ask Kreacher for anything. Most confusing. Kreacher wondered is new master knew he could?

It was not Kreacher’s job to inform new master however. Perhaps new master would learn. Perhaps new master would learn many things.

Until then Kreacher would watch. Watch and wait.

Watch and wait.

-----

“Hey, Hermione?” Harry called, eyes trailing down the same page for a third time, brow furrowed. It was one of the books from their Knockturn collection. The three were scattered around his and Ron’s room, each paging through some dusty book or another in hopes of finding something. Anything at all, really. Harry thought he finally had, even if it wasn’t exactly what they were looking for.

“What is it?“ Hermione put down her book and slung herself from her horizontal position on Ron’s bed to standing. She sat down on the end of his and raised an eyebrow.

“Check this out.” Harry handed her the book, carefully holding it open to the right page.

Flint sharp brown eyes scanned up and down the pages and a slow, giddy smile crept across her lips. She turned her face up to him, expression sun bright and just as warm. “This is brilliant Harry!”

Harry grinned back at her proudly. The book was about dark rituals, and while most of them had either made Harry a bit queasy or seemed completely useless (did anyone truly need a set of silverware that clung to your skin like tattoos when not in use?), this one seemed to be the exception. Then again, he was only about halfway through so maybe the more useful rituals were just in the back.

The ritual was a bit creepy, something that would have made him burn the book on its own a year ago, but now he was glad he’d found it. It allowed the caster, or casters, to learn a bunch of languages at once. It could only be performed once, something about minds breaking on the second go and Harry thought that sounded deeply unpleasant. But there wasn’t a limit on the number of languages that could be included or anything, so that wasn’t the biggest deal or anything. There was a slight problem with it though. Or, well, two problems. You had to have the blood of a person that spoke the intended languages. The casters would also cycle through the languages at random until their brains sorted out what was what and what went where, which took about a week on the long end and just a couple days on the short end.

Wizards didn’t part with their blood easily. It was something very dangerous to allow another wizard to gain ahold of. Even Harry knew that. But it never said the blood had to be wizard blood. Muggle blood would be much easier to obtain. Of course, he was going out on a bit of a limb there. Either way it wasn’t like they could perform the ritual right away anyways. They would have to wait for a new moon for one, and if they wanted muggle blood they’d have to wait for school to start so they wouldn’t get caught by the trace since it was only active in the summer months.

Harry was a bit squicked he was thinking this much about blood theft.

“Knockturn raid tonight then? I’m sure we could find some blood for sale.” Hermione nodded, talking more to herself than anything.

Ron huffed fondly. Harry heard it, given how close Ron was, but wondered if Hermione did. The red haired wizard was leaning against the side of Harry bed, head not even a foot from his legs. He’d set aside his book to listen to the two of them, one finger still inserted to hold hi place.

“Hermione,” Ron chuckled, flipping a bit and lifting himself to kneeling to rest his arms and chin on the mattress between his two friends. “I don’t think we should go rushing into Knockturn just yet.”

“Why not?” She asked, raising a confused eyebrow.

“Do we have to drink any of this blood?” He asked, nose wrinkling up into his forehead at the thought.

She checked the page again. “No, doesn’t seem so.”

“Why do we need blood?” Ron turned to Harry this time.

“Uh, blood ritual.” He cringed a bit at the words. “To learn a whole bunch of languages. We need blood from people who know them.”

“Then how are we going to know if the Knockturn hags are being honest?” Ron turned back to Hermione, nose uncrinkled but only about halfway. “It’s not like they’re famous for that. And there could be anything added in. I heard Kingsley talking once about how he busted a hag who slipped some sort of nasty drug into blood she sold so vampires who bought it would get crazy addicted.”

“Then how are we supposed to get blood?” Hermione demanded a bit bashfully. She looked a bit taken aback at the hag’s behavior as well, teeth pulling a corner of her lip into her mouth in thought.

Ron sighed and his face relaxed into something more thoughtful. “How much blood do we need from each person?” He asked.

“Uh, just a few drops I think.” Harry shrugged.

“And it wouldn’t . . . ” Ron swallowed dryly. “It wouldn’t hurt the person, would it? Who the blood was from?”

“I don’t think so. That’s usually the sort of thing they put in big warnings for.” Harry was more sure about this bit. Seemed like a third of the rituals in the book had bold warnings about some side effect or another, and this one’s warnings hadn’t included anything like that.

Ron was quiet for a few moment, and when he spoke the words were soft and hesitant. “Bill knows a whole lot of languages for his job, and I’d bet Dumbledore and Moody and some of the other members of the Order do too. But we have to make sure it’s safe first, okay?”

Harry nodded seriously. If they were going to steal blood from allies, even if they were being jerks at the moment, then they had to be sure.

“How are we even going to get the blood from them?” Hermione asked after a moment of heavy, thoughtful silence.

“Dunno.” Ron shrugged. “Just an idea.”

“I . . . ” Harry pursed his lips then nodded shallowly. “Might have an idea.”

-----

It wasn’t the middle of the night. Not even evening, actually. It was around eight in the morning, which wasn’t any time for sneaking around, but it was what Ginny had, so it would have to do.

It wasn’t like you wanted to sneak into an occupied room, after all. That didn’t tend to work too well. But it was breakfast time, and her brother and Harry and Hermione would be down in the kitchen for a while. She’d join them, of course, but only when she was done.

She had already looked through Hermione’s things a bit, feeling like a real creep while she did, but the other girl was neat and tidy and there wasn’t anything at all off that Ginny could find. So it was on to plan B.

Her brother’s room as unlocked, not that any of the rooms in the house seemed to lock. Not without some creepy Black magic or something. There was no one up or about on the second floor. Her family was the only one actually staying there at the moment. And professor Lupin, but he had a first floor room. The second floor near the stairs had the cleanest bedrooms went he order had first arrived in the house, and now it was more tradition than anything that kept them bunking there. Not that Ginny was complaining when it kept what she was about to do well out of sight.

She opened the door and ducked inside, quick as she could, door shutting with a quiet click behind her.

A perfect start.

Ginny found herself incredibly disappointed as she looked around the room. It was cleaner than her brother’s room at home. There were some clothes on the floor, but not much. One of the beds was unmade, Ron’s no doubt. But no loose parchment, no books left lying open, no pictures of dead godfathers or suspicious artifacts. And here she was hoping this would be easy.

She started with her brother’s things first. His dirty clothes she avoided, because yuck, but his trunk wasn’t locked or anything. The inside was a mess. An absolute disaster. Okay, maybe not that bad, but there was a lot of loose parchment and none of the clothes that had been left in there and not put away in the wardrobes was folded. It meant she didn’t have to be particularly careful searching, but it also made it hard to find anything. So she found nothing. Not even any useful gossip on her brother.

Harry’s trunk was much neater. She wouldn’t call it tidy exactly, but it was better. Parchment all together. Books all together. Clothes all away somewhere else. Still, nothing out of the ordinary. Damn.

Ginny sighed. Where else was there to look? If the three had all their plotting hidden away in some other room in the massive house she’d never find it. She turned towards her brother’s bed. Well, she had once place left to look.

She crept around the bed and opened the drawer of her brothers remarkably not dusty bedside table. Parchment, a couple knuts. She almost let it go and moved on. Almost. At the bottom though, there was an slightly crumpled piece of parchment that was tuned upside down, ink bleeding through the back just enough to let her know something was written on it.

She picked it up and turned it over. Ginny froze. Not just stopped moving froze, no. A full joint lock, breath stolen, hair on end freeze. Down to her blood.

It was her brother’s hand writing, she could recognize that anywhere. But what it said . . . Ginny didn’t know what to think. It had to be a joke, didn’t it? No, it couldn’t be. Even her brother wasn’t dumb enough to joke about this. No one was.

Innocent, scrawled lettering at the top read: Lord Mortis To Do List. It was underlined with a quick drawn line and a bit of quill splattering. There were words under it, and Ginny really wished her eyes would move from the top ones so she could she what they were.

Lord Mortis. A to do list about Lord Mortis? A to do list for Lord Mortis?

Mortis. The Mortis family was dead. Wasn’t it? It was supposed to be. If it wasn’t, that would be first page news wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t somebody have told her? They had to be gone, didn’t they? It was what everyone said, what everyone thought.

Maybe not though.

And if anyone was going to her caught up in all of that, it would be Harry.

Ginny let her eyes trail downwards. Lines of letters, some crossed through, took a moment to focus before her eyes. It seemed like the three of them had been exploring Grimmuald in secret. They had even visited Knockturn Alley. Ginny wondered how they pulled that off, envy spiking in her at a chance to get out of this damned house. There were book titles too, some seemed very dark. Some were crossed through.

Ginny shuddered. Her brother, her friends, diving into the dark art? She wished she could think it was ridiculous, but with this list and this title and this handwriting it all seemed very, very serious. Very real.

Lord Mortis.

That was what this was all about, wasn’t it? Perhaps . . . Perhaps the Lord had contacted Harry? Perhaps he was teaching him? If anything could move a Mortis, a boy who’d survived the killing curse would do it.

That had to be it. That was the only thing that made sense.

But . . . She . . . Did she want to tell anyone? Tell the Order? Lord Mortis was a necromancer, Lord of all necromancers. Undoubtedly dark. Which was bad. But then, nobody else was teaching Harry anything. Nobody was telling them anything at all or helping them or, or, or, or anything! Ginny felt her temper flare. If Harry was going to survive this war, is any of them were, then someone had to teach him. They didn’t have the luxury of being children now and if Lord Mortis was the only one who saw that . . . Well, it wasn’t like any of then could stop a ruthless, powerful necromancer if he wanted to do something anyway. And what he wanted was to teach Harry. Because surely if he’d wanted to kill him or trick him he wouldn’t have bothered with all this. Mortis’ didn’t have to ask for anything, they just took. And Lord Mortis hadn’t taken anything. He was giving. Giving to help them. Which meant that even if he was dark, he couldn’t be all bad.

Ginny put the paper back where she found it and excited the room with careful steps.

She didn’t know what to do now, but she knew she had to help where she could. She’d wait for the right time to talk to the trio about all of this, and until then . . . Maybe she could tell her Mum she’d seen Harry crying the other night, so she’d defend his “mourning time” even more fiercely.

-----

“So, Hermione,” Harry said, attempting to wedge himself behind a heavy wood shelf. “What’s up with that bag?”

Hermione was watching from a few feet away as he and Ron worked to balance the shelf just enough to tip the books out but not enough to send it crashing. She was there to let them know how progress was going, and because it was her turn to not be potentially injured by falling book spines. Shelf tipping was a delicate process, and they were becoming very good at it.

She ducked her head a little bashfully. “Ah, well, it’s only wand magic we’re not allowed to practice during the summer. Well, we’re not allowed to practice anything, but runes and arithmancy are subtle enough not to set off any alarms. And well, I got bored waiting around. It’s not like it goes forever. It’s only got maybe a ten foot by ten foot space, but I’m working on better in a smaller bag.”

Harry stared. “Of course, well.” He grunted as the shelf shifted into his ribs a little. “It’s really wicked.”

“You think so?” Her smiled at him brightly. “Expansion charms on bags and fabric aren’t very common, they break easily and its too easy for them to fall apart and - oh Harry, it’s working.”

Harry grunted in response, straining to hold the shelf in balance.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk thunk thunkthunkthunkthunkthunk. The books fell off the shelves.

“Up.” Ron grunted.

Harry agreed, and answered with a grunt as they righted the self and pushed themselves away from the wall. He let out a long, heavy breath.

“Well, lets see what we’ve got!” Hermione chirped, squatting to dig through the pile of books. The ones the didn’t need got piled in a corner and the ones they did wen’t into Hermione’s miracle bag and then the old expanded school trunk.

Harry leant against the wall for a moment before joining her, Ron one beat behind him.

“Hey Harry?” Ron asked after a moment of silent paper shuffling.

“Yeah?” Harry responded, picking a book up out of the pile and squinting at the faded spine. Secrets, Dark and Darker by Roman Rosier. Might be useful.

“You think Parseltounge is a language we can learn with the ritual?” Ron handed him a book for the useful pile. It was thin and dark brown.

Huh. “I dunno.” He didn’t know, but it might be. “Worth a shot I guess.” He was a little worried though, what if the ritual had side effects for the donors he didn’t know of.

“Yeah.” Ron nodded. “Maybe . . .” He shook his head and ducked it in thought. Harry let him think. Sometimes Ron needed a minute. It wasn’t like Harry had anything better to do than wait.

A moment passed, and then another, all with the background shuffle of books.

“Maybe if you’re gonna do it we should too.” Ron said at last.

“Huh?” Harry was confused. Ron only knew a little Latin and Hermione probably knew a couple languages, but nothing they couldn’t pick up from someone else. He didn’t want them at risk if they didn’t have to be.

“If you’re gonna do it, well, I mean, we’ve always done risky things together, and . . . ” Ron trailed off, looking a little frustrated at himself.

“I think it seems like a wonderful idea Ron.” Hermione’s voice was soft and something Harry didn’t quite know how to place.

“But, why?” Harry asked. If they didn’t have to, they shouldn’t have to risk themselves in some dark ritual for him anymore than they already were just going through with it.

“It’s . . .” Hermione floundered for a moment. “It’s a gesture Harry. A commitment. To say that we’re all in this together.”

“Yeah.” Harry smiled wide and dopey. “We are.” He felt really, really warm in a really, really good way.

-----

Amelia Bones sat in her Cozy home office, in her overstuffed chestnut brown leather chair, staring at her empty desk. Evening sunlight fell through the windows onto her heavy oak desk, painting the room golden even through the half sheer curtains.

She was anything but relaxed.

Mortis. It was a name, a family, she had thought herself free of since birth. Her parents had as well. And her grandparents, as far as she knew. Yes, they were a vassal family. Yes, they were sworn to serve. But no Mortis had been seen in so long, and her family hadn’t been called on in even longer. It was likely things would continue that way, that Lord Mortis was content to leave them be. But she wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure about any of this.

But . . . She couldn’t risk anything happening to her niece. Her Susan was a child, an innocent, not yet graduated from Hogwarts and yet to be touched by this war in any way that dimmed the bright light in her eyes. Amelia had been taking care of her since she was just a baby, since her parents, her sister and her husband, had died in the last war. And now she had to find some way to protect her. Some way to keep her out of whatever was going on.

Even if it meant serving the Lord her family had been free of for generations hand and foot and going against everything she believed in.

And all of that meant getting ahead of this, somehow or another.

She took out a piece of parchment and cleanly prepared a quill.

Dearest Lord Rigoure Mortis, she started, then erased the ink with a sharp flick of of her wand. No. That wasn’t right.

Lord Mortis, no, too curt.

The The Greatest Lord Mortis, no, too much Fudge by far.

My Lord Mortis, far too familiar.

Amelia growled lowly. Why couldn’t this be easy? She clenched her hand tight around her wand. It would be truly, wonderfully, blessedly nice to break something right now.

Chapter Text

The letter arrived at precisely midnight.

Harry was awoken quite abruptly by the sharp slap of parchment. Right across his face. He bolted up, eyes wild, arms swinging.

There was an owl on his bed.

Harry blinked. What? He fumbled for his glasses. That was an owl alright. Sitting on the end of his bed frame. It was a rather majestic thing, all sleek brown feathers and with a stern look. It hooted at him. Harry blinked again.

He shifted a little, finding a better seat on the bed than his sprawl. Something crinkled in his lap. Huh? Harry pulled his blankets back and stared at the letter sitting in his lap. Ah, that made sense. An owl meant a letter, didn’t it. He picked it up and set it aside for a moment. He fumbled in his bedside table for a moment, pulling out a candle and a matchbox to light it with. If a letter had shown up at this hour it had to be important.

Harry took a closer look in the light. The parchment was nice. Like, really nice. The kind of nice Harry had never seen before, not at school, not in the stationary store, and not in this house. Not, of course, that he knew anything about parchment. But this was smooth and milk and shimmered in the candle light. It looked important, and very pretty. The letter was sealed with dark red wax, and stamped with some sort of crest. Very official.

He carefully peeled the top open. He didn’t want to tear anything this nice so he did it extra slow.

The letter was just as nice, if not nicer, at first glance. Similar to the letter casing except it looked to be lined with gold. Very fancy. Very official.

Why would anyone send this to him?

Harry unfolded the parchment and started to read.

To The Lord of House Mortis, it began.

Harry groaned loudly, but pushed forwards anyway. Each sentence just made him more and more confused. What was a Vassal House? Or, even just a Vassal? Was there a difference? What did the writer mean “expectations of their House”? Susan? He kind of a Susan Bones in his year at Hogwarts. She was Hufflepuff and about his age, and he thought he remembered her in the D.A. last year, but that was about it.

He needed Hermione, and probably Ron too. He really didn’t want to wake them up this late but . . . This sounded important. Really important. Couldn’t wait important.

Harry winced as he climbed from warm blankets to cold night air, and again when his feet hit the floor. He didn’t know wood could get that icy.

“Ron.” Harry stage whispered, shaking his friend lightly.

Ron snored louder.

Harry shook him again. “Ron!”

“Whuzzat?” The redhead groaned, burrowing further into his bed.

“Ron, come on.” Harry shook a bit harder.

Ron didn’t even move this time.

So, as any reasonable individual would, Harry pushed his friend out of his bed. Ron landed with a muffled thump, and began swearing sleepily. A tousled head peeked above the edge of the mattress.

“What the fuck Harry?” Ron blinked up at him sleepily.

“Something important happened.” Harry whispered. He tried to sound as serious as he could, but he wasn’t sure how well he managed.

“Couldn’t it have waited until morning?” The other boy’s head thumped against the side of the bed.

“I’m not sure.” He responded, squirming a little and suppressing a yawn of his own.

Ron mumbled something unintelligible. Harry snorted out a laugh. Trust Ron to be impossible to wake up even in an . . . He wasn’t sure this was an emergency, but he also wasn’t sure it wasn’t.

“I’ll get Hermione.” Harry shuffled over to the door. “Just, you wake up a bit.”

A low groan followed him out the door.

The young wizard crept through the hallways of Grimmuald as quietly as he could. He didn’t have far to go, the girls were just around the corner. Really, you’d think with all the exploring he had done he’d feel a bit better about the house. But he still found it really, really creepy. Especially at night. Harry took a deep breath and let it out in a whoosh. Just, keep focused, Hermione’s room wasn’t too far. Ignore the creepy shadows and far away creaks and . . . Were those whispers? No, just keep walking. Oh thank Merlin, there was her door.

Harry slipped in as quietly as he could. After years of sneaking around Hogwarts and the Dursleys’ Harry like to think that was pretty quiet. Two forms slept soundly, and he paused and winced. He forgot Hermione shared a room with Ginny. He really hoped she was as deep a sleeper as her brother or this could get awkward.

Still, nothing to do about that now. Luckily, it wasn’t hard to tell who was who. Hermione’s bushy hair created a distinct silhouette and Crookshanks was curled up against her side. She was also, thankfully, the closest to the door.

“Hermione.” Harry whispered, shaking her lightly and crouching down next to the bed. “Hermione.”

It took a few moments before she stirred, nose wrinkling and eyes scrunching up. She didn’t make any noise though, and when she opened her eyes to look at him Harry pressed one finger to his lips. It took a few sleepy blinks for her to process what was going on. Harry could tell when she did, her expression changing from confused to annoyed.

He motioned her to follow him and took a couple steps towards the door. The witch propped herself up with one arm and rolled her eyes at him hard enough for him to see even in the darkness. She shooed him off with one hand and a soft snort. Harry nodded back at her and slipped back into the hallway, closing the door as quietly as he could behind him. She’d probably meet up with them back in Ron’s room. At least, he hoped she would and that hand’t been her just telling him to let her go back to sleep.

The way back to his room was just as creepy as the way there, but it seemed to go faster.

Ron was already up. Or at least sort of sitting with his blanket pulled around him like a cloak. He gave Harry a nasty stink eye as he headed over to his own bed, but the room was much better lit than before with a handful of candles spaced about and the trunk they kept the books in had been pulled out of it’s hiding place to sit near enough to Harry’s bed. He tossed Ron a greatful smile as he wiggled his feet back beneath his own blankets.

Ron grunted at him. “Hermione coming?”

“Yeah, she’ll be here in a few.” Harry nodded. Now that he was settled again his eyes were drawn back to the letter resting on his bedside table. He hoped he was doing the right thing, waking them up like this.

His friend huffed and threw himself back against the pillows that had been propped up against the headboard. Harry spared him a glance and then decided the most productive use of his time was probably fiddling with the edges of his blankets.

It was a quiet few minutes until Hermione walked in, looking just as tired as he felt but with something in her expression reminding him of the one she’d had just before she’d punched Malfoy. Harry winced. Fiery dark brown eyes locked onto his and she raised one eyebrow at him, sitting on the end of Ron’s bed with her legs crossed. Maybe waking them up had been about the worst decision he could have made. But then, well, he really didn’t know one way or another if the letter could wait, did he?

So, he did what made the most sense to him, and tossed the letter to Hermione. She caught it easily and started reading, brow furrowing as she went further and further down the page. When she was done she pursed her lips and handed the letter to Ron without a word.

After a moment of reading, Ron set the letter down in front of him.

“I understand, like, half of this.” He announced.

Two nods answered him.

“I was confused by quite a bit too.” Hermione confessed, looking frustrated and defeated. They had all been confused a lot lately, fumbling around in the dark like they were. None of them liked it very much.

“I barely understood anything.” Harry added casually. “So, I wasn’t really sure whether it could wait or not. I mean, it looks important, and it sounds important, but I don’t know what it actually means.”

Ron snorted. “I know a little about the whole Vassal thing, but not really all that much. It’s a pureblood thing where one House sort of serves another one, I think.” He didn’t sound that sure, which was anything but comforting.

Hermione scooted off the bed and began digging through their trunk of books. She hummed to acknowledge of Ron’s words.

“So, I have a servant now?” Harry asked, a bit baffled.

“I guess?” Ron shrugged at him, blanket mound moving as a whole in an almost rolling motion. “But it’s more like two servants, I think, with what she said about Susan.”

“Yeah, uh, about that?” Harry turned embarrassed eyes back to his blankets. “Do you two know anything about her? All I know is that she’s in Hufflepuff, really.” He looked back and forth between his friends the settled on Hermione.

After a beat of silence, the girl looked up to find two pairs of eyes fixed on her.

“What?” She snapped. “Just because I’m a girl doesn’t have to mean I know any more about her than you do.”

Harry shrugged. “But do you?”

She huffed a little. “A bit more than you at least. Her and Hannah Abbot seem close, and they were both in the D.A. last year.”

Harry nodded. He had thought he’d remembered her there but hadn’t been sure. “What about her Aunt?”

“Actually,” Ron was the one who answered him, “I think Amelia Bones is the head of the D.M.L.E.”

Harry’s eyes widened, but he was cut off from saying anything by a now crow of triumph from Hermione. When he turned to look at her she was already paging through a thick book. She landed about two thirds through and read nearly a dozen pages in silence as the boys waited for her to be done.

Her head snapped up, face spread in a triumphant grin. “Vassals and Vassal Houses are actually different. A Vassal swears themself to a House or a person for as long as they live, trading servitude for protection. The magic involved in the bond protects the Vassal from certain forms on mental attack, lets the one the Vassal is sworn to know when the Vassal is in danger, and some other things we probably don’t need to get into. It’s a long list. Vassal Houses, on the other hand, are whole Houses sworn very strictly to serve another House. They obey them and serve them to the best of their ability in return for very little. Usually most of the benefit is that the Lord’s House, the one they’re sworn to, doesn’t allow anyone to attack the Vassal House outright or they’ll seem weak for letting that happen. It all sounds vey archaic.”

“I wonder how many languages she knows?” The words spilled out of Ron’s mouth slowly, easy and dull in contrast to the sharp gleam in his eyes.

Harry snorted. Leave it to Ron to work this to their advantage. Still, his stomach twisted at the thought of having someone who had to obey him. It all sounded very Death Eatery. But if he could get another bit of blood . . . He’d learn to live with it.

“How am I going to write back? And on what?” Harry asked, eyeing the letter like it would bite him if he twitched wrong. How was he supposed to get parchment that nice?

“Maybe there’s something in that study we found?” Ron sounded similarly unsure.

“Maybe we should look into proper pureblood letter writing etiquette first? It would be bad to get this wrong.” Hermione suggested.

Both boys groaned lowly. She was right, but it was going to be a very long night.

-----

Eighteen hours and one painstakingly crafted letter later all three teenagers let out a collective breath. They’d found some hopefully nice enough parchment in the creepily pristine study, along with a few more pieces of jewelry that Hermione added to her now heavily expanded jewelry box and some nice quills Ron snagged.

Wax for sealing the letter had been harder to acquire, but eventually they had managed to find some very nice dark green candles that would have to do, even if they did smell like pine. As for the seal, well, when Harry had just started to panic about that himself he found himself in possession of one all of a sudden. It had just appeared in his hand. The symbol on it was what looked to be a dragon skull and a sickle, which definitely wasn’t creepy at all. There had been a lot of staring, but none of them had actually wanted to deal with what that might mean, so after a moment the three all independently decided that was perfectly normal and not their problem.

Of course, there was another problem now.

“So, Harry, what owl are you going to use?” Ron asked, words somewhat muffled since he was currently pressing his face to the cool wood desk and couldn't be bothered to lift his head to speak. He was half slumped out of the green velvet chair the had pulled up to the side of the desk, and looked well and truly exhausted. They were still in the study, all crowded around the large desk, and had been for hours.

“What do you mean? I’ll just use Hedwig.” Harry answered, flexing his hand to work out the stiffness from writing so carefully for so long. Yes, his handwriting still resembled chicken scratch, but at least it was legible now, and most of the letters looked like actual letters. He counted it as a win.

“No, you wont.” Ron lifted his head up just enough to send Harry a pointed look before dropping it again with a thunk. “Not unless you want everyone to figure out you’re Lord Mortis. You’re the only one with a snowy at Hogwarts and there can’t be that many more out there. They’re a rare bird here mate. I love Hedwig, you know that, but don’t be dull.”

Harry groaned. He didn’t have any other owl just laying around. “What am I supposed to do then?”

Hermione stood from her seat. “I might have an idea, wait here.” She rushed from the room without any other explanation.

Harry massaged his hand a bit more. Ron rolled his head against the sleek wood. They waited.

Hermione came through the door again with a pillow case that she was holding at arms length and swung rather ominously.

“What is that?” Harry hoped he sounded as not happy about whatever was in that bag as he felt.

“Crookshanks’ latest gift. I have no idea how he caught it, but it should do.” Hermione sighed. She dropped the bag on the floor and collapsed back into her seat. It landed with a fleshy thunk. There was an owl in that bag. Or, at least a large bird. Either way, it was dead and he didn’t want anything to do with it.

“I don’t even know how to bring things back to life.” He protested weakly. Still, he slid out of the chair and found a comfortable seat in front of the lumpy pillowcase.

“Just, I don’t know, focus.” Hermione sounded a bit strained. Probably the exhaustion. Harry knew he was feeling it too, only probably less than his friends. He was used to bad sleep, at least a little. “How were you feeling the last two times?”

“Frustrated, I guess? My magic was being a bit funny too.” Harry answered. He wasn’t feeling very confident about this.

“Then be frustrated at it. You have to start figuring all this out sometime.” Hermione responded, waving a hand somewhat lazily through the air.

Harry stared at the pillowcase. “Uh, wake up? Please?” He asked politely, ignoring Rn’s snort from behind him. Nothing. Well, alright then.

He closed his eyes. Okay Harry, get frustrated, he told himself. Ginny with Dean,Voldemort, Sirius, Dumbledore keeping the prophecy from him, Snape, the Dursleys, wow there was a lot for him to get upset about, no - focus, Umbridge, the Ministry, people being mean to Luna, the oncoming dread of N.E.W.T revision, there we go. Apparently thinking about frustrating things worked. His magic was writhing beneath his skin like a pit of snakes, which was admittedly a bit disturbing, but he also felt like breaking his knuckles on someones face and tearing someone to pieces and no, focus Harry.

There was something dead in front of him. He wanted it to not be dead. Focus on that. Concentrate. Concentrate.

Like a striking snake, far more pinpoint than it had been before, his magic sprang forwards. There was a rustle of feathers and Harry’s eyes snapped open.

A black beak poked out of greying fabric, followed by a black head feathered head. It took a minute, but eventually a whole bird had nosed its way out of the pillowcase. It was an unusually large crow. One with killing curse green eyes.

Harry stared in awe. He had done that. He had done that on purpose. He had tried to bring something back to life and he had done it. It felt incredible.

Harry swung around to look at Ron and Hermione, joyous smile stretching his cheeks until they hurt. They were both staring, wide eyed and still.

“Wow.” Ron breathed. “I mean, it’s not that I didn’t believe you, but mate, that’s . . . Merlin’s Beard!”

Harry just grinned wider. He stood slowly, the high of doing something so absolutely amazing all but erasing his previous tiredness. One step and the bird flapped its wing to land neatly on his shoulder. It looked at him and clacked its beak twice.

There was a small squeak in his pants pocket, and Uric crawled out to inspect the other undead creature. The crow hopped off anf onto the desk to get a better look at Uric itself. He hadn’t known the mouse was in there, but he wasn’t really surprised. Somehow the little thing was always around. The doxie, who he had named Filemina after one of Wood’s Quidditch heroes, was the same way. It didn’t take but a moment for her to reveal herself to buzz around the two on dainty wings. Or, at least he’d been assuming the doxie was a she. It was very pretty and very dangerous, and that fit the bill of most of the girls he knew, so he figured it was probably a fair bet.

Three pairs of killing curse eyes inspected one another. Creepy. But now Harry thought it was a bit cool too.

He wasn’t sure he really wanted to interrupt the little meet and greet, but he did need to get this letter off sooner rather than later. So Harry reached across the desk to grab the nice, sealed letter, and held it out to the bird.

“Can you, uh, take this to Amelia Bones?” He asked, unsure of what the proper procedure for handing off a letter to a non owl bird was. Would it even know what to do?

Apparently, what he’d said was good enough, as the crow snatched the letter up in its beak and flapped over to the nearest window sill.

Harry opened the window and watched his newest companion flap off into the dimming evening.

He turned to his friends with a sigh. Dinner was soon, which was exactly what he needed, and after that a nice long rest sounded about divine.

Hermione looked back to him from the window, having been watching the crow fade into the distance with him. “Well, at least I’ve figured out how to learn how many languages everyone in the Order knows.” She rubbed a tired hand against her temples.

“Great.” Harry sighed. He was happy about that, of course. It just seemed like there was never any time for a break.

----

When an abnormally large crow with glowing, killing curse green eyes set a letter down in from of her with more poise than a good number of her coworkers, Amelia Bones knew exactly who the letter was from. Her heart beat heavy and fast in her chest.

Lord Mortis had responded.

She quietly excused herself from breakfast, brushing off her niece’s concerned and curious looks. She was in her study as quick as she could get to it, and was throwing up quick wards before the door even clicked shut. Wards to keep her niece from eavesdropping. Wards to keep anyone from bursting in. Wards to keeping anything malicious the letter might contain in, trapped in the study where her niece couldn’t be harmed.

She set the letter on the desk in front of her and folded shaking fingers together. He had responded. He had responded quickly. Usually, in pureblood circles, just a speedy response meant a great deal of respect or a great deal of urgency. But even then . . . For it to be delivered by Lord Mortis’ own owl, or crow in this case, instead of by WizMail, well, that could mean any number of things. Perhaps the Lord simply wished to keep all correspondence secret. Perhaps there was something in this letter he couldn’t risk being seen, or picked up by curse scanners. Perhaps many things.

She couldn’t delay opening it though. She knew that. One deep breath and Amelia slipped her finger under the flap of the letter, breaking the pine scented seal of the House of Mortis. She pulled the letter out, holding it like it was made of thin glass and spiderwebs. She unfolded it.

Head of Vassal House Bones, it began. That was promising, respectful if not overly formal.

Her eyes scanned down the page, reading with fearful fervor. When she finished, Amelia let out a soft breath in relief. They were not being called to serve, neither her nor Susan, at least not yet. Nor did it appear that the Lord was displeased with how she had penned her letter. There were, however, a number of questions included at the end of the letter, and she didn’t know what to make of those. Was the Lord determining her usefulness? Did he already know the answers and was just testing her honesty? Was something else entirely afoot?

Amelia chewed on her lip in thought. Why would Lord Mortis wish to know how many languages she spoke? How well she dueled? What her Patronus was?

No matter the reason, she had a letter to write. She could take her time, yes, the average response time for a letter was two to five days depending on levels of respect, urgency, and general politeness. But it would do her well to get started now. At least Lord Mortis seemed disinterested in Susan. She could say with confidence that was the best news she’d gotten all year.

-----

Harry turned over again. He must have done it a dozen times that night already. But no matter how he lay or how long he lay there, he just couldn’t get to sleep.

Harry opened his eyes in defeat and started at the ceiling. It wasn’t like it was anything new, his inability to sleep. Some nights no matter how hard he tried it just wouldn’t come. He’d had several night s like this one at the beginning of the summer, consumed with sadness over Sirius and directionless anger and restless energy, not feeling like he could ever do enough. Sometimes, he went out for a walk. Sometimes it helped. Sometimes it just gave him something to do.

Harry sighed. He couldn’t very well go for a walk now though. This wasn’t the Dursleys and this wasn’t Privet Drive. He could really use one though. Just to clear his head. So much had happened lately and he had no idea what to do about it.

This wasn’t how he’d imagined his life going. All these dark books and necromancy and weird pureblood etiquette. He just wanted to get through school, get through the war, find a quiet job and a quiet wife and live in peace. He didn’t see that happening now, any of it. Not with all of this. Who would want to date a necromancer?

He sighed, his mind slipping deep into things he didn’t really want to think about.

How long would Ron and Hermione stay if he kept doing things like he’d done the other day. Bringing things back to life. Messing with death and dark magic. They had seemed okay with everything so far, but dark magic was evil and surely they wouldn’t want to be around anyone evil. What is he was evil? What if he turned evil? As evil as Voldemort even? He didn’t want that.

Harry bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. He couldn’t think about this. It was too much. He need to get up. He needed a walk.

Harry climbed out of bed without thinking about it and stepped out the door to his room. To his left was the stairs, it his right the great expanse of Grimmuald Place. Harry went left, and just kept walking.

-----

Rita Skeeter liked to think she was an exceptionally canny woman. It was only because she was an exceptionally canny woman that she knew all she knew, discovered all she discovered.

The Ministry had been hiding something for weeks. All the officials had been sneaking around. Her normal sources were coming up empty. So Rita had done a little snooping of her own. And she had found something very interesting. Something dangerous. Something the people needed to know.

But not, perhaps, something she needed to tell them herself.

Which was why she had aliases. Three of them. None could be connected back to her and it would be no tragedy if one of them had to . . . Disappear. Especially in pursuit of such interesting news! Lord Mortis had taken a visit to the ministry. A prestigious Lord of a dark House long since thought dead and gone.

Rita Skeeter picked up her quill and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

This required a careful hand. She needed to think very carefully about exactly what spin she wanted to put on this. This was why she was a reporter. This power. This narrative was hers. This story was hers. What the public thought of this event, what they believed, where their minds strayed when they discussed this with one another . . . It was all hers.

She let a slow smile cross brilliant red lips.

Rita Skeeter knew exactly what she was going to say. She put the quill to parchment, and began the most important part: finding the headline.

Chapter Text

Harry shut the door behind him with only the faintest creak. It was late. Or maybe early. Somewhere in between the two when the sky outside any window he peaked through was not yet touched by the light of false dawn but far past the time when the house had fallen deep into slumber. He was the only one awake.

This would be his third midnight walk through Grimmuald. It wasn’t his safest idea to date. Not his most dangerous either, given how often his plans tended to skew deadly. Grimmuald was creepy, for sure, but the longer he spent in it’s dark halls the more strangely at home he felt. Not that every distant creak didn’t send a shiver right up his spine. And there were a lot of those.

It was even creepier when you considered how his way was lit. He had a candle with him, an ever burning taper, but at least half his light came from something else. Three pairs of glowing green eyes illuminated the passageways faintly in green the color of death. Uric typically bundled himself up un Harry’s pocket or under his pillow when he slept, but during these walks he liked to dart between they boy’s feet. He'd been extra attentive since the other two had risen, and Harry was almost tempted to call him jealous. That would be ridiculous though. The crow rode on Harry’s shoulder mostly, or occasionally flapped from high point to high point in the long hallways, illuminating the far ahead with a bubble of dim green light. The doxie, for once, made the least trouble, contenting itself to buzz around him loosely. He’d named her Filemina after one of Wood’s Quidditch heroes, and so far the name seemed to fit her daring character. They all kept quiet durring his walks though, perhaps respecting an unspoken need.

This time, he’d set off towards the right most corner of the great old manor. It was a slow path he’d been continuing down on his most restless nights. Sometimes he would walk for long moments down twisting halls, ignoring doors and furniture and strange, foreboding shadows cast by nothing he would see. Nothing he wanted to see. For other creeping stretches, Harry would satisfy a fervent and curious mind the only way he was able. Digging through other people’s stuff. That those people were almost unanimously batshit and very certainly long dead only seemed to drive him forwards.

Tonight he started with a long, slow walk through the narrow canals of the beast that was Grimmuald Place, continuing until his mind lost itself in a fog of repeated motion and his thoughts spun quieter and quieter. Eventually though, his fingers began to itch and his eyes began to stutter over closed doors. Time to start a creepy little treasure hunt then, he supposed.

Behind the first door, well, the first unlocked door, cobwebs were so thickly matted Harry wondered if maybe this place didn’t have an acromantula infestation of its own. He wouldn’t be bloody surprised. He shut that one as quickly and quietly as he could. No spiders today, thank you very much. He had to snatch Filemina back before she got herself caught in the sticky mess.

The second showcased a dusty old sitting room, with dusty books and dusty curtains and dusty couches. One wall was taken up entirely by a set of thick velvet curtains. He couldn’t tell their color in the flickering light of his single ever burning candle and his unsettling companions, but whatever it was the dust the lightened it did nothing to hide it’s inky darkness. Below the curtains edges soft moonlight broke against dark food flooring. It made for a ghostly scene that suited the old room well.

Harry peeled back the old fabric carefully, unsure of what lay on the other side and more unsure he even wanted to see it. One could never be too careful in Grimmuald Place, and he often found himself leagues behind where any sane person would lay the line of acceptable caution. Mostly, he couldn’t be bothered with more than cursory carefulness. Perhaps living in Gryffindor had taught him a few bad habits. Perhaps.

Behind the curtain and dust dimmed window panes lay a courtyard overgrown and cast in dark moon shadow. Thick groves of spiny vines and gnarled, drooping trees crowded dark corners. Moon bright white ivy cascaded upwards like blood from a great and punctured heart with thin veins unfurling in a way that implied movement that wasn’t there, glittery and near glowing in the light from up above. Soft lavender flowers sprung shyly from in between heart shaped leaves that trembled against the ground they covered in the night air. There was a wide, tall bush sprawling against one broad wall, flat leaves edged in dark crimson like wet blood on a knife’s edge. The wild forest on the courtyards outer reached stretched greedy hands forward, desperately trying to break free from the confines of the line of white stone caging them in their beds, all of it surrounding an expanse of soft green and a wooden gazebo framed by a set of pale stone benched.

Harry stared, lips parted in surprise. Wow.

He had seen first hand that Grimmuald contained a lot more than he’d bargained for, but he wasn’t prepared for a garden of all things. Or, no. Gardens were where you grew vegetables and the like. This was a courtyard. He thought. It sounded right. He wasn’t really an expert in fancy names for places.

To Harry’s surprise, the wide windowed wall contained a nice set of french doors. Cautious hands grasped a silver handle tentatively, waiting for some curse to spring. When, after a tense moment, nothing started hurting, he pushed them in. Nothing. He tried again, frowning. Hm. Harry paused. He pulled them in towards him and the doors opened without a creak, gliding on their hinges. Rain damp air hit him, heady with the scent of passing storms, and he felt like a dunce. Of course it was a pull door. What was it supposed to do, open right into the grass or the stone walkway?

One foot after the other he stepped into this new space. It was quiet now in a way it hadn’t been inside even with the sound of the London bustle echoing form very far away. Much farther than he felt it should have been. Here, there was just the rustle of leaves stirring in a wind that wasn’t there. Harry found that appropriately ominous for the late time and dark setting.

The garden beds were a wreck. He didn’t know much about magical gardening, but he’d tended Petunia’s muggle flower beds enough to know that much. Plants climbed over and under one another for space, magically contained in the boundaries of their plots but not at all prevented from growing ints the great green hazard they were now. One of the bushes waved fat purple leaves at him as if trying to snatch him off his feet. Some of the residents of the courtyard beds looked downright deadly, and he’d bet even the most innocent looking of them had their . . . Quirks. The House of Black didn’t seem to let anything in their walls that wasn’t actively old, grandiose, or actively cursed. Better yet if there was a bit of overlap.

Still, the fresh air and the chance to spread his arms without hitting a cobweb or cursed cabinet was nice. And moonlight on his skin felt like a dream. He just knew it would be even better in the sun, and the chance at basking in something warmer than the perpetual dank chill of the old house left him eager to return in the daylight. The crow was already circling the skies, and Filemina was dangerously close to something that looked like it would eat her if given the chance, so he assumed it was universally appreciated. Ron and Hermione would probably appreciate it all too. It was too bad he couldn’t tell Ginny about this place, she must feel as awful as he did cooped up inside for so long.

Maybe he could even ride a broom out here.

-----

Hermione lay her head back against a pale wood post, watching her boys laugh and dance around each other in the thick grass of the sunlit courtyard. Ron dove after Harry with a growl, the dark haired boy shaking his head laughing as he backpedaled. Ron landed with a thump on the ground and his long limbs scrambled without event a hint coordination to pull him upright again. Harry called out something playful to the downed boy, staying just out of arms reach but clearly ready to spring away. She felt warm.Warm and soft, like Crookshanks had curled up inside her chest and started his deep, rumbling purr.

She wasn’t an idiot. She saw the darkness that hovered around this place, that swam around all three of them now. Some of it was the stain of war, the fresh scars on Ron’s arms and the bags under Harry’s eyes and the ruthless edge to her own thoughts as they all paddled forever in the shallow end of danger and fear. The rest of it though, that was something else. Harry’s eyes glowed then the light caught them right, most often in those quiet moments in between pages and dusk and despair. This skin stretched beyond the usual palor it took before Quidditch season. Sometimes when she looked at Ron he appeared as if a great lion, teeth and cunning barred below a fuzzy smile. He no longer flinched at dark corners or darker artifacts. But then, she didn’t either.

A book lay open in her lap untouched. She could smell the darkness on it. Like satin and tar. Some months ago, it would have repulsed her. She wouldn’t have even been able to touch it without pulling her fingers away sticky with what she could not bear to think of. Some months ago, if she had been told she how deep she would dive into the dark, they would have earned themselves a solid curse to wherever would smart the most.

And now, here she was. She huffed a laugh. The things one did for love, hm? If her boys needed her she’d always be there. Even when they were being complete idiots. And they’d have her back too, even when she was being an idiot. Which she never was, of course. Absolutely impossible.

The sunlight was nice after so long caged in dark walls. If there was nothing more pressing to do, she would love to spend the day sitting here and doing nothing and fooling around. But there were many more pressing things. Still, her boys deserved a break.

She turned her mental checklist over in her mind, words swimming in and out of focus behind her eyes. The ritual, vassals and vassal houses, the Mortis family, necromancy, auric magics, more and more things piled up in her head. She sighed. It was so much, in such a short timeline. But then, it was always one short notice scramble after another wasn’t it. At least she wouldn’t be bored. If that was possible being friends with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley.

She turned back to her book. The current page described in frankly unnecessary detail the process of scrying in entrails. Not pleasant, and not something she ever intended on using, but she’d read through the section anyway just in case there was anything useful buried in it. Because, well, these books were rarely organized very well. It was often more similar to ink and paper ramblings than the sequenced compositions she had grown up on. She was very glass she was taking notes, a new development but she was thoroughly tired of having to cross reference these frustrating tomes based solely on memory. She’d nearly flung one of them out the window the other day because the author would just not shut up about his damned wine collection and found a way to insert it into nearly everything. That man deserved a Malfoy Special.

Too bad he was long since buried.

-----

Harry dropped into his seat at the dining table with a groan. It had been a long, long day of studying. And not even for school! Learning Latin with Ron had it’s bright moments but there was a lot that felt like filling a bucket with a sieve.

“Long day, Harry?” Professor Lupin asked, voice not hiding his smile as well as his face.

He schooled his face into the most pitiful expression he could, one that had won him quite a few sweets form Mrs. Fig so many years ago. “Hermione’s making me learn.”

The Professor snorted butterbeer up his nose and started coughing loudly into his elbow. Not what he’d been hoping for, but Harry counted it as a win anyway.

“I think it’s very good of Hermione to have you looking over your summer homework.” Mrs. Weasley tossed a kind smile to the girl sat across from him.

Harry groaned again, this one thoroughly intentional. It was a lead in for Ron. Let the plan commence!

“It’s not even homework Mum!” Ron whined. “She’s making us learn Latin!” He sounded scandalized.

“It’s not that unreasonable Ron.” Hermione protested. Damn he loved his friends. It was a practiced, scripted line. But it didn’t sound a thing like it. “Our spells are largely based in Latin. I’d bet everyone at this table knows more than just English and I for one do not want to be the odd one out here! It’s a valuable skill.”

Ron opened his mouth, but was cut off.

“She is right, you know.” Fleur spoke up, French accent sharpening her words. There was an Order meeting that night and usually at least half a dozen of those participating showed up early for dinner first. Mrs. Weasley’s cooking was not to be missed, after all. It was why they had decided to play this whole thing out tonight.

Bill tossed his fiance a soft look and knocked his shoulder with hers. “Both Fleur and I know several, and I’d bet Kingsley there can speak at least a couple fluently himself.”

“Oh?” Hermione’s face was perfectly schooled into her sweetest eager academic guise. “Which ones? How often do you use them? I’d love some input for revising my list.”

Ron let out a soft groan, only half fake and not loud enough to stifle the conversation.

“Well let’s see,” Bill started counting on his fingers. “English of course, and French, Latin, some Gobbledegook although the goblins call it something much mores sensible, Romanian, German, and of course I picked up a few things what with my work in Egypt.” He wiggle his fingers and looked a bit embarrassed as he trailed off. Probably didn’t want to be seen as bragging. As far as Harry was concerned, that all was definitely brag worthy.

“I don’t know as many languages as Bill, but I would say nearly as many. And I am always learning.” Fleur smiled at Hermione warmly. Ginny glared at her, and Harry was deeply confused by that for a moment before deciding he really didn’t need to know.

“Ah, I know Irish, English, French, and Latin.” Professor Lupin added, face a bit red but clear of butterbeer.

“What about everyone else?” Harry asked, trying his best to look curious instead od smug. Even though he had every right to be smug. The plan had worked, was working really, after all. And working spectacularly.

Hermione tossed him a truly superior look, just as smug as he wanted to be. He wrinkled up his nose and , with the utmost maturity, stuck his tongue out at her.

Professor Lupin entered another coughing fit. The poor man.

-----

“Harry where were you!” Hermione’s eyes swept over him with deep concern the moment the door shut behind him.

Harry blinked dumbly at her. “I was with Dumbledore, he called me after the meeting remember?”

“This whole time?” Eyebrows shot up her face and then scrunched at the base of her brow.

“Well,” Harry nodded, “yeah.” Where else would he be?

“Its just that it’s so lat and all.” She drew back, somewhat hesitant to fuss more but still worried.

Harry walked over to his bed and sat down on the edge, toeing off his battered trainers. “Well, at first I was a little worried, what with him pulling me out fo the house so late. But he said we were going to get an old friend of his out of retirement.”

Ron groaned impressively, legs stretching forwards for a moment to add to the drama then collapsing again over the end of his bed. “New D.A.D.A Professor I bet. Who is it this time, a puppet of the dark forces or just a murderous incompetent arse. Or both.” His head lolled over to stare deadpan at Harry, bright hair splaying awkwardly against quilted bedspread. “Just please tell me they didn’t look like the sort to carve us up for bloody dinner.”

Harry snorted, remembering the man in the armchair. “Seemed more flighty than anything. Weird about me being, well, me, but it’s not like that’s unusual or anything. I think he used to teach at Hogwarts though, so maybe he’ll replace another teacher or something. I dunno. His name was, uh, Slughorn I think. Horace Slughorn. Wrecked his whole house to make it look like a death eater attack when Dumbledore showed up, even transfigured himself into a chair. No idea why. It’s not like it worked either.”

“I hope he’s kicking Snape out.” Ron muttered darkly. He paused, then sighed dramatically and shook his head, arms flinging upwards in uncoordinated defeat. Then he snickered. “A chair?”

“Yeah, pug ugly plaid thing.” Harry grinned.

Hermione reached for the book that lay on the end of Harry’s bed, no doubt how she had been passing the time, and took its spot neatly, placing it on her lap and drumming her fingers lightly on the hard cover as she thought. Harry and Ron waited.

“Did he say anything else?” She asked after a moment?

“What, Dumbledore?” Harry shook his head lightly. “Not really I guess. A little about the inferi but I think he didn’t want to spook me so he cut that off pretty quick. Bit about the war and all. Not much. Mostly he just wanted to know how I was fairing. I think he asked me if I had a girlfriend.” His face twisted in embarrassment and regret.

Ron’s smirk barely held his laugh back as he reached between the beds to pat Harry’s arm without sitting up. It might have been awkward, but Ron’s arms were long and he always seemed to pull these strange contortions off.

Harry raised a sarcastically thankful eyebrow at him. “There was something up with Dumbledore’s arm though. Don’t know what, barely caught a glimpse, but it was all burnt up or something.”

“You would think Madam Pomfrey would have taken care of that.” Hermione sounded as concerned as Harry was suspicious.

“Maybe he did it in a really embarrassing way, like petting Fawkes while he was molting or something.” Ron suggested. He didn’t sound like he actually bought it himself, but he also didn’t really sound like he cared. He was probably right, and they had enough on their plate now without some new Dumbledore mystery, but Harry was sure they’d get pulled into it if it turned out to be anything at all. When did they not.

Harry tossed shaggy hair out of his face with a flick of his head and bit back a sigh. When his hair flopped back in his face again, he contemplated whacking it all off right there. He hadn’t cut it since last summer and it was awkwardly long now without really being long enough to tie back or anything. He didn’t really want long hair but he always just forgot to get ti cut or try to did it himself. Maybe he’d get around to it tomorrow, when his shoulders weren’t sagging tiredly.

“Maybe, I hope it’s nothing serious.” Harry responded

“About the inferi . . .” Hermione very nearly hesitated, words jamming together clumsily for a second before she pushed on. “What did he say about them?”

Harry rolled the night over in his head. “Not much really, mostly just that they were attacking and that they’re bad and that they were used in the last war.”

“I wonder if we can find anything out about them? I know we haven't looked into it yet but if the Death Eaters are using them then maybe it would be good to find out more about them.” She furrowed her brow in thought for a moment and the shook free and turned back to face Harry. “Did he say anything about, you know, uh -”

“Harry’s undead cat in the bag?” Ron chimed in helpfully.

“Ron.” Hermione sounded playfully reproachful but her lips curled into a smile. Harry’s did too.

“Not a thing.” Harry confirmed with a definite nod. He hadn’t heard a single peep about it. That didn’t mean Dumbledore didn’t know about some of it. He knew the old wizrd hadn’t gotten anything out of his head though. Harry had never really loved the whole eye contact thing to begin with and after last year he had a free pass to avoid it as much as he wanted. He’d been practicing a level, disappointed stare in the mirror in case anyone ever tried to tell him otherwise. He hoped it would intimidate properly or at least make things awkward enough for him to never have to address the issue again.

“What have you been doing while I was out?” Harry asked as the silence edged into awkward.

“Oh!” Ron positively lit up. “Charlie stopped in! Taking a visit from Romania for a couple days and he got in late. Dragon drama I guess. Mum was ecstatic.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked, settling himself against his headboard to listen. He’d only met Charlie once before and it hadn’t been for long. Late night dragon smuggling didn’t seem to lend itself to long introductions after all. But he’d only ever heard good things. Meeting more of the Weasley family was always pleasant, and from the way Ron babbled on, he was sure Charlie was fantastic.

-----

Amelia Bones’ life was a mess.

To be more accurate, Amelia Bone’s attic was a mess and she needed it very much not to be. The attic was as close to artifact storage as the Bones household ever really got given that no one had bothered to do more than shove trunk after trunk up there and out of the way in generations. It was what her brother hand done when their mother had died, and what she had done when he and his wife had died. Just more boxes shoved in a dusty little room to kept the ghosts away. And no, not the literal kind.

Only it wasn’t a little room, and it wasn’t only a little dusty. It was a very big room, packed corner to corner with crates and trunks and piles of lamps and brooms and sleeping portraits and, most horrible of all, dust enough for her to drown in. Somewhere in this great clutter storm his her last hope of her and her niece’s survival. Buried in this tomb may just be a hint to the character of the family she was now sworn to. Or at least the methodology one was to use when dealing with a Mortis.

And she needed that. Because Amelia Bones was feeling more and more out of her depth with every passing day. There had been no sign of the great Lord Mortis since his abrupt entry to the Ministry weeks ago. There were rumors he had shown his face in Knockturn, escorted by hooded figured in ancient robes who clung to him like shadows. But those were rumors and nothing more. There was nothing to confirm this was at all true, and she held some hope that it was not. One Mortis was bad enough, and the more company the Lord kept the more ill omens stirred in in the pit of her heart and the back of her nightmares. But no, no one had seen the Lord. It seemed as if he had disappeared back into the mists of obscurity once again.

Except, of course, for the letters. Amelia Bones had not gone more than a few days since the first letter she sent without seeing the large crow that accompanied the Lord’s correspondence. Of course, she always wrote back. It would be rude not to. And one was simply not rude to Lord Mortis if they fancied their life or the wholeness of their bones. Amelia was particularly fond of both. She had been able to gather little from the back and forth. He wrote with stilted courtesy, toeing the line between over formal and and uncaringly blunt. His letters were filled with strange questions, inquiring as much as to the state of her life and family as to fulfill some dark curiosity on any number of strange subjects. Perhaps he was simply testing her knowledge and loyalty. She did not know which of the three disquieted her more.

If she was not a clever woman, one versed in politics and the twisted minds of the darkest wizards, she would say the Lord was simply bad at written correspondence and an utter novice in more formal dealings. But she was a clever woman, and she knew there was more to all of this. Which means she needed to know what that more was if she was to survive his machinations.

She had her wand, she had a strong bubblehead charm, and she had an unyielding will. She could do this. The attic would be conquered.

The first boxes were easy enough. Painful perhaps, but most of it could just be resorted and put away for later. Her mother’s things, her brother’s things, her own childhood memories. It was very awkward. She nearly succumbed then, sinking sobbing into memories. But one didn’t get to be head of the D.M.L.E for nothing. So she strode on.

Old and increasingly curious and useless possessions of grandparents and great grandparents and great great grandparents and great great great great . . . Oh it wasn’t like she was keeping much track anyway. A few books were stacked up to be added to the shelves downstairs, or in her office in the case of more questionable tomes. Mostly Old children’s books or school books or diaries, though someone somewhere along the line had scrawled nearly illegible writing in the margins of a number of increasingly obscure astrology tomes. She didn’t know enough about the subject to say whether it was mad or genius, it all just looked like a bunch of silly made up words and insistently drawn arrows to her.

In between a series of dark leather trunks crammed nearly to bursting with very small and very well made hats and a poor pine trunk whose enlargement enchantments had failed some time ago was a towering pile of claw foot brass lamps. Behind that, she found a stack of lovely watercolors of, she hoped, those same lamps mixed in with colorful spring landscapes. There were also more baby clothes than she suspected had ever been in one place at the same time previously. Despite the relatively small number of located diaries, there were piles and piles of old mail.

Amelia Bones had been cleaning her attic for three days sun up to sunset, and she still wasn’t done. Dread was starting to set in. And it was with that dread that she swiped away dunes of dust from one of the few remaining chests. It was up against the back wall, hidden behind an armoire and several silver full body mirrors. It was also black as the bones of the earth.

There wasn’t a lock.

The inside was untouched by dust or dirt, a soft black shawl covering the nearly full unexpanded insides entirely. It might have been an invisibility cloak once, or maybe it was just made darker than night and softer than down for style. One never knew with these things. Amelia lifted the shawl delicately, fabric nearly slipping from trembling fingers. The floor was scoured of dust, banished to the trash bin with one swept of the wand after another. So she set the garment down on the old wood without fear of sullying it. Which was good, because while she had no idea how to clean something so supple she was just sure it would be an absolute nightmare. If there was anything in this attic of use to her, it would be in this trunk.

The items beneath may have been clutter, but they were at leas well organized clutter. A box of old letters, two books lacking any title but in fair condition besides, a lovely inkwell and starlight dark quill untouched by time. Easy enough to recognize and sort through even if they chilled her blood to touch. Something about these simple items bled inevitability like a mortal wound. And under all that, there was another mass of folded fabric. Perhaps there was more beneath it, or perhaps the sinking black velvet was so thick that it filled the rest of the dark wood with shadows and nothing else. But when she reached to touch the fabric and lift it out, her hand hit something cold and firm instead, knocking it into the sides of the trunk with a soft metallic clink.

It had been nearly lost in the drunken shadows that clung to the old velvet, and her tired eyes had completely missed it. An ornate seal, heavy and dark with years. She picked it up, turning it over carefully. It bit at her fingers like ice, colder than the room would allow. The still image of the seal itself left her colder yet.

Some would say the Bones crest was a bit morbid, it held a ribcage front and center, framed by the usual ornamentation and colored in grey and a washed out red when one happened to see it embroidered or framed. What she held in her hands was, well, it was familiar and soaked through with death. A dragons skull hung at the center, framed by delicate cursive and a softly curving sickle. Around the edge vertebrae that could almost be mistaken for birds in flight ringed the image like a laurel. Even in the dim light she could see the distinctive rust color of dried blood clinging to the dips and curves of the cold metal. Her hands shook. She shifted her grip and fear hot palms scraped across something new. An inscription laid along the side. Her blood was ice and her skin burning hot, but she made herself press forwards, to hear the words echo in her head over the beating of her own heart. It was a single sentence, ominous in its simplicity.

Press to skin if in need of assistance.

She prayed she was never in need of whatever assistance this device provided. And if she was that the price was one that she could afford to pay.

But until then, Amelia thought with a soft flood of breath, she had some letters to inspect, and some books to read.

Chapter Text

It was early. Too early to be up for sure. To be fair, most morning hours were far too early. Waking someone up before 10 over summer break should be a crime.

The breakfast table swam in front of him. It was too early to be hungry yet, for Harry at least, and the smell of fried food had his stomach churning like eggs scrambling. Ron was munching on a pancake to his right, eyes glazed. To his left Hermione was practically vibrating. The pancake fell from Ron’s mouth and onto the floor with a smack. The boy blinked down at it sadly but made no move to pick it up or get another.

Harry quietly added a couple more to the moat of syrup on his plate, too tired to laugh when his friend lip up with a sleepy smile but hilarity rummaging through his chest all the same.

It was O.W.L.s morning. Or, the morning their scores would arrive. The day their scores would arrive. They had no guarantee the O.W.L. Owls would show up in the morning. Hermione had rolled them out of bed early all the same. He knew he should be feeling something about all of this, apprehension or excitement, but he’d been up last night wandering and unable to sleep until the sun began to peak into the sky. He had gotten some sleep, but it couldn’t have been much. So, we was well and truly tapped out. At least until he woke up a bit more.

“You kid excited?” Mrs. Weasley asked with a smile, sneaking a slice of toast with jam onto his empty plate when she thought he was distracted.

“I can’t wait ot see what I got. Oh, what if I failed! What if I didn’t get a single one!” Hermione wailed, hands clenching around her tea. She took a small sip of the lightly steaming beverage. She looked like she was about to start crying.

“You’ll be fine.” Harry yawned.

Ron grumbled his assent like some great Frankenstinian monster.

“But -” She started, deep brown eyes wild with worry.

“Seriously, if you failed the whole year’s screamed. They’d have to retest us if the whole castle didn’t get a single O.W.L.” Harry took a small bite of his toast, speaking around the bread. Maybe it would calm his stomach a bit. If Hermione didn’t get full marks he might as well drop out now.

Hermione loosed a small, helpless whine and buried her face in her mug of tea.

“You’ll have great marks.” Professor Lupin soothed, somewhat groggy but more awake than any of them by far. He’d been staying in Grimmuald for a while now and Harry still felt weird thinking of him as Remus.

“It’s perfectly normal to worry,” Mr. Weasley looked up from his Prophet, already about as awake as anyone could be and cheerful along with it. “But don’t stress too much. The owls will be here soon enough.” He took an old pocket watch from a pants pocket and flipped it open. “Time for me to get going then. I wish you all luck!” He stood from his chair and breezed from the room, giving his wife a quick kiss on the cheek as he passed.

Ginny, beside him, didn’t move. She had her head buried in her arms face down on the table. No doubt Hermione’s morning rampage had woken her too.

Harry took another bite of his toast. It was very dry, even with the bit of jam. Ron finished his plate and looked down at the empty surface confused. Harry spooned him some eggs.

“Thanks Harry.” It was the first coherent thing Ron had said this morning, and he sounded so happy he could cry. Harry wondered how late he’d been up.

Ginny made a noise. It sounded a bit like a snore. Harry supposed it could have been a laugh though, no way to tell without seeing her face.

There was a tapping on the windows behind him, and Harry hadn’t even started to turn around before Hermione was wrenching the poor thing open. Only one owl flew in, but it was carrying three very official looking letters. Less nice though, Harry noted absently, then what he’d received from Amelia. Huh. He’d turn that about in his head later, if he remembered.

Hermione snatched hers up and stared at it like it was going to bite her. Harry sighed. The owl hopped from the windowsill to the table and presented it’s leg importantly. He took his own letter and put Ron’s on his plate.

The redhead whined, looking at the parchment with groggy dread. “Do I have to?”

Harry just tore into his, shuffling through his results. Huh. Well, he’d done better than expected. Only an Exceeds Expectations in Potions though. That was frustrating. Snape didn’t accept anyone with a below Outstanding O.W.L. Score into N.E.W.T. Level potions. And he needed a Potions N.E.W.T. To be an auror. Which meant he wasn’t going to be an auror. Somehow, that was hitting harder than the whole necromancy thing. He didn’t know why he was so attached to it. He hated fighting, hated having to and hated people treating him like he was supposed to. But still, it was some last connection to his parents. His dad had been an auror, and so had Sirius. He’d never even get to have the choice to follow in their footsteps. Another choice ripped away from him.

“Is everything alright dear?” Mrs. Weasley asked, obviously concerned.

Harry looked up. “Oh, yeah, I got . . .” He looked back down. “Seven O.W.L.s. I only got an E.E. In Potions though.” He frowned at the paper harder.

Professor Lupin hissed in sympathy. “I’ve never been very good at those myself.”

“I got seven too.” Ron added, staring at his letter in slight shock.

“Seven whole O.W.Ls!” Mrs. Weasley bustled around the table to wrap her son in a warm hug. “That’s more than Fred and George got put together!”

She scootched over to Harry a moment later, squeezing him gently as well. “And you too dear, that’s quite an accomplishment.”

“Hermione, how many’d you get?” Ron asked, fending the dar brown owl off his sausages with his fork. It clicked its beak at him angrily.

“I got ten.” She sounded faint.

“Ten!” Mrs. Weasley was ecstatic.

“That’s fantastic Hermione.” Professor Lupin sounded very proud.

“Yeah.” Hermione sat down slowly, eyes not leaving the sheet of parchment. She turned to Harry. “I got an E.E. In Defense.”

Harry looked down at her letter. “And O.s in everything else.”

“But -” She started tearing up. “An E.E. In Defense! That’s awful!”

“An A. Is Awful.” Harry reminded her.

“Harry!” She groaned. “Be serious!”

“Hermione.” He consoled. “You did amazing. You want to see my scores?”

She hesitated, looked at hers again, and then nodded at him with wet eyes. Harry was beginning to think any sort of important news being delivered this early in the morning was about the worst idea anyone had ever had. He handed her his scores and filled his plate, finally hungry enough to eat. He snuck Uric, who had been clinging to the inside of his jumper, a little bit of egg. He wasn’t sure what the cretin ate, or that it needed to eat at all, but better safe than sorry. He didn’t want it to get hungry enough to decide he was food after all. Besides, it seemed happy enough to perch in his lap and and eat the little lump of scrambled egg. It didn’t squeak this time, and Harry let out a breath of relief. They’f been working on that. Or, Harry had been explaining to Uric he couldn’t just go around making noise around people that weren’t him or Hermione or Ron, and just hoping to Merlin it sunk in.The results thus far had been mixed. Probably lucky Grimmuald was a pretty creaky house.

Filemina stole a rather large chunk of Ron’s sausage when he was focussed on the owl and ducked back under the table. Harry was fairly certain he was the only one who’d seen it.

“Oh and don’t you all forget Hagrid will be here in a few hours.” Mrs. Weasley sat herself next to Ginny and began to serve herself, slowly nudging her daughter into wakefulness.

“Huh?” Harry responded intelligently. Not that he wasn’t glad Hagrid was dropping by but why was that something he’d need to remember.

“Did I not mention?” Mrs. Weasley looked appropriately distressed. “He’ll be coming to help you all down to the Alley, to get your school supplies and all. For security, after everything. I’m so sorry I can’t go with you.” She worried her fingers together. “I tried to make sure I’d be free but I promised Bill and -”

“It’s okay Mum.” Ron interrupted. “Hagrid’ll keep us safe.”

Harry nodded. It would be good to get out of the house too. Grimmuald was definitely suffocating them all, even with Mrs. Weasley’s slow but dedicated cleaning efforts.

“I’d go with you all if I could, but I’ll be out for a few days. Order business.” Professor Lupin nodded at all of them in turn, regret and worry dancing in his eyes.

“It’s jus the alley.” Hermione said softly. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

Harry wasn’t. The alley was probably as safe as they could get in wizarding Britain right now, but he knew better than to rely on the Ministry for anything. A cold, empty kind of loss churned in his stomach. They’d be fine. Everyone was just worrying too much. Maybe not worrying enough.

Mrs. Weasley cleared her throat softly, drawing his eyes back to her from his plate. “Dumbledore tried to get you some funds for your supplies form your vault Harry, but apparently your key isn’t working anymore.” She frowned at him, sad and worried and anxious. “I suppose you’ll have to take that up with the goblins when you get there. I’m sorry dear. We were trying to keep your visit as short as possible.”

“Oh.” Harry nodded again, brows knitting together in confusion and then twisting to concern, cold evaporating from his gut. That . . . That might be a problem. He guessed it made sense that his vaults would be changed up a little what with . . . Everything. But it wasn’t exactly something he wanted to handle with company to see, as much as he loved Hagrid and Ginny. How had Dumbledore gotten his key anyway? He remembered Hagrid having one in his first year, but that had been quite a bit ago. Weird.

Hermione snuck him a worried look. He wasn’t sure if it had something to do with his scored or if she was of the same mind about his banking troubles.

It took Ron a bit longer to wake up properly. Apparently they had all been up late and it was taking its toll. The nest couple hours fell away easily between laughter with Ginny in the lounge and a few games of chess he lost soundly to Ron. Mrs. Weasley gave them the house while she ducked out for some errands and then off to the Burrow, something about handling wards but he wasn’t sure what specifically. Professor Lupin . Which meant it was just the four of them warm by the fire. Hermione spent some time talking Ginny through O.W.L.s studying, and the girl looked like she was absolutely dreading it this year. At least she’d have Hermione’s old study guides. Harry was very glad he had a year before he needed to start with N.E.W.T.s. And hey, if he died before the year was up at least he didn’t have to worry about any more bloody tests.

It was to that scene that Hagrid arrived. The four of them lounging messily around the room, in direct contrast to the prim, stodgy old furniture. Ron was attempting to throw up bits of biscuit and catch them in his mouth, feet up on the couch and back on the rather nice if faded rug. Ginny told him to try catching it with his nose, the latest of her snipes. She was on the couch opposite from him, sharing with Hermione, fuzzy socked feet tucked under her. Hermione had a book open on her lap, but she hadn’t look at it in a while, instead holding a half open box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans in one hand and adding to Ron’s attempts with the other. She wasn’t a very good shot.

Harry himself had let the half giant in, leading him through already cramped walkways to the central social area of the house so far.

“Throw it higher, maybe that’ll help.” Harry suggested.

“You said that last time and it just ended up in my ear.” Ron responded, focussing on aiming the little bit of chocolate biscuit. A bean hit him in the eye. “Ow! Hermione!”

“Sorry, sorry.” She giggled.

“Gimme one.” Ginny motioned with her hand.

Hermione handed her a small handful. The other girl got up, tossing her red hair importantly over one shoulder. She stood above her brother, who opened his mouth expectantly. She shoved one up his nose. “Hah!”

“Gin!” Ron swatted at his nose, snorting the bright blue bean a few feet away with the force of his breath.

She strode back to the couch with purpose and flopped back down.

“Looks like you kids have been having fun.” Hagrid laughed, cheerful noise echoing through the quiet house.

Ron looked over. “Time for shopping?” He asked, half curiosity and half dread.

Hagrid nodded. “Whenever you’re all ready. Thought we’d just floo over.”

Harry groaned. He hated the floo almost worse than portkeys. Magical travel just didn’t seem to agree with him. He always messed it up. Or it messed him up.

Hermione set her book aside and stood. “I’m ready if you are.”

Harry nodded reluctantly, picking up the jumper he had taken off as the lounge had heated up and burrowing into it. He didn’t know if it was actually cold out, but he’d rather be over prepared. He hated the cold. And, well, anything that gave him a few more seconds before he had to head into the fireplace was good by him.

Uric, who he had gotten used to enough that he didn’t find the little mouse thing nearly so creepy anymore, crawled from his front pocket to cling about midway up the inside of the bright red Weasley special. He was probably lucky Mrs. Weasley liked to be a little generous with the proportions when she made these, it hid mouse sized lumps very well.

“I’m good.” Ron tumbled up to standing, brushing crumbs and beans off his shirt and ambling over to the fireplace. He picked up the fancy little floo powder pot on the mantle and help it out to the rest of them.

Harry made a face.

A head of long red hair shouldered past him, snickering. “Come on Harry, it isn’t that bad.” She laughed. “The Leaky Cauldron.”And in a whirl of green fire and a roll of the eyes she was off.

“I’ll go on next then.” Hagrid said, thanking Ron as he took some of the ashy looking powder and hunching down to fit into the wizard sized fireplace. “The Leaky Cauldron!”

“C’mon Harry, you next.” Ron nudged him with the pot.

“I’m going to do it wrong again.” Harry grumbled.

“Well, if you end up in Knockturn again at least you know your way around a bit better.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You’ll do fine. You know how to do it right this time, don’t you?”

Harry scrunched his face up at her, but reached his hand into the pot obligingly. Into the fire it went, sending the low orange flames shooting high and turning a pleasant grassy color. He stepped in, shifting his feet about amongst the logs. “Ah, The Leaky Cauldron?”

All at once he was tumbling through green flames, spinning and rushing and diving forwards faster than his firebolt had ever carried him.

And then he was kissing the floor, nose pressed to dingy floorboards. Harry groaned and heaved himself up, arms supporting him even if his head was still spinning. Hagrid was watching him, obviously deeply concerned, as he pushed himself to standing and stumbled to catch his balance. First thing he noticed was that his knee hurt like hell, and he had absolutely no idea why. Second, his midsection was ever so slightly damp. Harry quickly pressed one arm to his ribs. The absolute last thing he wanted was bloody mouse parts falling out of his jumper in public. There were enough rumors flying around about him. He shuddered to think what they would say seeing Uric stitch himself back together. Really though, he was hoping it absorbed all the mouse abomination blood back into its body so his jumper wasn’t stained, even on the inside.

“You came out - you came out sideways.” Ginny was muffling her laughter. “You hit your knee on the way out and then slid like three feet.”

So that was why it felt like someone had taken a mallet to his knee. Harry leveled a glare at the fireplace. Damned thing. Ginny audibly choked on a snort.

Ron strode through next, having absolutely no issue landing on his feet. “You okay Harry?”

Ginny couldn’t contain herself anymore. “He came out sideways!’ She howled. “I didn’t even know you could do that.”

“Sideways?” Ron looked at him, bewildered.

“Apparently.” Harry groaned. “Hit my knee.” He patter it mournfully. Ow. The wet spot on his chest was slowly shrinking, bones and fur reassembling under his arm. It wasn’t exactly what he’d call a pleasant feeling. Definitely squishy.

“Your . . . Your knee?” Ron repeated.

“What about Harry’s knee?” Hermione emerged from the flames and made her way over.

Ginny had to lean on a table nearby for support, shaking it slightly and earning her a sour look from the woman dining there with her child.

“Harry, ah, Harry came out the floo sideways.” Hagrid informed her.

“Never seen anythin like it.” Tom interrupted, leaning on the bar and giving Harry a critical, and concerned, once over. “Yah mess up yer ribs too?”

“My ribs are fine.” He shrugged. He doubted it was very convincing since he didn’t remove his arm. “I’m bad at, ah, traveling.” He was. He couldn’t think of a single train ride or portkey or floo trip that had been entirely pleasant.

“Apparently.” Tom snorted. He leaned back and started wiping down the bar again, shaking his head slowly as he did.

“Are you okay Harry?” Hermione asked, both eyebrows competing to go higher on her forehead in something between surprise and confusion.

“I’m fine.” Harry grumbled, decidedly not embarrassed. “It’s nothing. Had worse. Let’s just get going.” He tried not to limp as he made for the back as fast asa possible. Given Ginny’s increased volume he doubted he did a very good job.

Hagrid was right behind him though, and soon he was ducking into the alley. It was . . . It was different. Last time he had been here it had been night time and he hadn’t been looking too hard at anything in particular. In fact he’d been trying very hard to keep his head down and not linger anywhere. But now the difference was clearer than night and day. Stores were dark, some boarded up, and all of them lacking the color and life that had drawn him into this world. Windows were plastered with posters displaying various Death Eater’s of course enviously handsome and beautiful faces. Bellatrix Lestrange reached a deathly wilted hand towards him, mouth open in a silent cackle that shook her bony frame. It sent a quiet shiver down his spine, even without the woman truly in front of him. Yet more official looking notices littered the street, some tugged off buildings by the wind and tumbling over dirt grey cobblestone. They sported the kind of helpful advice he’d been seeing in Ministry pamphlets and in the Prophet over and over, the same dozen sentences recycled over and over again. Don’t be late. Bring a buddy. Be cautious of strangers. Alert aurors at any sign of trouble. All more or less rubbish and much too little much too late.

And the people, that was different too. They huddled together and hurrying through the near empty streets, barely looking where they were going and talking so quietly it might as well be whispered. And yet, in the windy silence, snippets of gloomy conversation were carried to him.. Death and destruction simmered in the air, and not in the wait it set his bloody to the steady, rolling boil it had been for so long now he could barely imagine another option. There was no comfort here, no ending or great wild unknown or sense of forward motion. There was just pain here. Pain and blood and the looming shadow of violence. And the fear of being the next to be lost to the wands of the enemy.

Above, dementors soared through the London clouds, effectively stealing the last of the warmth from the air.

It made him feel sick, stuck there with wide eyes scanning the alley. There was no more of the golden hustle and bustle he had taken so much comfort from in the summer before third year, running through these same streets. Florian Fortescue’s, where he’d gotten used to the weird and wonderful variety of wizarding sweets and spent afternoons listening to the Mr. Fortescue spout gossip about the rest of the alley, was dark and dingy, not so much boarded up as left there abandoned. He’d even heard Olivander’s was closed now. He couldn’t believe it. He hoped the man had made it out, that he’d escaped this all somehow, but there was a sinking feeling in his stomach. He didn’t think any of them made it out, really.

Imagining how it would be to see this on his first trip to the alley, it made his throat tight and he had to shake his head to clear it up. The wasn’t the magical world that he, mostly, loved. This wasn’t the way it should be. The war had stained it all soot grey and worn away the wonder and shine. He almost hoped when he got to Hogwarts that there wouldn’t even be a crowd of first years to sort. Maybe that would be better for them. Better than getting caught in a war that shouldn’t be theirs. Like he was.

“You okay Harry?” Ginny touched his shoulder lightly, snapping him out of whatever moment he’d been having.

“Oh, uh, yeah. Of course. It’s just . . . ” He looked around again.

“Different.” Hermione breathed. She was staring at the scene glassy eyed and he was reminded all at once that she was like him. She had never seen the magical world until eleven, just like him. For all that she knew so much about just about everything it seemed, her first time here had been just as wondrous as his own in that August so long ago.

“Yeah.” Ron said lowly. His voice was dangerously still. It would be different for him, it had to be. This wasn’t a wonderland to him, it was home. A place he’d probably been to as long as he could remember, that he’d grown up with. He sounded like he wanted to punch one of those twisted, taunting faces lining the street so hard it shattered the glass behind. And Harry kind of did too, but mostly he just wanted to disappear.

And of course, Uric decided now was the time to finish his reformation and begin wriggling under his arm and squealing to be released. Harry dropped his arm from his chest like he’d been burnt and hoped no one was paying attention as the little monstrosity found a comfortable place to cling inside his jumper. No one looked at him funny, but then the bricks were still closing up behind him and it had been pretty muffled, so maybe it was his lucky day?

“Come on now, don’t just stand around.” Hagrid shooed them forwards gently. “We’ve got plenty to do, on to Gringotts we go. Come on, come on.”

Harry sent him a grateful look and started towards the tall marble building briskly. Even after so many years he had to nearly jog to keep up with Hagrid’s wide stride. Ron, the tall bastard, didn’t have nearly so much trouble.

The strange, regal structure of the bank stretched up before them, stairs perfectly uniform in the white marble. More guards than usual lined the path to the thick doors, each uniformed in shining, sharp edged armor. The goblins stared straight ahead, spears held high, not sparing them a glance. It would almost be creepy if it wasn’t so damn intimidating.

The interior was, as always, richly lit and smelled like deep earth. It wasn’t crowded, though comparatively it was a bit more lively than the Alley outside. At least, it was if one ignored th extra security.

“Hermione, do you have a vault?” Harry asked curiously.

“Oh, no actually. I just exchange what money I’ve got at the beginning of the year and keep it in my trunk usually. It’s never much.” She shrugged.

Harry nodded. That made sense he supposed. It wasn’t really anything he’d thought about before. “Do you, uh, need to do that now?”

Hermione tossed him an amused smile. “Yes, I probably should. Ginny, why don’t you help me? You boys take care of yourselves.” She took hold of Ginny’s arm and led her to one of the increasingly cranky looking tellers. The other girl just waved at them a little helplessly and stuck her tongue out when Ron laughed at her. To Hermione’s credit, she did take a moment to spot which teller was the least murderous looking.

“I better take off myself.” Hagrid coughed lightly into a closed fist. “I’ve got to, erm, work out some financial matters for Dumbledore while I’m here. You don’t mind if I leave you two to yourselves for a minute do you?”

Harry bit back a laugh. “Of course, don’t mind at all.”

Hagrid nodded at him thankfully and took off without any more prompting, looking over his shoulder ever few seconds as he hurried on.

Harry snorted and looked back at the tellers, scanning them absently and then shrugging up at Ron and stepping up to the closest.

“Hello there,” Harry addressed the goblin cautiously, as they seemed halfway between frustrated and right about to lurch over the podium and tear his face off. “I think there’s something . . . Up . . . With my vault.”

“Up.” The goblin parroted derisively. The bright light gleamed off their nameplate, shining off the well polished bronze. It read Gornuk.

“Yes, er, up.” Harry fished his key out of his pocket. “This is my key, see, and I don’t think it works anymore. Not sure why though? I inherited the all of the Black’s things recently, so maybe that has something to do with it.”

Gornuk didn’t even take the key, instead nodding and grumbling to themself. “Stay here, I’ll get the confirmation papers.”

“Confirmation?” Harry wondered to the open air. The goblin had already hopped down and disappeared into the back of the bank.

He looked at Ron, lost. The redhead just shrugged back at him. So, Harry waited. And waited. Because this sure was fun. Hermione, across the room, was looking at him with that sort of wary, cautious look she only got when dreading whatever mess he’d mucked them all into this time.

Gornuk returned, shuffling up to the desk with a handful of papers that rustled uneasily. Harry eyed them with the trepidation of a man who had spent the last month in Grimmuald Place. The goblin turned to him with a deep sigh.

“Hand on the papers and speak your name clearly.” They grunted, laying the stack flat in front of them.

Harry reached his hand up and set it sown carefully. “Harry Potter.”

Nothing happened.

“Name?” Gornuk repeated, irritation increasing.

“Harry James Potter.”

Nothing happened.

“Name?” The goblin looked like it might throttle him if he messed up again.

But, well, this didn’t make sense. His name was Harry . . . Oh.

“Rigor, uh, Rigor Mortis.“ Harry leaned in and cupped one hand around his mouth as he spoke, quieting his voice halfway to a whisper.

The papers bit him. They didn’t just bite him either. Sharp paper fangs sank into his hand and up his arm as he was swarmed. He shrieked and fell back in surprise, heart beating over time. Panic buzzed in his head like a great swarm of wasps. An attack. He was under attack. His breath came fast and faster, he needed to get out, to do something. Stars swam in his vision, light sparking and clouding out the room. His arm stung, pale cream parchment swarming upwards, fluttering like the whoosh of spellfire.

His magic crackled like lightning, striking out blindly. And then it was dark.

- - - - -

“Harry? Haaaaaarry.” Ron sounded equal parts worried and exasperated.

Ow, the back of his head hurt like he’d thumped it against . . . Rock. Oh yeah. He had actually done that.

Harry groaned and cracked his eyes open. His whole body felt sore and drained for some reason, like he’d just had the wind knocked out of him.

Ron was looming over him, frown shifting into a shaky smile as he helped him sit up. “What is it with you and fainting?”

Harry strangled a scream in the back of his throat. He had just passed out in a public place. Again. He really hoped no one had seen that.

He stood up on shaky feet, gaining his balance quickly enough but still feeling a bit light headed. Weak. How weird. He hadn’t felt like this the last . . . Any of the times he had fainted. Not any more than the other injuries usually warranted.

Gornuk stood behind their podium, expression soothed into something almost bordering on concern but more simply not actively murderous. Maybe somewhere between derision and respect? It was the nicest look he’d ever gotten from a goblin. The paper’s in front of them had filled in with script, all except for the top one which was in the process of slowly and meticulously folding itself into a little bronze key.

“Your vaults have been consolidated into the most secure of the three, the Mortis vault.” They informed the wizards.

Harry nodded like he knew what that meant. He thought he actually did know, but he couldn’t let go of the possibility that he actually had no clue. “So, everything’s all in the Mortis vault now?” He asked. That was what consolidated meant, right?

“That is what consolidated means.” Gornuk informed him drolly.

Got it right then, he guessed. Bit embarrassing though. “Can I go down there, then? Get some money and all?”

Gornuk hopped down off the tall desk chair and started towards the back of the bank, gesturing with one hand for them to follow. Harry looked to Ron, shrugged, and trotted after the speedy little teller. They were surprisingly fast.

So was the cart ride, just as heart stopping as unusual but with an extra side of nausea to really kick things up a notch. Still, it was better than a portkey. Not much could top that.

If Harry had been expecting something grand and dramatic when they arrived, he’d have been sorely disappointed. The Mortis vault looked just about identical to every other vault. Maybe a bit older than the one he’d been using, but not really special in any way. He supposed that was the point though, some kind of security measure to make it harder to steal from any specific vault. He couldn’t tell what the number was, any digits decorating the top of the door lost in the shadows of these deep tunnels and flickering firelight. It wasn’t important or anything, he hadn’t even known what number the Potter vault was and certainly didn’t care enough here to try asking for it. Didn’t stop him from craning his neck back at a bit of an odd angle to try to make it out though, just for curiosity’s sake. Ron looked at him like he was about to pass out again.

The goblin tapped away the vault door and Harry was struck dumb by the reveal. The vault was tall and vast, gold and assorted artifacts scattered in massive piles that tumbled between the dark stone walls like sand dunes. He’d thought the Potter vault had a lot in it. Obviously he had been wrong. At least comparatively. Even Malfoy might not have this much money.

It was also, of course, a huge mess. Galleons and sickles and knuts tumbled together, burying books and vases and statues without a hit of intentional design. As far as he knew his old vault had been all coin, so the objects in here had to be divided between belonging to infamous necromancers and a family whose unwise fascination with the creeping and crawling things in the dark he’d spent the last few weeks becoming intimately familiar with. He was sure it was all very safe.

“Mate, what the fuck.”

Harry turned to see Ron staring at him like he’d grown a second head. He snapped his mouth, and he had no idea when that had fallen open, shut with a small click and ducked his head to hide the flush rising in his cheeks. His eyes traced slowly over what, bafflingly enough, was his money now and responded with a strangled gurgling noise. What was he supposed to say? Probably not that, to be entirely fair.

He coughed. ”I guess money then.“ Harry stepped from the cart carefully and walked through the archway of the vault doors like the stones might turn to teeth and mash him to jelly. He’d been bitten once today already and he wouldn’t put it past the goblins to have another toothy surprise lined up for him. Or for some cabinet the Blacks had shoved in here to decide he looked tasty.

He bent down and pulled out his money bag, the same one Hagrid had given him first year on his very first trip to the wizarding bank. To any bank really. It wasn’t new and didn’t look it either, dark canvas scuffed up from a life bumping around in his trunk with his books and cauldrons and whatnot and probably a bit from Hagrid himself. But it was enchanted, and held quite a lot of money, and that mattered more than fancy buttons or embroidery or whatnot. He wasn’t really focusing on how much he was taking out, just shoveling whatever he could reach in as quickly as possible so he could get out and back to Diagon as fast as possible. It wasn’t like it was even making a dent in the mass of coins. He was sure there was still some gold in the bag when he’d started too, no idea how much though. Might have counted it up at some point but he didn’t remember now what the total had been or what he’d spent since.

Money management had never been something he’d had to pay attention too, but maybe he should start. Though, well, Harry took a last glance over his shoulder at the absolutely irrational piles of gold looming over him as he beat a hasty escape from the room and wondered if he could spend all of that in a lifetime if he tried. Malfoy probably could, but he doubted he was creative or prissy enough to pull it off.

Ron snickered at him as he just about sprinted back into the cart, evidently recovered from the shock of Harry’s newfound wealth. Good for him. Harry wasn’t sure he was there yet.

“Remind me to marry you someday.” Ron elbowed him lightly with a wide conspiratorial grin as he finished tucking all his limbs inside the cart.

Harry laughed, noise curving sharply into a yelp as the cart sped off again. Despite the ever downwards track rushing them along they made it up to the top in good time, thoroughly ruffled by the wind and heavy with coin.

Hagrid greeted them cheerily, looking a little green as they sorted themselves out. The reminder of the carts seemed to be bad enough to turn his stomach on its own. “Got what you needed, Harry?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, dark hair bouncing into his eyes obnoxiously. Damn, he really needed to do something about that before he had to plaster it back like Malfoy. He jangled his coin bag in front og him. It didn’t make any noise, but it did bounce pleasantly. “You handle whatever Dumbledore wanted?”

“Oh, yes. Just working out some funding for . . . Private projects.” Hagrid winked at him rather obviously, and Harry winked back with no more subtlety. Supplies for the Order then.

“All done Harry?” Hermione was making her way over from some benches at the side. They looked very uncomfortable and ornate, and Harry couldn’t imagine sitting in them for any length of time. Nether, apparently, could Ginny who looked deeply relieved to have a reason to stand up and join them.

“All set.” Harry shifted his weight on his feet. “Anyone else have anything?”

“Nothing here.” Hermione shook her head, tangle of curls bouncing with the movement.

“You took forever.” Ginny grumbled, snatching her brother by the arm and tugging him to the doors. “Come on, I’ve been wanting to see the twin’s shop for months.”

Harry brightened and trotted after them. He hadn’t visited Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes yet, but he’d heard great things. And a lot of grumbling from a reluctantly proud Mrs. Weasley. Which meant one thing: it was sure to be amazing.

Chapter Text

Draco knew what failure tasted like. It tasted like this. Pungent and clogging and dangerous. He was well aware his family wasn’t precisely in their Lord’s good books, despite the fact that his father still technically resided in the Inner Circle. It was for their resources only, he was sure. He was also aware that his Lord wasn’t precisely sane. And certainly not kind, or benevolent, or anything like the godlike figure hehad heard of when his mother would calm him from tantrums with tales of their great and glorious savior who would arrive some day to lift them up with him. He did his best not to think of this much, or very hard, because he had heard things about his Lord’s skills in legilimancy.

So now he was here, in a dusty little shop in Knockturn Alley, following advice from Pettigrew. The rat. Because the sniveling man was the pinnacle of trustworthy.

Supposedly, there was a vanishing cabinet in here and supposedly there was another one at Hogwarts and supposedly they could both be fixed well enough to be linked. And he, a sixth year, was supposed to complete this feat of magic near completely alone. This was a death sentence stretched out over months.

Mother trailed behind him like some great, concerned moth. All greys and sorrow and seeking a light at the end of the tunnel that simply wasn’t there. He was looking. If the cabinet wasn’t here, it would be his head. Not Pettigrew’s, even though it should be.

This place had been a dumping ground for anything not technically Dark enough to be outlawed but just enough to incite harassment from the Aurors for longer than he’d been alive. It was a bloody mess. And dusty. It was like the man had never heard of a cleaning charm.

Of course, that dissn’t matter much in the long run.

He’d be dead soon, one way or another. By his Lord’s hand or by Lord Mortis’ if Father couldn’t fix whatever nonsensical thing he’d done to upset the necromancer Lord.

He didn’t trail his fingers along the cases of dusty, shriveled things and old books with worn away titles. He wanted to, but he didn't. Because he had some class, thank you. And he didn’t want to leave here with paws of dust and who knew what kind of magical residue. No, he had his arms tucked behind his back, one wrist in the grasp of a shaky hand. He’d pray that he found what he needed here, but he wouldn’t know who to pray to. Maybe if he prayed to Lord Mortis for a quick death, he could have that. Better than dying under a madman’s crucio.

Draco breathed out, shoulders tight, and rounded the end of another row.

Vanishing cabinet. He needed a vanishing cabinet. To sneak Death Eaters into Hogwarts. Also, he needed to kill or significantly weaken Dumbledore. Because this really was his year.

He probably deserved this, for being so naive about the Dark Lord for so many years.

No vanishing cabinet. He swept into the last row on this side of the store and tried to convince himself that there’s a whole other half to search if it wasn’t here. Mother hovered, prim and proper like he couldn’t feel her magic strangling him. He wanted to scream. He wanted to scream and his hands shook and he had a wand in his pocket and all he wanted was to cast a cleaning charm with every ounce of rage in his body.

And there it was, strange configuration of wood grey with age and matched exactly to Pettigrew’s description. He let out a breath. Maybe he wouldn’t die today.

There was always tomorrow.

———

It had been amazing! Just as amazing as Harry knew it would be. It was the twins after all. Fred and George were visionaries. He wondered how long it’d take for them to get their Masteries. Or, how one even did that. And maybe he’d bought a bit much. Or not bought, other than passing Ginny a bit of gold for one of those Puffskeins because he really did feel just a little bad about leaving her to Mrs. Weasley’s tender mercies and whatever they’d been doing to clean up Grimmuald. There was a lot to clean.

And what they’d been doing for the Order? The Peruvian Darkness Power on it’s own could be a game changer. He had a bit now, too, though he had no idea when he was supposed to be using that for. Ah, he’s sure he’d figure it out. Probably sooner rather than later. Always seemed to happen that way.

Harry was pretty sure he was still seeing stars.

Except he wasn't, because now, well, now he was watching Malfoy and Malfoy’s Mum wander around Borgin and Burkes. Malfoy didn’t look good. Not that he ever looked good, that smug expression twisted his face into something that reminded him just a bit too much of Dudley. He’d wondered before if all bullies had the same face. Would make things easier. But, you know, that was an argument against it all on its own. His life was never easy. Impossible. Couldn’t be.

Ron and Hermione were covering for him, probably asking the twins for some kind of demonstration that he really wished he could be there to see. But no, instead he was trailing Malfoy under his invisibility cloak. Stellar afternoon Harry. His only solace was neither of the Malfoys looked like they were having a great time either. Malfoy’s Mum looked like she was one wrong step away from a heart attack really, all tense like that.

And Malfoy looked . . . Defeated. Which, was completely unfair. Because he’d put up with so much shit from the little ferret for years and he should not be feeling bad for him. He shouldn’t.

He felt Uric start to grow and twist and swell in his jumper and patted the little mouse placatingly. Just cause he was in a bit of a snit didn’t mean it was time for mouse demons to attack. He’d rather Uric not.

The mouse felt the bigger than he really should be as he settled against his ribs, hissing quietly like a little kettle. It was kind of cute. Harry should find that thought more concerning than he did. Maybe he was picking up on Hagrid’s preferences for non domesticated horrors. He hoped not.

Malfoy looked like death warmed over as he started down another isle, then paused and gestured to something. Mrs. Malfoy waved her wand stiffly and some great hulking cabinet floated up and followed them up to the front, which he could only kind of see from his little hidey hole. He wasn't getting closer though. The less he had to go down Knockturn the better, after last time. Damn vampires.

He couldn’t hear though, well as he could see. Wish he had thought to snag an extendable ear. Would’ve been smart of him. Probably why he didn’t then. Stupid Harry. Ugh. The demetors were not improving his mood, even so high up in the clouds. Always hit him worse, not surprising they were souring the moment like that.

Malfoy was turning now, headed outside rigidly. He looked like a toy soldier, the kind that Dudley just used to bounce over his toy mat, all nice and wooden and painted and far too fancy for - no. Nope. He was not letting the dementors ruin his mood any more than they had to. Or, any more than they already had.

Uric, the bastard, wiggled a maw of sharp teeth out to hiss at the sky. He appreciated the thought, but he was pretty sure Uric couldn’t eat a dementor. Pretty sure. He’d like not to test the theory.

Malfoy leaned against the store front window, fancy robes helping him cut an impressive figure even with that defeated, miserable look on his face. His lips were twisted in a vicious grimace as he took a deep breath.

Harry held his breath, even though he was under an invisibility cloak and didn’t at all have to. Come on Harry. Just watch. It’d be fine. He couldn’t see you. And then Malfoy tensed, looking like he’d just stepped on someone’s grave. He shuddered, a violent whole body thing, and grey eyes swept over the alley.

Wonder what that was about.

Oh. He was leaking magic again. Couldn’t be pleasant with the mood he was in. He should probably get going, before Malfoy decided to investigate, preferably.

———

Dinner was warm. Not temperature wise, or anything. It was the room. The atmosphere.

Grimmuald was cold, it was always cold and weird and lonely and Ginny hated it. It was just her and Mum and sometimes Bill or Phlegm or Professor Lupin or Tonks in some dusty room that looked exactly like the last dusty room, sorting through artifacts that were basically all Dark and getting covered in dust and grime. It was absolutely the worst. Except, not as bad as the quiet that came after Order meetings. Quiet like the dead. Full of terror and sorrow and frayed nerves. She hated that too.

It wasn’t like that tonight. It was warm and bright, the kitchen nearly packed as Mums floated some casserole dish over heads to the table. Most of the Order was here for dinner. Mum’s cooking was just that good, and some of them looked like they hadn’t had a hot meal in weeks.

She snickered when she saw Shacklebolt whap Mundungus on the hand like a petulant child for going for the silverware, the grimy man flushed in a way she just knew meant he was well in his cups. Professor Lupin and Tonks were laughing together. Bill and Hestia were deep on some kind of debate. Even Harry was smiling. Really smiling. Ginny didn’t think she’d seen that in a while. He always looked so stressed. Moody was as sour as ever, but he was sneaking roast potatoes off the serving plate so she assumed he was in a good mood. Dumbledore was off somewhere, doing something important, but you could almost feel his presence all the same.

“Alright, that’s the last of it.” Mum lowered a steaming plate of rolls to the table. “Dig in everyone!”

There was a mad rush. Ginny was used to it though. If she had to stab some greedy little hand with her fork to get the good bits, she was in no way above that. She got enough duck, roasted veg, and gravy to satisfy her and left the savage masses to figure it out themselves.

Over the table, Harry tossed her a sheepish smile. He hadn’t made a move for the food, probably waiting until the storm had passed, but she saw Ron putting aside a couple rolls and some meat for him. Probably so Mum wouldn’t throw a fit. At least Harry wasn’t as skinny as he was when he’d arrived. She didn’t know much about his relatives, never met them, but she was pretty sure no one would complain overly if she decided to break some noses. Except Mum. Which was why they all kept her out of these things.

Two seats down, Phlegm tittered into her hand and asked her to pass the peas. Ginny almost passed the peas right into her face, but no. She took a breath and smiled and passed the damn peas.

It was warm.

It was warm and lively and she could almost forget there was a war going on. Especially when Fred set off an experimental set of silent fireworks that curled into rude gestures. That set Mum off. He winked at her around his dressing down and she laughed and laughed.

Dinner lasted a lot longer than usual. No one was in a rush. There was an Order meeting after, but it seemed like no one really wanted to leave all this to get to it. Ginny didn’t. Because she wasn’t invited. Because somehow storming the Ministry last year because they didn’t know how to call for backup, without any help until the very end, wasn’t a wake up call to anyone. She snorted.

And then, well. Then. No one had eaten a thing for at least a quarter of an hour, relaxed and chatting. No one wanted to be the one to end it all. But it did need to end. There was a meeting after.

“Well,” Shackebolt coughed, raising his voice slightly above the din, “I think it’s time we get started then. Do have work in the morning.”

The table grumbled as one but seemed to agree.

“Time to pack it up then kids.” Mum clapped her hands together, wand up and swishing to take care of the dishes.

Ginny almost stood. Almost.

Harry wasn’t moving.

He had his hands crossed over his chest, settled back into his chair. One look told her Ron and Hermione hadn’t moved either. Ginny took a breath. Okay. Whatever they were into, she’d already decided she’s on board. Maybe not officially, but she could stand by them.

Mum frowned. “Upstairs, the lot of you.” She didn’t sound happy, but she didn’t sound angry yet. Yet.

“No.” Harry said.

“Now Harry,” Professor Lupin started, tentative and obviously not sure this was the position he wanted to take.

He was interrupted. “No.” Harry said louder. “I’m in the middle of this as much as, more than, any of you. And I didn’t get a choice about it. I’m staying.”

Mum’s eyes swept over the table, glaring the rest into speaking up, agreeing, doing something. “We are not endangering any more children! You should know best of all what happens when you meddle in adult affairs.”

Harry stood, shoulders back. His chair tumbled to the ground with a hollow sound. “Adult affairs?” He snarled, mocking and sharp. “Please, clarify which adult affairs I’ve chosen, and let me specify chosen, to meddle in. The Triwizard Tournament, where I was entered against my will? The dementors that attacked me again and again? The time I had to save my godfather on my own because none of you would step up? The time I couldn’t save him because you were all too busy not telling me anything to listen to me?”

Mum was pale, spluttering.

“Now Harry, that’s not fair to put on all of us, we did our very best.” Dad spoke up, stern as she so rarely heard him. “You are children, and you shouldn’t have been fighting in the first place. That’s what we’re trying to do here, don’t you see?”

Ron snorted. “Oh yeah, sure thing. The next time Death Eaters come after us do you want us to lay down our wands? Ohhh Mr Death Eater.” He said, sing song voice almost teasing but not nearly playful enough. “Please don’t kill me, I’m just a child and I shouldn’t be fighting.”

Dad frowned sharply.

“If you would all listen, you wouldn’t be fighting Death Eaters at all.” Hestia Jones sounded gentle.

“Name one time being a child has saved any of us.” Hermione’s voice was just as soft, and her eyes were hard and hot and hateful like coals.

“This is not up for discussion!” Mum had recovered. “Up! Out!”

“We’re discussing it.” Harry swung his arms out wide, coiled and jerky.

“Lot of good that’s doing.” Moody growled. “This is a war boy, not time to be playing around.”

“Playing?” Ron was standing now too, shouting. He pulled up his sleeves. “And what kind of playing gets you these.” Bands of puckered scars curled up and around his arms.

“The exactly kind of playing at hero you did. You should never have been in that Department to begin with.” A whirling eye pined Ron in place. It tried to, at least.

“If we’re playing, then what are you all doing.” Hermione, righteous fury, lounging in her chair and gripping her fists together like she wished there was something sharp in them. “Harry has a prophecy written that he’s the only one who can end any of this, and you’re all playing” she pulled that last word taught with her tongue “that the other side will wait, that they’ll wait years and years until we’re adults. You’re playing at morality no one is giving you room for.”

“A war is no place for a child, and certainly not ones who can’t listen to their betters.” Mum was red. She was red and her chest was heaving.

“And who are those, Mum.” Ginny didn’t speak up, but her voice felt hollow as it carried across the table. She could feel cold, cold water around her ankles and smelled snake and rot in the air. “What have you stopped that a child, that us children haven’t.”

Mum started sobbing. She didn’t have an answer. Ginny knew she didn’t. She remembered Hogwarts doing nothing, and nothing, and nothing until she was good as dead and a twelve year old boy dying in front of her, in a body that did nothing she commanded. An animal had saved the day then. An animal she knew could carry a professor, now.

“Now Ginevra -” Shacklebolt did try.

“No, I want to know.” Hermione was calculating, eyes narrowed and reminding Ginny particularly of McGonnagal at that moment. “Have any of your Aurors made any arrests since the attack at the Ministry? Have you done anything but play clean up? Have you stopped a single thing?”

Shacklebolt was choking on his discomfort and his anger. “You know as well as I do that knowledge about Order movements is restricted to Order members only.”

“Who have I fought for then?” Harry seemed taller than he was, radiating something cold and warm and welcoming and terrifying. “Who have I almost died for every year since you all dragged me into your world, into your battles, without preparing me one lick? Who?”

No one had an answer to that.

“You shouldn’t have had to fight at all.” Professor Lupin said weakly, words pushed from protesting lungs.

“When has should ever done a thing.” Ron growled, trembling with the effort to keep still, words rumbling from his chest and between his teeth. He let out a heavy breath and the sound echoed with something angry and primal. “Come on Harry, Hermione, Ginny. If they’ve decided this isn’t our war, I’m sure they won’t mind if we decide to never fight it for them again. They’ve proven they don’t want it.” He turned to the door, Hermione and Harry barely a beat behind him and Ginny rose with ice and rage and snakeskin instead of bones and blood and skin. Her chest almost felt like it was moving under someone else's direction. Like the breaths she was taking were his, and not hers. The hateful, empty, betrayed tears she aimed at the room stung like bile at the back of her throat. Like cold water on cooling skin.

“Wait!” Hestia shouted. “You can’t do that!”

Harry turned. She would swear his eyes were glowing. “Are you going to let us stay?” His voice was low, and demanded an answer.

No one gave them one.

They left. The door shut. She couldn’t hear Mum crying through the thick wood.

——

Ron looked at the door to his and Harry’s room, then at Harry, then at Hermione, and lastly he turned very slowly to Ginny. After all that it seemed kind of hypocritical to send her off. He was still angry, boiling really, so he might not be making very good decisions right now but if she wanted to come in, he wasn’t turning her away. “Gin?”

Ginny looked at him and shook her head, tears bouncing off her chin. She turned half away. “I - you three do what you need to. I can’t - I need to go. I need some quiet, maybe.” She hesitated for a breath, then for two, and said very quietly. “Whatever you’re into now, I’ll be there, when you need someone to help. I just, right now I just can’t think about, about any of it.” And she was gone, almost before she was done speaking.

Ron swallowed around the lump in his throat and through the empty, burning pit in his stomach. He opened the door.

Inside was so much less dusty than the rest of the house, he’d never noticed before really. But it smelled cleaner in here. More like Hogwarts dorms than a musty, likely collapsing old house. He didn’t, he couldn’t think about that though, not around the buzz of fury and hurt and why? Why did they all have to be so blind to it all. Even Mum. Especially Mum. He’d fought in this war, in this second war, as much as any of them. More than some. And still, nothing.

Harry was on his bed, hand half burried in the down of a green eyed crow and staring dumbly ahead, jaw clenched and brow hard.

Hermione was thumbing the edge of a book spine like she wanted to wipe it out of existence, breath fast and fingers curled to scratch at the cover as she stared down at the closed chest full of contraband books, looking like she might set the whole thing on fire if it would change anything.

Ron sucked in his rage. He closed his eyes and let the hot, growling, tearing feeling fade into something hard and sharp and focused and wedged deep in his chest. It hurt. It had hurt for a while. Now though, he could think now, at least. He stopped pacing, didn’t even remember starting it really, but he stopped anyway.

He took a lungful of air in through his nose and opens his eyes, locked them onto Harry’s, and switched the focus. They had things they could do that weren’t sitting here and being angry. Nice as that sounded right now. “Harry?”

“Huh?” Green eyes snapped back to life, back into focus and the building glow in them started to fade.

“What was going on with Malfoy, earlier?” Ron didn’t care. He didn’t care, he didn’t but he knew he had to. The Order was excluding them, but they had their own information. And if that was all he had, then he was the one who needed to build it into something they could use so they could live through this, so they could survive a war so determined kill them, each time more gruesomely than the last.

Harry settled back into place, sinking into the pillows against the headboard and started moving his fingers slowly through sleek and increasingly ruffled black feathers, brow furrowed in thought. The crow didn't seem to mind, but then it was at least a little dead. “It was, uh, it was weird. He went into Knockturn, him and his mum. They were all weird and tense, looked like Voldemort probably wasn’t all he was expecting.” Harry snorted a little laugh and Ron considered it a victory. “They went into Borgin and Burkes . . .” He trailed off, considering.

Hermione put the book down and sat on the end of Harry’s bed. “Then what?” It wasn’t hard to see she was trying to fixate on this, on anything else other than what had happened, what hadn’t happened. Ron wanted to sit too, wanted to lay next to them both and feel safe and present and talk about Malfoy and feel normal. He felt like if he moved it would tear the world in two, and settled for adjusting his stance.

Harry shrugged. “They were looking for something, I think. They brought this weird looking, uh, cabinet thing to the front. Then Malfoy came outside and I left, you know in case he spotted me or something.”

Ron chuckled, muscles in his shoulders unwinding. “You were in your invisibility cloak mate.” This was normal. This felt normal.

Harry turned a little red at the tops of his cheeks. “I know, but it felt like he could.”

Hermione was smiling too, a small warm thing. Maybe Ron was starting to feel warm again too.

“Is that all you saw?” Hermione dug in. “Any details or, or anything important.”

Harry considered it, and shook his head no. “I dunno. They seemed real serious about it. Couldn’t say why though.”

Hermione sighed. “Go over it again, every detail you can remember. It might be important.”

Harry pressed his lips together, then nodded slow and steady, eyes just a little somewhere else.

Ron laid down on the bed with them, quilt under him cool.

“See, it started when I saw him right, you were there for it, so you probably say him too. Looked a right mess. But suspicious too so . . .”

———

It was dark.

The air was dry enough to crack at his throat, or maybe that was the fear. The worship.

His Lord was in front of him, solid and whole and powerful. His form was like magic, pale grey like moonlight and silver, cracked with blue veins like marble. He had dreamed of this.

And now, he had a purpose again.

The filthy blood traitor, their enemy, a powerful witch and a annoyance to his Lord’s grand goals, she had to go. She needed to be taken care of, for good.

And he was, gloriously, given the responsibility of seeing it through.

“Do you understand, Mulciber?” His Lord hissed, soft and sibilant and deadly.

“Yes, my Lord.” To speak before him again was worship.

“Then see it done.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

Soon, he would feel his Lord’s love. She would be dead before the moon rose full and fat once again.

Chapter Text

Far beneath the shining upper halls of Gringotts Bank, through twisting, tumbling tunnels carved intricately from stone and laid with bright tile murals there was an anomaly.

“Gornuk, tell me precisely what happened here.” The elder goblin steepled creaking, marbled fingers on the head of their cane.

Gornuk knelt on the floor, eyes holding steady on the elder’s breast plate. “A wizard Lord by the name of Mortis entered the bank floors this morning, bringing a small party that quickly separated for other business. He requested a new key be made for his vault. His was outdated, after the Black and Potter vaults had merged. He seemed uninterested in the Mortis vault entirely. The common method of key replacement surprised him, and he reacted badly to the blood confirmation. If I were to make a guess, I would say that his magic reacted purely to his emotional state. It lasted out, rolling over me and his companion before disappearing entirely. The wizard Lord fainted. He awoke and we concluded his business with a trip to his vault for coin.”

“Disappeared” A goblin to the left of the elder growled, clay colored skin curling to show sharp teeth. “Magic does not simply leave.”

“You said it was an emotional reaction?” the elder spoke slowly, considering.

“Yes, Exalted.”

The room began to grumble with voices, low like thunder or a far off cave in.

The elder snorted. “And how much power did it take from him?”

“It drained the wizard of all available magics, or nearly so. Not an inconsiderable amount of power, and impressive for one of their younger members.”

“Indeed. Tell me child, how a necromancer’s power grows.” The elder leaned forward, eyes gleaming like polished stone.

Gornuk frowned. It was an easy question to answer. He knew little of wizards, but necromancy wasn’t an art limited to their kind. Goblin necromancers were rare enough, but he had never met a wizard necromancer. At least not one that had carried themselves as such. He supposed it would be fitting that wizards would consider it some forbidden art to honor their dead in such a way. Then, he supposed wizards bodies turned to earth instead of stone when they passed, and there was a different sort of art one makes of fresh earth than solid stone. Wizards could make gardens of their dead, not ever living tiled murals or generational homes.

“A necromancer’s magic inhabits their resurrected vessels, building reserves in the bodies of those they command. It is a steady drain on the necromancer, increasing the rate of recovered magic in turn. When all vessels have reached the height of their contained magic, that that is produced after will stretch the capacity of all those connected slowly. Magic cannot just leave, after all, or slow itself, and must be used or taught to taper off. The amount of magic a resurrected vessel has the capacity to store depends on the size of the vessel and it’s previous capacity for living magic. It can also rest in the unawakened works of the necromancer, as it does in the stone of our caves and the great works built from our dead.” He hoped this answer suited the Exalted’s purpose.

“And the risks of raising those passed?” The rumbling in the room hadn’t quieted, and the elder seemed amused by it.

“One can drain away all of their magic and risk substituting the soul if a necromancer attempts to raised something too large, or with too large a capacity for living magic. It is easy to be overtaken by the beasts they create if the necromancer’s magic becomes to weak, or too unstable” Gornuk wondered what the Exalted wished to demonstrate. Did the boy Lord raise some stone goblin? Animate one of their waning murals? It would be quite a feat, if he had.

“And what would happen if, say, one tried to raise a dragon to serve them?” The Exalted’s fingers gripped their twisted cane, three lizards glowing clay red with magic skittered over the surface of it as the stone bent taller.

“One would die.” Gornuk knew this. All goblins under this stone knew this. The dragon graveyard far below had been sealed against all goblin necromancers after too many attempts to do just that had resulted in too many of their own turned to ash, with no stone left to contribute to their living homes or their people’s great works. It was nothing but a cautionary tale now.

The elder laughed, soft subtle noises rising and falling like tumbling gravel.

From far in the distance, far bellow, the stone shook with a great roar. No dust or crumblings of dirt or stone fell from the ceiling, goblin architecture could hold up better than that under much greater force. But the room did tremble like a beating heart so roughly that Gornuk had to dig his fingers into the soft rock to hold himself steady.

The elder could not be saying … no, of course not, it was impossible. Ludicrous. There was silence for a long moment, mutterings stilled into the warm quiet of the caves. Then another roar shook them, greater and fuller in sound but without the chamber itself rumbling and shaking. The sound echoed ominously.

It was insane to even contemplate. What would wizard would even attempt - but no. No the wizard boy hadn’t done this on purpose. His magic had sprung from him like a beast, crashing itself against whatever it could raise to protect the one who grew it. He did not know if this should make him less afraid, or much more.

“Are you saying this wizard, this boy Lord, that he raised one from the graveyard?” Gornuk rasped out. He had to know.

“Yes.” Their Exalted purred, pulling themself fully upright and turning to gaze at the gathered goblins on either side of them. “We know not which of the beasts is rising, only that it is large enough to pose a threat to our home. While it is still bone, we can be assured of our ability to manage it. All new magic it comes to posses will be funneled to building flesh instead of fighting to free itself. But once it is renewed, once it can build stores within itself and spend those,” The elder breathed out slowly, air rattling in old lungs. “We will have to hold the beast steady until we can plot and dig a safe route to lead it out, and plan a way to lead it through there instead of through out homes.”

The chamber was silent in a way only deep earth can be.

“Gornuk, I welcome you to your new assignment. I suggest you choose you team wisely.”

———

Harry had been tired lately. Since the trip to the bank, there had been a kind of quiet exhaustion that clung to his bones and the back of his throat. And that had, in a strange way, led to more introspection than he’d had in a long time. Everything moved so fast, for years now it had all been speeding along, and he had been along side it all on his racing broom. And now, whether he wanted to or not, he was lowing down in moments and glances.

Before Hogwarts, and magic, and everything, Harry used to think about ghosts differently. They weren’t real to him, not real people or real things, because the Dursleys wouldn’t stand for him to even think such unusual and abnormal nonsense. But there was something about the not real of it that he had liked.

Mrs Sanderling lived a few blocks away from Number 4 Privet Drive, on the other side of the scrappy little park that the neighborhood boasted of and largely forgot about. They drove by it every day on the way to school. And when Harry had to walk, because Dudley was sick or “sick”, he passed by too. And Mrs Sanderling, grey and wrinkled like a gum wrapper, sat there on the same old grey wood bench every morning to feed the birds. He knew everything he knew about her from Aunt Petunia, who would make pitying noises some afternoons with the other gossips. She had been widowed for years how, no one knew how long precisely, but it could have been a long time indeed. Sweet old woman, miserable and demented they said with tragic glee. So sad her son never came to visit. So sad.

He’d worked up the courage to say hello to her once, maybe twice. But she always waved to him when when he walked by, and he could hear her telling jokes to her birds. She never missed a day, even when it rained she’d be out there with a steaming thermos, rubbing the cold out of her knees. Even though on those days not many birds came to sit with her. She didn’t seem miserable to him, or particularly mad. Little odd maybe. But then, that was more than enough for Aunt Petunia to condemn anyone and everyone.

She’d died when he was eight, in the spring. Wasn’t there to feed the birds anymore. But he felt like she was. That little grey bench sat there, and sometimes the birds would gather round it, pecking at the ground. He had sat on it once. For a moment short enough that he could have imagined it all, he smelled something powdery and floral, and there was warm tea and rain at the back of his throat. It felt like a ghost to him, even if he knew that was wrong. Because ghosts didn’t exist.

On the days he’d walk to school, he’d wave to her ghost. It felt silly after Hogwarts, but when he’d pass the park, he’d hesitate. He didn’t wave, but he felt maybe he ought to.

Sometimes, Grimmuald felt like that bench. He felt like he should be doing something different, not because there was anyone watching him left here, but because he felt like there should be. He’d never seen a ghost in Grimmuald. But he could see how people had lived here, where they had lived, how hard they had lived. Nicks on the ceiling from spellfire singes painted over. Scrapes catching the light on the hardwood floors. A bass doorknob worn to shining in just the places it had been held. Hinges that hadn’t been used or oiled in so long they snapped and cobwebs behind doxy bitten curtains, parts of this house so long dead it felt maybe like they were ghosts themselves.

It was this room that made that little bit of him ache the most though. They study, the one that that had been perfectly clean when they had broken in. They’d rustled through it enough times that bits and pieces were out of place, a book on the table or a desk drawer disorganized. There was still an inkwell sitting dry and black on the desk though, and a stack of papers in Latin that none of them had flipped through. The chair behind the desk was broken in, when he sat there he felt like he should be someone else instead.

The three of them, him and Ron and Hermione, had been here more often than they really intended to. It was nicer, and cleaner, and just a tad less deadly than the rest of the house. They were here almost as often as they were in the courtyard, or the room just off it. It didn’t feel like stepping on a grave, exactly. But it did feel off, not sad but almost there. Almost like mourning maybe. He wasn’t sure, he just knew it felt like something.

He didn’t know who he expected to be here, or anything at all really. Not that that bit was new, if he was being entirely honest. But it stung sometimes, the not knowing. Echoes of footsteps that weren’t there at all, that couldn’t be. Less spooky than the usual Grimmuald noises, not that he was entirely sure how he picked them apart. Because for sure there were footsteps that were there and weren’t supposed to be, and those were plenty spooky on their own. Harry didn’t know how to describe it to Ron or Hermione. He felt like Ron got it sometimes, just a bit, in moments between talking when his friend would sit there and watch the chessboard with it’s incomplete game and unmoving pieces and dark stone coasters off to the side with their lingering water circles.

The wood of the desk was cold under his fingers, just like it was every time. It still smelled just a bit like melting pine wax, like the scent was baked into the floorboards before they’d gotten here and he’d only connected it when he had melted a bit of one of them for one very panicked letter.

He wondered who this place had belonged to. What were they like, that this place still held some part of them who knew how long after? That of all the rooms, this was the only monument to it’s inhabitant that still held some life left in it. Harry knew he wouldn’t find out. And that his kind of ghosts weren’t real.

Sometimes though, when he was the last one out the door, he’d wave to an empty desk.

———

Hestia Jones knew she was far from the most important, powerful, influential person at the table. She also knew that she could not back down about this, not now. “We can’t keep doing this Albus.”

“Well than what do you suppose we do?” Tonks spat. “Give up and die? Roll over and let the curses rain down?”

“No!” Hestia was tired. She was drawn thin. She had lost too much to the first war and this one threatened to take the rest from her. “But we’re already dying, there are too few of us, and fewer with every attack we try to stop.”

“So go back to playing clean up? Not doing a thing to help anyone? Just showing up in time to see the last victims die from curses we don’t even have time to identify?” Tonks was furious.

Hestia didn’t know if there was a word for what she was feeling. “As opposed to what, showing up in time to capture of a half dozen Death Eaters that will be set free or escape by the end of the week? Would you have me watch the rest of us be torn apart by inferi too?”

“He saved them, Hestia.” Molly tried, soothing with a shaking voice. “He died valiantly. He succeeded.”

She didn’t care what he did, her brother was dead. They had called her to heal him. He had tried to protect a muggle family from the undead crawling in packs through the hills. They had to burn the dead off him. He was gone before they'd tried.

“He died.” She growled. “Because we don’t have enough people. Because he went in with only a dressmaker’s apprentice and no one else to face a dozen or more undead. We only know what happened because she ran and left him there.”

“You can’t blame her.” Molly wasn’t crying in the same way Hestia wasn’t crying. She wondered if any of them would have tears left, by the time this war was over.

“I don’t.” And Hestia didn’t. She wanted to. But she was one of the few of them that had any skill with healing, barely a mediwitch and far from a healer. The girl, just two years out of school, would barely live. St Mungos hadn’t questioned another victim of He Who Must Not Be Named’s massacres. Molly had taken her in, when Hestia stabilized her enough to handle a trip through the floo.

“I blame you.” She turned to Albus. “We need more people. Better information. We are scraping along and every scrape costs us lives, Albus. We can’t fight if we’re all dead. Or as well as.” The girl would never fight again. She likely couldn’t but if she could, Hestia wouldn’t let her. Wouldn’t let anyone send her out.

Albus sighed, he had looked all his years for weeks now and it seemed like he aged with every meeting. It seemed like they all did. “Kingsley,” He said, “The newest crop of Aurors, now far are you along with them?”

Kingsley nodded slowly, he'd always been better at the analytical side of things than the emotional, even back went they were in school. Hestia knew this had to be hurting him too though, underneath that.

“They seem promising. But we’re overworked already, even mostly just handling cleanup.” Kingsley almost looked enraged and Hestia understood. The Death Eaters had been getting faster, in and out before the aurors could get there. “I’ll invite Willet to the next meeting. She’s got good instincts, but I can’t -” he sighed harshly, “There’s only so much I can do without drawing suspicion.”

Albus just smiled at him, wan and commiserating.

Mr Weasley cleared his throat. “I’ve been talking to Bill, and he says a few of his colleagues would join the fight if he asked.”

Hestia held in a snort. Someone outside her range of vision didn’t bother to. She wasn’t surprised. Curse breakers were all mad, even if most of them prefered unraveling wards and dismantling hulking stone constructs. That didn’t mean they couldn’t unravel or out duel a wizard just as easily as any ward. They would be a boost, a big one, even if only two or three joined. That was, if they could stand being directed by the Order.

It was surprising how Authoritative Mr Weasley could be in argyle and an animated paisley tie as he took a moment to glare at whoever it was before continuing. “And Fleur Delacour, you’ve all met her, has some relatives she says she can talk to, at least. If we’re lucky we might get some french assistance.”

Hestia saw Molly bite her lip, face souring, and felt like shaking the woman. Now wasn’t the time for her to throw a snit about anyone offering them help. Especially her future daughter in law. She’d met Fleur, and she had seemed perfectly nice. Hestia didn’t know if this was about her veela heritage or something else entirely, but Molly needed to take a step back. What they could do with the kind of manpower the French could lend … Hestia shook her head. She’d lost track of the conversation. It wasn’t the first time tonight. Her brother’s loss made it harder to think clearly.

Moody, she wasn't surprised at all to realize, was shouting. “It’s time to stop playing fair. We need to hit them somewhere it hurts, the Ministry or one of the ancestral homes.”

“You can’t be serious Alastor.” Minerva was scandalized. “Attack the Ministry, are you hearing yourself?”

Moody sucked in a breath to respond, scarred brow twisted furiously.

Albus interrupted them. “Alastor, Minerva, if you would, it seems he have perhaps other things to discuss now.” He was looking across the room.

Hestia followed his gaze. Severus was waiting in the doorway, late, which was unusual on it’s own. He also, if she squinted a little, seemed a little too stiff as he crossed the room. A little too focused. He settled into the chair Mundungus had vacated hours ago, across from her and to the right, in something dangerously close to a slump. Was he injured? She knew some restorative potions dulled the senses. Maybe his meeting had gone badly.

“Lord Mortis may be planning on,” He paused, pursed his lips and folded his brow. Air hissed between his teeth “spending some time at Hogwarts.”

The table erupted.

———

Some hours ago, at Malfoy Manor …

Lucius Malfoy was a proud man. An important one. He did not pace, he did not bite his nails. None of that nonsense. Good purebloods never showed any nerves at all. It was beneath him. He was sure anyone would understand though, how the nerves might have crept in now, just a tad, in the shake of his hand as he handed Severus a glass of something strong and dark, and poured a second for himself. The room was heavily warded, even by Malfoy Manor’s high standards. But what they would discuss tonight, it was dangerous no matter where they did it.

He took a sip to steady himself. A vampiric whiskey then. He could hardly be blamed for loosing track of how the elves stocked his bar, given the month he had endured. Lucius took another fortifying drink. He would very much like to shoot back the rest of this and pour himself another, larger glass. But he had an image to maintain. It might be all he had left, soon.

“Lucius.” Severus had perfected that slow, prompting drawl before Lucius had met him the first time, the summer of the man’s fifth year at Hogwarts.

He sighed, tucked his hair out of his face, and gestured widely to offer the sour looking man a seat. “You’re aware I wouldn’t call you here for something trivial.”

Severus didn’t respond verbally, but he did sit, and Lucius didn’t really know what else he expected.

“I assume you have been made aware of recent developments?” He sank into the chair across from the other man.

“You will have to be more specific Lucius,” Severus wasn’t drinking, but Lucius was certain he soon would be.

“Surrounding the return of Lord Mortis and out Lord’s plans for recruitment.”

Severus looked interested, unimpressed, and appropriately servile. All at the same time. It was impressive, for a man who was often so unreadable. Lucius was sure he just looked tired, at this point. Even with the glamors covering the growing dark circles under his eyes.

“I’m sure that you’re also aware that I was the one to report the Mortis’ return” Lucius took a slow breath. “Well, the reason I asked you here is complex, and two fold. It will effect us both, however, and it would be best to coordinate our efforts. I have uncovered evidence that Lord Mortis is in possession of a wand that set off the Trace.”

Severus froze for barely a second, but Lucius could see him doing the math. There were only two ways to register on the Trace. The first was to preform magic with immature magic, which was impossible in this case as you could not accept the magical title of Lord with magic that hadn’t reached its matured stage. The second was to preform magic with a wand registered to a living minor.

“You believe Lord Mortis is disguising himself as a child.” Severus’ dark eyes were narrowed on him, challenging. He was waiting for something.

Lucius was happy to provide. “I believe the only reasonable conclusion is that he intends to infiltrate Hogwarts, as a student.”

Severus nodded once, serious, and looked not at all surprised as he downed the entirety of his drink in one. Lucius understood, he really did. He summoned the bottle and poured Severus another, bigger glass. Topped himself off too, because he’d need it.

“I also may have done something to upset, or enrage, the Lord, which will likely extend to my family. I could not tell you what I did, even after hours of examining the memory and digging through what little recorded history of the Mortis’ exist.” Lucius was aware that these two facts together may lead to his son being violently dismembered on school grounds. It haunted his waking and sleeping hours.

Severus looked down at his glass like he would very much like to reenact his reaction to Lucius’ previous statement. Lucius took long drink.

“I am aware our Lord has set a task for my son at Hogwarts, an impossible one, and that Narcissa has made you swear to help him, to protect him.” He continued cautiously. “I believe that if we can cooperate on this, then perhaps, if we are lucky, yourself and my family can survive this war.”

“And may I assume you have the shape of a plan, at the very least.” Severus said venomously, but without real heat. The man takes another drink.

“The shape of one, at the very least.” He remarked with something approaching amusement, although perhaps it was a bit too hollow to really fit the mold. “It begin, unfortunately, with Harry Potter.”

It was going to be a long, nerve wracking night. It’s a good thing he had a full bar.

———

Harry was pretty sure the only reason they’re trying this was because of the Order meeting going on up above. They had the room warded up tight, which tended to blur sound just a bit.

See, there was supposed to be a potion’s lab in the basement. Or potions stores. Or something. Ingredients. That was the most important part. Hermione needed something rare, or expensive, and they really shouldn’t be sneaking out all the time. He didn’t know what she was going to brew, and he didn’t want to know, because she’d had that look on her face. Same one that she had whenever she had gotten into something complex and probably illegal. He might ask later, when the potion was brewed, or maybe never.

But to get in, they had to blow up part of the wall. Or melt it. Or something. But it was going to be noisy, potentially, and they couldn’t cast wards of their own because of the Trace. Harry didn’t know how melting could be noisy, but he was sure it could happen, and maybe it was just an explosion. Hermione had tried to explain it in technical terms to him when she’d gone over the plan, and he’d been a bit distracted so all he got was that they were going through a wall. They’re doing it with something else that Hermione brewed, which was nasty shade of orange and chunky in a particularly ominous way.

Because this was dangerous, the three were also all decked out in ancient battle robes and a set of very nice, very fancy looking masks they’d found in some closet or another. The robes were black, and a little frillier than he preferred, but they were alright. Hermione said they masks were charmed unbreakable, and to repel things like water and dust, and he’s pretty sure they were all hoping that meant it would make their faces unbreakable. He's leaning towards the explosion, at this point.

He was also not at all pouting that Ron had gotten the red and gold mask. Not that anyone could see him, anyway, if he was, which he wasn’t to be clear. Hermione said the white and silver one looked very nice, delicate or something like that. Which was fine, but not as cool as Ron’s, which had a beak like a Gryphon. His was just kind of swirly. Misty, he guessed. At least Hermione had taken the green and gold one, because he might be getting tired of green. Just a little.

So, now, Harry was just waiting for Ron to finish pouring the potion on the wall. Hermione twitched next to him ever time Ron moved at anything other than a snails pace. She would do it herself, he knew, but Ron was the tallest of them by nearly a foot, and he didn’t even have to reach much over his head to pour. The whole wall looked thoroughly soaked to him, the nasty floral wallpaper was very orange now. Though, he didn’t know much about explosive potions, so maybe it needed more. Ron was still ladling it out of the cauldron, and the wall was still soaking it up like a sponge.

“Are we, uh, how close are you to done?” Harry wasn't nervous about being caught at all, but he was a little bit about being late for dinner.

“Just about.” Ron groused, scraping at the bottom of the cauldron obnoxiously to prove his point.

Hermione flinched. “Be careful.”

“Never in a million years have I ever been careful. Don’t know why you’re expecting me to start now, really..” Ron was moving more deliberately now though. He sighed and stepped back. “That’s the last of it. Unless you want me to start splashing from the cauldron.”

Hermione glared at him and walked up to the orange patch slowly. She put a hand to the wall like she expected it to break when she touched it. Her hand sunk in like she was pushing through thick mud. “Be careful now, too much friction could set it off.”

Ah, okay, not an explosive potion. Just a potion that could explode. Or catch fire maybe. Knowing Hermione, that second one didn’t sound unlikely at all.

She moved through the wall slowly, inching into it and he hoped out the other side, but she was gone soon enough and nothing bad seemed to happen. He, he guessed it was safe.

Harry looked at Ron. Ron looked at Harry.

“You’re going first mate.” Ron looked a bit queasy. “Tell me if it hurts.”

He sighed. Yeah, Harry went first. Should probably be used to that by now.

The wall was spongy, almost, and warm in a way that was not at all pleasant. It didn’t hurt though, and he grumbled that out as he pushed through. Whether Ron heared or not wasn’t his problem. Ron should be glad he didn’t start screaming or something, really ham it up. This was disgusting. He really hoped it didn’t come off on him. It would be hell to get out of his hair if it did. Especially if it made him all gooey too. Gross. Okay, arm through. One leg through, and thankfully on solid ground. He wasn’t really sure if he had to do it, but he held his breath anyway. Couldn’t be good for him to breathe in wall. Just couldn’t.

The room on the other side was dark. Mostly. It looked like there was a jar of bluebell flames sitting on one of the dusty, grimy potions tables, and another one silhouetting Hermione as she dug through some cupboards.

“You bring any more of those?” Harry asked.

She pulled one from her messenger bag without looking, and placed it on a shelf to her right.

“What are we looking for then?” The jar was cool to the touch, always a surprise no matter how many times he held one.

Hermione snorted. “Bring me any red beetle shells and, well,” she made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat, “Any brownish fur. The labels seem mostly gone, but I think I can identify what we need myself.”

Harry was well aware this meant she thought he couldn’t. And yeah, she was right, he really couldn’t. Potions wasn’t his strong suit. There were too many things to memorize and too many moving pieces and it all smelled awful. No thank you.

The cupboards were dusty too, and in the back there were some potions fumes caked onto the shelves. He was up past his elbow in the cabinet when Ron sputtered through the wall, almost tripping over the last bit and crashing into the table to support himself. Hermione sighed, but didn’t turn around.

“Find me anything you can with unicorn hoof. We need to make it into a paste, so if there are any green oils, we can pick from there. And manticore spines, the older the better.” She placed another jar of blue white flames next to her, still one shoulder deep in bottles and boxes. “And bring out anything rare, we don’t need to clean out the common stuff, but the less we have to do this again the better.”

Harry was a bit surprised that Ron could actually identify that all without a label. But, well, he had grown up around the stuff, and he’d been helping Hermione with whatever she'd been brewing lately. And brewing a lot on his own, in their down time. He supposed they didn’t have much else to do. Ron just nodded and started pulling murky, rattling bottles off the high shelves on the other side of the room.

It was a bit hard to tell if any fur is brownish, but he had collected a good number of containers by the time he was done with his little section. He’d found some boomslang skin too, and while he wasn’t sure that counted as rare, it was something (expensive maybe) enough not to be available to students so he was sure Hermione would be pleased at the very least. Hermione had abandoned her shelf, and he was sure anything useful in there had been stripped, but there was an unopened chest on his other side.

The hinges were also crusted shut, and opening it was a hassle. He did manage, eventually, and politely pretended he couldn’t hear Ron laughing at him the whole time. Wrestling with a chest was unreasonable and ridiculous, but how the hell else was he supposed to get it open.

Harry flexed his fingers and peered in. Tiny, identical black boxes. His favorite. He reached and . . . Stopped.

Ow. It was burning, his thigh. It was burning like pressing a hand to hot metal. A little spot he couldn’t tell how big now but something wasn’t right. What the -

Dizzy. He 3qw getting dizzy. Something was pulling him. It was, oh no.

“Guys . . .” He slurred. “Po-” He choked down bile. It wasn’t pulling him through. It just spun there. Why would there be a portkey? He wasn’t touching anything, he wasn’t -

“Harry? Mate what’s,” Ron cast an eye around, hand on his back. “Did you touch anything?”

“The chest.” It was gasping and weaker than he liked and he could still feel the pulling. His magic was swirling in his veins, agitated, waiting, lacking that hint of exhaustion he’d felt lately. That was the last thing he touched.

Ron was up in a moment, and he heard Hermione’s robe rustling behind him. He heared Uric squealing.

He was being pulled and stretched but he wasn’t going anywhere. Harry reached inside. Where was it pulling him? He reached for the feeling. It was like he touched something, something buzzing and hot like smoke. He could feel it, almost, barely, just a little more.

And then the portkey activated.

He was probably lucky he had done this a few times before, because he was launched backwards when he launched out the vortex, crashing into something. Spell fire overhead, red and green like death and sickly yellow white.

He was wrong. It wasn’t a something he crashed into. It was a someone, a someone who’s groaning and shifting as though moving even that much was a struggle.

And in front of him, three Death Eaters stood in a thoroughly trashed living room. He had barely a split second to decide. It wasn’t even a decision.

“Expeliarmus! Confirgo! Protego!”

Cofirgo ripped through the bricks of the chimney, launching them forward. It was a distraction, and that’s all he needed to pull whoever was under him up. He hooked an arm around their shoulder. Bigger than him, but not by much. There was a doorway to his left, and he dove through, shoving the other person first. A streak of dark orange missed his shoulder by inches.

He hit tile, shutting the door with a flick of a wand. Kitchen. Okay. He could work with that. The heavy table in the center of the room nearly slammed into the door, sticking there as powerfully as he can spare. Harry knew warding wasn’t his strong suit. He knew two or three spells, none of them particularly strong. He cast them anyway, throwing magic into them and casting again and again until they’re stacked and layered and the air was vibrating with magic.

His heart was in his throat, blood buzzed in his veins, magic lashed out of his skin, but he wasn’t panicking. He’d done this too many times to succumb to that. They had to move.

He looked down. He recognized her, barely. The woman from the Ministry. Amelia Bones, sans monocle, hair askew. Wand in white knuckles in one of her hands and a small cylinder of dark metal in the other, pressed to her thigh where a slash of spell fire had sliced away the fabric and twisted the bleeding flesh. He felt his thigh. It wasn’t burning anymore. She had called him somehow. He couldn’t find it in him to be upset about that, not when she looked like this, not when he could help.

No, that was wrong. She hadn’t called him. She had called Lord Mortis. The necromancer. The boogeyman. Someone who could rescue her. He didn’t know if he could do that. But he wouldn’t leave her here.

There was something scurrying down his leg, with bigger claws than any of his little creatures should have. He turned from Amelia for just a moment. Uric was crawling out from his heavy robe, big as a housecat and growing. His skin was pulled tight over twisting bones. Fur raggedly covered lengthening limbs. Claws and teeth pulled themselves longer. Uric was facing the covered door. Harry couldn’t see his eyes. But he could see the glow they cast on wall. Filemina was untangling herself from his hair, pulling herself from his hood with a body he could feel transforming. One of her wings grazed his cheek, and he could feel how sharp it was even if it didn’t cut into his skin.

There was an explosion on the other side of the wall. The room shook. Uric was between them and the door, tall as a large dog now and all bone and skin and magic. Filemina’s skin was splitting at the joints, white spears pushing out unstained by blood. He couldn’t hear them breathing. He saw their forms groan with the rhythm of it anyway.

The room shook again.

He put his arm around Amelia and heaved her up. She stirred, pushed against him weakly for a moment before going still. The window was closed.

“Confirgo!” The window didn’t shatter. It glowed blue, faintly, and cracked.

“Confirgo! Confirgo! Fuck, Perdera!” It buckled like a sinkhole starting to cave, but there wasn’t an opening, not yet. The sink shattered.

“My Lord,” Amelia was struggling with the words. “Please. Susan.”

Fuck, Susan.

Uric snarled behind him. He spun. The wall, the table, they were melting. He needed to get Amelia out of here. He couldn’t fight and carry her.

“Where is she?” He blasted the window again, putting magic behind it until it hurt, jolting down his arm like searing lightning. It shattered.

“Upstairs. My office. The wards they,” She coughed, wet and heavy in a way that chilled him. “They should let you in.”

He didn’t know if that was because of the vassal thing or not, but he didn’t have time to wonder about it now. Later.

“Filemina!” She turned when he called. “Get her out of here. St Mungos or Grimmuald. Don’t let anyone see you.”

Amelia whined desperately in protest.

“I can’t fight with you here. You’ll die if you aren’t treated immediately. Go, now.”

Not that she had a choice, as Filemina’s spindly hands pulled her up. The certainly not a doxy anymore might only be as tall as he was in third year, but she could still carry Amelia, and that was all he needed.

He turned back to the door. The table was slumping, parts of eaten through enough that he could catch a glimpse of white masks. Damn.

Harry aimed his wand at the ceiling. Looked like he had to make his own way out. “Ruina.” The ceiling buckled, he could see the rot spreading, but there wasn’t a hole.

“Confirgo!” It burst upwards. He had just needed to soften it. He had a way up.

And now, well, this was probably an awful idea.

“Be careful.” He said, hoping Uric would listen, that he would be okay.

Then he aimed his wand at the floor. “Expeliarmus!”

He went flying upwards, crashing into the intact ceiling two floors up. He cast at the wall, at an angle. It’s just enough that he didn’t fall two stories too, and crashed into a rug that had once been lovely, he was sure. But he was a floor up now, and that was what he needed.

Susan. Office. Not that he knew where that was. But he would find her. He had to. He had to.

The hallway was empty, and he could hear sizzling to the right. Luckily, the only door in that direction was wide open. There were four on the other side.

The first was a bedroom. Probably Susan’s.

A bathroom.

Another bedroom.

The last on the left. This had to be it. The door was locked.

He didn’t bother trying to be clever about it. “Silencio.” He felt the spell settle around the door.

“Perdera.” It wasn’t as explosive as Confirgo, pushing instead of blasting. But that was the point. The door went flying in.

He felt the ward sizzle against his skin, but it let him pass through the threshold. Okay. Good.

“Susan?” He called quietly. Damn, white mask, dark robes. He probably looked like a Death Eater. Not like he could take it off though, not now.

The room was dark, but he could see the outline of everything, cast gently in green light and silvers of moonlight that crept in from the curtained window.

He crossed the room. She was under the desk, wand clutched tight. He could see her, just a shadow under the gap that separated wood and floor. Even going slowly, he didn’t really have any idea how to handle this.

In the end, he just bent down around the desk. He barley dodged a streak bright red (wow, that looked like it would really hurt) and sizzled against the wall as if to confirm it very much would have.

“Good shot.” He tried to be quiet. The Death Eaters would make it through soon, if they hadn’t already. They would see the room was empty. And then they would come looking for him. For them. They needed to get out of here.

He heard a high pitched scream, inhuman and reverberating in a way he was certain he shouldn’t. A deeper, more human one followed. Got through the door then, he thought with grim humor.

“Your aunt sent me. We have to leave, now, before they find us.” He waited.

She hasn’t cast another spell. Susan shifted. He couldn’t see her expression. She got up, wand in hand. “Who are you? You’re not an auror.”

He's certainly not an auror. “Your aunt would know me as Lord Mortis.” He hoped that didn’t sound as ridiculous to her as it did to him.

Apparently it didn’t, and Susan tensed for a moment, then the everything in her slumped. Relief or defeat or something else entirely he didn’t know. He’d never been great at reading people. She nodded at him.

Okay. Now, how were they getting out of here.

There was a pounding on the window, big and heavy and he barely had a second to think before something tall as a horse and twice as bony came crashing through. Harry thought it might have been a dog, at one point. He was fairly certain it was no longer a dog. Or, no longer a living dog. He was also fairly certain he didn’t feel himself awaken anything the whole time he had been here, but he would admit monitoring his magic may not have been his top priority.

Guess they were riding a dog out of here then. It bowed like it read his mind. He still wasn’t really sure whether his new companions could actually do that.

Harry swung up behind the shoulder blades. “Get on.” He could hear screams down bellow. They didn’t have time to figure any of this out. Or find a better idea.

Susan got on. The dog was out the window, running along rooftops as fast as anything. The Ministry was going to hate him for this. He could see the headlines now “Giant Dog Spotted Carrying Teenagers Across London Rooftops, Harry Potter Yet To Be Questioned Regarding Underage Magic Cast At The Scene”.

He turned back, just a moment, and silhouetted in moonlight he could see Uric scurrying along, something limp flapping in his large, pointy teeth. Tonight had been awful. At least they were alive.

At least they were alive.

He just had to tell himself that, and hope his heart stopped pounding like it was going to kill him soon.

Chapter Text

Harry didn’t know what to do. With any of this. He was glad it wasn’t worse but he still couldn’t help but feel that very ominous sort of dread he only felt when he was, as Ron would say, royally fucked. Madame Bones had made it to the hospital. Breakfast had been especially tense this morning, as Order members filtered in for an emergency meeting. Mrs. Weasley had been babbling nervously off and on, and if he got nothing else from it, he was glad to hear Amelia had been treated and was safe now. She wasn’t awake yet. One of the curses had taken a long time to untangle, taxing her body and magic heavily.

He was probably lucky that no one had seen Filemina. No one alive at least. Which he was trying not to feel bad about. The killing. The results had been up and down. Maybe someone had gotten away, but if they were they weren’t talking. Which was probably because Filemina and Uric were, well, terrifying. Harry was always happy to have terrifying friends, it usually made things a lot easier for him. As far as he knew, this Lord Mortis stuff hadn’t circulated much to the public. At least not enough to get to the Daily Prophet. If they caught wind of Filemina or Uric, they might be onto him soon too. Bone and skin beasts probably weren’t good for keeping anything secret.

Hermione and Ron had descended on him like nifflers on tinsel the second he’d snuck back into his room. He’d told them everything, of course, but first he’d dragged them all to the courtyard to see the not dog, which looked a lot more like a dog now, and Susan. See, not talk to, or reveal themselves to. Because it would be pretty obvious what was all going on if she’d gotten even a hint of those two.

After Ron had stopped shaking, arm stuffed in his mouth to stop himself from laughing, and Hermione had stopped her concerned spiraling Harry escorted an exhausted Susan to a bedroom a few doors down from the courtyard. He’d told her very sternly to stay in the room. Or as sternly as he could manage, which he always thought sounded more like Mrs Figg scolding her cats for piddling on the clean laundry than the leaderly sort of tone he felt he was supposed to imitate.

He had also mass scourgified the whole room, twice, because if he was going to get expelled or whatever for underage magic, he might as fucking well.

Tentatively, very tentatively, he’d asked Kreacher to bring up some food for Susan around mealtimes. It seemed like the elf was doing it too, which was a surprise all on it’s own. Two days had passed since he fought off the Death Eaters and rescued the Bones. It was just now sinking in that they really were his responsibility. Hiding Susan from everyone had been a lot easier than hiding the dog. But having her here felt like a time bomb in the house and it was beginning to make him twitchy. No one had caught on yet. Always being a little twitchy was apparently good for something. Like concealing more active paranoia.

The only good thing? He hadn’t gotten a letter from the Ministry about all of this yet. Maybe the Lord thing magically made him officially an adult or something? It probably had something to do with being Lord Mortis, everything seemed to revolve around that now, but he couldn’t say for sure. His life was weird enough that he was sure there could be a hundred reasons for that. Maybe. Right now, he was just waiting for Madame Bones to wake up. Maybe she had a plan? Though . . .

“What am I supposed to do now?” Harry whined, not for the first time. His fingers twisted themself anxiously into the quilt he’d laid on his bed so it didn’t get dirty while they studied.

Hermione sighed heavily. “Madame Bones is a prodigious witch. I’m sure she has a safe house, or some place safer than her house now at least. She’ll be awake soon. You should probably just dropped Susan off at St Mungos.”

He was aware. The Order was split between those who believed she got away and was lost, and those who believed she was taken by Death Eaters. And after two days of not surfacing in the wizarding world, more and more were mourning or fretting. Professor Lupin looked especially drawn. But still. He shifted awkwardly on the bed, jostling the Latin textbook sitting half on his lap and half on Ron’s.

“Harry, mate.” Ron readjusted the book. “If you’re that worried just put them up in one of the other Black houses.”

“The what?”

Ron looked at him, baffled. “The other Black houses? Most old families have at least a couple. The rich ones. Malfoy’s gotta gave half a dozen at least.”

He didn’t remember Sirius ever talking about other houses. But, then, that wasn’t really casual conversation is it.

Harry hummed uncertainly and shifted off the bed. The papers from the Ministry had to be around here somewhere. There were a lot of them. And maybe he should have looked through them before. It’s not like he needed money though, and he hadn’t thought much about property or the like. He’d had other things to worry about too. Other Mortis things. The pages were shoved to the bottom of his trunk, pressed between the side and some old textbooks. There were more of them than he remembered. Maybe they had started multiplying in there? He made a face.

The first two or three seemed to be a summary. That was helpful. A bit.

Ron sighed and climbed around a stack on books on the bed, hand held out expectantly. Harry handed him a chunk from the back. The print was small, and a little spidery, but not impossible to read. Especially if you compared it to his penmanship first year. Or second year. Or third year. Or, well, he just meant it wasn't that bad. There wee a lot of pretentious, useless words mixed in though. Or maybe there were just a lot of pretentious, useless objects mixed in. Sword Hilt of Murlock the Barbarian? Why. Wretched Blood Tome of Black Curses, bound in the skin of the first enemy of house Black? Why, with emphasis, and also shudder. Maybe he won’t let Hermione know about that one. Box of Pheasants? Was that really an important enough artifact to make such an official list? Also, what the hell is a Box of Pheasants? At least Ron looked just as puzzled.

There were four Black properties, including Grimmuald. Flipping through to the pages to find them was a bit tricky, because it wasn't like there were page numbers on this thing and Merlin forbid wizards put anything in alphabetical order. It looked like two of them were far off, one in Italy and one that was just around the corner from Charlie’s dragon reserve. But there was a beach house in Wales that seems promising. There’s a blank silver coin pressed to the bottom of the page, under descriptions of the size and history and not much at all of interest. Harry would be willing to bet it was a portkey, especially since “Polaris” was printed boldly under the silver. Which was useful. Kind of. Seeing how habitable it was compared to Grimmuald would be nice. But this didn’t give him a way back, which was not useful.

“Should we,” Ron cleared his throat right next to Harry’s ear, since he’d been reading over Harry’s shoulder. Which tickled. "Uh, check it out?”

“Check what out?” Hermione’s eyes were glued to her book, where she was pretending not to have been paying attention.

“The Black beach house.” Harry answered tentatively.

“Do you have a way to get there and back?” Well, at least it wasn’t a no. She looked about as intrigued as disgruntled. He supposed that was fair. It was a Black house.

“Not really.” Harry said, half interrupted by Ron’s “Floo?”

“But the floo is downstairs.” Harry didn’t think coming out of the floo in the middle of the living room, which was probably full of people, was particularly good idea. And that’s coming from him, which he felt like should be an indication of how bad an idea it was. He was the reigning champion of those.

Ron shrugged. “I mean, there’s a floo point downstairs. I bet there’s one up here too, or a little higher up. Makes sense, with such a big house, to be able to floo around it. And you’re a Black now, or as good as, so none of the wards should be a problem for you.”

“Huh.” Not something he’d thought about. But it would be convenient if it were true.

Hermione hummed and pulled a roll of parchment from her bag, spreading it over the thick quilt.

“You made a map?” Harry was a bit baffled. Why? It was just a house.

“This place is a maze Harry, if we’re going to find out way anywhere reliably we need to know where it is.” Hermione was tracing the hallways with a finger, scanning rapidly. “I’ve got two fireplaces recorded, but one was in the room with the all doxy eaters.”

“Let’s try the other one then.” Ron looked queasy. Which Harry understood. Doxy eaters were spiders the size of his head, matte black and sleek and probably Ron’s worst nightmare. They had seemed content to stay up in the curtains, but so much of the ceiling was covered in webs that you couldn’t see the color of it and the corners were even worse. Harry wasn’t really keen to deal with that again either.

Hermione peeked at the parchment and nodded. “We should probably floo there if we can, even with the portkey. Save that for Susan and Madame Bones, if you’re really determined to put them up there. We’ll need to check the wards and clean up a bit I’m sure. I can tell you how Harry, but you’ll have to cast.” Hermione tucked the map away and moved to open their second book trunk, one of her book towers collapsing into her spot. She started pulling potions out, quickly surrounding herself with new looking vials and older, more ornate looking potion bottles that Harry had helped her clean for storage. There were all sorts of colors and he’d be the first to admit he had no idea what most of them were.

Ron shuffled over to help her, pocketing a couple and sorting out the rest. He handed Harry three blues and a red. “Blue ones’r freezing potions, so just throw them at anything that moves. Red is for healing, nullifies poisons mostly. Just in case we get bit by anything.”

Harry would say this overkill. But it was a Black house. If it was anything like Grimmuald then they were far less prepared than he'd like them to be.

“It’ll be fine. I’ve got a couple blood replenishers and some ones that go bang, and Hermione has a bunch that reveal curses.” Ron snorted, tossling his red hair with the motion. Harry took that to mean he probably wasn’t as subtle as he’d like to be about all that doubt then.

They put on battle robes before they head off, which made him feel a little better. Even if his was still a little dusty. Ceiling dusty.

The fireplace was a floor up and about three hallways to the left. The had to cut through Ron’s least favorite hallway, which didn’t even have any doors and curled around in a way that really should mean they had gone around in one full circle at least. He was just done wondering how Grimmuald worked at this point. The room itself was dark red with purple accents and it did not look good. There was a pot on the mantle though, and it even had a lid so the floo powder wasn’t too dusty. It took a minute to get the fire going. Mostly because they tried it the muggle way before Harry remembered he could cast spells now. Probably. Hadn’t been punished for it yet.

The fire was blazing now, which was the important bit. “Black Beach House, Wales.” He called firmly. It was Ron who stepped forwards though, he was just getting them through the wards.

Ron went through fine, even if they couldn’t quite see what was going on now that he was on the other side. Could be less fine there. Hermione followed. And then absolutely dreading the landing, Harry stepped into the fire.

He landed on the floor with a whumpf, and inhaled something. Could be dust, could be sand, he wasn't really sure that it was but it was absolutely awful and he could say that for certain. Ron helped him up, the saint, and didn’t even laugh. Out loud. Harry knew he was holding it in. It wasn’t his fault the floo hated him. At least he didn’t hit anything this time.

The house was dark. Or, it was slowly getting less dark. The lights were coming on reluctantly. This place hadn’t been touched in at least twenty years, he’d bet. Not since the first war. Maybe well before that. It looked at lot better than Grimmuald, really. Maybe a few decades to let things left behind by the most unhinged of the Blacks die was a good thing. Little dusty, some cobwebs, but no ominous rattling and nothing attacking him.

The walls rattled.

Ah. There it was then.

Something spindly burst from the wallpaper and Harry blasted it without thinking. It fell to the floor in a heap and he could tell it was dead. Not dead things didn't twist up like that.

“Is that, is that a grindylow?” Ron sounded incredulous, bordering on hysterical. Harry looked down and, yeah, that was a grindylow. Weren’t they aquatic?

“They’re supposed to be.” Hermione muttered darkly. Said that out loud then. Oops.

Grindylows in the walls. They were off to a fantastic start.

Harry banished the dust. The first layer of grime was gone in an instant, revealing the nasty, sticky residue that magical places tended to accumulate. He could probably banish that too, probably, but it would tire him out more than was wise since they had more to explore.

“Shall we?” Ron gestured ahead, light growing bright enough that some of the more ominous shadows had faded. They started to move to the right, where there was a perfectly good, perfectly spooky hallway.

Another grindylow launched out of the wall. Harry fired off an expelliarmus and felt incredibly relieved when it didn’t get up. He could repair the walls later.

“You think Hagrid would want a couple of these for Christmas?”

Ron snorted so hard he rammed his shoulder into the door frame.

———

Lucius Malfoy wanted to tear his hear out. Physically. With his hands. He did not. It was a close thing. He, instead, cursed the lounge in his office. The bone splitting curse twisted and warped the frame until all that was left was writhing splinters. It did not fix the problem, but did make him feel a little more in control. He straightened his robes.

His Lord attacked Amelia Bones. Yes, yes, she was the head of the D.M.L.E. and a thorn in their side. Her family was also, more importantly, sworn to the Mortis family. His Lord was an imbecile. Which was not something he could ever be saying out loud. Any genius the man had left at the end of the first war had obviously been lost to whatever ego or magic had kept him holding onto life.

Lucius Malfoy did not want to die. He felt like that may be a lost cause though, after tonight. Especially since the single Death Eater that made it back alive, bleeding from a gaping wound where his arm used to be, had reported a masked figure in black had rescued the senior Bones, set up a barricade of wards that none of their own had been able to blast through in mere minutes and blew through their own wards, which may not have been strictly impossible but was still difficult and supposedly much more time consuming then the rescuer had demonstrated. Apparently not. There had also been a number of unidentified beasts, monsters, attacking them. Beasts with glowing green eyes. He had no trouble believing that. No one knew where the Bones girl was. Lucius did not want to know. He wanted to move himself and his family to France under an assumed identity. But he couldn’t, because he had bound himself to his Lord and Narcissa and Draco refused to leave him, knowing what their departure would mean.

He would say he needed a drink, but if he let go of his self control for even a moment he knew he’d storm out of here and be half a dozen deaths deep into slaughtering whoever stood in the way of his attempt to splatter his Lord against the ancient mosaic floors of his dining hall. Which he would certainly not survive.

The unfortunate the Death Eater who had delivered the news to his Lord had been crucioed to death immediately after. Lucius couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry for him. It was likely a kinder death than what Lord Mortis would have doled out. And if the man had been tracked by Lord Mortis at a later date, he would have been tracked back to Malfoy Manor. Which might be Lucius’ worst nightmare. His only complaint was that memories couldn’t be extracted from a corpse. And he would have risked his life extracting them just for the chance to see how the Lord fought.

Lord Mortis’ wand had also registered use the night of the attack. Which, if he held any doubts before, would have cleared them. Clearly, the Lord wanted them to know who the deed was carried out by. The Lord was taunting them. He had to be. It froze his heart in his throat to think about.

Lucius collapsed into his desk chair. He gazed mournfully at his pensive. It would be nice if going through his memories a hundredth time would help anything. Because right now, he’d give just about anything for even a thread to grasp onto.

———

The mediwizard had told Amelia it had been four days since she’d been appeared outside the hospital, at night, without any indication of how she had arrived except for a horrific shrieking that had alerted the mediwixen quick enough to get her the treatment she desperately needed. In her condition there was no way she had apparated herself there.

And she’ll admit she wasn’t entirely sure how she had gotten there either. She remembered the attack, ordering Susan to run, to barricade herself in the office and activate the wards and wait for the aurors. She remembered fighting, remembered taking two of the team attacking them down before being hit by something that made her feel so sick she could barely move, taking a curse to the leg and one to the chest and feeling something snap. She remembered pressing the Mortis seal to her leg, and feeling it burn like spellfire. The mediwizard had told her the brand was still there. That it would fade in time, with the right creams, but they hadn’t been able to do anything significant repair. It didn’t surprise her that it was resistant to healing. She remembered a figure that had tackled her out of spellfire, dragged her away. She remembered begging them to save Susan, and then sharp, bony hands digging into her. And that’s all.

They hadn’t been able to find Susan. Amelia wasn’t worried. Not much, at least. Susan was safe with Lord Mortis, as safe as that can be. If the Death Eaters had gotten her, well, they would have found her by now. Not alive, but they would have found her. She hoped that Lord Mortis wasn’t displeased that she called him without warning. But it’d been four days. She’d been awake since this morning. The room was cast in evening sun now, turning the light green walls gold. If he was upset, there was nothing she could do now to erase that. She can still hope though.

The auror who had come to get her statement this morning had been with the department a long time, and while they weren’t friends they it had been easy to push them for information about the investigation. Not that it was a secret, but she was supposed to be resting and the mediwixen would not have been happy to hear about her hearing anything that might be considered work. It had been Death Eaters, there were several bodies at the scene in full uniform. One wall of her house was a gaping hole now, the front door blasted in, kitchen ceiling and outer wall destroyed, the window behind her desk shattered, the blood and corpses. Two of the bodies had been torn apart by some sort of creature. Something large and strong with teeth and claws to match.

Amelia hoped it hurt. She hoped their deaths were as terrifying, punishing, agonizing as the deaths of the enemies of House Mortis were rumored to be. That was her home. It was supposed to be safe. Maybe their wards weren’t strong as some of the older families, but she knew they were sturdy and comprehensive. She thought they were. Her heart pounded against her two broken ribs just thinking about it, fists curling in thin white sheets. She had almost died. Susan had almost died. Susan had -

There’s a tapping at the window. Amelia shook herself out of her thoughts and breathed as deeply as she could manage before turning. The healers had assured her that the physical damage would be healed tomorrow, but apparently one of the curses they had to undo had strained her body badly and it would be too risky until she regained a little strength. The pain relievers were light, and mostly nonmagical, which meant she was still very sore.

There was a crow on the windowsill. A silhouette with green eyes. The window was open, for fresh air she supposed, but it tapped its beak against the frame anyway. Amelia waited. She had seen it, and if it behaved like most owls it would drop its letter off now. The crow knocked again.

“Come in.” Amelia smiled. Polite undead. What a novel concept. The pain meds were making her a little dizzy, or maybe the shock of it all was.

Black wings flapped over, quiet and prim, landing gently on the little table next to the bed. It’s a big bird, and a small table, but it shuffled around until it wasn’t at risk of pushing the glass of water and auror red poppies off onto the floor. There was a letter on its leg and even with slightly clumsy fingers she got it off quickly enough. The seal was green, pine scented wax. The Mortis crest stared back at her. She wanted to be scared, but it just wasn’t coming. Today, all she had been able to reach was rage and panic and numbness.

It was an invitation. She wasn’t being released until tomorrow evening at the earliest, more likely the day after. The curse could always creep back in. It probably wouldn’t. But healers were fussy. The Lord, her Lord she supposed wryly, was inviting her to a “mostly safe place” if she didn’t have any other accommodations. She didn’t. Nowhere that she would go. Nowhere she felt safe. She had a safe house, but the wards on her home had been stronger. And now even those were gone.

“I’m afraid I don’t have anything to write back with.” Her voice was still a bit rough. She tried to smile at the bird. “I’d like to accept, if there’s any way you can communicate that. Doubt they’d let me near anything to write a letter with right now. I’m afraid my hardworking reputation is biting me in the ass right now.”

The crow cocked its head and opened its beak slowly. “I’d like to accept. I’d like to accept.”

Well then. That was certainly her voice. The beak wasn’t even twitching. She didn’t know the undead could do that. Or was it only limited to undead crows? Birds?

“Can you deliver this instead?” She asked, and cleared her throat. “I accept your generous offer. I will be out of the hospital the evening after the next.”

The crow cocked its head and hopped down to the ground before taking off, straight out the window without another sound. She hoped it got the message. The first would be fine if it hadn’t. Today had been exhausting. She hoped Susan was alright.

———

Really, given his morning, Harry felt like he could be forgiven for forgetting it was his birthday. His crow, who he really should get around to naming, had woken him up at some point for far enough after dawn. It had delivered a message not by letter, but by opening its mouth and just making words come out. In a voice that sounded like Amelia Bones. He hadn’t known it could do that.

The crow had hopped down off his chest after that and wiggled under a dresser. And having no clue why it would do that, Harry went to check and see what was under there. And arm was under there. A person’s arm was under his dresser. It had teeth marks on it, bit ones, and also a lot of little ones. It looked pretty thoroughly devoured, which made him a bit queasy. Uric, it seemed, had brought back an entire arm. When caught, he had presented Harry with a finger very proudly. He’d had no idea what to do with that, so he swabbed some of the mostly dried blood with a bit of spare parchment for the ritual, patted Uric on his little head, stared at the wall for a bit, his the finger in a drawer, and taken a very long shower. At least he knew what the beasts ate now. Dead things. Maybe raw meat would be fine, like with the thestrals.

He felt he could be forgiven for forgetting the birthday thing.

Being greeted with a great big happy birthday from everyone though? That more than made up for his odd morning. Everyone he loved all in one room, and some more from the Order besides.There were gifts on one end f the table, but he couldn’t have cared less about that right now. The table was loaded up with breakfast and Ron was pounding him on the back and Mrs Weasley was grappling fireworks from he twins. Happy sixteenth birthday Harry.

“What do you want first?” Hermione was smiling at him, soft and proud and beautiful in the warm light. Or maybe everything was just beautiful right now. He couldn’t say really, cause his chest felt like it was about to burst. He felt warm.

“Eat.” He said, grinning, and next to him Ron cheered loud enough to make his ears rings.

Everything smelled like bacon and fresh bread. There’s treacle tart too, for breakfast even. The twins spend the whole meal telling him about the shop. It had been busy with everyone getting ready for school. He’s sure everything will be banned by Filch in an instant. Mrs Weasley was smiling almost in spite of herself.

Ron sneaks thirds of treacle tart onto his plate and sends him a goofy grin when Harry catches him. It’s fantastic.

After breakfast, they played exploding snap in the living room for hours. His hands were singed and sore. Ginny wins twice, Tonks once, and he was pretty sure everyone let him win the last game. But he wasn’t going to say that.

They had stacks and stacks of sandwiches for lunch, and he fell asleep on the couch after, too full to move. Ginny had his head in her lap when he woke up, and sticks her tongue out at him. Ron and Hermione were arguing, somewhere between playful and furious, about potions prep. Harry closed his eyes again, listening.Ginny shoved him off her lap a few minutes later, and he curls into a ball laughing at Ron and Hermione’s identical noises of offense.

The twins set off fireworks inside. Mrs Weasley was absolutely furious, but they didn’t even singe the wallpaper. He hadn’t gotten a break like this in a while.

There was dinner, roasted vegetables and chicken, and a huge chocolate cake. Hagrid showed up, beard full of sticks, with McGonnogal seconds behind him. There was plenty of cake to go around.

Mrs Weasley bustled them all into the living room for presents after, kitchen cleaning up after itself. Harry thought today was the best present of them all.

The twins howled with laughter when he opened theirs and was pelted with magical paint. But there was a book of defensive charms underneath. And they vanish the mess before Mrs Weasley can see.

Hagrid gave him a bundle, looking incredibly proud of himself, and inside is a whole bag of bezoars. Ten of them, if he’s counting right. “Wow.” Harry breathed. “Are these from your goats?”

“A friend’s too. D’you like em?”

“I love them Hagrid.” He does. He really does.

Ginny got a hug for her broom polish. He said thank you almost politely to Professor McGonnogal for the practice snitch, but his excitement broke through it and he could see her eyes crinkle in a smile. He couldn’t be on the team this year, with Umbridge’s ban, but now he could practice on his own.

“Mine next.” Ron shoved something flat and floppy onto his lap, one finger breaking through the spinning red stripes in his eagerness and giving him a peak of bright orange. It was a Chudley Canons tee, with the team flying in formation on the front, and he was grinning fiercely as Ron winked at him.

“You’ll have to fight em off you, orange really is your color you know.” Ron bumped his shoulder with the side of his arm, too tall for their shoulders to meet even sitting down.

Harry snorted so hard he had to cough it out, but he was still smiling.

“This one is from both of us, Ron and I.” Hermione gave him a small box.

“It’s all Hermione.” Ron refused. “She did all the important work.”

Hermione harumphed and looked like she was about to respond, but instead gestured for Harry to open it. It was a brown leather rectangle, and unfolded like a muggle wallet with a big pocket and a smaller one on each side. It was a very nice wallet, but he didn’t get it.

“It’s expanded on the inside, runes of course. There isn’t much space, but it can probably hold your school things just fine. Or any other sort of important books or papers you might want to carry around.” She almost sent him a a significant look, but he could see her revising as she thought better of it. It’s such a Hermione gift. “Ron tanned the leather himself. It’s soaked in potions to make it sturdier than normal.”

Ron blushed a little. “It was nothing, you did all the work.”

He could see Hermione disagreed.

“Where did you get the uh, leather?” Skin, he meant skin. He was not saying skin.

“Nowhere Harry, don’t worry about it.” Hermione smiled.

Right. Nowhere, Harry. Don’t worry about it. He loved his friends.

He went for a group hug, pulling Ron forward, but the other boy wasn’t expecting it and they both ended up half on the floor, Harry dragging Hermione down with his other arm. Collapsing, laughing. Ginny told them, loudly, to get a room, and threw a wadded ball of wrapping paper at them. The twins sis something about broom polish that he couldn’t quite make out that made Ron turn bright red.

Harry’s glad he knows what family feels like now.

———

Cornelius Fudge was having a truly, spectacularly awful day. Week, really. It had been disastrous. Dumbledore and that Potter boy should have taken care of You Know Who before it had ever become his problem. He had tried to keep them in line, and stomp out all this nonsense, and then it had turned out not to be nonsense and, well, he’d been in quite the predicament. Dumbledore had been overstepping his bounds for a while now. A hoax like this would not have been uncharacteristic. He had just been just trying to protect his public! Couldn’t they see that?

Apparently not.

“Come on now Fudge, how long does it take to clean out an office?” There were a handful of aurors loitering in front of his office. It was his for the rest of the day, and they should try to have a little bit more respect.

“That’s Minister Fudge to you.” He snipped, packing the rest of his things into a very nice dark wood chest.

“Not anymore.” Someone on the left side of the group muttered, as if he couldn’t hear them. The nerve of these ungrateful - if he had his way they would have all been out of a job. That was no way to treat a Minister of Magic, even a former one. And he wasn’t former yet!

There were papers in his desk, and perhaps they had best be left to his successor. But if the man had wanted his help he would have asked for it instead of booting him out with barely a word like this. Robards was a useless coward.

How could he be blamed for any of this!? The last straw had been the near assassination of the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Well, if she was incompetent enough to nearly be killed in her own home, that was her fault. Not a scrap of blame could be placed on his shoulders for that. Except perhaps approving the appointment of a witch so weak to such a vital position. It wasn’t like she had called the aurors either, what Ministry assistance had she expected? They were spread thin enough with all these blasted Death Eaters, and so many of the valuable pureblood members of their esteemed society going missing or showing up dead. Some of them even crammed into Death Eater robes, the audacity of it all. He just knew Dumbledore and his little mercenary organization were behind it all.

“Carry this.” He levitated the chest over to the group of useless busybodies and dropped it into one of their arms. Didn’t matter which, so long as they were careful. Ah speaking of. “And be careful, there are things in there worth more than any of you.”

He left his office with a straight back, putting one sealed envelope on the proud desk that was still his until dawn tomorrow. These cowards, he was sure they expected him to slink away. But not him. Not Cornelius Fudge. He still had people loyal to him in this world, and in this government. Perhaps it was not the same kind of power, but he had always fancied himself an excellent puppet master. Not that he had ever needed to stretch those particular muscles before. Perhaps he should pay Lucius a visit tomorrow, to scope out his loyalties and all. Slytherins were tragically opportunistic after all, he wouldn’t be surprised if the man changed his stance every time the wind shifted a bit. Different players, no, different information shouldn’t lead to one turning around every which way. You didn’t see him doing that, after all. He was a man of principal.

The whole Ministry must be lined up to see him out. How noble of them. Perhaps a solemn nod would show his commitment to a better future for them all, a reflection of duties changing hands. He had given his last speech yesterday, to show the country their Minister knew best, and that now was time to hand things off to the old Head Auror. Who better to lead the fight against You Know Who than that rough, warrior type. He had reassured his public that he would be back as soon as this nasty war was done with, to see them rebuild bigger and better. It had been an excellent speech. He hoped Robards had the sense to retain the man who wrote it.

Something hit him, making him jerk in a way that might almost be called undignified.

“What was that?!” He glared down at the floor, where a rolled up ball of parchment laid there mocking him. As if it hadn’t just bounced off his face.

“What?” One of the aurors looked around lazily.

“Someone just hit me.” He was furious. This was his last, proud march through these walls. His noble exit.

“Looks fine to me.” The auror hummed. “Get a move on, my shift ends in 20.”

How dare they. How dare they. Well, they would not get the pleasure of seeing Cornelius Fudge loose his cool. He would carry on to the floos with dignity.

There was one thing he would be glad to leave when his term finally ends. One thing contained in that letter to his successor. A smug smile crept over his face. The Mortis problem was for Robards to deal with now. None of that nonsense would follow him out the door, not if he had anything to say about it.

Chapter Text

It had been a long, long summer. Ron was pretty sure it was going to be a long, long school year too. If that were a deal breaker, he’d have stopped hanging around Harry and Hermione ages ago. Played Quiddich with Dean and Seamus or something. That sounded nice too, but it might get kinda boring. What he was up to now? Opposite of boring. Anti boring. Mostly. Could something be thrilling, and mind numbing at the same time?

Ron carefully poked an old curtain with a long cane, or maybe it was a staff? Either way, it was long and very convenient. Nothing. He poked at the bedspread, two quick jabs before he made a break for the door. Nothing. Ugh. Okay, wardrobe then. He was just going open it very carefully and then bam, in went the staff. Just wiggle it around and make a break for it. Three. Two. One … Nothing.

Damn.

Next to him, Harry’s dog whuffed.

“Are you laughing at me?” Ron did his best impression of his mother wriggling a confession out of small, unruly children.

The dog sneezed.

“Can’t you just sniff out a doxy nest?”

The dog cocked a head to the side and did nothing.

“Useless.” Ron muttered. Less about the dog, and more about the general futility of his day so far.

He had a plan to, well, to steal blood from his family. Not the most honorable thing to do, he’d admit, but it wasn’t like he could go up and say “Hey Mum, Dad, Bill, I need you blood for a secret dark ritual Harry and Hermione and I are performing without any supervision at some unspecified point in the future.” They wouldn’t go for that. Charlie might, but he wasn’t here, so they had to make do. By stealing. And for that, he needed a doxy nest.

And after all day rustling through the second floor, back to front, he’d come up empty. The upper floors probably had lots. The first floor had two before Mum had cleared them out. He’d been in a dozen rooms already, poking and prodding any old cloth doxies might be hiding in. He only needed to get luck once.

Harry’s new dog had followed him around, a big brown thing with almost curly hair that Hermione said looked like newfoundland and Harry said looked like his old neighbors labra-something or other. Something silly sounding. Just looked like a dog to him. A big, serious dog, with kind of goofy looking eyes. Well, goofy if you ignored the green. Which if he was being honest with himself, he’d gotten pretty used to. Sure, Uric standing on his little hind legs, watching him from his nightstand all night long had been creepy at first. But being the little brother of the first masterminds to open a joke shop since Joko’s in the early 1800s and best friend of Harry Potter, the boy disaster himself, had given him a pretty thick skin. Least it wasn’t a spider.

So, new room. Do some of those breathing exercises he’d learned from Ginny, who had to have learned them from Luna he was sure. Shake off the frustration. Concentrate. This was a potentially dangerous task. He could die, alone in Grimmuald Place, crawling along the floor, covered in doxy bites and full of doxy venom if he wasn’t careful. He probably wouldn’t, probably, but after the grindylows he wasn’t unconvinced that these Black houses could breed the dark nuisances living in them to be extra deadly.

Lots of fabric in this one. Ron made sure to check the ceiling before he stepped in. No spiders up there. Even better.

He’d check the bed first. It was old and practically overflowing with velvet. He thought it might have been purple once, but with all the dust it looked more mauve now. The edges were nibbled, which was a good sign. Two pokes, crouched and ready to run. Nothing. One more? Nothing.

Damn it.

Okay. There were some big curtains too, and a rug rolled up in the corner. Plus there was the wardrobe if none of those panned out.

Curtains then.

Ron readied himself. Staff out in front of him. Lets go.

A buzzing noise curled into the air when he hit the curtain, angry and high and growing steadily louder. But that wasn’t proof of anything. So, unfortunately, reluctantly, Ron hit it again. Two doxies peeked out over the top, sharp little teeth bared. Okay. Progress. He could probably just report this to Mum and let her - Ow!

He looked down at his ankle. One of the little buggers was attached to him. By its teeth. It looked up at him with its beady little bug eyes and bit down again. Ow!

Ron swung the staff, trying to get the big end to come around so he could smash the little thing. Except that wasn’t what happened. Instead, Ron hit the rug. A big cloud of dust blasts outward, followed quickly by a lot of tiny, dark blue silhouettes.

Oh no.

Oh bloody hell.

Time to run. Time to run run run run run. The door, close the door.

“C’mon boy.” Ron was out in the hallway, hand on the doorknob. The dog was fast behind him.

He shut the door. There were several small thumps on the other side.

Viciously, the doxy on his ankle bit down. Again.

Harry’s new dog gave it a little sniff. Then he ate it. Ron thought he really liked Harry’s new dog.

Now he just had to tell Mum.

———

Amelia was waiting. Rather patiently, she thought. It’s her fault she’s waiting after all, since she’d shown up a bit over an hour early. Her Lord sent the crow back this morning with a time, an address, and a simplified map of the location he wished to meet after St Mungos released her. It was in muggle London, a surprise to say the least. But then perhaps it made sense if her Lord wished to stay at the edges of their world. So here she was, sitting at a coffee shop, three pastries into an incredibly anxious afternoon.

They were supposed to meet on the street corner just outside, but she had assumed standing there for an hour would be incredibly suspicious to the muggles around them. So the cafe was as good a place as any to wait. It was still a quarter of an hour until four, when they her Lord was supposed to arrive. Her Lord.

Her Lord. She had been practicing that, thinking of him that way and muttering it quietly to herself in the hospital bed. She wouldn’t want to slip up in front of him.

“Excuse me, Madame Bones?” A deep voice interrupted her.

She turned, heart beating a mile a minute, surprised she hadn’t been startled right our of her chair. The chatter of the cafe had hidden his approach. A man standing was next to her table, about average height, with his frame disguised neatly by a heavy trench coat. He wore a hat, brim just wide enough to cast shadows over the eyes of the ornate mask covering his face. The mask was a intricate black and white, with delicate silver accentuating the detail. The eyes that stared at her from it glowed a piercing green. Fear rioted in her gut. It took everything she had not to collapse to the ground kneeling.

“My Lord.” She greeted instead.

He stood for a moment, watching her. Then extended a gloved hand, palm up to display a silver disk. “Should we get going then?” Was all he said.

Amelia nodded. A hand that she made careful sure didn’t shake laid itself over his. She wasn’t sure what to say. Not here, surrounded by muggles. She could be certain her Lord wished for a measure of discretion at least, but other than that she had very little idea. The letters they had exchanged had been polite, formal, and a bit strange. Not nearly enough to get an idea of who her Lord was as a person. To gauge his expectations of her.

She felt the tell tale tingle of a notice me not charm descend like a swarm of bees, strong enough to turn the gazes of most wizards elsewhere and certainly more than enough for the surrounding muggles. Her Lord didn’t say a word though, and led her out into the alley behind the shop briskly.

“Polaris.”

The tug of the portkey was over in a moment. Her Lord landed in a walk, movement carrying him forwards a few feet and tugging his hand out of her grasp. Forwards towards three figures. Two in black robes, antiques as far as she could tell and in good condition. The leftmost was tall, looming even in the low light, with dark brown hair and a red and gold mask carved to give the appearance of feathers spreading like sunbeams from a hooked beak.. His companion was shorter, robes flaring in the practical and feminine style her grandmother had preferred in her youth. Their mask was gold as well, although dark green crept over it like ivy, and their dark hair was tightly braided to their head like a crown. And beside them -

Susan. Susan, wringing her hands in the sleeves of light yellow robes her Lord must have provided, brown eyes warm and relieved and -

Amelia locked her knees and dared not to breathe. She wanted to run over, take Susan into her arms and cast a half dozen diagnostic spells and make sure she was alright and never let go. She couldn’t do that in front of her Lord.

He was watching her, silent.

Amelia knelt before him. “Thank you, my Lord, for this great favor. You have my family’s service, and beyond that from myself a life debt two fold.”

She could hear Susan making a wounded noise, no doubt in protest, but her niece said nothing and she was grateful for that. There was no way she would let Susan shoulder a life debt at sixteen. Not if her Lord would accept her own in exchange.

Her Lord was silent, for a moment. “Thank you for your service, Madame Bones.”

That was the second time he referred to her that way. She was surprised by the courtesy, most other purebloods she knew, especially Dark ones, would take any opportunity to speak down to her. Her Lord may just have been the respectful type, but she was grateful. She had to serve the Darkest house in their world, disregarding the now extinct Blacks, but perhaps she wouldn’t be treated as disposable. As inferior trash. Given her Lord’s companions, perhaps she would not be alone in her service either.

“Please, rise.”

Amelia stood slowly, daring a glance at Susan when he face was still turned down enough to disguise it.

Her Lord cleared his throat. “These are my two companions.”

“Russel Mortimer.” The tall man spoke first. He sounded stiff.

“Rosalind Mortimer.” The woman dipped in a shallow bow, low voice almost melodic.

Mortimer. Interesting. It was a last name that used to be given to those who cast aside their old lives completely when joining with the Mortis vassals. Rare, even back when the Mortis’ were active in their community.

“Greetings, esteemed vassals.” Amelia bowed low.

“There’s no need for that here.” Rosalind soothed, “Formalities are tiring, and I would not want an incredible witch such as yourself holding back on my account for something so trivial.”

“Thank you.” Amelia smiled at the woman.

“I’m sure you both agree as well.” Rosalind tilted her head to the side.

Russel could not nod fast enough, and Lord Mortis was only a second behind him.

Some of her anxiety eased. “If you insist.”

“I do.” It sounded like the masked woman was smiling. “Now, how would you like a tour of your new home?”

“I would appreciate that. Has Susan been staying here?” It was a bit of a risk to ask, but if her Lord disliked unnecessary etiquette then it was more than likely at least safe to ask even if she wouldn’t get an answer.

“No, Susan has been staying at another one of the properties.” Her Lord waved his wand, lighting up the room more clearly as the already somewhat dim light had begun to fade. Were the enchantments wearing off? “We cleaned this one on short notice. Finished most of the important parts last night, but no one has lived here for a very long time, so there are still . . . Quirks.”

Russel snorted. “Quirks.”

“The lighting system seems to have a bit of a mind of it’s own.” Rosalind clarified. “And while we got rid of the obvious dangers, there are sure to be a handful of cursed trinkets hidden away.”

“Ah, and there might still be some grindylows in the walls.” Her Lord added.

What?

“We cleared out the nest, tried to get them all, but if you hear rattling in the walls get your wand ready.” Russel handed her a few small bottles of light green potion. “They’re also venomous, somehow, so if you get bit these should clear it up.”

“This was, is, a Black house.” Lord Mortis said, like that cleared everything up. It kind of did.

“I thought grindylows were aquatic?” Amelia fingered her wand uneasily.

“So did we.”

“Black houses tend to have this sort of mutating effect.” Rosalind said kindly. “So if anything tries to eat you, feel free to deal with it as you like.”

Well then. At least she was allowed to dispose of anything aggressive. Somehow, this seemed fitting. Both for a Black house, and one owned by Lord Mortis. She’d have to get special permission for Susan to use her wand outside of school.

“Now then, this is the living room.” Lord Mortis nodded at the room they were standing in. Like this was a perfectly normal situation. “The floo room is off to the side the side there, and the entry to the left.”

Amelia looked around for the first time. It was cozy, if a bit macabre. Plenty of dark colors and dramatic old furniture.

“The floo works, so you can get to and from the Ministry or Diagon. This is the Black Beach House, in Wales. I keyed Susan to the wards already, and if you give me a moment.” Lord Mortis twisted his wand around, lazy shadows following the movement for a moment before snapping out of the air. “So are you. If you want to cast any wards of your own, or do any basic maintenance around the house they should allow you. If you have any problems or larger issues you can send a letter and I will amends your permissions, or fix the problem if I have time.”

“Thank you my Lord.” She felt a little lightheaded. He was giving her that much access? Casting wards inside established home warding was usually only reserved for the owner or head of house.

He just nodded sharply at her, then turned to the right and started down a long, poorly lit hallway. It brightened slightly at his arrival, but seemed reluctant to do even that much. “There are two bedrooms on this side of the house, and another two to the left.”

As she passed Susan to follow she quietly slipped her hand into her niece’s and held on tightly. They could talk later. Amelia was so very, very grateful that Susan was alright. Or at least alive and visibly unharmed.

“The look of most of them is hideous and depressing, so you should probably change that.” Russel opened one of the doors, revealing a room decorated in dull greys and sick looking blues. It was clean though, and looked comfortable and spacious aside from that. A door on the far side was open, and looked to lead to a bathroom of the same taste with dark beige tile replacing the bruised looking wallpaper.

The office at the end of the hall overlooked the ocean, and the shelves lining the walls on either side were filled with old books. Knowing the Blacks, very few of them would be pleasant to read. There were also a number of chests piled off to the side.

“Move in anything you need. If you want to clear any of the furniture or books out, just pack them away and we’ll come and take them.” Rosalind gestured to the trunks. “Please put any cursed items in the red one on the end.”

Amelia nodded. She didn’t know how long her Lord intended to allow her to stay, but being able to unpack some of her own things would certainly make her feel more at ease.

A wide hallway led from the living room to the front door. A small library, perhaps more of a reading room, sat off to one side and a parlor to the other. The dark seemed especially possessive of the library. Amelia was going to lock that room away the second Lord Mortis left. There was something ominous in there, and Susan certainly did not need to be looking at dark arts books at her age.

The front door stuck a little, and the umbrella stand took advantage of Russel’s distraction to kick him in the shin. The man cast what she assumed was a dirty look at his assailant, even if the mask hid it. She found some hollow amusement in that.

Outside was lovely, opening onto a shallow slope that rolled into the sand of the beach some ways off. A winding path led through a slightly overgrown garden and there was a small gazebo off to one side.

“Be careful with the plants.” Rosalind took a step towards the center of the path, even if the greenery seemed to be warded strictly inside the confines of the beds. “Most of these things could kill you, and many of them want to very badly.”

A silvery vine pressed itself to the wards, light pink flowers ringing like small bells. She could see the thorns a few inches down the soft looking stem. Behind the tangle of silver, wide green leaves with red veins glistened with sticky sap, appearing innocently drenched in dew. She could see a small bird skull nestled in the undergrowth.

Amelia thanked her. No touching the plants then. Maybe she could help Susan find something that boy she liked would appreciate? She said he enjoyed Herbology, although it seemed like the Blacks had very particular tastes, so perhaps not.

“That should be all.” Lord Mortis turned to face her. “There’s a muggle town a short ways inland, but the wards extend quite a bit past the house so there shouldn’t be any danger of being seen. You’re free to live here as long as you wish.”

Amelia blinked. She had expected short term accommodations, somewhere to stay until she could have her home repaired and her wards strengthened. But if her Lord was offering it, if she could stay behind Black wards until the end of the war, she would not turn him down.

“Thank you, my Lord. Sincerely. I -” She cleared the tightness from her throat. “Thank you for coming. And for giving us a safe place to stay.”

“Your safety is my responsibility now.” He said.

“My job -” She bit into her lip. Maybe she should be happy with this. They could stay out of the war. They could be safe. If her job had put them both at risk like this, and Lord Mortis prioritized their safety, she should be able to send in her resignations papers without regret. Should be. Even if that were an acceptable risk, the Mortis family and their vassals had always been neutral. Aggressively neutral. But…

Lord Mortis was silent.

“I understand why you might want to leave after all this.” It was Russel who spoke. “But with Robards as Minister now, the D.M.L.E. needs you more than ever. If the Lord has to bail you out again, it’ll be worth however many of the bastards you can take down.”

Amelia’s brain stalled out for a good five seconds. It rebooted very slowly. “You’re with the Light?”

The three exchanged a glance.

“We don’t like Voldemort.” Russel stated. “Really don’t like him. Or the war. Or the Death Eaters. Or any of the purebloods who lied and bribed their way out of Azkaban.”

Oh.

“You’re going to fight then?” She was pretty sure after they left she was going to collapse on that ugly blue bed and sleep for a week. This many shocks in one day couldn’t be good for her heart.

The three shared another look.

“In a way.” Rosalind hedged. “We’re trying to avoid the spotlight. Most of the wizarding world isn’t aware we’re even, well, still alive.”

Amelia nodded. She hadn’t been aware either, not until Lord Mortis had walked into the Ministry. And this, this was inconceivable.

“Black,” She started. All three of the Mortis’ stiffened. “Is he why you’re getting involved this time?” She had to know.

“Sirius Black was innocent.” Lord Mortis was rigid, voice flat and firm. “He spent twelve years in Azkaban without a trial, and broke free to save - to save his godson when he realized the person who framed him was still alive. He stayed sane through twelve years in that horrible place, mostly, and he did everything he could to make sure our world would be safe and at peace. Even after of all that he was still warm, and good, and believed in a fair world. He was the bravest man I ever knew.”

Amelia felt her blood boil. She didn’t know Black well. They had only met in person once or twice, when he visited James Potter durring his auror training. But twelve years in Azkaban without a trial? When Lucius Malfoy and Antonin Dolohov and Walden Macnair were set free with the flimsiest of excuses?

“I understand.” She did. She knew what it to lose someone you loved that much. She remembered losing her brother.

Behind him, one of Lord Mortis’ aides cleared their throat. “I’m sure you two would like to catch up. We have somewhere we need to be soon, so we’ll take our leave.” Russel gave them a shallow bow and headed inside, Lord Mortis and Rosalind following closely.

The closed door in hid them from view in moments.

Susan tackled her, sobbing, the moment they were alone.

———

“Just stay here, keep him -” Hermione waved a hand towards Harry, shedding her disguise briskly. Harry was moving slowly. She was sure he wanted them to believe he was fine. He was not and he needed some quiet or he was liable to blow up when the Order kicked them out of the dining room tonight. It would be well deserved, but as far as she was concerned, the more the Order forgot they existed the better. They had too many secrets hidden away for her not to be worried.

Ron snorted at her. “Of course I’ll just -” He waved an arm loosely.

Hermione sighed and deposited her mask and robes into his arms.

“We’ll go flying or something.” Ron shrugged. “Just get going before Mum starts without you.”

“Filemina!” Hermione called. She held an inner pocket of her fresh robe open. Floo powder left a very distinctive residue after all.

The doxy chittered and flitted in, settling dead still with easy. She hurried down the hallway, taking the stairs down two at a time. The kitchen was unusually full for the hour, but that was to be expected.

“Hermione! There you are. I was just about to go up and look for you.” Mrs. Weasley beamed at her and handed her a case of clear purple potions. “Thank you for offering to play healer.”

“No problem Mrs. Weasley.” Hermione smiled like she hadn’t just smuggled the head of the D.M.L.E.’s niece out of the house. Like this was a perfectly normal day, and she had just got caught up reading. Nothing to worry about. Really. “I’m happy to help. You make it sound like I’m doing a lot more than I am.”

“Nonsense.” The woman began shepherding the six of them upstairs. Her, Bill, Fleur, Professor Lupin, Tonks, and Mr Weasley.

The didn’t have much doxycide left, so she was the only one of them who couldn’t legally cast. She wouldn’t be doing any spell work herself so it hardly mattered. It was her job to treat the doxy bites quickly before people started swelling up like balloons. Bill had put together a small ward stone, more of a bug zapper really, to keep the nasty little things away from her. Very convenient.

“Alright.” Mrs Weasley stood with one hand on the doorknob. “You should all know how this goes by now. If I catch any one of you nursing untreated doxy bites there will be consequences. Hermione dear, you keep out of the action alright?”

“Yes Mrs. Weasley.” Hermione hefted the potions up and readjusted her grip on the box.

“Alright then.” Mrs. Weasley opened the door and they all filed into what may have been the most ragged room Hermione had ever seen in Grimmuald. Which was a bit like saying the darkest tunnel in a cave, really.

Still, the room was drowning in a thick velvet that seemed to act like flypaper for dust. Everything was fraying, holes and edges chewed through. The air smelled faintly of mold and rot and decaying meat. Hermione wondered if there even was a safe place for her to settle down. Hopefully somewhere without dust and small beetle like exoskeletons.

Professor Lupin, the absolute saint, scourgified a sturdy wood table for her to sit on. It was an excellent choice. It stood steady and didn’t collapse at the first touch of magic, unlike one of the chairs caught in the spell, so that was promising as well. She thanked him anxiously and made herself at home as the adults lined up their wands at what might have been one large old rug and might have been several smaller ones piled in a back corner.

Mr Weasley cast the first bolt, a pushing charm that slammed into the pile of fabric with enough force to send a cloud of dust into the air.

Out of the dust came a thousand tiny eyes, serrated mouths screeching war cries as they dove towards the intruders. Her bug zapper was put quickly to use. She could hear Filemina hissing maliciously from her little pocket.

Hermione patted her robe gently. “Quiet down now. We’ll have company soon.”

The growling tapered off. Slowly.

It was honestly a little funny to watch everyone scramble around, casting spells at the swarm of little beasts. Still, she had to be ready.

Mr Weasley was the first to take a hit, a doxy bite to the back of his neck that swelled up an awful looking purple color. He fled, looking incredibly harried, and was bitten twice more on the way over.

“Thank you Hermione.” He sighed as she dabbed potion onto the wound with a cloth. There had been a number of them stuffed in with the potions, which was a very good idea on Mrs. Weasley’s part.

The swelling and discoloration dissipated in an instant, visibly deflating. Magic never ceased to make her a little breathless, even after so many years. Nearly five years now, she realized. It was a bit disorienting to think about, really.

“Oh of course Mr Weasley.” She smiled at him.

“Back at it then.” He stood, chipper as ever, and was back into the swarm, rapid casting stunners like a professional dueler.

It took some minutes, and many injuries, for the whirlwind to begin to thin out. It was time.

“Filemina.” Hermione whispered, eyes sweeping the room. No one was watching her. Good. “Now.”

The little body slipped from her pocket downwards and Hermione noted with an unheard sigh that she was probably going to have to teach Harry a mending charm tonight. The little terror had torn a hole in the pocket. She couldn’t keep track of Filemina as the doxy disappeared into the buzzing air, but she had faith.

Still, as the seconds and then minutes dragged on, the concern crept further up her spine.

Then -

“Ow!” Bill swore, shaking out one foot as he raced towards her. “Bloody- Ow!”

The bug zapping ward sent the little body that had been very firmly attacked to his ankle jolting backwards. His leg was bloody, and Hermione stifled a smirk.

She tsked, holding up a fresh cloth. “I’m going to need to clean it up a bit first.” She smiled at Bill apologetically and began dabbing gently. A red stain began to spread across untouched white.

There were at least three overlapping rings of teeth marks, each sunk deeply enough to draw blood. She felt a little bad, a flash of guilt, but pushed it away. The potion smelled like dill and soot and decaying flowers but it did its job well. The beginning to the swelling, spreading slower than the others she had dealt with so far, settled. The red circles, still damp with blood, stayed of course. But the poison was gone at least.

“All better.”

“Thanks.” Bill grinned at her. He gave her shoulder a pat as he ducked out again.

Hermione waited, patiently, until she no longer had any eyes on her. Until everyone was too thoroughly distracted to notice her. It was easy to tear off the bloodied part of the rag. Easy to slip it into a potion vial and then a pocket.

Filemina, looking a bit singed but otherwise perfectly fine, perched like a very small bird of prey just outside the crackling range of the ward. Hermione smiled at her and scooped her through the ward, ignoring the small jolt as she passed through, and slipped her into the hidden pocket once again.

Filemina chittered happily.

“Yes,” Hermione agreed under her breath. “You did a very good job Filemina.”

———

To say Draco was tired was to say Merlin was great. Technically true, as well as a severe understatement. It was possible, Draco admitted, that he may also be in very poor health. Stress did tend to be bad for that kind of thing.

His room was silent, thank Merlin, but that was a close to restful as he got now. Just the quiet.

The trouble had begun a month and a half ago, when Father had come face to face with the Lord Mortis. To say he had not gotten much restful sleep since then would have been another one of those understatements. He had been plagued by nightmares. Visions of death, destruction. From the Dark Lord, from Lord Mortis. He dreamed of tragedy, and fear. There were times when he would awaken in the darkest hours of the night, or in the faint half dawn, unable to move but aware keenly of his own helpless stillness. And on those nights, Draco could not tear his mind away from the heavy fear that this may be what being trapped in his own corpse would feel like.

A week ago, however, things had taken a turn for the worse. He knew his father was still trying, working throughout the day and often the night to find a solution, any solution. Any scrap of leverage that would bring them out alive or perhaps even just grant them a mostly painless death. Draco didn’t have such optimism. If committing an unknowable offense had condemned their family in the eyes of the Mortis Patriarch, or nearly so, how far into his hatred would belonging to the organization that attacked and almost slaughtered one of his vassal families cast them?

Not much on necromancy was known, even among dark arts practitioners. The inferius, born of the highest available knowledge on necromancy, had been an unfinished ritual stolen from Polaris Mortis in the 1600’s. It had never been finished. Not by his world. The wizarding world. But the Mortises may have completed it in isolation. And they had several centuries since to improve and develop their magics more past that point. It was not an unreasonable assumption then, he believed, that a Mortis could preform the pinnacle of necromancy: bringing a departed soul back into their previous body. Or any body. Truly reviving the dead.

Father was convinced that Lord Mortis would act against them, perhaps soon. But the Lord did not have to. If the Lord were a patient man, he would just need to wait. Not long, even. This war… if the Dark Lord did not claim their lives soon with his own wand, the aurors under Robards had full authority to combat them with lethal force. It would not be long until at least one of his family met their end. His father was most directly at risk. But soon, he would be too. He was a Death Eater now.

And when they met their ends, it would not be a long rest that greeted them but a short one. If their souls even managed to escape that far.

There was a knock at his door.

Draco sighed and stood, shrugging on an over robe and checking his cosmetics in the mirror. The shadows of his face, the sickly tone of his skin, the deep bruised creases under his eyes, they were all hidden neatly away. He needed them to be.

It took a moment to adjust to the bright hallway lights. He had forgotten to open the curtains this morning, it seemed.

“Draco,” Father was smiling, shaky and triumphant. “I have found something.”

Air caught in his throat. “What?”

Father’s sharp eyes, having lost the film of hysteria they had developed over the last week, gestured for him to follow. The man didn’t say a word, striding instead down the hall. Draco followed, the silence tightening like a noose. He was lightheaded with adrenaline when the heavy doors of his father’s office sealed.

“A memory.” His father rounded on him, teeth bared in victory. In the corner of the room, a pensive glowed.

“Father?” A memory?

“Mulciber was a useless wretch, but a durable enough one to last three days in a safehouse with an unattended magical bleed.” He waved him forwards, tracing the lip of the pensive with a steady hand.

Draco stared down the swirling mass of ghostly blue and very much did not want to see what memory it contained. He reached forward anyway, as did Father.

He would leave the room haunted by visions of teeth and bone, of terrifying beasts with skin stretched over twisted muscle. Animals perverted by death magic, screeching a banshee’s call, haunted his dreams. And during the day, the screams of the now dead rattled behind his eyes like the last wet breath he had seen them take.

And that, that was just Lord Mortis’ swift mercy.

Chapter Text

Robards almost collapsed against the wall when the door shut behind him. The Minister’s office looked like it had been stuck by a spontaneous whirlwind, something he wouldn’t put past Fudge, but at the very least it was quiet. Merlin damned vultures. Oh, he understood the panic alright but he wasn’t a bloody miracle worker! His firest day in office and already … damn.

He was fucking exhausted. If Fudge had been halfway competent, less even, then he really wouldn’t have even run for the office. A misting of competence. Any damn amount at all. The man’s most daring policy change in the middle of a civil war had been suggesting politely that the citizens start using a buddy system when they left the house. Merlin.

He’d been Head Auror before this, and contrary to the common comparison used to explain their department to muggleborns, auror weren’t really like muggle cops. Mostly because, well, there just wasn’t a lot of crime. Bar brawls had been about as bad as it got before the war kicked off, again. Their community only had a few thousand citizens and magic solved a lot of the problems muggle crime seemed to stem from. Miscast spells were really about as dangerous as they got. Now Death Eaters were crawling out of the woodwork like termites. They weren’t prepared for this in the least. The department had more obliviators than they did actual aurors!

There just wasn’t enough crime to warrant a lot of them. Well, not that they were allowed to fix. Nobles were, well, as determined to find nonsense to pull as they were to pay to make it go away. And Fudge was a box with a slot on the top where the galleons went in.

Maybe he should see if the office had a box like that, actually. Might still be something left he could use to hire a new assistant or three. Robards scoffed. Yeah. The old Minister was half niffler. He’d never leave anything he could spend behind. He sighed.

It wasn’t like everything was perfect in their community before all this, civil wars didn’t spring up out of nowhere, but he’d spent the last decade and change tending to a lot of incredibly domestic affairs. And, on more than one instance, actual domestic affairs. It wasn’t like anyone was getting chucked in Azkaban for cursing first and asking questions later after walking in on a sordid scene, but someone did need to stop the cursing. That someone wasn’t even him. He just did the paperwork to see that person got paid.

Add in Fudge, the imbecile, cutting their budget any time they gave him an excuse, and Robards didn’t really know why everyone expected him to be some kind of military genius. What sort of experience did they think he had? Talking drunken idiots into explaining where they splinched themself wasn’t really comparable to running a military campaign. Hed fought in the last war, sure. Ducked through raids by the skin of his teeth for a few years until the Potter Miracle happened, really. At least he could console himself with the knowledge that he would be, almost by default, better than the last guy.

And …

There was a letter on the desk. His desk. Sealed up with the Minister’s crest and everything. Robards eyed it dubiously. It was from Fudge, no doubt.Which meant he really should read it. Even if it was all probably a bunch of gibbering and name calling and self glorifying nonsense.

He really wanted fifteen minutes of peace and quiet where he could forget he was in charge of his entire secret society in the middle of the second chapter of the worst civil ward they had ever seen. He had a lot of work to do that he wasn’t even going to touch until the sore soother his lovely, lovely, Merlin sent secretary gave him kicked in and banished his steadily building headache.

The letter stared at him. Robards stared at the letter. He swore, groaned, snatched it off the desk, and stalked off to the less scattered meeting room off to the side of the office. It looked very important. Or, it looked how he imagined Fudge would decorate a place where very important things happened. The less said the better.

Robards fished his reading glasses out of his front pocket and started scanning. And then he paused. And then, very deliberately, he started from the top. Again. Eyes moved slowly, slowly down the page. The words didn’t change, no matter how many times he read them.

So not only did he have to deal with, he though incredulously, hysterically, bloody Merlin be damned necromancers, but he had to deal with the Ministry covering up the resurgence of one of their greatest, if not most palatable, houses. Excellent. Fantastic. Such a great legacy he was inheriting. Truly.

Amelia had done the smart thing. A whole week of paid leave, enforced by St Mungos’ finest. She deserved it of course, just. It had to be now. Now, just when he needed her. He made a strangled noise. It felt appropriate, really. He wondered if she’d be willing to come in a little early. Just four days early. Not much time at all if you thought about it.

His headache throbbed as it if was just as disappointed as he was about this whole … everything. Robards winced. Better get another one of those sore soothers then.

———

It was late, well past midnight in fact. Harry knew he had to get up early for the train tomorrow. But he just couldn’t sleep. He’d put off settling some things all day too. Really, he was sure he could get them done tomorrow morning. But if he was awake, well, it wasn’t like he had anything else other than sleep he should be doing. Right. He’d get these last couple things checked off, and then he’d try to sleep again. Just lay there pretending he couldn’t hear things skittering over the floorboards around him. Being in the dorms again, surrounded by all that nice quiet, it was going to be wonderful.

The dog, sat across from him on the other side of the desk, barked cheerfully. The movement dislodged the crow that had been sitting on their head, though it quickly righted itself with an irritable squawk. Right then. He could handle them first.

“You two, uh,” He stalled out. What was he supposed to do with them? It wasn’t like they could come to Hogwarts with him. Right?

Harry restrained the urge to try and fail at reading the still untranslated Latin papers stacked up to his right, just where they’d been when he first entered the room almost two months ago, until all his problems were replaced by frustration and a very large headache. He was turning into Hermione, he thought mournfully.

The dog, Giffard, seemed content just to watch him. He was, creatively, named after a Hogwarts portrait of a man that was painted with his dog. Giffard Abbot. He didn’t know Giffard’s dog’s name, so it would have to do. The crow, Barberus, was also watching. Harder to tell how the crow felt about that, though. Barberus Bragge had been the inventor of the snitch. Which was a much better namesake than Torquil McTavish, who had been his first choice. Ron had reminded him that Torquil, despite being a great flyer, had blown up the coliseum. Not auspicious. Barberus was a much better, much safer name.

“You two …” Harry tried again. “Giffard would you like to live on a beach? In a nice, big, much less deadly house? One that won’t try to eat you while I’m gone?”

The dog’s tail started to wag, but they didn’t seem like they really understood. Harry wasn’t sure whether he could chalk that up to them being a dog, or them being an undead. Did his uh, friends? Yes, friends sounded right. Did his friends even have souls? Or minds? Harry shook the thought out of his head. Yeah, now wasn’t the time to think about that. Not even a little bit. Maybe never was the right time, actually. Back on task, Harry.

“You’re a very good dog Giffard.” Harry dragged a hand through it hair. It took a send to extract it, given all the tangles. “Can dogs use the floo?”

He could just send Giffard to the Bones’. That would solve a couple problems, actually. Protection, probably better than he could offer on his own, and also a relatively inconspicuous place for Giffard to stay where they weren’t in any danger of accidentally running into an Order member.

Giffard woofed at him. It was a very good woof, but unfortunately he didn’t speak dog. Well, it couldn’t hurt to try sending them to the Bones’. He’d probably have to carry them through the floo though. It probably wouldn’t kill them even more. He was pretty sure it didn’t work that way.

“Barberus.” Somehow the crow was both more and less of a problem. “Can you just hang out in the Forbidden Forest? Stay hidden until I come and find you or something?” It was the best idea he had.

Barberus nodded gravely, cawed, and flew to peck out the window. Harry let out a heavy breath in relief. That was easy.

“Don’t come find me please, or let anyone see you. Don’t think they’d react very well.” He unlatched the window and watched the bird quickly disappear into the muddled grey of a light pollution stained sky.

The soft give of the desk chair felt incredibly good when he sat back down. Maybe he was getting tired. Would be nice. He felt awake enough to handle this one last thing, though.

“Kreacher?” Harry called tentatively. He worried the arm of the chair. The cracking silence echoed for a second. Then two. Then -

Pop!

“Kreacher is here.” The house elf resembled a very pale, very wrinkly bat. He looked clean though, more or less, and his tea towel was remarkably unstained by the elf’s standards. No lingering odor of mildew or dried blood either. Downright pleasant, really, in comparison. He looked like he might be ready to listen even, stood next to the desk and hunched in his direction.

Harry blinked. “Are you, uhm, are you doing okay Kreacher?”

Kreacher looked at Harry like he was hoping the stink eye would manifest physically. As a curse. A generational one, possibly. “Kreacher is well, New Dark Master.”

Okay. Well then. Harry was going to blow past all of that. Because he was going out on a limb here already and he wasn’t going to ruin any reason Kreacher had to listen to him with something as unnecessary as questions. He took a fortifying breath of pine scented air. It helped.

“When I leave for school tomorrow do you think you could close off the top part of the house? The Order can have the first two floors, basically cleaned it all out already, but third floor up. Can you just seal it away, or something?”

Harry thought Kreacher might be smiling. It may have been the elf getting ready to bite him for his insolence though. Seemed about right.

“New Dark Master has secrets from his Order.” The elf cackled, ears flopping around as he trembled with the force of it. “Kreacher will keep New Dark Master’s secrets.”

“Yes, well then, thank you Kreacher.” Harry hesitated. That had been the main thing, but if it had been that easy then … “”Can you bring all the books up to the third floor too? To one of the cleaner rooms. Somewhere you think they won’t be eaten by anything, if you can. And anything you think might be dangerous for the Order. Cursed or uh, aggressive.”

“Kreacher can be doing that.” He was practically purring now and really that was just unsettling. Harry hadn’t seen the elf display happiness at anything before. Well, maybe a bit when that awful portrait of Mrs Black used to howl at Sirius.

Harry thought he was rather good at ignoring things on purpose, and this summer had really polished that skill up. And this had been going remarkably well. Keep going Harry! You’ve got this!

“And if you want Kreacher, I know you have your closet and all,” and boy sis that make him nauseous to think about too hard, “but if you want to use one of the rooms upstairs you can pick any of the empty ones. There’s plenty. Not many clean, but I’m sur eyou could fix one up.”

“Kreacher may have Mistress Walburga’s room?” The elf hissed.

“If that’s where you want to stay.” He knew it was probably a bit of an exaggeration, but his mind was crawling with images of walls dripping blood and dark tentacles wriggling out from under the dresser and big, shiny doxy eaters burrowing into the mattress. It would fit the woman’s personality, really.

“New Dark Master is generous.” Kreacher tipped his head to one side, eyes rolling in his skull to settle on him with renewed intensity.

“Well, you live here too Kreacher.” Harry coughed into a fist and cleared his throat. Alright. Last push. “And here you go. For groceries and supplies and I suppose some new tea towels, if you want them.”

Harry reached out, took Kreacher’s hands in his, cupped them, and deposited half a dozen galleons into them. Kreacher looked at him. Kreacher looked at the coins.

Harry waited. Maybe he had something to say?

He didn’t. He just stared at the gold, unreadable expression twisting his face more with each passing moment. Right then.

“You can go if you want.”

Kreacher left immediately, displacing himself without even a twitch. Alright. He hadn’t been attacked once and the elf had even accepted the money. Probably. Taken it, at least. It was a start. A pretty good one, he felt.

“C’mon Giffard, lets go throw you through Madam Bone’s floo.”

Giffard head butted him enthusiastically and charged down the corridors ahead of him. Harry was just going to trust that the dog would find the right room.

———

Dumbledore sighed, set his half finished cup of tea on his desk and turned to look out the window. It was quite the view, even in the dark. Stars shone up above, bright and beautiful and calm as they always were. Peace was so far away now that even gazing at the heavens could not drag him any closer to it.

The first war had been horrific. To say it decimated their community … there had never been very many of them. Every life was precious. So many had been lost, whole bloodlines eliminated. And he was seeing the past reflected to the present. It wasn’t as bad, not yet, but it would get worse. It would be worse. Voldemort lost last time, miracle of miracles that had been, but he would not make it easy for them to secure that victory again. Muggleborns had been in danger last time, but not as they were now. The monster would be eliminating the light of their hope before any of them stepped onto the battlefield. Destroying them before they were old enough to fight. It had transformed from a subjugation to a genocide.

He ached. Physically, mentally, emotionally. There was no rest.

Albus took a small potion from a drawer to his right. It glittered faintly in the light. With a scowl, he uncorked the bottle and poured it into what was left of his tea. It smelled strongly of rotting fruit, an sickening odor he was quickly learning to despise. The taste was mellow enough, though, for all that it was unpleasant. A small mercy. The warm touch of it swept through his body, chasing away clenched muscles and tight lungs and, most importantly, it staved off the pain and rot creeping up his wrist. The potion would not prevent his death. That was sealed. But it may give him precious months to see at least some of his work finished. To set up fail safes and share valuable information. To pass on his burden.

There were many, many things he was haunted by. And one of the more recent was, fortunate or otherwise, not a result of his own failings. The Mortis resurgence was a concern, to put it lightly. Though he expected they would remain neutral, the tantalizing lure of their power over death would only draw Voldemort violently towards them. The man was most terrifying when he had a goal, when he hungered for more.

Albus did not know if it would be better or worse if Mortis joined the fight. He doubted a necromancer would side with anyone that mutilated their own soul, but he had been wrong before. And would be again before he drew his last breath, he was sure, as fast approaching as that day may be. Even if Mortis sided with them, a necromancer’s methods were never clean. He was in no position to turn down valuable aid, but to side with bloody beasts and decaying hordes, how would that leave the tattered remains of the Light? What would that do to their own soul?

With another great sigh, Albus traced the border of the Forbidden Forest. It was quiet, drenched in cool moonlight and whispering stillness. Even Hagrid’s hut was unlit, windows dark and covered.

Fawkes, on his perch, warbled a few sad notes.

He turned fond eyes on the bird, their proud form crowding forwards as they abandoned the perch beside his work station to shade the scattered papers covering his desk with brilliant red plumage. Fawkes’ feathers were soft, a caress like firelight as he gave the phoenix the attention they demanded. His time was coming, and when death pulled him from this world he supposed the majestic creature would find themself a new companion. He hoped Fawkes chose better this time. Chose someone who would not be so tangled in guilt and regret.

The bird laid their beak gently against his breast, crooning.

“I’m sorry, old friend. There’s nothing either of us can do now.”

Phoenix tears could heal, but they could not undo curses or blights. Fawkes cried for him the night he had made the fatal mistake of going after a Horcux alone. It was the only reason he still lived. And the tears they cried still were central pillar of the restorative elixir that would give him this last year.

Fawkes’ last gift to him, fittingly, would be time.

He would not waste it.

Could not.

And when the students returned tomorrow, he would give his last year to ensuring their safety. If he was permitted only one legacy, he would have it be that. He hoped the safeguards he had constructed over a lifetime would stand long enough for the Order, for their world, to topple the Dark Lord that wished to consume them. He would not be here to see it, but an old man was permitted his dreams of peace. And the wish that someday, they would be more than just dreams for those who lived beyond him.

Chapter Text

There were two rolls of parchment. Each held together with a thin violet ribbon. One for him, one for Neville. Bot politely inviting them through the compartment door they were both barelling down with equal enthusiasm. Their new professor, one H. E. F. Slughorn, awaited them on the other side.

Harry, being either brave or stupid, perhaps both, opened the door. It wasn’t empty.

“Harry, ‘m boy!” Slughorn crowed, jumping at him with enthusiasm. The intricate velvet of his waistcoat swam to consume Harry’s field of vision. The second most distracting thing about him was his silvery and well kept mustache. It was also taking up a lot of his field of vision.  “Good to see you! Good to see you! And you must be Mr Longbottom!”

Neville, who looked like an eel was worming its way down his back, extended a hand for a shake. Slughorn shook it gleefully and then invited them into the only two available seats in the compartment. They were nearest to the door luckily, because Harry was feeling that a quick escape would be needed soon.

Around the table were a scattering of other students. There was a Slytherin boy he recognized just barely, tall and pretty and dark skinned. Then two seventh year boys he didn’t know. And then, bafflingly, Ginny. She looked as lost as he felt.

“Now, do you know everyone?” Slughorn had found his seat with them. “This is Cormac McLaggen, perhpas you’ve heard of each other? No?”

McLaggen, a large boy with impressively voluminous dark hair, raised a hand in a half hearted wave. Harry and Neville, passing a look between them, just nodded back. Seemed the safe answer, really. 

“And this is Marcus Belby, I don’t know whether…?”

Belby looked like a pile of twigs stretched between some skin and given sentience, he also waved at them nicely. It was paired with a very strained smile. The kind that let Harry know that everyone here wanted to be here about as much as he did. Which was to say: he didn’t.

“And this charming young lady tells me she knows you!”

Ginny grimaced at them from behind the Professor’s back. She then made a sick looking face, which she aborted half way since Slughorn began to turn towards the general room and may have spotted her.

"Well now, this is most pleasant," Slughorn said like he meant this was all cozy and fun and welcoming. "A chance to get to know you all a little better. Here, take a napkin. I've packed my own lunch; the trolley, as I remember it, is heavy on Licorice Wands, and a poor old man's digestive system isn't quite up to such things. . . Pheasant, Belby?"

Belby, possibly perpetually startled, accepted some half cold pheasant with surprising grace. Very little grace, but under the circumstances, Harry was surprised someone hadn’t run screaming so, points for effort Belby.

"I was just telling young Marcus here that I had the pleasure of teaching his Uncle Damocles," Slughorn told Harry and Neville, now passing around a basket of complicatedly knotted rolls. "Outstanding wizard, outstanding, and his Order of Merlin most well-deserved. Do you see much of your uncle, Marcus?"

The poor boy had a mouth full of the just offered pheasant, and choked getting it down quickly.

“Anapneo” Slughorn cleared his airways calmly with a flick of his wand. Completely oblivious to the fact that he had caused the problem he was now fixing.

Belby cleared his throat, tips of his ears red. Harry sent him an encouraging look, the best he could do, which may have come out a bit constipated. “Well, no. Not much of him at least.” He dabbed a handkerchief around his face to cover the flush of almost dying.

“Well, of course, I dare say he’s busy.” Slughorn was a dog with a bone if nothing else. “I would doubt he invented the Wolfsbane potion without a lot of hard work.”

“I suppose. Well, Wolfsbane was a bit on an accident. He’s still working on his sleek fur potions for dogs of all breeds. Er, he and my dad don’t get on very well so I really get to see him much. But we send letters sometimes. Once or twice a year.” It tapered off near the end weedily.

Slughorn gave him a thin, warm smile. Then switched to McLaggan like a man with a mission. Good for Belby. Bad for McLaggan.

“Now, you, Cormac," Slughorn said, "I happen to know you see a lot of your Uncle Tiberius, because he has a rather splendid picture of the two of you hunting Nogtails in, I think, Norfolk?

"Oh, yeah, that was fun, that was," said McLaggen. "We went with Bertie Higgs and Minister Robards -- this was before he became Minister, obviously--"

"Ah, you know Bertie and Rufus too?" Slughorn just beamed, now offering around a small tray of pies. Belby was nearly left out, an afterthought really. "Now tell me. . . "

Harry was starting to feel dread build. Everyone here was connected to someone important. Zabini it seemed, he was interrogated after McLaggen, had a famously beautiful mother. She’d have to be, to marry seven times when each of her husbands died or dissappeared mysteriously afterwards. Good for her, Harry thought privately, and those poor, stupid bastards.

Neville was very, very, very uncomfortable talking about his Auror parents, who had been tortured to insanity by Bellatrix Lestrange and her husband (husbands?). Slughorn seemed to be reserving judgement about Neville, to see if he matched up to their legacy or something. Harry thought this was bullshit, and unnecessarily painful for his friend. Especially since Neville was, to him, absolutely amazing and a gift.

He quietly lowered his estimation of Slughorn. It was already very low. Not Snape low, though. Although, he thought, at least Snape seemed more or less competent. Not something he ever thought he’d think. Slughorn was going to be another Lockhart, he was sure of it.

"And now," announced Slughorn, shifting in his seat with the air of a circus performer about to bring out the unlucky sod to be tossed in with the lions. "Harry Potter! Where to begin? I feel I barely scratched the surface when we met over the summer!"

He contemplated Harry for a moment, not in the nice way, in the predatory way Harry absolutely hated, "'The Chosen One,' they're calling you now!"

Harry said nothing. What was he supposed to say to that, even? Yes? No? I suppose so, sir? Belby, McLaggen, and Zabini were all staring at him with varying degrees of attentiveness and hostility. Nice to be appreciated?

"Of course," said Slughorn, watching Harry closely, "there have been rumors for years. . . I remember when--well--after that terrible night--Lily--James--and you survived--and the word was that you must have powers beyond the ordinary--"

Zabini gave a small amused, skeptical cough. Harry thought that was perfectly fair. Any unusual powers he’d attained before that horrifying moment didn’t have anything to do with him and any he’d gained since were his own fault. Like the currect situation.

Ginny wasn’t going to take it lying down though. “Yeah, Zabini, because you're so talented. . . at posing- "

"Oh dear!" chuckled Slughorn, looking far too comfortable with this situation. The absolute wanker. "You want to be careful, Blaise! I saw this young lady perform the most marvelous Bat-Bogey Hex as I was passing her carriage! I wouldn't cross her!" 

Ginny looked around Slughorns form to glare daggers at Zabini. Zabini, for his part, looked equally murderous. If this were a betting situation, and he were the sort of person that placed bets, Harry would have bet on Ginny. She looked ready to drop her wand and go at him with her teeth.

"Anyway," said Slughorn, turning back to Harry. "Such rumors this summer. Of course, one doesn't know what to believe, the Prophet has been known to print inaccuracies, make mistakes. . . but there seems little doubt, given the number of witnesses, that there was quite a disturbance at the Ministry and that you were there in the thick of it all!"

Harry didn’t really see a way out of this that made him seem on the right side of sane without lying through his teeth, so he just nodded. Nodding was safe, right?

Slughorn beamed at him like that was precisely the right answer. Damn.

"So modest, so modest, no wonder Dumbledore is so fond--you were there, then? But the rest of the stories--so sensational, of course, one doesn't know quite what to believe--this fabled prophecy, for instance--"

"We never heard a prophecy," Neville interrupted Slughorn, bright pink to the tips of his ears but standing firm. 

"That's right," Ginny backed him. "Neville and I were both there too, and all this 'Chosen One' rubbish is just the Prophet making things up as usual. "

"You were both there too, were you?" Slughorn turned to them with great interest, although he’d truly caught them on a particularly interesting lie. Harry, quietly, tamped down the rising urge to throttle this man.

The Professor shoved his enthusiasm down (down his gullet, Harry was coping with violent imagery and that was fine, this was fine) however and got on with the more general conversation.  "Yes. . . well. . . it is true that the Prophet often exaggerates, of course. . . " Slughorn said, theatrically disappointed. "I remember dear Gwenog telling me (Gwenog Jones, I mean, of course, Captain of the Holyhead Harpies)--"

The conversation that continued from there only seemed to interest to Slughorn himself, although Harry thought he made all the appropriate listening noises at the right times. He was good at that. Pretending he didn’t exist, but politely this time. He had the impression that Slughorn was in no way done with any of them. Ginny and Neville, though firm, had probably been far from convincing. His nod was really not the most clear cut of responses either.

The afternoon was an utter drag. It felt like he was at Mrs Figgs’ again, listening to her talk to her cats. Occasionally something interesting came up, but Slughorn never lingered on anything he might actually care about. Every single one of the other wixen the wizard was bragging about seemed to have joined his Slug Club, something he had when he was last a professor at Hogwarts. Harry had been looking for a polite way to exract himself, and hopefully Neville and Ginny, for ages now. Ages and ages and ages. And ages. 

Slughorn finally, finally, let them go with a: "Good gracious, it's getting dark already! I didn't notice that they'd lit the lamps! You'd better go and change into your robes, all of you. McLaggen, you must drop by and borrow that book on Nogtails. Harry, Blaise. . . any time you're passing. Same goes for you, miss," he winked at Ginny. "Well, off you go, off you go!"

Zabini tossed the round man a violent look as he left. Ginny added the heat and Harry the disgust. The three never spoke a word, but mutual dislike doesn’t often need to be spoken aloud. The three then shared a look that expressed their obligatory hatred of each other before turning their different ways.

“Well, glad that’s over.” Neville said softly. “Kind of a strange man.”

“Yeah, I’d say.” Harry grumbled. “How did you end up in that mess Ginny?”

“He saw me hex Zachariah Smith.” Ginny sighed. “You remember the idiot Hufflepuff from the D.A.? He kept on asking about what happened at the Ministry, refused to shut up. I got too annoyed and hexed him. Which is when Slughorn came in. I thought I was getting detention but hey, mustv’e been some hex for him to invite me to lunch. Mad, eh?”

Harry had a splitting headache and would rather just leave. “Better than the rest of us, gliding in on parents’ or uncles’ achievements or whatever the hell. Let’s just get back to the compartment.”

“Yeah, sounds great Harry.” Neville lead the group through the corridor.

They fled like the compartment was giving of a very bad smell.

———

The prefect’s meeting, sans Percy now that he’d graduated, was more of an informal tea and gossip session than any real policy setting. They knew what to do, and they’d let the third years in on it all after curfew in the dorms or during the first few patrols. Which meant these things were more for appearances and largely useless. It was as good an excuse as any to watch Malfoy for shady behavior however, Hermione rationalized.

As soon as the boy entered the room Hermione was reminded of Harry’s description of him a few days pior: unfortunately pathetic. And she agreed. The weaselly little bigot had no right to look more like he’d been trampled by thestrals of the way in than her. Her summer had been incredibly stressful and he had the audacity to look worse than she felt. He had a number of glamor charms on, enough that he shimmered faintly in the wrong light and she would swear, she would swear on one of her book chests, that there was some muggle cosmetics in the mix as well. None of it hid the frantic misery in his movements however.

“Granger, Weasley.” He greeted them neutrally, politely, then left. He left at a fast walk, but not a run. Not like he was fleeing their stench like it might be infectious.

Huh.

“Hermione, what was that?” Ron asked, trailing Malfoy with wide brown eyes.

“I reckon you’re on the right track.” Ron’s eyes narrowed as Mafloy immersed himself into the Slytherin collective who all seemed to ask a number of polite, pointed questions to each other in turns. Looked very normal. Except for Malfoy.

What Hermione would really like was to curl up with a nice book, but she supposed, if she had to, she could spend a could hours babysitting Malfoy with Ron. At least he’d make it interesting. Ron, not Malfoy. The idea that Malfoy might be interesting on his own merits was bordering on revolting, honestly.

“What’d you think he’s doing now Hermione?”

“Talking. I think he’s catching up after the summer. Like we’re supposed to, remember?”

“Ah right, catch up.”

“Yes, lets. Oh! Hello there Hannah!”

“Hello Hermione, have you heard that Gilderoy Lockhart has remembered a few bits of his school years?”

And there went her afternoon.

———

As the students of Slytherin house settled in, protected from any impulse to leave by curfew and freed of anything that might stay their tongue by the first and second years turning in, there was a shifting. For some it was unease, others anxious greed, disquiet towards any more change lapping at their shores, bloodthirsty trembling. All the Slytherin cornerstones were present. Hushed whispers filled the room like the dappled glow of the lake projecting through the windows onto them.

“The Lord Mortis?”

“Well, my mother said …”

“The Dark Lord still has the right idea, but …”

“Why now?”

“What happened?”

Theodore Nott, son of Theophilius Nott, son of Theobald Nott, or as he preferred: Nott, was watching the room warily. The Notts were staunch supporters of the Dark Agenda. Had been since the Dark Lord has risen in his Grandfather’s time. Nott was a quiet boy, somewhat more prone to spellfire than debate, but that didn’t mean he was a bloody idiot, thank you very much. Things were changing and he was desperate to know why. How.

The Dark Lord was nothing like he had been told. There was no charm, no honeyed words or carrot to go with the wand. Just bile and blood. Which he thought was fair, he was a Dark Lord, it was just incredibly unpleasant for everyone else. Not what he’d been led to believe either. And now a bloody necromancer? Yeah, he had some questions. “Why now?” And “what happened?” seemed pretty banal, but he figured everyone had to start somewhere.

Not that he expected answers to be forthcoming.

“I heard he’s met with the Malfoys already.” Greengrass stage whispered.

Nott had heard that one too. He turned subtly against the cool stone wall, readjusting his footing, to watch Draco reply.

“We havent.” The boy was pale, drawn, and if he looked closely he could almost see the glamors layered on. “Father greeted him during his trip to the Ministry, but he was,” Draco made a small choking noise, “possibly displeased by the time he needed to wait for the documents he was there to retrieve to arrive.”

Many pockets of the room frozen at once, a strange shattered sort of mirroring. No one was going to pretend the weren’t eavesdropping. Not tonight. A displease Lord Mortis was a terrifying thing. No one knew quite where they should cast their lots now. The Dark Lord didn’t forgive those that went against him, those that denied him. The gory neutrality of the Mortis’ would look appealing, to some. But the risk of obtaining it? Of guaranteeing that protection? Was it worth it? He could see some, Greengrass and Flint and Zabini, running the calculations behind their eyes.

Not all of the snakes were Dark, not all of them were Death Eaters or the children of, just waiting to come of age and join their parents ranks. But all of them walked a careful knife’s edge. Any of them would be struck down for even the slightest visible inclination towards dark magic. Especially these days.

Lord Mortsi was the darkest of them all, at their core. But they were safe and respected besides, maybe even because of those traits.

And why was that? Nott turned the problem over in his time. The prestige of their house helped, of course. But it was, it had to be the necromancy. That had to be what made up the difference. The necromancy and the ruthlessness. He was already ruthless, he assumed, so perhaps …

Perhaps necromancy could give him the power he so deserved. The power to stand alone. Above. Apart.

“D’you hear that Nott?” Crabbe growled. “No one’s made a move on Mortis yet.”

And no one was going to. This room wasn’t populated with masochistic idiots sporting death wishes grander than a Malfoy’s ego.

“I’ll have to write to mother right away.” Goyle purred in what Nott was sure the boy assumed was a quiet tone. It was menacing, for sure, but not really subtle. Or tasteful, right now.

Guinevere Goyle was a smart woman with arms that could crush his spine. Nott was sure the woman would put the information to good use, but that wasn’t … What had he been thinking of?

Necromancy. How did one get started becoming a necromancer?

“Father is working tirelessly to see us back in Lord Mortis’ good graces. I wouldn’t doubt that by the end of the year we’ll see the fruits of his actions.” Malfoy smirked, looking confident and put together and Nott really, really wanted to cast an undoing charm and see all those pretty glamors fall away. The urge struck like a serpent and he hit it over the head quickly to kill it. He patiently reminded himself that he didn’t have a death wish either. Or the power to back that play. Yet.

“Has anyone been contacted by the Lord since his appearance?” Parkinson asked.

“No.” Augustine Rookwood, a frail fifth year with hair like a drowning girl and a voice twice as watery, answered. “But I heard he defended the Bones women during the raid this month. What was left of Brother’s body …” she shuddered. “At least it did not wake.”

The whispers began anew with a fevered sort of frenzy.

This. This was the power Nott wanted. He wanted a cast of his wand weeks after and half the country away to inspire such fear. Perhaps the Nott library had a few obscure tomes on necromancy he could steal away?

He should ask the elves for the directory come morning.

———

On a very dark night, sat on top a very grim looking hill surrounded by writhing brambles, a very old house was beginning to come awake.

One stone at a time the magic that had kept it cooly dormant for decades was beginning to warm. The lichen, once dead and wrinkled into a corpse grey began its slow, steady climb up the outer gates once again. The dark, twisting metal that barred the entry of any who dared to approach let thick rust crumble and fall away like leaves in autumn. Underneath, once might even say the iron shined. Even the gravel path that lead up to the haunting silhouette felt the first breaths of color leech back in to replace matted greys and ashen whites, drving them away like reluctant ghosts.

If you were to crawl further up towards the house, you would see old wood, brittle and dull and halfway to splinters, easing into some semblance of health. Something that would one day be passably luxurious. It had been dark, knotty walnut once. It would be again.

Green mists, wisps of fog dyed a startling deathly hue, wafted like a lullaby around the higher floors, drifting in and out of closed windows like wraiths. Everywhere they touched, the rot of this old house retreated further. A cluster of these breaths of undeath gathered around the splintered remains of what had once been an awning but had collapsed along the side of the house years prior. Small pieces of splintered wood floated like a breeze back up, slotting themself into place in a process that could take days or weeks.

The door stood steady in its warped frame, held there by tension more than decaying hinges. Though that as well was slowly undoing its demise. Beyond it a once great hall, now tarnished by time. The rugs that carpeted the light wood of the floor were muck and powdered leavings, paint sloughed off the canvases it once clung to, mildew and mold bloomed on the walls like bloodstains. One side of the staircase was thoroughly buckled in, gruesome like a splintered rib cage.

But if one had much time, and much patience, one could see time undoing its wounds here as well. Mold retreated like blood flowing back into a mortal wound. The rugs rewove themselves as the threads came back into being, touches of bright color in the otherwise drab hall. Paintings crawled, oozing back towards their frames, pulling themselves up the wall with distorted fingernails in hopes of coming home once again.

Watching the house undo its death was almost as gruesome a thing as the slow rot it had suffered all these years. Some might say more so. But the house was determined. It could take it’s time. It would be whole and someday soon.

The house thrummed audibly. The song of the wards was a stilted weave of notes and magic reconstructing its vital organs. Perhaps it was with anticipation. Perhaps longing. Perhaps something else entirely. Under the groan of wood and stone and dirt whispers floated and curled like a siren’s song and called out into the empty night.

It was fortunate no one was around to hear.

Very fortunate indeed.

———

A high pitched shriek of laughter was followed by plunging screams from a hundred voices. Harry scrambled. He couldn’t make it out, couldn’t quite touch -

Blood and flesh split open, the impression of pain and pain and -

White like bone, hands reaching towards him, out from his own body. White like bone, like hands, clutching a wand of the same material. No, of twisted yew bleached so white it may as well have been pitted bone and it felt right in his hand, it felt good in his hand as it sang.

Screams that tore wetly at throats, bodies in front of him in muggle clothes.

“Nagini,” a voice hissed, his own and not and still and - “time to eat.”

Affection, maybe, or a duller hatred as the twist and pull of scaled flesh crawled forwards.

A flick of a wrist, his and not and still his own all the same, and clothes vanished from the twisted forms one by one.

“Thank you, masssster.” The sinewy form all but purred.

He felt like laughing. He laughed. He laughed and it did not tear wetly at his throat like a scream but he wanted it to. Wanted to scream.

The world spun and spun and it hurt. It hurt his head like it was splitting, pushing, pulling. This wasn’t right, it wasn’t right.

He felt through her as wide, warm bodies slid and pushed down his throat and he wanted to claw at it but he didn’t have arms, couldn’t move them if he did. One. Two. A smaller one and he wanted to cry, almost, maybe, but there was joy too and the feelings and impressions twisted together painfully.

Blood. Blood in his veins and it felt like he was burning after so long in the cold. Blood matting on his forehead but he didn’t -

Harry sprung awake with a gasp, a wrenching breath that tore at his throat. Cold air forced itself into his lungs. He was aware he was shaking. He was aware of blood, dried and fresh down his forehead and face. It tinted his blurred vision, pinning one eye painfully shut entirely. His head was warm and wet and freezingly cold and his chest was freezingly cold and he could feel the blood drip and ooze, carried by gravity down his bed shirt. It pinned the fabric to his chest, but hadn’t dried it there yet.

He wanted to hurl up his dinner but he couldn’t move. He sat there, heaving with breath and freezing, vision swimming as he felt distant and empty and terrified and repulsed and in front of him green mist swam in a way that could just be sleep clouding his waking hours but it swam towards a hulking, bony figure. The mouse that wasn’t drew in the mist between pinched teeth, body compressing slowly. 

Thin, small fingers combed through his hair, catching on knots and matted blood. A low, menacing chittering lulled him into some sense of security and even if it was false he held onto it with both hands and pulled himself towards it.

By the time he came back to himself, in bits and pieces unmoving as his limbs and magic pinned themselves to his side like lead and wooden planks secured by sharp, digging nails, Uric was small  and the mists were gone. A little brown blur on his sheets, the white of them cast a greyed blue by the night.

A nightmare.

A vision. More distorted than usual but still. A vision all the same.

He hadn’t had one in a month, at least. More, he thought. Fitting that his first night in the castle would be welcomed like this.

Tacky blood cracked and pinched his skin. He grimaced. Great.

Harry blew out a sigh. Fan-bloody-tastic. Bit literally, actually. Well, he needed a shower anyway. And this wasn’t going to come out easily. House elves really were magic with the laundry or he’d have to throw out the shirt and the sheets too. All he did now was pull up the bankets to hide it a bit. He didn’t want to freak out his roommates on their first morning back. At least it was barely dawn, he cheered himself. Plenty of time for the day to get better.

Chapter Text

“Susan! How was your summer?” Hannah asked first thing as they sat down for breakfast.

Susam smiled like the other girl had fallen into a pit trap with a lot of spikes as the bottom. Conversationally. In a good way. Hannah was beginning to look anxious. Susan waited for her friend to go for the pumpkin juice while she smoothed out her face and pretended to think. She even made a hmmm noise to really sell it.

“Well, two weeks into the break Lord Mortis shows up at the Ministry, totally out of the blue, and asks for Sirius Blacks’ will. My Aunt had to go out and greet him, which is how I know.”

Hannah spat out her pumpkin juice. It almost went out her nose. “Susan! You could have killed me!”

Susan just grinned. “That’s not even the most exciting bit.”

Most of Hufflepuff had tuned in immediately after the word “Mortis” was spoken. Some of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw too, although less given that the sound didn’t really travel all that far with all the morning chatter. She peeked and a few Slytherins had even caught on. Nothing better than a captive audience. She smiled. She had news that no one else did! And no one had even told her to keep it a secret! Certainly not Lord Mortis, who would have if he’d cared at all she was sure.

“Aunty sent him a letter after that. She wouldn’t tell me what was in it, but I know the Bones family are vassal house of the Mortis’ so what else could it be about?” She started, really digging into the bones of the story. “Anyway, next morning this big crow with, you wouldn’t believe it, glowing green eyes just plops a letter on the dining table.”

Hannah gasped loudly. “Was it from …?”

“It was.” Susan nodded back. Hannah was just as much of a drama hound as she was. It was part of what made them such good friends. “The Mortis crest? Super impressive, lots of bones, really intimidating. It’s basically exactly what you’d expect it to be. Aunt all but ran up the stairts to read it and locked me out of her study so I couldn’t see. It was a bit scary at the time. I mean, Lord Mortis back and possibly calling on us. That’s a lot.”

“Oh of course.” Hannah consoled her, one warm hand on her arm. “That had to be terrifying.”

“It was.” Susan slumped. “But he and Aunty have exchanged a lot of letters since then. Like, had to be at least a dozen. Every time too, they were delivered by that crow.”

“Wow.” Hannah nodded slowly, really taking it in. “Did you get to pet it? The crow I mean.”

“I did.” Susan puffed up triumphantly. This was a very important part of the story. “Those feathers? Super soft. It really like raw meat, Just like all the stories about the undead and undying, so I actually got to feed it out of my hand too.”

“Wasn’t that dangerous.” Hannah stage whispered.

“Probably.” Susan conceded. “But it was very gentle. I didn’t even get pecked once.”

Hannah looked appropriately awed.

“And then what happened.” Ernie MacMillan butted in. He scooted closer too. Putting his nose where it shouldn’t belong and definitely wasn’t asked for was a talent of his. It was one of his better traits, in Susan’s opinion.

“Well, oh, you heard about the attack, haven’t you?”

“Everyone has.” Ernie was quiet with fear and anticipation.

“As soon as the Death Eaters came in the door Aunty told me to hide in the office and activate the wards. It was so scary, I barely made it to the stairs with all the spells flying around. I thought that I was going to die. That Aunty was going to die. All I could do was hide under the desk and hope someone would come and save us.” It still hurt a little to think about, and she felt herself tearing up a little, but she pushed down the lump in her throat and wiped at her eyes covertly.

“I don’t know what happened downstairs. There were a lot of explosions everywhere and a lot of screaming and the room next to me, I don’t know, exploded or something. The whole house shook. But what was even worse? I could hear footsteps in the hall. Slow, steady steps. I didn’t know if It was Aunty, or a Death Eater, or an auror. I heard them checking the other rooms.”

She took a long, shaky breath and let it out, half because she needed it badly and half to let the suspense build. “Then the door burst open, loudest thing I ever heard. And then-” She shook herself. “And then I saw him. A man with a silver mask covered in bits and pieces of wall, staring down at me.”

Ernie gasped. Hannah Gasped. A Ravenclaw a table away gasped.

“I shot out a curse, one Aunty taught me, a really dangerous one. He just dodged it though. You know what he said. He said It was a good shot. Just like that. Good shot, all deep and dark and menacing. He didn’t attack me though, nothing like that. He said that Aunty sent him and that we had to leave. But I wasn’t going anywhere with a stranger, no way, especially one that looked like a Death Eater with that pale mask and those fancy black battle robes.”

“Of course not.” Hannah agreed quickly.

“So I asked who he was. You want to know what he said.”

Ernie nodded. Hannah nodded. At least half a dozen others who had given up pretending they weren’t listening nodded.

She imitated his voice, going for deep dramatic flare. “Your Aunt would know me as Lord Mortis.”

Hannah gasped. “You really saw him?”

“I really did.” Susan said seriously. “But that wasn’t the end of it. All of a sudden there was this knocking at the window, pounding more like. There was this huge beast waiting for us on the other side. They were as least as big as a horse. They looked vaguely like a dog, but not really you know. Like they had once been a dog, but were now too big and scary and undead to really be a dog anymore. Twisted by necromancy.”

Ernie gulped audibly.

“But Lord Mortis just got on and told me to get on too. That beast could run, Merlin it could. We were off over the rooftops of London in moments. It was hard to see where we were going, especially since I was terrified. But we ended up in this courtyard full of deadly looking plants. Lord Mortis told me to stay there and disappeared for a little bit, then came back. He was still wearing that mask, never took it off. He took me through old, dusty hallways to this huge old room that looked like, well, like the door hadn’t even been opened in a decade. Told me to stay there until he came and got me. Scourgified the entire thing, mountains of dust, just like that, just with one spell. Sparkling clean almost.”

“Wow.” Hannah breathed. It was an impressive feat after all. At least Susan thought so.

“Yeah.” Susan nodded. “A few times a day this old, really old, house elf brought me food. It wasn’t fancy or anything but it was pretty good. I didn’t know what happened to Aunty though, or even if she was okay for a few days. I tried reading a bit but all most of the books were pretty gruesome and not at all distracting. Then one afternoon Lord Mortis came in with two other people. They all had masks on, and old looking robes. Not bad old, more like fancy old you know. One of them was named Rosalind and the other was named Russel, and Lord Mortis led us through the floo to somewhere else. Another house.”

The table was shaking with anticipation. Almost literally.

“Just a few minutes after that Lord Mortis left. I just stood there, quiet, waiting with his companions. Then he came back, and Aunty was with him. He’s letting us stay in the house as long as we want. He’s even going to give Aunty warding permissions.”

A Slytherin two tables down not so subtly gasped.

“And then, the morning before the train, I woke up and found this big brown dog in the floo room with a note tucked into their collar. Their name is Giffard and apparently they were the dog thing I rode on the rooftops on. They’re going to be staying at the house for me and Aunty’s, or more Aunty’s since I’m off at school, protection for a while. They didn’t look anything like before though. Just a normal dog. All except for one thing.”

She took another breath, this time just for dramatic effect. “Just like the crow, their eyes are a bright Avada green.”

There was silence for a moment. And then another. Relative to the Great Hall anyway.

“I can’t believe you met Lord Mortis.” Ernie looked absolutely blown away.

“I can’t either.” Susan agreed. “I don’t know how Aunty got him there when we were under attack, but I’m really glad she did. I don’t know what would have happened otherwise.”

“Me too.” Hannah’s hand on her arm squeezed gently. “Where would I be without my best friend, after all.“

Susan smiled at her. Even if Aunty claimed her life debt, she still felt the weight of what had been done for them. What Lord Mortis had done for them. If she could ever do anything someday to repay even some of that, she doubted she would hesitate.

———

After his shower Harry waited with incredible, unwavering, and not at all fraying patience for Ron and Hermione to come down to the common room. Ron, of course, insisted that if they were going to talk about Harry’s strange dreams, they at least do it while making their way through the crush of people and towards breakfast. Everything would be better with breakfast, he said.

“It was weird, a lot less clear than usual, sort of blurry, lot more feelings. Not that that made it better.” He scrubbed at his scar anxiously. The bloody irritation was soothed away now, not showing its earlier cracking thanks to some balm from Madam Pomfrey last year. But it still itched.

“Well, at least it was different?” Ron offered gingerly.

“Maybe the family magic of, you know, maybe it protected you or something.” Hermione fumbled her way through the sentence, not half as covert as she would be once she got some food in her to jump start her brain.

Harry grumbled out a maybe. It was possible he supposed.

“Oi,” Ron snapped at a first year a few paces behind them in the crush to make it though the portrait. “Didn’t anyone tell you its rude to point.” 

The first year, who had been whispering rather obviously Harry, turned away with a bright blush.

“I love being a prefect sometimes.” Ron grinned. “And now that OWLs are over, we’ve even got some free periods! Well, I bet you don’t Hermione, but Harry and I have gotta.”

“You act like we won’t be using those to study too. Maybe even add in some … extra curriculars.” She had a particularly mysterious expression on her face there.

“Well, lets have the day at least. Nothing gets done of the first day anyways.” Ron grumbled good naturedly.

Hermione just huffed and half tumbled out of the portrait hole, someone smaller and much more eager pushing past her as they went.

“I think they had a fanged frisbee.” Hermione sighed.

“Year’s off to a great start then. Think I can confiscate it?”

“Ron!”

The Great Hall was busy. And loud.

He traded a hearty wave with Hagrid, dodged a glare form Snape, and barely found a few seats next to each other for them to squeeze into. He still didn’t want to think about what DADA would be like with Snape as a teacher. With any luck the curse would do the old bat in though. Probably not before he had a go at Harry, tragically, if just to keep up the tradition. He also caught the tail end of Susan’s triumphant tale of returning from the bowels of the Mortis catacombs, or whatnot, which had him almost as red as Ron’s hair.

“There’s something else we need to discuss.” Hermione said lowly. “Well, a few things, but we should talk about it when we can.”

“And we can now?” Ron complained, however his voice was also soft.

Hermione waved her wand and muttered something and a low buzzing joined the background chatter. “Just something to obscure our voices a bit. Anyway. We need to clean out the Chamber.”

Harry’s silverware clattered around him to the floor, quickly replaced by a shiny new set next to his dishes. Had to love the elves. “We need to what?”

“Clean it out!” Hermione whispered harshly. “Look Harry, from what you’ve described the thing is crawling with rat bones, not to mention the - the you know. One day of bad temper and you have to hide a whole rat army? Or a, the - the basilisk? I’d rather not, Harry.”

Harry sighed. He didn’t want to. She made a good point but he didn’t want to. “How?”

“The magic way. Lots of spells, find somewhere to dump the bones, peel off all the gunk.” She shrugged.

“Why the gunk.” Harry whined “Can’t we just get rid of all the dead things?”

“Well, we need somewhere to do the ritual don’t we?” Hermione reasoned.

Yeah, just why there?

“Would be big enough for sure, if we even can clean it.” Ron speared a sausage and tore the end off. “You didn’t see it. Piles of rat skeletons and tunnels and moss and just ick or whatever. It was disgusting. Worse than Grimmuald.”

“Don’t jinx it.” She smacked him on the shoulder lightly. “We need to get the skeletons out at least.”

“And move them where?” Harry asked, bit dizzied by the conversation. And his stomach a bit turned at the thought of returning.

“Forbidden forest, probably.” Hermione chewed on her oatmeal.

“We should probably ask the centaurs.” Ron added.

“We should.” Hermione beamed at him.

“Now, who wants to keep this conversation going so we don’t have to think about Snape teaching DADA?” Ron grimaced.

Harry groaned and stuffed his mouth full of pancake. Snape. Always had to ruin things.

“Brushing up on cleaning charms then, Hermione?” He said to distract himself.

“Yes.” She sniffed. “And you will be too.”

Great. He had to ask.

———

“Please line up and put your matchsticks, or needles,” McGonagal nodded to her class. “in the box as you go. Yes even your Mr Gregory, I see you. I do need them for the next class after all. Every one of you gets one house point for your efforts today, and for the three of you that managed to turn wood to metal, that’s two points to take home.”

First days were always difficult. They tended to be more difficult when one was doing three jobs instead of just the one. Head of Gryffindor House, with all those schedules to sort and hand deliver. Might as well call her Co Headmistress, with all she did to keep the school in line. And then Transfiguration teacher. Especially, today, for the first years. 

This year had been extra harrowing.

Mischief makers were common and well equipped, thanks to the unfortunate genius of the Weasley twins and their new store. She wished them luck but … really, she had a school to run. Co run, she reminded herself. Albus did handle all the nasty politics. And even some of the planning. Still, she had confiscated at least five fanged frisbees already. Which wasn’t to say that she couldn’t, didn’t, enjoy a touch of mischief here and there. But so much? On the first day of school? She’d had a second year bloody all down his front for a nosebleed nougat and Pomona had three cases of various skiving snackbox sicknesses.

And don’t get her started on the sparklers. She’d had one set off in class! And several in the hallways. Impossible. Especially since, well.

The children were grieving. Of course they were. Some had lost homes, family members, any illusion of safety. Up in smoke and spellfire. Anxiety was high. She had taken, or rather directed classmates and prefects to take, three poor little ones in to Poppy just this morning. It was only just past lunch.

And the first years. Oh, they were excited too, they were, but so many were scared as well. Scared for their lives and futures. It was a horrifying thing to see repeated. The group in front of her were much more lively now than they’d been at the start of the lesson, something she felt immense pride for. Little Hufflepuffs all smiling wide. All she’d had to do was turn a few desks into animals. Easy, really.

The students were hobbling through the line, depositing their matchsticks in the box as instructed, some metallic and silvery but none perfect yet. They had time after all. Which was just as it should be in her book. Better they take it slow and get it right than rush for perfection. 

The DADA classroom was nearby, just down the hall, perhaps she should see how Severus had been faring. Probably poorly, but how poorly was the scale of course. Almost not poorly to castle crashing down around them. It was a tested and tried scale.

The last student thanked her has she left, dipping her head bashfully. McGonogal nodded back and waited until the door was closed to let a small smile cross her lips. She took a breath, straightened her robes, and then her hat. Then out the door.

The hallways were a mess.

“You there! Put that wand away between classes.” She snapped at one of her house, a young girl training her wand on a classmate with a grin.

The grin was wiped clean away under her glare. One less for Poppy to deal with. She was sure the witch would thank her. Maybe with some wine, over dinner, if she was lucky. Or a foot rub. After the day she was having, maybe the foot rub would be better, actually.

“Please, young man, if you feel the need to display your affection publicly like that can you at least save it until you don’t have class to be getting to.” She shouldered past two young men sharing a long, though thankfully chaste, kiss. They snapped apart, bright faced and unable to look her way.

“Off you go then.” She shooed them off. They should save their trysts for after dinner like the rest of the decent students. Nothing wrong with snogging by the great lake at dusk. And not in the hallways between classes.

She knocked at the DADA office door. “Severus?”

There’s no answer.

“Severus?” She knocked again more firmly. 

No answer. Not even a peep.

She opened the door.

Severus loomed over his desk like the vampire they accused him of being, lines of his face contorted with rage.

“No need to call me sir, professor.” He mocked in a hiss, eyes down, apparently not having noticed her arrival. His knuckles were white around the sides of his desk.

“Severus.” She greeted.

He met her eyes, his own full of cold, biting fury. “Potter needs to -” he bit himself off audibly. “That little shit smear -” He growled. “Can’t even - ” He hissed like a great bat, fingers clenching and unclenching.

“I’ll come back later then.” She nodded. Not the time. “You bring the caramel turtles and I’ll bring the mead.”

She shut the door. She’d have to get it extra sweet. The thick stuff. Practically honey in a glass. Severus disliked hard liquor, preferring sweet and light drinks. Anything short of butterbeer. It was one of his many childish features. Not that she didn’t enjoy it herself on occasion, but how did he handle the headaches mead left behind? Well, maybe he didn’t then. He did seem to have a perpetual migraine.

She sighed. She’d be late for her foot rub, making sure he didn’t murder Potter during his detention. She was just assuming the one detention, it might be several. The boy would be lucky if it was only one with a remark like that.

She let a lip quirk up. Well, more like couldn’t stop it from doing so. Maybe Mr Potter deserved some caramel turtles of his own. Not that she’s encouraging classroom disruption or disregard of authority. Not at all. That would be unprofessional.

You don’t have to call me sir, professor.

Oh, she could only imagine.

———

“Oh, good evening Professor.” Harry said as he ducked into the room, hopefully quickly enough that he could scrape by mostly unnoticed. The way Slughorn beamed at him from behind his mustache said he’d been noted. Unfortunate.

The potions room itself though was more curious. The air was already filled with the scent of potions. Or, fumes maybe. Fumes seemed more accurate. Harry took a sniff at one of the potions as they passed to their desks. It smelled like warmth, like honey and broom wax and coconut oil and chocolate frogs and old sweaters. He drew away quickly though, not wanting to be the odd one out. He felt some of the anxiety that had been haunting him that day settle deep in his chest though, even with just that whiff. 

He settled next to Ron and Hermione at a desk with Ernie MacMillan, the real odd man out. Since there were four Ravenclaws and four Slythetins, that was. That just left them to take up a table together. Not that he really minded. Ernie was alright.

"Now then, now then, now then," said Slughorn, who looked impressively like a great storybook wizard with all those shimmering fumes dancing around his large form. "Scales out, everyone, and potion kits, and don't forget your copies of Advanced Potion-Making. . . "

“Sir?”

“Yes, Harry m’boy?”

“Ron and I, see, we haven’t got books or scales or anything. We thought Snape was running NEWT potions and he has higher standards, see, so …” Harry trailed off, hoping he hadn’t sounded too pathetic. He didn’t even hear Malfoy snicker, so it must not be too bad.

"Ah, yes, Professor McGonagal did mention. . . not to worry, my dear boy, not to worry at all. You can use ingredients from the store cupboard today, and I'm sure we can lend you some scales, and we've got a small stock of old books here, they'll do until you can write to Flourish and Blotts. . . " Slughorn bustled to the back of the room and shuffled though a cupboard. He came back out again with two copies of Advanced Potions Making by Libatius Borage, and set them in from of the two boys with a wink. Harry nodded his thanks. 

“Now then” Slughorn made his way back up to the front of the class. His chest was puffed up importantly and his velvet waistcoat gleamed in the low light. "I've prepared a few potions for you to have a look at, just out of interest, you know. These are the kind of thing you ought to be able to make after completing your NEWTs. You ought to have heard of 'em, even if you haven't made 'em yet. Anyone tell me what this one is?"

He tossed a hand at the cauldron nearest to the Slytherin table. Harry had to shuffle a bit to see inside it, and it didn’t really look like much. Clear, plan water just bubbling away.

Hermione had her hand in the ain in an instant though. Of course she did. And Professor Slughorn called on her with good cheer.

“It’s Veritaserum isn’t it? Colorless, odorless, and forces the owner to tell the truth when consumed. It’ll work even if you just take a few drops.” She replied.

"Very good, very good!" Professor Slughorn grinned. "Now," he moved on to another, waving at the cauldron nearest the Ravenclaw table, "this one here is pretty well known. . . Featured in a few Ministry leaflets lately too. . . Who can--?"

Hermione had her hand in the hair again, although Harry could have guessed as well and so could Ron. That thick, muddy liquid had been familiar since second year. Was it really a NEWT potion?

“It’s polyjuice potion, sir.” She said when prompted.

“And this next one, someone else please.” Slughorn smiled at the rest of the room.

“Amortentia.” Answered Malfoy without his usual acid. “The most powerful love potion in the world. The mother of pear sheen gives it dead away, but the smell is different for everyone. It’s based on what we love most. Or, what attracts us.”

“Well, spendid job Mr Malfoy! May I have your name dear?” Slughorn leaned towards Hermione.

“Herminoe Granger, sir.”

“Granger? Granger? Can you possibly be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?"

"No. I don't think so, sir. I'm Muggle-born, you see. "

Slughorn didn’t seem disappointed however, and smiled at her warmly. He did give Harry a quick glance, but he focused mostly on her. "Oho! 'One of my best friends is Muggle-born, and she's the best in our year!' I'm assuming this is the very friend of whom you spoke, Harry?"

“Er, yes sir.” Harry confirmed awkwardly. It was true, but getting caught bragging about your friends seemed like bad manners, or something. 

"Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger. And five for you, Mr Malfoy.“ The wizard patted down his large coat with a smile.

“Did you really tell him that?” Hermione, seemingly almost bashful, asked as he turned away.

“Anyone would have. You’re brilliant and the best in the year by far, I’d have told him too if he asked me.” Ron nodded decively.

Hermione just grinned at them, then snapped back to attention and made a small quieting gesture as Slughorn began to move back up to the front.

"Amortentia doesn't really create love, of course. It is impossible to manufacture or imitate love. No, this will simply cause a powerful infatuation or obsession. It is probably the most dangerous and powerful potion in this room--oh yes, when you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love. . . Now! It’s time for us to start our work!”

“Professor, you haven't told us what's in this last one," Ernie was pointing as at small black cauldron that had been lost near the back when surrounded by so many more obvious potions. The liquid was splashing around happily, drops jumping about in their container without spilling, and dark like liquid gold.

"Oho," The Professsor paused for dramatic effect, something Harry was coming to expect from him. "Yes. That. Well, that one, ladies and gentlemen, is a most curious little potion called Felix Felicis. I take it," He turned to look at Hermione with a sly grin, "that you know what Felix Felicis does, Miss Granger?"

“It’s liquid luck, good luck in a bottle.” She said, gasping. 

The whole class was certainly interested now. Even the Slytherins were giving Slughorn their full attention.

"Quite right, take another ten points for Gryffindor. Yes, it's a funny little potion, Felix Felicis. Desperately tricky to make, and disastrous to get wrong. However, if brewed correctly, as this has been, you will find that all your endeavors tend to succeed . . . at least until the effects wear off.”

“Why don’t people just take it all the time then, sir?” Someone Harry thought might be Terry Boot asked.

"Because if taken in excess, it causes giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence. Too much of a good thing, you know. . . highly toxic in large quantities. But taken sparingly, and very occasionally. . . " He trailed off with a sigh.

“Have you ever taken any, sir?” Nott asked

"Twice in my life," said Slughorn. "Once when I was twenty-four, once when I was fifty-seven. Two tablespoonfuls taken with breakfast. Two perfect days."

He turned to stare off into the middle distance dreamily. The effect was rather good, even if it was just more showmanship and not really genuine. Harry could never tell with these things.

"And that," said Slughorn, snapping back to the conversation at hand, "is what I shall be offering as a prize at the end of this lesson.”

“One tiny bottle of Felix Felicis," said Slughorn, taking a minuscule glass bottle with a cork in it out of his pocket and showing it to them all. "Enough for twelve hours' luck. From dawn till dusk, you will be lucky in everything you attempt. "

He took a breath and continued. “Now, I must give you warning that Felix Felicis is a banned substance in organized competition. . . sporting events, for instance, examinations, or elections. So the winner is to use it on an ordinary day only. . . and watch how that ordinary day becomes extraordinary!"

"So,” He clapped his hands. “How are you to win this fabulous prize? Well, by turning to page ten of Advanced Potion Making. We have a little over an hour left to us, which should be time for you to make a decent attempt at the Draught of Living Death. I know it is more complex than anything you have attempted before, and I do not expect a perfect potion from anybody. The person who does best, however, will win little Felix here. Off you go!"

It was the first time Harry got a good look at his potions book. The insides were a mess, some things crossed out or overwritten and load of notes in the margins. Truly unfortunate. Still, he did his best to gather the ingredients and get going.

Everyone was rushing, or at least paying special attention to their potions. Hermione’s was the best along by far though some minutes in. It matched the book’s descriptions perfectly. 

He’d just finished some prep work when he looked down again, squinting at the instructions. He’d try to decipher the next step, but it was sll scribbled through. Written underneath were new instructions to crush, not slice, the sophporous bean with a silver knife so as to get the juices out better.

He tuned out Malfoy making small talk with Slughorn with a sigh and decided, well, if he couldn’t figure out the real instructions he might as well give it a go. 

He turned to Hermione. “Can I borrow your silver knife?”

She handed it to him without looking, nodding impatiently and deadly focused on her work

He crushed the beans. There was a lot of juice, more than he thought the wrinkly looking things could produce. He dumped it all into the cauldron and to his surprise it turned the exact right shade of purple. Lilac or something. 

Harry went after the next line of instructions, since that worked so well. Contrary to the original text, which said he had to stir clockwise until the potion was clear, the notes said to add one clockwise stir after ever seventh counterclockwise one. It was complicated, and kind of tedious, but easy enough to do.

He waited and held his breath and what if it blew up? Oh no. What if it blew up and ruined Hermione’s potion. Oh no.

The potion turned pale pink, a lovely and correct color, immediately. Well, two points for the book destroyer then.

Hermione looked at him a little disgruntled. “How are you doing that?”

Harry shrugged. “Someone wrote some suggestions in the book, I’m just doing what I can read really.”

She humphed and not back to work, As did he, trying not to be distracted by Ron’s creative cursing from over the table. His potion looked grey and oily and smelled faintly sweet. All of that was wrong. Well, most of it. Half wrong, really, he guessed. A glance around the room showed other various signs of frustration. He was almost giddy. He made a potion that didn’t suck. Maybe it wasn’t the right way to do it, according to the original text, but it didn’t suck!

"And time's. . . up!" called Slughorn. "Stop stirring, please!"

Everyone gingerly put down their sticks and turned down their cauldron flames. Professor Slughorn made a long pass by the tables, occasionally indulging in a sniff or two if the potion looked right.

Theirs was the last table. He eyed Ron’s … guck, essentially, with a bitter, wan smile and gave him a wordless pat on the back. Ernies’s wasn’t really the right color, but it was close enough and Slughorn seemed like he approved enough as he passed. Hermione’s potion was perfect, as always, and he beamed at her again and gave an approving nod.

At Harry’s though, well, if you bottled his luck it would be mostly bad. Because Slughorn seemed delighted. Bursting at the seams delighted. Oh joy. What agony.

“The clear winner!" He crowed out into the room. "Excellent, excellent, Harry! Good lord, it's clear you've inherited your mother's talent. She was a dab hand at Potions, Lily was! Here you are, then, here you are--one bottle of Felix Felicis, as promised, and use it well!"

Harry put the little bottle in a pocket and resolved to stow it away in his chest and only use it if his life was in danger. Probably pretty soon, then, but who knew. It was kind of wonderful to have everyone looking at him with hatred for something he’d actually done. Except Hermione and Ron, who looked jealously curious and absolutely baffled in that order. 

“Harry,” Hermione started as soon as they were dismissed and safely away from the classroom. “How did you do that.”

He brought out the book and flipped to the page he had been using. “Someone before us at school left a lot of notes. I didn’t follow most of them, just the last few, and the first one I only did cause I couldn’t read the actual text. But it turned out well. I guess whoever had this book was a real potions nut.”

Hermione frowned. “You know better than to trust strange books Harry.”

“Yeah, sure, but I scribbled a bit in the edges and the margins and the ink didn’t do anything weird, and I wasn't cursed when I opened it so who knows?” Harry shrugged. “It doesn’t seem magically bad, at least.”

“Then would you mind if I took a look?” Hermione held out her hand, lips pursed.

Ron agreed apprehensively and gave him a very effective pair of sad eyes, though when he looked at the book itself it switched to wary suspicion.

“Sure.” He handed it over reluctantly, that had been his best potion to date and it was even NEWT level.

She cast several spells, not all of which he thought were exactly light. It was fine though, since they were a bit off the main hall and he didn’t think anyone could see them.

As far as Harry could tell, it call came up dry.

Hermione handed the book back to him with a sigh. “Just be careful, Harry. And if you let me borrow it sometime I can write a new book with just the suggestions, maybe we can publish it anonymously if it can make that big a difference.”

Harry made an exaggerated wounded noise. He wasn’t that uncautious. Not really And his potions weren’t that bad. Usually. Ron was trying to get better with potions though so maybe he’d appreciate the new instructions too?

“Oh come off it Harry, mine are worse than yours, usually. Without Snape breathing vampire breath down on us me with actually have a chance though. Gotten better over the summer but it usually takes me a few tries, you know.” Ron chuckled. “C’mon though, dinner’s soon and then you have that detention with Snape. Or, I guess skipping it with Dumbledore. He did send that note. What was the password again?”

“Acid pops.” Harry said flatly, though with some amusement.

“What a password.” Ron said with stylized sigh. “Acid pops” He chuckled.

“Lets get dinner quickly then, there’s something we should talk about before your meeting with the headmaster.” Hermione, for once, led the charge to the great hall.

“I’ll grab you some snacks in case it runs late.” Ron patted his shoulder and then dove ahead.

Harry looked down at the book as he trotted after the, just glancing at the back cover. There, in the same scribly handwriting, were the words “property of the Half Blood Prince”.

Huh. Interesting. Maybe this guy had more books too, if he made a habit of it. He’d love something that would help him like this in Herbology, or would have if he was taking it this year. Without Neville Harry was certain he would have been eaten by something. Good things he’d dropped it, really.

———

Hermione tugged him and Ron both out of the main corridor after dinner. With food in his belly and a nice break from the action, he was beginning to feel the day settle around his shoulders like lead. He was exhausted, and had that meeting soon, and really Hermione what was it?

“What is it Hermione?” He asked, sounding as tired as he was.

“Can you find us someplace quiet to have a chat Harry?” She nodded at his bag.

Harry fished the map out obediently, not bothering to be covert since they were in a sort of side corridor. There was a disused classroom fairly close, and easy enough to navigate too. He thanked the map with a small sting of heartbreak, of loss, before stowing it away.

They made it there in a hurry, they did only have three hours until his detention. The room was on the small side, bigger than a broom closet but hardly a good size for the classes nowdays. It was also mostly clean, especially compared to Grimmuald, which was a relief. Although he had been generous with his cleaning charms in those last couple weeks. He’d really barely made a dent. This room was, more importantly, completely empty. No portraits to go telling tales either. Just them, the walls, and the floor.

Harry looked around, shrugged, and sat, leaning back against the wall. Ron and Hermione followed his lead quickly enough, settling on the floor. The witch began pulling books from her bag, the seemingly infinite leather one. To his surprise, they were fairly ordinary instead of the ominous and ancient things he’d gotten used to.

Seeing his confusion, Hermione huffed with amusement. “They’re spelled to look like normal books. It’d be idiotic to get caught reading a book on dark blood magic out in the open, after all. Like muggle book covers.”

Harry nodded. That wasn’t a problem he’d thought of, but then Hermione was always very good with the details. And that did make sense. 

She tapped the small stack with her wand and the images rolled off like water, leaving an ominous stack behind.

“This one,” the witch tapped the top of the first book “, mentions a witch who came from a family with a strong affinity for plant magics who, once she hit her inheritance, whenever she felt strong emotions, caused flowers around her to bloom. And in this one,” she tapped the spine of the second to last book, “there is a ritual for enhanced magical strength. After it’s performed one of the most common problems people have is that they can’t control the power of their spells, often leading to accidents. Like making a chair levitate so fast it smashes into the ceiling.”

“That's very interesting Hermione, but is it supposed to help me, or?” Harry looked doubtful. That all sounded interesting and vaguely familiar but if it didn’t have any solutions then they were back to square one.

Hermione’s triumphant grin was, quite frankly, terrifying. “Both included different ways of preventing these little mishaps. The first one mentioned learning to control your emotions, and the second learning to control your magic.”

“I’m guessing we’re doing both, then?” Ron gave the stack a considering look.

“Well, Harry is at least. But I figure it’ll be easier if we all learn them together.” She shrugged lightly, smiling.

Harry held back a snort. Yeah, no way Ron was getting out of this then. Not that it looked like he wanted to, which was nice.

“So where do we start?” Ron clapped his hands.

“Well, that’s why I’m bringing this all up now. See, the book I was reading on the a few days ago mentioned a way to control your mind, so I found the book it referenced, and luckily that brought me a bit more. A lot of it isn’t what we need but I finally found the directions to control emotions, or the process I suppose. I already had the magic book, but I wanted to wait until we got into the castle just to be safe. And now I have both!”

Harry and Ron stared patiently as she rambled, and then nodded at the expectant pause. They traded a look.

“No questions yet.” Ron grinned at her. They would just distract her now anyway.

“We’ll need to start meditating every day, and spending time identifying each emotion as they come up throughout the day.” She instructed.

Harry grimaced. That sounded like it was gong to he a massive pain. Oh, annoyance identified. But if it stopped things from randomly coming back to life around him, it would be worth it, probably. Probably. He hoped. Was hope an emotion?

“Magic control will be a little harder. First we’ll need to find out magic inside us, learn what it feels like. There are meditations and exercises we can do, and as a last resort there’s a potion we can brew but I don’t think stealing form the new Professor first thing this term is a great idea so lets try the rest first?” Hermione smiled nervously. 

They probably had most of the ingredients at Grimmuald, but Hermione was usually right so there had to be something they were missing. He wondered if there ws a way to order potions ingredients. Owl order? He should ask the Weasley twins. Hedwig would be glad for the exercise.

“Actually …” Harry trailed off. “Well, ever since fourth year, whenever I got really mad I could feel my magic moving around. And since the whole, uh, Lord Mortis thing, I can feel it like all the time.”

Hermione looked surprised. “You can?”

“Yeah, it was a bit distracting when it oozed everywhere all the time, but it hasn’t done that in a while.” Harry added reassuringly. He did not feel reassured. Not reassured, idenitfied.

“I don’t think magic is supposed to … ooze.” Hermione stared at him, looking baffled. He hoped she identified baffled.

“That’s what I thought too.” The bespectacled wizard nodded in agreement. Good to have confirmation though.

“You okay mate?” Ron looked concerned.

Harry shrugged. He was as alright as he always was at least. “Yeah, fine now.”

The witch cleared her throat and shook her head like she was shaking the extra thoughts out. “Well, then you can get started on the next part. You’re supposed to flex your magic, basically. Move it around a few times a day, under your skin I assume. The descriptions were rather vague.” 

That didn’t sound too hard. As Hermione turned to Ron and began to speak, Harry focused inwards. His magic flowed placidly under his skin, concentrating around his chest until it formed a dense sort of core right around where he figured his heart was.

He sat down next to his friends and closed his eyes.

He gave the magic in his harm a mental poke. It didn’t move. He tried again with a push. It didn’t move. He tried to flex it, however that worked, pulling maybe? Nothing.

This … this might take a while.

Chapter Text

The second Monday of the school year started perfectly refreshing. It was truly lovely. The birds were singing, the sun was shining through small puffs of soft white and light gold. And to one Ron Weasley, it was a portent of doom. He was certain of it. Morning and good were two words not to be seen in the same sentence, unless there was a qualifier like “never” or “on opposite day”. The universe was out to get them. This was the warning shot.

Even the walk to the great hall was pleasant, not too crowded but not devoid enough of life for it to get a little spooky. They had fruit tarts for breakfast, a rare treat. The chatter was nice and calm and it seemed like the second week of classes might go more smoothly than the first.

And then the owls came.

Hedwig swooped in to land beside Harry, who tore a bit of his sausage off for her as he untied the not around her let and set the Daily Prophet on his lap without really looking it over.

The change was immediate. Low whispers began to fill the room, growing to a buzz of soft mutterings as more and more papers were delivered.

“Hagrid’s invited us down for tea.” Harry remarked cheerfully, smiling down at the small note.

“Mate, maybe you should take a look at the Prophet?” Ron asked, already leaning so that he could get a clear view. Dread was pooled in his stomach like sticky tar. Bold letters headlining the first page read:

MORTIS FAMILY REVIVAL
LORD MORTIS RETURNS TO LONDON
By Rebecca Serano

Harry whined, low and crumbling. “Oh no.”

Ron knew it had been a cursed morning, he just knew it. He wasn’t at all happy to be right.

“It had to come out sometime, you heard Susan talking about it the other day.” Hermione responded in rationally, shuffling her own Prophet to stiffen out the paper.

No, just no. No rationality. Ron wanted to freak out about this and he was going to, Merlin damn it all. He made a small wailing sound in commiseration with Harry.

“But that was just Susan,” Harry groaned. “Not the whole bloody world.”

“What are we going to do?” Ron whispered harshly. Panic was an old friend, but usually the dangers seemed a lot less, well, a lot less messy. Something you could point a wand at. This was not something you could just point a wand at. No curses would be solving this labyrinth.

“Well, keep our involvement a secret, obviously. Stop acting so suspicious.” Hermione waved her wand to form a small sound obfuscation ward. “We aren’t publicly tied in any way to Lord Mortis yet, and we’re going to keep it that way. It shouldn’t be hard to keep out heads down.”

“Keep our heads down? Hermione, you must be talking about someone else. When have we ever managed that?” Harry grumbled, stabbing at his sausage with force. He gave Hedwig another small piece. The doxy in his hair, well hidden by the great mound of shag, especially the tangle that had started growing down his back, chittered demandingly. He obligingly gave the impressively hidden little hands by his ear some sausage, and slipped another few crumbles into his left pocket for Uric. Ron stifled a chuckle. Harry and his little undeads were kind of adorable.

“Shutting up isn’t as hard as some of us make it out to be.” Hermione huffed, swatting at the air in Harry’s direction.

Both boys stared at her with blank expectation.

“Shove off, just because I’m good in class doesn’t mean I have a loose lip.” She sniffed. “I have self control.” The implication being that they didn’t. Which, well, it wasn’t like he could refute that. But still.

Ron smothered a laugh in a cough. Hermione may have more than Harry himself, but none of them were exactly the kind of person to tell an impulse to get fucked.

Down the table, the Creevy brothers gasped in unison as their paper arrived, faces pale white. It seemed to be the standard reaction, even among those who had heard Susan’s tale. It was one thing to hear from a student that they were introduced to a Lord of a supposed dead family. It was another to see it in the Prophet.

The article was lurid but low on detail, something that made Ron think that despite the name it was a Rita Skeeter original. There was a lot of the Lord “stalking” about in the Ministry and then “inspecting” Knockturn. It even mentioned the Lord’s companions, and there was wild speculation about that. Some of which Ron thought might be unsuitable for younger readers. It was certainly unsuitable for him and he could feel his face get redder and redder the more he read on. Not a good look.

It ended in a series of questions:

Who is Lord Mortis? What does he want from our community? What are his plans? What’s his connection to Sirius Black? Or the man’s godson, Harry Potter? Is he joining the war or maintaining his family’s neutrality? What will Lord Mortis do next?

Well, right now Ron could say that Harry looked like he’d like a replacement sausage for the one Hedwig had flow off with, and without so much as a goodbye too. He hoped she had friends to share it with. He didn’t think sausage was good for owls, even magical ones. Ron doubted Harry had much in the way of plans after surviving potions today. He bit back a sigh. It seemed like he’d have to be the one watching Lord Mortis’ public image. If Harry was stuck as a Mortis forever, it wouldn’t do to get off on the wrong foot with the entire wizarding world.

And the article. Frustrating. Oh yeah, he was feeling frustrated. Noted. He had to practice that emotion identification. He liked to think he’d been doing a pretty good job so far. Satisfaction, noted. Good job Ron.

Harry let his head thump to the table. “One easy day. I just want one easy day that doesn’t come at me like Aunt Marge’s dog Ripper went for my ankles. Luck is overrated. Why can’t I just be normal, like Seamus, with his explosives. Or Dean, with his drawings. Or Neville, with his plants. But no, Harry Potter’s hobby has been decided for him since birth and it’s taking down the Dark Lord Voldemort though head spinning twists of fate.”

Ron patted Harry on the shoulder and put a new sausage on his plate. “It’s okay mate. It’ll get better. We even kind of, maybe, a little but know what we’re doing now.”

Harry just groaned morosely.

Ron wondered if Harry was keeping track of his emotions right now, but felt that it was best not to ask. “At least they didn’t get a picture.”

The sketch they’d used of an ominous robed figure if a large, drooping hat with glowing eyes wasn’t exactly flattering though, and Harry’s glare communicated his opinion on the matter just fine.

“Rather fetching caricature, really.” Ron smiled.

Harry threw a segment of waffle at him.

———

Amelia Bones entered the Ministry from the floo. With a dog. A rather nice looking, well behaved, well trained dog with green eyes that were just a little but greener and shinier than they should be. One could even say they glowed in low light. They even had a little black and silver collar with a name tag that jangled cheerfully.

She was directed immediately to the Minister. The dog followed. The clerk didn’t say anything.

She was let into his office. The dog followed. The secretary tried to say something, but Amelia just waved her off. The dog would follow one way or another and it was better that they kept their door. When the secretary didn’t believe her, she told the woman the dog was there for extra security after having been attacked by Death Eaters in her own home not even two weeks ago. The woman shut up. The dog went in.

“Robards.” She greeted with some relief. She’d heard power had changed hands but was still was convinced she would walk in here and see Fudge sitting across the desk from her.

“Amelia.” He smiled, kind of a worn thing. “Come, sit, can I get you anything?”

“Some tea would be lovely.” She said as she sat. The dog sat next to her chair, all proper even with their goofy ears.

Robards eyed the dog with some confusion but ordered the tea from an elf and waited quietly in the few minutes it took to arrive, scribbling something on a roll of parchment on his desk, which was piled with rolls and stacks and even a few books. He didn’t attempt to make small talk, which was a relief. She wasn’t sure she had much to talk about right now that qualified. Oh, how has your life been lately Amelia? Well, I’m rather glad to be out of the hospital after being attacked in my own home by terrorists, thank you for asking. How’s the weather Amelia? Terrible, on account of the skies being full of dementors set loose by terrorists. Have anything nice to eat lately? So nice of you to ask, the market by my new home is rather lacking, so not really. Why did I move? Oh, see it all started with these terrorists. Broke into my house. Yes I did nearly die, thank you for the card by the way.

It was a lovely, distracting mint tea with biscuits shaped like little leaves. Perfect for the morning she hoped she was going to have. That was to say, a nice easy morning. It was a strained hope.

“So, about Lord Mortis.” Robards dove in.

Her hope splintered like glass underfoot and she sighed. “Yes yes, what do you want to know?”

“Anything,” He waved an arm helplessly. “Everything, just, please give me a way to stay out of their way if I can’t work with them.”

Amelia sighed again. “It might take a while.”

“I have all day clear, trust me.”

Unfortunate. “Well, it all started when he showed up at the Ministry. His magic was immense. It swam across the room like it was evaluating us and all I could feel was the cool hand of death.” She shuddered. “I’m surprised Fudge didn’t piss himself. What did you do with him, by the way?”

“He’s up guarding the muggle Prime Minister now, I told him it was a liaison but I just wanted him as out of my hair as he could be.”

“Understandable.” She would want him out of her hair too, especially if she just took his job. “Lord Mortis and I exchanged some letters, nothing particularly personal just more pleasantries and questions about my life, work, and magic. Nothing invasive though, not really.”

Robards nodded, focusing intently on her.

“When the attack happened, I thought we were dead, Susan and I both. I traded spells but it was three or four to one, I can’t remember exactly, and I was hit. More than once. But then I felt the seal and I just followed the instructions. I … summoned him.” The seal sat heavy in her pocket, but it would be easy to take from her, if the secret were shared. And it would not be shared. She needed to be cautious. “And then he was there.” shook her head in disbelief.

“I didn’t see much, I was delirious and in a lot of pain, but he dragged me somewhere safe and barricaded us in. I was out, flying, I don’t know how, I passed out. I think he had beasts though, great big bony ones.” She didn’t even remember landing outside St Mungos.

Robards nodded. “I have your report from the aurors for the specifics. But did you learn anything about him?”

“He seemed very serious about protecting my family.” She said dryly. It was a relief, even if a somewhat terrifying one. It was the one thing she was sure of. Lord Mortis had protected them, and unless she did something to awaken his ire he would continue to do so. She didn’t know why, but for now she didn’t need to. If she were lucky enough, perhaps it was just about honor, or image. Something manageable.

Robards just nodded.

“When I woke up, I didn’t know where Susan was, or what had happened. It was. I was scared. I was glad she was safe from the Death Eaters but.” She took a breath. “I didn’t know much about Lord Mortis yet, still don’t. But he delivered informing me to meet with him when I was discharged and I would be taken to Susan.” She shuddered faintly. She knew she had been lucky that he hadn’t been upset with her.

She took a steadying breath. “I went, of course I did. He took me to a house, I can’t tell you where, but it had once belonged to the Blacks and it seemed like he’d cleaned it out on short notice. He had two companions, and they were all masked. I couldn’t idenity them for you sir, nor would I. I owe them far too much. The Lord, he even let me take on Susan’s life debt.” It might be a bit forward to say that to the Minister, but she should make herself clear before people started to try to play her against him.

Robards sucked in a breath. “That’s -”

Amelia just nodded. Life debts were serious things. She owed that man two. She doubted she could ever repay them, and then they would be passed on to any children she had, or to Susan and hers. Even if it was a only temporary protection for Susan, it was one she would offer as long as she could.

“They’re letting me stay until, well, I assume until the war ends. Indefinitely, basically. They’re even giving me small warding permissions to update anything I see falling apart.”

Robards coughed. “Wow, well, that’s certainly something.”

“It is.” Amelia agreed. “He’s even letting me go back to work.”

Robards blinked dumbly. “Just like that? No conditions.”

“They did ask that I keep myself safe but no, no conditions. They don’t seem to want to be in the spotlight, but Lord Mortis was close to Sirius Black and took his death personally. If the story they wove can be believed, the man was innocent and has been fighting with Dumbledore’s Phoenix Order for the last few years since his escape.” She wasn’t entirely sure she believed it herself, but she was willing to take her Lord’s word on faith.

Robards nodded slowly. “So he won’t be joining the other side.”

“No, sir.”

“And you don’t know what, if any, aid he’ll be giving our side.”

“No, sir.”

“Can you ask?”

“I’m not sure that would be wise.” Dark rituals were usually illegal, after all, and for good reason. It wasn’t like they could stop him from helping in whatever way he saw fit. They might be better off not knowing.

“Anything else Madam Bones or?”

She put a hand of Giffard’s head. “This is Giffard, the beast my Lord assigned to protect me.”

Robards nearly fell out of his seat.

Giffard whuffed harmlessly. But their eyes were shining.

———

Severus took one look at today’s paper, set down his cutlery, took the Prophet in hand, and walked out of the great hall sedately. He then walked all the way down to his quarters at a normal, not furious, not murderous pace. It was an even, looming sort of movement, but then that was his average stance. Yes. He averagely made his way down to his chambers in the dungeons.

The torches and candles flickered, casting brighter light than they should. He watched the wavering shadows as if they may give him peace. He imagined that this was a normal morning, passing his Slytherins with shallow nods and not a hint of grimace. His face was perfectly smooth.

He passed the password to the painting guarding his chamber door with an even voice, and tolerated the exchange of pleasantries as the old woman took her time swinging her frame open. There was no ounce of venom in his tone, not beyond the usual of course.

And then he slammed the door so hard he may well have splintered some of the frame.

Black.

Severus spelled his chambers silent and let out a shriek of rage.

Bloody Black. This was all Black’s fault. Somehow, someway, this was all that deranged mutt’s fault. Severus paced in his chambers, one hand clenched around a copy of today’s prophet. Even from beyond the grave the man was haunting him.

Lord Mortis was, quite possibly, here at school. Lord Mortis was quite possibly full of all of Blacks hatred for him, or had at least heard his great dislike. What was next, the Lord clearing Black’s name post mortem? Having him hailed as a hero? Revolting.

He hexed one of his chairs, a dark char left behind by the light blue bolt.

Fucking.

Bloody fucking Black.

If not for him, Lord Mortis may not even be back in their society at all. How had the man even found the necromancer!? How had they gotten so intimately close without Dumbledore picking up even a clue?

Then, the stupid man had to go and die and bring hell upon them all. Of course he did. What a very Sirius Black thing to do. He seethed. He raged. He screamed like someone was driving a knife into him. He wanted to curse his chair again. He did curse his chair again. And again. It started smoldering. He sent a frostbite hex at it before his chambers caught fire.

His life was in danger from the Malfoy vow, from the hatred of Sirius Black, and from his own association with the Death Eaters who killed the man. It was all Black’s fault. Even from the grave. He swore.

Severus collapsed heavily onto a different chair.

There was nothing that man couldn’t do to ruin his life, was there?

———

Gornuk was sick and tired of wizards trying to pry into goblin business. Especially the accounts. He had more important things to be doing! Like organizing the tunnel dig or checking that the dragon was still just increasingly healthy bone and some sinew and mostly unable to move aside from a bit of thrashing, controlled by thick chains that he also had to check for weaknesses and cracks. The chains should keep a fully grown dragon tied down, but the stone in the dragon graveyard was not meant to hold a great beast like that. Bolts had nearly come loose.

Damn wizard had no respect for his time. Something really set them off today too. He didn’t have the time to bother figuring out what, especially since he had spent hours up here, repeating the same dead voiced phrases to imbeciles who refused to see reason.

“No, we cannot release anything about the properties that once belonged to Sirius Black or any that now belong to Lord Mortis or Harry Potter. Leave now before I decide to take your head.” He growled as menacingly as he could at the fourth Ministry employee of the day. He eyed the reporters and lawyers and other Ministry lackeys waiting in the wings with venom. Honestly. They knew the procedure. He was nearly the end of his rope. But of course, since it was a Mortis inquiry, this was his problem.

“Excuse me, sir Gornuk.” He turned to find Albus Dumbledore standing over his pedestal, peaceful and calm and worrying his hands. “May I have a moment of your time?”

“No, we cannot release anything about the properties that once belonged to Sirius Black or any that now belong to Lord Mortis or Harry Potter.” He said, looking the wizard dead in the eye and daring him to try to pull rank somewhere that didn’t respect or recognize it. “Not even to you. Fuck off.”

Dumbledore tried again. “I really would appreciate -”

“Fuck. Off. Or was I unclear?” Gornuk pointed the blade all goblins kept under their banking pedestals at the man. He’d heard wizards didn’t keep extra weapons behind their service counters, and had laws against harming customers. Baffling idea. His people would riot if someone tried to take away their right to commit violence against people wasting their time by being intentionally dense and hostile.

“No, sir goblin, I was just hoping that perhaps special considerations -”

“Leave. This is your third warning sir, and your last.”

“But for young mister Pott -”

He lunged, blade forward, blood between his teeth. “Get out of our bank!”

———

Ginny made her way from Charms back to the dorms quietly. She’d been doing a lot of thinking. Mostly about the Mortis situation. And after this morning’s headline, she felt like now was the time to strike. She just had to do it. She had to talk to them. You’ve got this Ginny. You can confront your best friends and brother about their scary necromancer boogeyman mentor. Wasn’t any worse than riding a thestral.

The Fat Lady let her in with a quiet tut. Ginny complimented her nice glossy new finish, which made her blush happily. And also open the door quicker.

“Hey Parvati, where’s my brother and his lot?” She asked when she saw the girl lounging on the couch, picking off a bowl of grapes and visibly immersed in a colorful romance novel.

“Which one?” The girl tucked a strand of hair behind one ear without looking up.

“Ron.” She sighed.

“Ah, right, all the rest are out of school aren't they? They’re up in the boys dorms looking suspicious.”

“Thanks Parvati.”

Neville was standing at the door ahead of her, rapidly fraying the hem of his sweater between a tangle of fingers. There was a Daily Prophet tucked under one of his arms.

“Oh, hello Ginny.” He greeted her.

“What are you here for?” She asked, truly confused.

“Here to see Harry.” He said, gathering a great breath that puffed up his shoulders in something that approximated confidence. “Figured I better get ahead of it this year. You?”

She considered. “Pretty much the same, really.”

“Ah, right then.” He smiled at her. “Ladies first?” He opened the door with a little half bow, which quickly lit his face aflame as he seemed to realize what he was doing only after he’d done it.

“Thanks, Nev.” She ducked through the door and into the dorms quickly to spare him.

Harry and Hermione were seated on one of the beds, she guessed Harry’s but she’d never bothered to pay much attention, crowded over a book. Her brother was pacing sedately, tumbling a bishop between nimble fingers. Luna sat behind them on another bed, twisting a large puff of some kind of fiber into a thin, shimmering thread.

“Hey Ginny. Oh, hello Neville.” She only seemed surprised about Neville.

“Luna, what are you doing here?” Ginny asked, a bit baffled.

“Waiting for you.” Luna said like it made perfect sense. Ginny supposed it did, to her.

“What are you all doing here, then?” Hermione shut the book and put it away before Ginny could get a glimpse at the title.

“I’ve got some things to talk to you about.” Ginny said, implication heavy.

“Yeah, Harry, I saw a rat and a doxy glowing and chanting over you the morning of first day of class. And then this?” Neville held up today’s paper. “I figure I want in before you start hoarding secrets and keeping us out for our own good or whatever bollocks you’ve talked yourself into believing this time.” He shut his mouth with a click and seemed determined not to regret what he’d said.

The three shared a look. The kind that involved many looks, and expressions, and ended with everyone looking a bit grim.

“Right, well, best to get you all looped in then. Better to sit down, trust me.” Ron started, truly inspiring confidence.

Neville sat on his bed, Ginny assumed, and she joined Luna who was still twisting away.

“So, it all started earlier this summer when Harry became Lord Mortis.” Ron, in his usual manner, smashed ahead.

Ginny’s thoughts ground loudly to a halt.

“It was an accident, really.” Harry whimpered.

“We know Harry.” Hermione patted his knee consolingly. “Neither of us knew who the Mortises were when Harry went to the Minsitry and pretended to be one.”

“I just wanted to look at Sirius’ will.” He sounded as mournful as she really should feel about her prospects of a normal year. “I made the name up, I swear.”

“What name?” Neville asked, voice thin.

Harry was bright red as he answered. “Ri - Rig - Hermione I can’t.”

“Rigoure Mortis.” Hermione answered smugly as Harry buried his face in his hands with a groan.

Ginny, she really couldn’t help it, she just lost it. Split her sides cackling until it hurt. Every time she was done she took one look at Harry’s miserable, miserable face and she was off again. Rigor fucking Mortis.

“It wasn’t supposed to be permanent.” He wailed quietly. Which just added fuel to the fire.

She regained her composure slowly, after several long, long minutes. Luna, at some point, had moved off the bed and gone to sit with Neville. The boy was holding a pile of her fresh thread now, looking somewhat settled now that he had a purpose. Luna looked at her like she’d been rather rude to disturb her like that, and should know better.

“No, no, please continue.” Ginny said, breathlessly.

“Happy to.” Ron responded sarcastically. He did continue, though. “I’m never gonna get the whole story out if you keep busting a rib every time Harry does something ridiculous. We’d have to hash this out in the hospital wing. So, cutting things a bit short. Harry got into his feelings a bit while waiting for Lucius Malfoy to bring him Sirius’ will and reanimated Uric, the uh, the rat. Or, mouse. Or, really, we’re not sure if he’s really any of that anymore, being undead.”

Ginny smothered her laughter very successfully she felt, though Harry’s disgruntled look told her he disagreed. It was a miracle she’d kept quiet at all. Lucius Malfoy? Errand boy to the Chosen One? She felt like she deserved a chuckle or two. If Harry disagreed, he could keep it to himself.

Ron shared a look with her that told her that he, privately, agreed heartily.

Harry looked disgusted at them both.

Hermione cleared her throat. “And then what happened Ron?” She asked sweetly.

“Right, er, then Harry claimed all the Black, well, all of the everything.”

“All of the everything?” She said weakly. That was a lot of money.

“That’s a lot of everything.” Neville said faintly, like he was aware of just how much that everything meant. Probably had a better idea than her.

“Yeah, I know.” Harry said. “We had to look through the inventory when we re-homed Madam Bones.”

Ginny very much needed context. It looked like Neville desperately did as well. Luna just looked like she was rehearing Ginny tell the same story about hitting George ‘round the head with a beater bat when she was eight and fell off the broom and broke her leg (though, to her pride, she hadn’t broken the broom which she’d managed to grab hold of in time) for the twentieth time. Which meant distantly amused and appropriately consoling.

“We’ll get to that.” Hermione reassured. “Next, Harry do you want to tell them what happened next?”

“No, actually.” Harry grumbled. But, obligingly, he told them anyway. “So, we did a bunch of research. Like, so much. And I revived Filemina. Say hi Filly.”

Filly poked out of Harry’s robes to hover near his head and screeched shrilly. Ginny felt Filemina was a very good name for the little beast and nodded her approval.

“Madam Bones sent me a letter a few days latter, saying a bunch of stuff I didn’t really understand about vassals. Turns out her family is sworn to serve mine, kind of.” Harry shrugged. “Anyway, I revived Barberus, a crow, to send her a letter back since Hedwig was at Hogwarts and Ron said she was pretty conspicuous. It’s in the forbidden forest, if any of you want to meet it.”

Ginny didn’t really want to, but she didn’t really not want to either. What she really wanted was to know how and why they re-homed the Head of the D.M.L.E., thank you.

“So, uh, you remember reading about the attack on her house?” Harry hedged.

“There was a lot of awful damage to the house, Uncle Argie said there was a lot of blood too.” Neville looked very worried.

Harry winced badly. “Yeah about that. Madam Bones, she used this, it looked like a seal? She used it to sort of summon me to the scene.”

Ginny sucked in a breath. It felt like all the air had left the room.

“It was fine! We’re all fine!” Harry reassured in a rush, eyes darting between her and Neville and Luna, who now looked pointedly concerned. “I pulled Madam Bones into the kitchen as soon as I realized what had happened, blasted through the wards and the kitchen wall, had Filly carry her up to St Mungos, Expelliarmus’ed myself up to the second floor, and got Susan out. Well, Giffard did. They’re my revived dog. Big shaggy thing. Living with Am - Madam Bones now. It’s all okay, I wasn’t even hurt this time! Not past the bruising from the fall. And around my legs from riding a great big dog. Uric held off the Death Eaters. Or killed them, maybe. Didn’t really have time to look.”

“Isn’t Uric a mouse?” Neville asked cautiously, sounding not at all sure like he wanted the answer.

“And Filly’s pretty small, isn’t she?” Ginny asked, in the same vein.

Harry, looking not entirely like he was sure he wanted to share, set Uric gently on the floor. “Can you, uh, would you two mind …?” He asked politely.

In moments, both of them twisted and grew into something Ginny would generously, affectionately call abominations. Uric probably had as many eyes as she had fingers now. She no longer had any questions, or reservations, about how two very small animals had taken down any number of grown wizards.

Neville, across several beds from her and a bit to the left, looked similarly queasy and impressed.

“Giffard gets huge.” Harry remarked to break the ice, after the two had shrunk down and buried into him again.

Ginny was sure they did. If that was a mouse then she was absolutely, positively sure they did. Big enough to carry two school children at least.

“You were very lucky.” Luna said softly.

Harry, who looked like he wanted to disagree, decided the best course of action was to keep telling the story. “Well, I guess I was lucky I didn’t get any owls expelling me for underage magic”

“You wouldn’t have.” Neville shook his head. “Minors can’t become Lords, so your magic would have to be adult to accept it. Actually, it’s probably been adult for a while, since I bet winning the Triwizard, or Quadwizard, would have matured it.”

Hermione and Harry both started to look angry, bordering on murderous at the new information. Ginny remembered the trial before fifth year and felt just a little bit enraged herself.

Ron, smartly, took up the story before either of them could blow. “We kept Susan in one of the upstairs rooms of Grimmuald actually. Harry got Kreacher to bring her meals and everything.”

“Dunno how I got him to agree.” Harry growled. Confusion was starting to bleed through the rage though, helped by Uric nuzzling his hand furiously.

“I should send some letters.” Hermione announced, cold enough that Ginny, who knew her and her mannerisms quite well by now, nearly flinched. She suddenly pitied a number of Ministry desk clerks. The world feared the day Hermione learned how to send howlers. Not that they didn’t deserve it for pulling that court nonsense with Harry.

“You should.” Harry agreed darkly.

Ron cleared his throat. “We can do that after dinner. Maybe you should make a list?”

Hermione started making a list with cold, slow, calculated fury.

“Anyway, after that,” Ron plowed on with the grace of someone who was well used to his friends, “when Madam Bones got out of the hospital we took her to the Black Beach House. Masked of course. She has no idea it’s us. Anyway, it was absolutely infected with these, uh, we’ve been calling them groundylows. Grindylows in the walls. Not aquatic like they should be. Harry had to blast at least two dozen of them. She’s staying there now, seems like she’s moved in full time, or at least until there aren’t any more Death Eaters to come for her.”

“Groundylows.” Neville said hollowly. It was a harrowing idea.

It was also a very funny name, and Ginny allowed herself a chuckle.

Luna hummed. “Yes, I thought the subspecies had been wiped out in the 1860’s. I’m sure daddy would love a closer look if you capture one alive.”

“Right, we’re gonna get some for Hagrid anyway so it shouldn’t be a problem. We asked Madam Bones to round up a few.” Harry seemed mostly pacified, or at least not actively fuming.

“I’d love to learn more from you about their biology.” Hermione didn’t look up from her now very long list. Knowing her, it probably included time stamped crimes and misdoings. It was moments like this that reminded Ginny why she made it a life goal to never cross the witch.

Luna nodded. “We should have tea.” She lifted herself up in her seat a bit. “You missed Mrs Walford, she’s head of the Magical Monitoring department now, and was Co Head with Ms Sanderling before that.”

Hermione hummed attentively in response and began writing faster. Ginny did not shiver. She felt a little like it though. Poor Mrs Walford. If she’d tried to fuck Harry though, well. Let the curses rain down upon her.

“So, what are you doing now?” Neville asked.

“Well, we’ve started with learning how to control our magic wandlessly to help Harry stop reviving things when he get particularly emotional.” Hermione stated.

Ah. Right. Nothing big then.

Chapter Text

Harry watched Colin Creevy narrowly, narrowly, dodge the quaffle instead of even attempting to catch it and tried very hard not to sigh. Colin was one of the better students trying out as well. Nimble in the air, at least. Hadn’t been hit by a bludger yet. Admittedly, there were a lot of very miserable Quiddich team hopefuls trying out. He’d had to chase out so many first years he thought that almost the entire Gryffindor class must have shown up, along half a dozen Hufflepuffs and two Ravenclaws who thought it was very, very funny to try to pull one over on him. Over in the stands, a group of girls who had also been absolutely useless on their brooms giggled loudly. He ignored the stares they sent his way. He also ignored Hermione fingering her wand dangerously. Hermione did not like gossips, or pointedly loud giggling. Rolimda Vane, somewhere near the center of the cluster, commented just a little too loud on how good Harry looked on a broom. Harry ignored this too. It had been an exhausting day.

Seamus, in the middle of a wide loop now, had spent most of his turn in the air so far showing off to Dean. Dean who was loudly encouraging the other boy to pay even less attention to the ball and even more to flipping clumsily in the air. Harry felt a wave of relief as Seamus, at least, caught a pass from Katie Bell. It wasn’t exactly a difficult pass. But since he didn’t have to have one of the beater candidates on the ground fly them up yet another quaffle, Harry felt justified in his meager satisfaction.

He looked down at his watch, a late birthday gift from Dean, and felt inappropriately delighted that enough time had passed that no one could call him unfair for ending the last section of Chaser tryouts now. Fantastic. Thank Merlin. One step closer to being done.

“Alright!” Harry called, somehow managing to keep the glee from his voice and even almost sounding like he knew what he was doing. “Everyone back to the field!”

Colin, Seamus, Katie, and Nigel Wolpert all set down on the grass. Harry took the opportunity to stretch out his legs a bit. Luckily for him, there were only four people left hanging around for Keeper tryouts. Unluckily, he would have to trial them all separately. At least he’d taken care of the beaters already.

“Alright.” Harry called. “Our chasers this year will be Katie Bell, Ginny Weasley, and Demelza Robins.”

There was a crash of noise as the whole crowd seemed to object all at once. It took far, far too long to get them all to calm down. And several threats of violence. And ended with Ginny shouting herself half hoarse telling them all to shut, as she put it, the fuck up.

“Katie, head up in the air. You’ll be first to throw, then Ginny, then Demeleza. Keepers, lets see how well you can block their shots. Up first is” Harry squinted at the cluster of hopefuls, trying to remember the girls name. Anna? Abby? Alice. Alice Tolipan. “Tolipan. Do you best up there.”

Harry flew up to linger by the stands again, and watched as Alice narrowly blocked Katie’s first quaffle. He floated over to Neville instead of trying to pacify Hermione’s spiking temper. Seemed like the better option. If she wanted to curse someone, he was of the mind to let her. Plausible deniability, him being a good thirty plus feet away. And a little distance took him out of the firing range too. Probably. Not that he had done anything to make himself particularly cursable lately.

“So, Harry.” Neville, seated at the very edge of the benches, started nervously. “Do you know what a Lordship actually means?”

“Not a single clue.” Harry winced as Alice failed her second block. Ron had done great last year, and Harry was pretty sure no one could out keeper him this time either. He didn’t really have the heart to tell Neville that he could only really listen with half an ear right now. Still, you know, he should probably try to pay attention.

“Right.” Neville sighed. “Right. Alright. There’s a lot of messy politicking in there, couldn’t even begin to get into it, but originally Lords were assigned by the Wizengamot to take care of the magical needs of their lands. The Sacred 28 were the first families who got that responsibility, and its changed a bit since then, but the Blacks still had a lot of land to take care of. The Mortis’ probably had a little. The Potters won the Shafiq lands when they died out in the 40s. You might, well, you might think of looking into all that.”

“Just a sec Nev.” Harry raised his voice. “Good job Tolipan, three out of five isn't bad! Caruso, you’re up.” He turned back to his friend as the new keeper candidate lined up in front of the hoops. “So I’m a groundskeeper now? Like Hagrid? What’s the Sacred 28?”

Neville choked on a laugh and had to cough the knot out of his chest. “No Harry, nothing like that. Or, maybe a little like that. You’re in charge of keeping track of magic animal populations, smoothing out any big auric issues that pop up in magic dense areas, and making sure that no businesses or households in your lands wear the magic of any one place too thin. The Sacred 28 are a group of families that were awarded lands when the Statute of Secrecy first went up. Things have shifted around a bit since then though.”

“Half of what you said there makes no sense to me Neville.” Harry thought that maybe they should be taught this kind of thing in school. Or, maybe they were? Maybe that was what History of Magic was supposed to be. Tragic that Binns was allergic to being engaging. Luca Caruso took a quaffle to the face.

“Caruso, go get to Madame Pomfrey, your nose looks broken.” Harry called. “McLaggen, your turn.”

Cormac McLaggen, great prick that he was, strutted out to the hoops with exaggerated swagger before mounting his broom.

“So I’ve got to manage a bunch of magic stuff?” Harry asked Neville, face twisting sourly as McLaggen blocked Katie’s first shot with ease.

“Yeah.” Neville sounded strained. “You could say that.”

Harry sighed with force. That sounded like a lot of new responsibility, on top of everything. And there was a lot of everything. How did his life get here?

“We’re all here to help, don’t forget that.”

“Thanks Nev. It’s just all such a mess.”

“Don’t suppose there’s just an easy list of all the thing I’ve got to keep track of now?” It would be nice. And probably completely new to him.

“There are some books.” Neville said, dubious tone implying that those books would probably be either very dry or very strange.

“And how am I supposed to figure out what land I even need to take care of now?” Harry watched McLaggen block his fourth shot. He winked at Harry as he settled in to wait for the next ball. Harry turned to Neville so he wouldn’t have to watch.

“Usually you would just apply to the Ministry and they would give you a list of your lands and some maps, but we’ll probably have to go through the records ourselves if you’re trying to keep this all secret.” Neville was watching the plays. Very good of him.

Harry made a face at the thought of going through even more dusty old books. Worse even. History books. Maybe Hermione would think it was a fun solo project? Probably not, with his luck.

And then Neville made a very interesting face at the field. Harry turned back just in time to see McLagged shoot in the opposite direction of the ball, missing his fifth quaffle by a mile as it soared through the right hoop. He looked furious a moment later.

“Harry,” Neville said faintly. “I think Hermione just confunded one of your players.”

Harry looked at Hermione, who seemed to have eyes only for Ron as their friend straddled his broom nervously. Harry looked at McLaggen. Harry considered this.

“That’s okay, I think. I wouldn’t want to deal with him on the team anyway.” Harry wasn’t entirely alright with it, but he was much more comfortable with the idea than he might have been last year. Didn’t know how he felt about that, either.

Neville studied him for a moment, then shrugged. “Yeah, I guess wouldn’t want to deal with that either.”

Ron, despite his nerves this morning, seemed to have no trouble playing a flawless keeper.

“Who are the Sacred 28 anyway?” Harry asked, mostly for lack of anything else to contribute to the conversation.

“Abbot, Avery, Black, Bulstrode, Burke, Carrow, Crouch, Fawley, Flingt, Gaunt, Greengrass, Lestrange, Longbottom, MacMillan, Malfoy, Nott, Ollivander, Parkinson, Prewett, Rowle, Selwyn, Shacklebolt, Shafiq, Slughorn, Travers, Weasley.” Neville recited dully, like it was a habit more than a series of words. “Not that all of them still own land. The Weasleys lost theirs to the Malfoys about 250 years back, supposedly for mismanaging the land. And with the Prewetts all being wiped out and Mrs Weasley marrying into the Weasley family, well, she had her Lordship rights revoked since the Weasleys still aren't technically allowed to be Lords again. Draco’s dad kicked up a big fuss about it, back in the last war. The MacNairs have the Prewett land now. No one knows what happened to the Gaunts, but blood records say there’s still one floating around out there somewhere. The Burkes had a big criminal scandal in the 20s and the Lestranges and Carrows are all, were all, in Azkaban. I think Fudge got the Burke land, actually. The other two are undecided, but they’ve been contested for years. There’s a big fight going on right now for who gets to claim the Crouch land. My uncle Algie’s trying to convince Grandmother to get into it.”

“Draco’s dad is a dick.” Harry said, because he really didn’t know what to think about the rest of it. He couldn’t really see Slughorn taking care of a houseplant, let alone a whole section of the country.

“Oh yeah, the worst.” Neville agreed.

“What about the Mortis’?” Harry asked.

“They got the Pevrell land a long time ago, and the Pevrells got a little from the Selwyns in a dowry.”

“How do you even know all of this?” Harry couldn’t see himself memorizing this much inane wizarding history. He was barely passing History of Magic as it was.

“My grandma.” Neville shrugged. “She liked to show me off at parties.”

Harry thought that was very strange, but then maybe that was just what grandmothers did? “Sounds fun.”

Neville snorted.

Ron, having blocked all five attempts at a goal, let out a loud whoop and did an elated flip in the air. Harry could hear McLaggen bellow him cursing loudly. Ron was a great keeper, and Harry just knew he would be fantastic this year. He hoped Ron thought so too.

“Go down there and congratulate your Keeper. I’ll keep Hermione from confunding anyone else.” Neville smiled, slow and warm.

“You got it.” Harry laughed. He was just going to table the whole Lordship thing for now. Quiddich was way more important anyway. To him at least. And probably to Ron too.

He landed on the side of the pitch with ease, slipping off his broom and stretching his legs. Ron was still up in the air, but Ginny was chasing him closer and closer to the ground with a sly grin.

A heavy hand clapped onto his shoulder.

Harry turned to see the red face of Cormac McLaggen. “What?” He asked, not at all politely.

“Give me another shot. I’m a much better keeper than Weasley.” He spit.

“You had your trial, you lost, Ron won.” Harry didn’t feel like dealing with this.

“If you weren’t so busy playing favorites you’d know Weasley did something to me, had to.” McLaggen growled.

“No.” Harry shrugged off the older boy’s hand. “I said you had your trial. No one else’s fault you didn’t get that last shot.”

“Blatant bloody nepotism.” McLaggen swore back, shoulders curling up tensely. “Katie went easy on him, and so did his sister. It was obvious.”

“He almost missed Ginny’s shot, and he got the position fair and square McLaggen.” Harry was starting to get angry. He realized he was starting to get angry. He did his best to get not angry, because angry right now was bad. No more zombies, Harry. Even if McLaggen deserved to be hexed. He didn’t deserve to have to deal with more little guys.

“You would have picked him no matter how well I played.” McLaggen jabbed a finger against Harry’s chest, nearly looming over him.

“Then it really doesn’t matter what you say now, does it?” Harry snapped.

“You think you can get away with anything, don’t you.”

“Well you obviously think so.” Harry did not take a step back, or start shouting him down, or hex him. He felt like doing all of those things though. He was trying very, very hard to keep his emotions in check. Under his skin, his magic began to squirm.

“Give me another trial. A fair one, this time.” McLaggen was trying very hard to look like a douche.

“No.” Harry was not going to zombify a whole basilisk because of one 7th year arse with a superiority complex.

McLaggen took a swing at him. Harry was absolutely stupified as it hit, connecting solidly with his cheek. He hit the grass, palms digging into the sod. What the fuck.

Hissing rage hit him like an expelliarmus. He looked up at McLaggen, eyes burning and teeth clenched. His magic lashed at the world around him. Something skittered up his hand.

Harry closed his eyes. Harry took a deep breath. Harry stood up, took out his wand, and opened his eyes

“If you do that again, you’ll be spending the week in the hospital wing.” Harry pushed out through gritted teeth. Small, insectoid legs pricked at his arm, dragged at the fabric of his socks.

McLaggen looked almost surprised at himself, fist still hanging loosely in front of him. He shut his mouth, flexed his jaw, and stormed off. Harry watched him and did not hex him while his back was turned. Boy was it tempting.

“What was his problem?” Ron jogged up, half grinning and half scowling, eyes following the other boy as he crossed the wide field.

“Nothing. Stupid stuff.” Harry closed his eyes again and listened to his friend breathing heavily. He loosened his grip on his wand. He was okay. Ron was here and he was okay.

“I can give him detention, if you want.” Ron offered, completely content to make full use of his Prefect privileges.

Harry snorted. Something eased a little, in his chest, giving him a small foothold against his anger. “He’d probably break your jaw.”

“Double detention for that.” Ron laughed not at all kindly.

Harry smiled up at Ron. The insect on his arm moved again. Harry looked down and locked eyes with a large grasshopper. A large grasshopper with shiny, shiny green eyes. There was at least one more clinging to his socks. Shite.

Ron followed his gaze.

“Harry!” He whined sharply, somewhere between concern and exasperation.

Oops?

———

“How’s Harry?” Hermione asked, hearing the door to the room they had taken over for clandestine practice open but not looking up from the book in front of her, finger halfway down the page and tracing further through slowly as she scanned.

“Figuring out what to do with Eenie, Meenie, Minie, and Mo.” Ron sat down next to her with a shudder. “Least it wasn’t spiders.”

Hermione huffed. “McLaggen deserved worse. I mean he hit him!”

“Were you the one that ratted on him to McGonogal?” Ron pulled one of the books in front of her over to his side of the table and pulled out some parchment.

“No.” Hermione found the passage she was looking for, slid a thin ribbon under it, and looked up. “Katie did. She also talked me out of pulling a Lockhart special. I still think regrowing his bones would have been a learning experience.”

“Hermione.” Ron laughed. “We need you not expelled way more than McLaggen needs to wake up without arm bones.”

Hermione felt her face hear. She turned back to the reference text hastily. She still wasn’t used to that sort of thing, being complimented. “So he’s still up in the dorms?”

“Harry? Yeah, I think he’s still trying to zombie proof a terrarium.” Ron fumbled in his bag for a minute before victoriously pulling out a bottle of dark ink.

Hermione took the time to try to imagine Harry setting up a nice little glass tank for three grasshopper corpses and one beetle husk turned eldritch horrors. She could picture him nervously cutting a rectangle of grass from the grounds and hurrying with it through the halls. Even though she knew very little about insect care, she thought it was probably a good thing the little creatures were undead. The library couldn’t have a very comprehensive section on the care and keeping of pests for fun and leisure.

“What are we looking at today then?” Ron asked.

“Everlasting Elixir.” Hermione pushed over the ratty potions text in front of her. Scribblings covered most of the page, some so cramped the words were hard to make out. Tucked behind the page was a sheet of parchment with the instructions, and modified instructions, transcribed over readibly. The Half Blood Prince seemed to have a lot of thoughts on this one.

“I’ll make the recipe from the textbook, you’ll do the Prince’s version, and we can compare steps along the way.” She still didn’t know exactly why all of the revisions were helpful. Hogwarts had a vast section of potions references, but most were journals or research texts and there was almost no compendium of current potions knowledge. It would help if she knew where to look, and sometimes that meant doing a little experimenting. Or a lot of experimenting.

Ron looked over the page and hummed. “Prince seems real upset about the inclusion of salt.”

Hermione had noted that herself. “I think its inclusion originally had something to do with Everlasting Elixir’s usage in food preservation, but it could have been added without much other purpose, or to make up for a lack of an ingredient we have more access to now.” She sighed. “Doesn’t much matter if we can’t figure out why.” And really, that was what she was trying to figure out. Or where Prince learned to modify potions so effectively. She would take that too.

“If it works, it works.” Ron shrugged. “Could have just been an experiment that turned out well.”

“I suppose.” Hermione eyed the book skeptically.

“I thought we were doing the Regerminating Potion today.” Ron held their place and flipped back through the book before stopping to look at the entry in question. “That’s what we’re doing in potions this week, isn’t it?”

“It is.” Hermione conceded reluctantly. “But most of the modifications are simple. Grind instead of dice, chicken feet instead of crows’ feet, the addition of solution of earthworm. I can figure out why they’re changed, even if I don’t know how Prince came to all of those conclusions. I have no idea what the purpose of any of these here in Everlasting are, except for keeping the horse pearls whole.”

Ron looked over her transcription of the instructions. “Well, removing the static root before putting it on to boil would keep the flavor from becoming too bitter.”

“A modification for taste?” Hermione leaned over his arm to get a better look at the parchment. That was an interesting idea.

“Could be.” Ron shrugged. “You add static root in for the shock, not much reason to leave it there.”

Oh. Oh that was brilliant.

“I could kiss you right now.” Hermione beamed, words tumbling out before she fully processed them. It was an incredible deduction.

“You could?” Ron looked startled, halfway to wary.

Well. How very flattering of him. Honestly. “Just get out the cauldrons.”

“Right.” Ron said. She could see him mouthing something to himself and politely didn’t comment.

Instead, she stowed the three reference texts in her bag, bookmarking her place in each with care. She could get back to them later.

Ron set up the cauldrons and crossed the room to take down jars of ingredients. He seemed determined to carry as many of them over in one trip as could conceivably fit in his arms. She didn’t laugh watching him stumble forwards, balancing the top of one under his chin so it didn’t tip onto the floor. She felt like it, of course, but startling him could ruin all of their ingredients for the day.

He set the pile down with a clunk. Hermione had to quickly rescue one runaway jar from rolling straight off the table. At least all the quick casting practice in the DA had improved her reflexes.

“Thanks.” Ron said bashfully, tips of his ears going red.

“Well, it was just the salt. Wouldn’t have done much harm if it rolled off anyway.” She put the jar down in front of her and busied herself turning on her cauldron burner.

Ron, next to her, sorted out the ingredients. After a moment, he hurried over to the single cabinet in the room and came back with a tall stack of small bowls. She helped him pre measure the ingredients, sorting through the steps of the potion on her mind.

Heat water until uncomfortably warm. Mix honey until combined fully. Add three crushed horse pearls and appropriate measurement of crushed sparrow’s eggshell. Stir twice clockwise. Pour in salt and stir until water is clear. Add static root and let sit for 3 minutes. Potion should be a dull, translucent blue and bouncy to the touch. Cube dried silver soot vine and add, stirring clockwise slowly until root settles to the bottom of the cauldron. Set to boil for 9 minutes. She could do the second stage of her prep then.

Alright.

She picked up the pitcher of water waiting beside her cauldron and held it up to cheers with Ron’s. “Let’s get started.” She was going to figure this out. No matter how long it took.

———

“So what are we doing in this super special secret old classroom?” Ginny stared at him blankly, perched on top of a bright pink pillow on the ground of their appropriated classroom.

“I told you.” Ron huffed. “Wandless magic. Sort of. The start of it.” Damn little sisters.

“Yeah, you said that before. Pretty unbelievable.” Ginny raised a single eyebrow at him, which he would almost admit was impressive. This was off to a promising start.

“Listen, do you want to learn or not?” Honestly, no appreciation for his hard work.

“We want to learn.” Neville, sitting next to Ginny, interrupted. “Please, what do we need to do?”

“Thank you Neville.” Finally some respect around here. “So we’re starting out with meditation. On your own, from now on, do some mediation every day. Pick out your emotions as they come up too. And, most importantly, try to feel your magic.”

Ginny groaned and leaned back, hands coming to rest behind her on either side of the large pillow. “What does that even mean?”

“Just close your eyes and focus on your magic until you can feel it.” Ron shrugged. He was only starting to get the idea. It wasn’t like he was some sort of expert.

“Helpful.” Ginny snarked.

“It makes sense to me.” Luna nodded at him primly, adjusting herself so that her tower of three cushions was a little less precarious.

Ron sent her a relieved look. At least someone was trying.

“We can try at least.” Neville looked down at his hands.

“Luna, can you explain it better?” Ginny groused.

“Come on!” Ron snapped. He felt his face going red. “Seriously?”

“Well if you’d be a little more specific I wouldn’t have to ask.” Ginny rolled her eyes.

“Magic is the core of all of us. We just have to find ourselves and follow it all the way to the bottom.” Luna had her eyes closed now and her brow was slowly creasing in concentration.

Ginny made a weak sort of whining noise. That didn’t really mean much to Ron either.

“Just try it.” Ron tried his best to sound confident. From Ginny’s look, it didn’t seem like she was convinced. Still, she closed her eyes and settled herself into a straight backed seated position.

“What does it feel like to you?” Neville’s twisted his fingers around each other.

“Sort of warm.” Ron said, trying to put the feeling into words. It felt like a wildfire far, far away. It felt like cold coal remembering what it was like to burn. It felt like crawling back into bed after getting up in the night to piss and finding the nest of blankets still saturated with body heat. “Its in my chest, sort of buzzing there, but its everywhere too. Its comforting, safe, like Mum’s cooking.”

Ginny hummed, but didn’t respond otherwise.

“How did you find it?” Neville looked very anxious.

“It just sort of happened. I’m not very good at it yet, but you’ll find it too Nev. Even if it takes a bit. Hermione hasn’t found hers yet and its been weeks. Just keep at it.” Hell, Neville might be better at it than all of them. He’d managed to get an unsuited wand to work for him for years. Hermione was still stuck following around ghosts of left over magic from spells. Ron could only find his core after a while meditating. He was getting quicker every day though. Harry, lucky bastard that he was, had no problems at all.

Oh! “Hey Neville, do you remember what it felt like when you connected to your wand, the right one, for the first time.”

“Yeah.” Neville had a sort of awed, soft look in his eyes. “It was pretty amazing.”

“Try to feel that again.” Ron thought he actually might really be confident this time, not just pretending. “That tingly, warm feeling? That’s magic. Look for that.”

“Thanks Ron.” Neville nodded. He closed his eyes.

Ron didn’t think any of them were going to really find their magic this time. Not the big bit. That was okay though. It took a lot of practice, and a lot of instinct. He was excited to see them progress though. He shifted around on his own sitting pillow. They were all smuggled in from the common room. Pillows got destroyed or went missing all the time, he was pretty sure there was a whole warehouse of them somewhere. Maybe the elves made them to unwind?

Right, right. He should practice too.

Ron closed his eyes, folded his hands over one another, and took a slow breath that swelled in his chest like a bellows. His breath was hot on the exhale. He followed the heat back through his throat on the inhale, breath stretching his lungs until they pushed uncomfortably against his rib cage. On the exhale, he found the beat of his heart. He didn’t try to dig in, didn’t try to force it. He just felt his breath in his chest and let the heat inside him build and build. Light orange danced in the corners of his eyes like firecrackers. It was like watching a flower unfold. Slow, slow progress. The wrinkles in his chest smoothed out.

He could feel it now, at the edges. He knew the center was there, too, but he couldn’t reach it yet. He didn’t push. He let himself drown closer and closer. Spinning like water down a drain. His skin, far away from his mind, felt like it was being caressed by steam. The fingertips of his awareness skimmed across the surface of his magic, crackling like lightning as they connected. It didn’t hurt. It was almost too much, almost too hot, but he could tolerate it. He wanted more.

He wanted more.

It felt warm. Warm and orange and if it had a smell, it would have smelled like waking up on his birthday. It would have felt like smooth wood grain under his feet. He could only see the shallows of it, the waves breaking on the shore. He wanted to wade in until he could see the center of it, but even the lightest touch burned. Magic swirled in the rest of his body like mist, like fog. He watched it dance.

He watched it dance.

He watched it dance.

“Ron!” A hand latched onto his shoulder, gentle touch tipping his world sideways.

“Huh?” Ron’s head swam. Damn. Happened again. Oh it was always so disorienting.

“Were you asleep?” Ginny looked almost worried. Awww.

“No, no, just it’s a little, well, consuming I guess. Powerful.” Ron shrugged, face heating with embarrassment. The shadows in the room had changed, grown longer. “How, uh, how long was I out?”

“Couple hours I think.” Ginny shrugged, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she stood up from her crouch in front of him. “We’ve been chatting a bit, waiting for you, but you weren’t really coming out of it. It’s almost dinner time.”

He could definitely eat. Magic always made him hungry. “Sounds great.” Ron stretched his arms up over his head.

“I didn’t find anything, Neville didn’t either, but Luna did.” Ginny trotted over to where their bags were piled up on one of the tables on the edge of the room.

“It was cold, like dew.” Luna said thoughtfully. “Or melon in the summer.”

“Cool.” Ron cracked his neck. It was pretty neat. Harry said his magic was sort of like water or snakes, all squirmy. Maybe it was different for everyone?

“Yes, precisely.” Luna nodded.

Ginny stifled a laugh.

“I’ll practice again tonight.” Neville didn’t seem too put out at least. Thank Merlin.

“Until then, I’m ready for dinner.” Ron stood up, a little wobbly on his feet. He wanted to get there early. Maybe the rolls would still be warm.

“I’ll catch up in a bit, I think I’m going to stay a little longer.” Neville shifted like he was making to sit down again.

“No way.” Ron caught an arm around his shoulders. “We’ve got roast duck tonight! You can’t miss out on that. Hermione’s gonna want to grill you about how today went too. No way I’m braving that on my own.”

Neville sent him a bashful smile. “Ah, if you insist.”

“I do. Come on then, can’t be late.”

———

Harry entered the abandoned classroom with speed. And noise. He made a beeline for the tall pile of pillows and blankets that took up a good section of the floor. His first priority was to flop down face first. Oh, that felt great. He made a weak sort of noise.

“You alright Harry?” Hermione sounded like she was laughing at him. What a horrible friend she was.

“Fine.” Harry lifted his head just enough to make himself audible. “Went great.”

“Sure it did.” Ron actually did laugh. Evil, horrible friends. So unsympathetic.

He turned his head so he could watch Ron adjust hims seat on a squishy red pillow on the floor, coming out of his meditative pose lazily. “It did.” Harry whined, cheek squished up on the dark red fabric.

“What did Dumbledore want with you anyway?” Ron said as he stretched.

Harry groaned long and loud before answering, muffling himself with a pillow. “Showed me a someone’s memory, actually, to start.”

“Really?” Hermione sounded interested.

“Yeah it was all kind of a mess. The last Head of the DMLE, or something like that, went to visit this family, the Gaunts, cause he thought one of them, Morfin, might have attacked a muggle. Anyway, it all broke into chaos. Morfin attacked the guy, then Marvolo, his dad, backed him up, and then the dad attacked his daughter when she said that she loved the muggle. It was all a huge mess. Apparently the dad and the brother both got put in in Azkaban. Six months for the dad and three years for the brother.” His life was so complicated now.

“That sounds awful Harry.” Hermione soothed.

“Yeah, but the weird bit here, apparently the daughter, Merope, is actually Voldemort’s mum and that muggle she was in love with, Tom Riddle Snr, is his dad. She drugged him up with love potion to get pregnant. He left when she stopped drugging him, but still, that’s all just. I mean you’d never expect, right?” Harry still felt a little horrified by it.

“Love potion.” Hermione gasped.

“That’s pretty bad.” Ron hissed sympathetically. “Like, medically.”

Hermione looked as interested as she was disgusted. “Medically?”

“Yeah. There was this huge thing back when I was like eight. There’s these love potion chocolates, just supposed to make you feel a little giddy. Some witch had one and had a big allergic reaction, it was all over the Prophet. Kids conceived with one or more people under love potion are supposed to be super allergic. Mostly to love potions, but someone a few decades ago even had it bad enough to get hives from a cheering potion. She found out when the allergy test came back.” Ron popped his neck with a twist. Harry thought it sounded painful, but he seemed to like it. “Mum spent a few weeks talking about it constantly.”

“That’s horrible. That poor woman.” Hermione said sadly.

“Hey, do you think Voldemort’s allergic to love potion?” Harry asked thoughtfully. Sure would be convenient.

The room paused.

“No, couldn’t be.” Ron shook his head. “I mean, he’s not even in his original body.”

“Well, if its a magical allergy then he might be.” Hermione answered tentatively.

They all thought about it. And then thought about it some more.

“Couldn’t be.” Harry said, at last. Seemed like a pretty big oversight to build a body and forget to fix your allergies.

“Yeah.” Ron agreed.

“I’ll look into it.” Hermione scribbled a note in the margins of what was, if he was guessing right, probably the second draft of her potions essay.

Great. Hermione would look into it. He was just going to forget all about that tonight. Meditation was a great way to pretend your life wasn’t nearly as messy as it really was.

Voldemort. Allergic to love potion. Now that was just too ridiculous to be true.

———

“Hey are you sure we aren’t anywhere near the acromantula nest.” Ron asked nervously.

“Not at all.” Harry responded firmly. He had no clue at all. He, honestly, had no idea where he was going either. He’d been keeping track of loosely where they were in relation to the castle. But that was about it. He wasn’t even sure where the acromantula were, it’d been years since he was there and he hadn’t even been paying much attention to where he was headed at the time. Just following the spiders. Not really watching the trees much.

“Great.” Ron bit out. “Great.”

“Don’t worry Ron.” Hermione consoled. “I’m sure the Ford Angela is still here somewhere.”

“Not sure that’s comforting.” Ron sighed.

Harry swore softly as he tripped over a tree root and stumbled into a trunk. Even with all of their wands lit up it was still dark and very spooky in the Forbidden Forest.

“Alright there Harry?” Hermione put a hand on his arm.

“Yeah.” He straightened up. “Thanks.”

“Maybe we should have asked Hagrid where the centaurs live.” Hermione navigated around the offending root.

“It’s Hagrid.” Ron responded delicately. “I love him too, but he’s not really very good with secrets.”

“We’ve been wandering for hours. It’s the middle of the night.” Hermione was really the last person he thought would be complaining about that. Harry was pretty sure she didn’t sleep at all the week before exams. Maybe she just didn’t like the outdoors?

“That just means we’ve gotta be close.” Ron said hopefully.

“Sure.” Hermione clearly didn’t share his sentiment.

“Maybe we should start calling for them?” Harry suggested. He was getting pretty tired of all this walking too.

“In the Forbidden Forest? In the middle of the night?” Ron sounded truly baffled and affronted. Yeah. That was probably fair. Bad idea Harry.

“Well, I don’t want to be here all night.” Hermione grumbled.

“And I don’t want to wander into an acromantula nest.” Ron snapped. Then he sighed. “Look. We’re all tired. Why don’t we look for another couple minutes and then head back.”

“Thank Merlin.” Hermione pepped right up.

“Look for what, wizard children?”

Harry yelped and spun towards the noise around, eyes wide.

“Fuck!” Ron just about jumped out of his skin. “Bloody hell. You’re scary quiet.”

“Thank you?” Firenze pushed some brush aside and stepped through into the little deer trail in front of them.

“Its good to see you Firenze.” Harry felt like a great weight had been lifted off his chest. Oh thank Merlin. A centaur.

“Great, actually.” Ron had a hand over his chest like his heart might burst through his rib cage at any moment.

“We’ve been looking for you for hours.” Hermione sounded about as relieved as he felt.

“For me?” Firenze looked at them curiously.

“Well, for the centaurs.” Harry responded helpfully. Thank Merlin. Oh thank Merlin. His feet were sore.

“And why are you looking for my people in the middle of the night?”

“Oh. Uh. Is it okay if we dump a bunch of rodent bones and dungeon muck and a huge basilisk corpse in your forest?” Harry really didn’t feel like beating around the bush.

“Harry!” Hermione scolded. “That makes it sound awful.”

“We came out here to ask.” Honestly, why wouldn’t he lead with that?

“Well, yes. But there are nicer ways to do it.” Hermione caved.

“You’re welcome to do as you like, we may be guardians of these woods but we do not own them. If you need anyone’s permission, I suspect it would be your Headmaster Dumbledore.” Firenze was looking at them strangely. Harry couldn’t see what kind of strangely it was, in the poor light, but he could tell it was strange.

The three traded a look.

“Yeah we’re not doing that.” Ron said, eventually.

“Thank you, for the permission.” Harry gave Firenze an awkward sort of half bow. He wasn’t really sure what centaur etiquette was, but that was probably respectful everywhere. He was pretty sure that counted as permission.

“Yes, thank you very much.” Hermione smiled wide enough that it dimpled her cheeks a little.

“There is nothing to thank me for, tonight.” Firenze seemed grateful anyway. So, that made it worth the trip. Probably. “Do you need help getting back to the castle?”

“Yes.” Hermione nodded rapidly.

“I actually remember the way back.” Harry had been in here enough times that it felt negligent not to know his way around. Or, at least know the way back to the castle. So he didn’t know where the killer spiders were, hex him.

“Just tell us which way the acromantula nest is. Really don’t want to run into that.” Ron shivered tellingly.

“… I will guide you back to safety.” Firenze didn’t seem to know what to make of them. Harry was too tired to worry about that right now, though.

“Just please don’t tell Professor Dumbledore we were out here.” That was all Harry needed now, really. Dumbledore asking him why he was wandering around the forest in the middle of the night. Again.

“I will not, you have my word.” It really was lucky that Firenze liked him so much.

Great. Now he could get to bed some time before the sun came up. Just an hour or two of tripping over brush left to go. Yay. His lucky day.

“Thank you, Firenze.” Harry turned around to point in the direction he thought the castle was. “That way?”

“Only if you want to end up in the acromantula nest.”

Oh joy. Well, it was a good thing they had a guide now he supposed. No need for Mr Weasley’s car to come rescue them a second time.

Chapter Text

It was blurry. It was blurry and he was falling. It was blurry and he was falling and -

The world was sharp, too sharp, it cut into him like curses and frost and it tingled in his fingers and there was a sick, hollow feeling in his throat.

He didn’t recognize where he was. It was dark, so dimly lit the corners of his vision faded seamlessly into shadow. Stone on either side of him carved smooth, speckled grey and nearly glassy in the domed walls. The tile beneath him was smooth, too, a lighter shade, white with thick veins of grey and black. He was moving, robes swishing around his ankles as he entered a tall chamber with a slow, even strut.

He knew this place. Not a thing in it was familiar, but he knew it. The Malfoy dungeons.

He parted his lips, hardly recognizing the shape of his face and the creak of his jaw, and spoke in a quiet sort of hiss, “So good of you to make it.”

There wasn’t a single light source here. No torches or chandeliers. A pale, cold light gave shape to the figures within all the same. The sourceless illumination erased all shadows.

A wide pit yawned at the center of the room, shallowly curved like one of Aunt Petunia’s decorating bowls. He could only see the edges of it. The center was occupied. Human corpses, dozens of them, lay there still. Broken, bloodied, torn, spotlessly pristine, and piled like scrap. Dull, slack eyes were open wide, boring aimlessly into the empty space. Faces twisted in echoes of pain and fear.

Around the edges, hooded figured gathered in a loose semi circle facing the door. All masked in caricatures of human skulls, twisted and ornamented.

Except for one.

Robeless and maskless, dressed only in a pale smock, she gazed on him with a fevered sort of awe. She was shaking.

He stepped forwards. Fitted, leather boots made a soft noise against the stone. It echoed.

“Do you have anything new to report, before we begin, Lucius.” His voice, deliberate consonants and silibant vowels, carried with ease. It was the only sound in the chamber. He knew the man before him had nothing new. He knew he had nothing at all. Was nothing at all.

One of the figures stepped forwards. It dropped into a kneeling position. “No, my Lord. I am still investigating Mortis’ defense fo the Bones woman. We should have memories of one of the aurors on the scene by the end of the week.”

It was a stinging sort of displeasure, like rot or stretching a limb long since grown numb. Expected. And not one he should have to suffer alone.

“Crucio.” His arm, long and thin and mostly bone, held his wand aloft in front of him.

Lucius screamed and crumpled to the floor, robe splayed on the pale tile like a blood stain. It was what he deserved, for failure. Less than he deserved. The man should be grateful that seeing him in such a wretched state was enough to satisfy him. That this small pain was enough. For now.

He held the curse as the seconds ticked on. It felt like lightning in his veins. Lucius was screaming. Disgusting.

He released his magic. It was always disappointing to do so, but Lucius still had his uses. Oh, how he anticipated the day when the wizard did not. As soon as the little Malfoy could replace him, he would show Lucius the price of his failures. The wretch cared for his wife, did he not? How quickly would he beg if he started with her. How far would his cries carry when she died, choking on her own bloody throat.

Lucius gasped wetly, breath catching as he struggled. He tried to push himself upright, but his arms gave out. He tried again, coming to a seat. Trembling. If there was anything to be said about his capabilities, at least he had a high tolerance for curses. For pain. He wasn’t sure he liked that. Roaches were supposed to be hearty, however. So, it was fitting.

“Thank you for your mercy, my Lord.” Lucius rose to his feet, putting most of his weight onto his cane. He wondered if his legs would give, too. Perhaps it would be an excuse to punish him again, for his weakness. For his insolence.

“You are lucky you still have some value to our cause.” He turned away from the wizard. Lucius was just an appetizer, after all.

The woman, stood apart from the others, had collapsed to her knees. She stared up at him with blank devotion, even as she shook. Revolting.

“Mrs Snyde.” He purred. “I’ve heard of your revernce for our cause.” He let a hand reach out to brush his knuckles along her cheekbone. He would have to cleanse himself later. Thoroughly.

“Anything for you, my Lord.” She whispered like it was a prayer.

“And yet you still cannot hold a wand.” She had been a great duelist, years ago. Azkaban had taken its toll. Even with all these months to recover and still she could only cast the simplest of spells.

“I will. I swear my Lord. I’m improving every day.” Tears sprung up in her eyes. He pulled his hand away before she could dirty it further with her pathetic little show.

“Don’t worry. You’ve serves me faithfully all these years. I brought you here tonight to reward you.” There were some ways that even the most worthless of his servants could still be useful to him, after all.

“Thank you, my Lord, thank you. Anything for you my Lord. Anything.” She sobbed, shaking growing heavier as the motion wracked her frame.

There was only so long he could be expected to put up with this.

“Come, stand.” He flicked her wand, magic pulling her to her feet.

She muttered out reverent gratitudes. Her eyes were dull, glassy like the stone walls of the chamber. Tears streaked her face.

“You may not be able to cast, but you still have magic. That’s all that matters so me now.” He laid the point of his wand against her chest. He would have to clean it, too. She still had quite a lot of magic. And he needed that magic. That fuel. It was all prepared.

He cast.

Her body launched backwards, limp and graceless.

“My Lor-?”

And then she began to scream.

The corpses, in a great writing mass, dragged her into their clutches. They tore at her, ripping into her flesh and magic. Swarming like ants, or maggots.

Magic swelled in the air, ripe and heavy. He breathed it in, euphoric. He needed more inferius, and needed magic to create them. Why would he waste his own, when there were so many disappointments who would serve him better with their death than with their life.

He watched his creations change as they consumed, flesh greying and veins bulging. More proof of his defiance against the limitations imposed by a society so terrified of growth and power that they dared cast him aside. Proof of his future victory. Mrs. Snyde, the naive old woman, found the strength to struggle, to reach out for him. She should know her role, by now. How disappointing.

“Crucio.”

- Harry woke with a start, blood like fire down his face and ice in his veins. He turned sharply, fingers wrestling with his blankets, and retched off the side of the bed.

He was shaking.

———

Harry felt an immediate and quickly consuming wave of dread.

See, it all started when Hermione and Ron dragged him to their little, out of the way classroom, arms bundled with their old Grimmauld robes and his worn dragon leather herbology gloves. Needed help with a potion, they said. Explosion risk, they said. You’ll just put the gloves on and help stabilize the cauldron, Harry. Easy. Why do you need the robes, Hermione? What do you mean you’re going to soak them in an explosive potion?

Now, that was all pretty dreadful, of course.

But it wasn’t the point. Not this time.

The point was that he’d had to clean out the robes pockets. Which shouldn’t have had much of anything in them at all. Maybe some loose knuts or a bit of lint or a crumpled to do list. He wasn’t supposed to find a pin. It was a very nice pin. About the size of his fingernail, gold, pretty little stylized M made out of some sort of red stone. Maybe a ruby, maybe not, he didn’t really know that much about stones. Garnets were red, right?

Harry’s first thought had been “Why is there a Malfoy crest in a Black robe pocket?”

His second thought was. “That’s not a Malfoy crest.”

His third thought was. “Oh no. The vampires. The vampires from Knockturn. Oh no.”

What he said out loud was. “Ron? Hermione? D’you remember those vampires?”

“From Knockturn? Sure.” Hermione was carefully sorting through a large jar of something dark red that made an unpleasant sort of squelching noise. Many unpleasant sort of squelching noises.

“What did they say to me again?” Harry’s voice was high and bordering on hysterical, but then his mood was also bordering on hysterical, so it felt about right.

“Something about talking to their Monarch?” Ron was carefully massaging some distinctly herbal looking green lard into the inside of the cauldrons. “Why do you ask mate?”

Harry turned around and showed them the pin. “You suppose its okay if I just pretend I never saw this?”

Ron squinted at the pin, but didn’t cross the room to come see, so Harry figured it just looked like a little gold lump to him. “Hermione, have you read much on vampires?”

“Well, they’re very big on manners.” Hermione did not look up from her jar. Her skin was drenched past her wrists in something that looked a little too red to be blood, and was untangling a mess of thin little wriggling, rootlike clumps with her fingers gently.

“Bring that over here Harry.” Ron had green lard all over his sleeves of his potions robe. Now that he knew just a little bit more about fabrics, not much mind you but a little, Harry really didn’t know why Snape wore those fancy robes to teach when potions was such messy work. Or Slughorn, for that matter. Though, he supposed neither of them was a very practical sort of person.

Harry brought the pin over. He even held it out for Ron to looks at.

“You reckon the M stands for Monarch then? Did the vampires give you this?” Ron asked.

Harry nodded sadly.

“Well, we probably can’t just ignore them.” Ron turned back to his cauldron.

“What do I do?” Harry was sixteen years old and he was above wailing morosely. That was a Malfoy thing to do and he absolutely refused. So that meant it very much wasn’t what he was doing right now.

“Bring that over here Harry.” Hermione was working very carefully on her lump of ingredient.

“Sure.” Harry brought it over to Hermione and held it up a respectable six inches from her face.

“That’s not really a very helpful pin, is it?” Hermione plopped a red lump of something that looked uncomfortably like a heart down onto her cutting board. Well, if hearts had a lot of wavy little tendrils, that was. “No address or anything.”

“Should I write them a letter?” Harry really didn’t know what else to do.

“I don’t really know much about vampires. Pretty insular lot.” Hermione wiped her hands on a rag that had at some point probably been white, before all the stains. The lump on the cutting board started trying to pull itself towards him.

“So I shouldn’t write them a letter, then?” Was he supposed to do a floo call? Or go visit? He didn’t even have an address. “And, Hermione, what is that?”

Hermione looked at him and then sighed meaningfully. “It’s heartroot, Harry, preserved in decoction of rosemary. Don’t worry about it.” She looked over at Ron and inspected his progress. He had most of his arm in the cauldron. “Fine. I’ll go get Neville.”

She picked up the heartroot and dropped it back into the jar. Harry watched it burrow into the mass of tentacles and then still. He was going to take her advice and not worry about it. Hermione gave very good advice, after all.

Hermione was halfway out the door when she turned and spoke again. “If you want to help, then you can grease up one of the other cauldrons. We need at least three.”

“Right.” Harry responded.

The door clicked shut.

He picked up a block of lard from next to Ron and pulled a cauldron off the table. He also changed into one of their smock robes, because there was no way that wasn’t going to stain. Even with his abysmal potions skills he figured he could grease a cauldron. Couldn’t be that different from greasing a baking pan.

“So, what are we making?” He asked as he settled in with his lard.

“Hermione wants to enchant some robes with magic resistance.” Ron grinned.

“Potions are used in enchanting?” Harry didn’t know that he knew what either enchanting or magic resistance meant, but he thought enchanting had something to do with runes.

“Sometimes.” Ron shrugged. “Just means making something magical, really. Lots of ways to do that.”

“Oh, cool.” That did sound interesting. And cool. He didn’t ask what magic resistance was. He’d find out or he wouldn’t. Instead, he greased his cauldron in silence.

Ron also greased his cauldron in silence.

There was a knock at the door.

“Uh, come in?” Harry called. Was Hermione back already? That seemed a little quick. And why would she knock?

Luna stepped through the door.

“Hey Luna.” Harry greeted. He wasn’t expecting her. But he was always happy to see her, so, it didn’t really matter if he was expecting her or not.

“Hello Harry, hello Ron.” Luna picked a dark grey pillow from the pile off to the side and put it on the floor. Then she set a mellow reddish one on top of it. And then she set a tan one on top of that. And then she sat down and pulled out an oldish looking book with a lot of worn silver gilding.

“Hey Luna. Come back to meditate?” Ron looked up from his work to smile at her.

“Oh, no. I’m looking for Neville. He’ll be here soon, wont he?”

“Yeah, Hermione’s going to go get him.” Harry didn’t know how Luna knew that though. “Do you know anything about vampires?”

Luna hummed thoughtfully. “I met one, once. Very polite. We had an article once about how ex Minister Fudge was secretly a vampire, but it was a joke. He’s really an Iberian Chiffchaff.”

“Right.” Harry nodded. “What’s an Iberian Chiffchaff?” How would someone even know if an article in the Quibbler was a joke, when Luna just went around saying things like that. That was a pretty great joke, though, he had to admit.

“It’s a kind of bird.” Luna said, as if this was common knowledge.

“Right.” He should probably just go back to his greasing and wait for Hermione.

So he did.

Eventually, Hermione turned up with a very harried looking Neville and a decidedly curious Ginny. She left them in the center of the room and plunged her hand back into the jar of squirming heartroots. It made another long, unpleasant sort of squelching noise.

“You an go ahead and explain, Harry.” She announced absentmindedly.

“Hey Neville, do you know how I would write a letter to a vampire?”

Neville just sighed.

Ginny started laughing. No one appreciated his struggles.

“I’m serious. A vampire in Knockturn told me their Monarch wanted to meet me, or something. I found this pin in my old robes, its over there on the table.” He gestured with a shoulder. “So I figured I should probably write them a letter, or something.”

“How does this happen to you?” Neville asked, looking at him like he was some kind of ridiculous show dog with a very ugly hair cut. Maybe one of those fuzzy little mops Aunt Petunia always rooted for.

“I don’t know.” Harry groaned. He didn’t. He’d really like to, someday. He’d really, really like to. “At least its not a basilisk this time. Oh, speaking of, are you three free this weekend?”

“Yes.” Ginny responded reluctantly after a long, quiet moment.

“Of course.” Luna followed.

“Why?” Neville, the wisest of them, asked.

“We’ve got to clean out the Chamber if we’re going to do that thing in it at the start of winter break.” Harry apologized. “Its kind of disgusting down there. And we need to move the basilisk corpse, at some point, so I don’t accidentally necromize it.” He thought for a moment. “Is necromize the right word?”

“Necromanticize doesn’t really sound right.” Ron squished up his face in thought. “I guess I’d say zombify, but your little guys don’t really act like any zombie I’ve ever read about.”

“You read?” Hermione was very carefully taking a sharp silver knife to the heartroot.

“Oh har har.” Ron grumbled.

“None of those are even words, though.” Hermione was right. Harry didn’t think those were words at all.

But. “We still need to get it out of there, just in case.”

“How?” Ginny went to join Luna, stacking up a couple pillows of her own. “I don’t know if that huge thing can fit through the halls.”

“It can’t what?!” Neville wheezed.

“Oh come on, it’s not that big. So long as we do it after curfew I’m sure all six of us could sneak it out into the forest.” Harry defended. It wasn’t like they had any better ideas.

“Five. I have an early bed time.” Luna corrected him softly.

“Can you be late just one night? Even with the six of us it might still be tough.” Harry thought that with just five of them, well, he didn’t know how they were getting it up the pipes anyways. So maybe it would be just as bad with five as with six, but the extra wand couldn’t hurt.

“I suppose, for you.” Luna conceded after a moment.

“Great!” Harry grinned.

Hermione coughed. “The vampires, Harry.”

“Oh, right, the vampires.” He turned back to Neville. “Do vampires even do letters?”

“Everyone does letters.” Neville soothed. “I don’t know why you’re looking at me though. It’s not like I know anything about vampire rules.”

“Damn.” Harry swore. There went the easy way out.

“But you know fancy pureblood rules, don’t you?” Ron interjected.

“Yes.” Neville said, like the words might bite.

“Lets just use that then. I mean, its better than nothing. Not like we know a vampire we can just ask.” Ron set down his mangled lump of lard victoriously. He didn’t try to move the cauldron back over the burner though. With his greasy hands, moving a big hunk of metal like that wasn’t going to be easy.

Neville levitated it over to the unlit flame. Oh right. Magic. “I guess we could try.”

“Fantastic.” Ron moved over to the next big cauldron. “There’s parchment and ink in the chest over in the corner. The darker one, the greyish one has a bunch of books in it. It’s old parchment, but it’s plenty fancy.”

“Do you think we should illuminate it? Like use those fancy letters like in old books?” Ginny said, displaying her massive intellect.

“Can you do that Nev?” Ron wiped his hands all down the front of his smock robe.

“Well,” Nevile hesitated, “Yes, but I’m not sure that's necessary.”

“It looks important, doesn’t it?” Ron was staunchly on his sister’s side.

“If you insist.” Neville stepped over to the dark wood chest with a dubious twist to his brow.

“How should we start the letter, then?” Harry asked, mostly because he’d never seen anything illuminated before and he didn’t think it meant the letters glowed. Not in this context. Though, maybe that was a good idea too? Either way, he was a little excited to see it.

“That depends.” Neville took a deep breath. “See, if you want to be formal, then using someone’s full title is best. But, since we don’t know the vampire Monarch’s full title, or name, then the rest of the opening address should be flattering. Not too much though, you don’t want to sound too intimi-”

Oh no, Harry thought. This was going to be a very long afternoon, wasn’t it?

———

The sinks slid back with an ominous grinding of stone. Beneath them a large tunnel stretched into the darkness, a winding pit coated in shadow.

It was also hideously rank. Even Dudley’s worst socks never smelled quite this bad. Looking at the pipe now, Harry had no idea how he hadn’t noticed the state it was in when he’d gone down in second year. Down the center of it there was a streak where they had slid down into the Chamber. Even with some of the mold growing over it, the streak was still much cleaner than the rest of the pipe. Less layers of gunk. Less ooze. He’d sat in that? Ugh.

Behind him, Neville made an urping sort of gag noise. Harry agreed strongly.

“I don’t suppose a scourgify would fix this?” Harry asked hopefully.

“Wish it would.” Ron shook his head solemnly. Fantastic.

Harry cast anyway. It scrubbed the top layer of squishy greens and greys and browns off of about three feet of pipe in a broad strip. He could only imagine it was this bad because of Myrtle’s frequent flooding. In a bathroom. With toilets. And all the things done in toilets. No matter how infrequently it was used.

“I’m not getting into that until the whole thing is clean.” Hermione dropped her pail of cleaning supplies.

“Right.” Harry didn’t really feel like going down either, right now. It was disgusting. “How do you suppose we tackle this?” How did one clean centuries of accumulated mold and decades of accumulated, uh, refuse. Shit. It was shit. Decades of shit. And piss.

“You’re all hopeless.” Ginny, who Harry now remembered had spent most of the summer cleaning Grimmauld, stepped forward. “Are you all fine with fucking up the stone a bit? Cleaning spells can get a little harsh.”

“It’s just a pipe.” Harry figured it was pretty scraped up already.

“No problem then.” Ginny cast three spells Harry didn’t recognize in quick succession. Several stiff bristled scrub brushes floated up out of the bucket of lavender colored cleaning potion Luna carried down. They got right to work on the walls. The worst of the muck also started to slough off in sheets, dripping from the tunnel like decaying skin. The last spell seemed to clear the air a bit, no longer pungently perfumed with rotting meat and decay.

Ron whistled low. “Mum would be proud.”

“If you’d helped at all this summer, maybe Mum would have taught you some things too.” Ginny sniffed. “It would be even better if we had Mum’s cleaning elixir too, it’s way better than this stuff.”

“Cleaning up after Charlie, it had to be.” Ron winced.

“You act like you aren’t just as bad.” Ginny knocked her fist against his shoulder.

“Oh, where does your Mum get her cleaning elixir? This seemed like the best recipe I could find.” Hermione inspected the lavender potion thoughtfully.

“She makes it herself.” Ginny swished her wand again, a thin stream of water sailing out and washing the bubbly foam off the lip of the tunnel. It was a dark, dark green. Harry thought he could see a bit of stone peeking out now, though, just from the lip. “She modified the recipe her grandma used, back when Dad first built his shed. He used to track all sorts of muggle grease through the house.”

“That’s incredible.” Hermione gushed.

“I guess.” Ron shrugged. “Never seemed like a big deal, really.”

“If it works that well, why doesn’t she sell it?” Harry never knew Mrs Wealey had a talent for potions.

“She’s not a potions master, so she can’t get into any of the apothecaries.” Ron grumbled.

“Why not have the twins sell it then? I bet a lot of parents would feel better if they knew they could clean up after their kids pranks.” His Aunt Petunia certainly seemed especially haggard on the days they ran out of windex. Or when Dudley came home covered in glue and craft supplies and mud. He couldn’t imagine wizarding parents wouldn’t feel the same way.

“Huh.” Ron’s eyes blanked out for a moment. “You know …”

“I’ll ask her.” Ginny eyed the tunnel with obvious reluctance. “If we could even just get the recipe, that would make this all go a lot faster.” She hosed down the pipe again.

“Right. Well, if we’re gonna get in there any time today, we should all probably start working.” Harry cast another scourgify, the only cleaning spell he knew. Maybe he should look into that. It banished a much larger section of whatever it was that had built up on the walls over the decades, probably because Ginny had softened it all up a bit.

Luna, quick on the uptake, followed his lead.

“Do you know any cleaning spells I could use?” Neville turned to Ginny.

“Eh, there’s a couple. I guess I can teach you one real quick.” Ginny pulled him aside.

“Bulliat.” Ron tapped his wand on the brim of the bucket of lavender potion. A frothy sort of cloud bubbled out, wriggling like a slug into the tunnel. “See, your brother isn’t completely useless. Mum’s taught me some things too.”

“What was that?” Ginny called. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you over all the cleaning spells I’m teaching Neville.”

Ron grumbled inaudibly and turned back to directing the little cleaning beast.

“Delabro.” Hermione swept her wand in a wide flick. Layers of greenish slime were gouged off the stone. The stripped grime was catapulted further into the tunnel. It was a little rough, not really very even, but it did help.

“Nice one.” Ron grinned at her.

“It was originally a spell for stripping bark off of trees. Not really what it’s meant to do, but it works well enough here.” She puffed up with a smile of her own.

“Why were you leaning how to strip bark off trees?” Ron raised both eyebrows expressively.

“I thought maybe Harry could use it on the hedge maze, to clear a path and all, but after a bit of practice it didn’t seem very good at that sort of thing. Doesn’t do much to leaves.” Hermione shrugged and cast it again at another section of pipe.

Harry felt warm. Hermione learned a spell just for him. He had amazing friends. “Thank you.”

“I’m just glad it’s come in handy.” Hermione hummed. “We should be careful with it in the actual Chamber, I don’t want to ruin a historical site, but for a pipe it works just fine.”

The front end of the pipe was already clean. Not gleaming, mind you, but certainly not the sort of pit that made Harry’s stomach turn. He cast a derivative of lumos, dancing balls of light flitting out from his wand like oversized fireflies. They hovered into the darkness, illuminating the next stretch before them.

“What do you think all this is?” Hermione wrinkled her nose.

“I don’t think I want to know.” Harry grimaced.

“It is a bathroom.” Luna cast another scourgify.

“Please don’t remind me.” Hermione sounded faintly sick.

“It isn’t a bathroom.” Luna nodded at her.

“Thank you Luna.” She sighed. “How deep is this thing?

“Well.” Harry made a thoughtful sort of noise. “I think the Chamber is probably in the dungeons somewhere and we’re on the second floor now.”

“So at least a few floors deep, then.” Hermione did not look pleased by the news.

“I’d wager about three.” Ron squinted into the tunnel. “Maybe four.”

“Right.” Hermione flicked her wand again.

“Hey, why don’t you learn the air clearing spell from Ginny while we work on this?” Ron gestured to the pipe with his wand.

“Might as well.” Hermione hurried away from the entrance. It was starting to get pretty ripe again. Harry envied her.

“Hey Luna,” Ron said thoughtfully. “Do you think the bottom, you know after the pipe ends, is worse than this?”

“Proabably much worse.” She responded.

“You think I would survive pushing Hermione in first?” Ron said in the same tone.

“I suppose that depends on your definition of survive. I’m sure Harry would revive you.” She smiled beatifically.

“I don’t think it works like that. I mean, none of mine really act all the way like animals. It’s probably just a magic thing, not a life thing.” Harry shrugged. Uric had never even pretended to be a normal mouse. Hey, maybe his creatures would like eating this stuff. They liked dead things, right? Then again, was he sure he wanted to be crawled on by anything that had eaten all of this muck? Probably not.

“Then no, Ron, I don’t think you would.”

“Thanks Luna.”

———

Tonks wouldn’t say that she’s happy, right now. Not that anyone’s really happy, right now. Still, she feels much more not happy than most of the people surrounding her, and that’s really her top concern.

There were many reasons for this, of course.

Voldemort’s last raid killed three of her coworkers. Her boss’s neurotic, undead dog wouldn’t leave her alone. A sixteen year old martyr was her head of house, seeing as while banished Mum was never technically never cut from the bloodline. There was a necromancer boogeyman on the loose. Remus also obviously wasn’t interested. Or at least he seemed pretty caught up in the age difference thing. Which was fair, really, since it was about ten years. It really was too bad that scatterbrained and smart was her type. And to top it all off, Dumbledore’s late for the Order meeting. Again. Which meant Moody was prattling on about, oh, what was it this time?

“This whole building reeks of death magic. Bloody house.” He swore. “I can see it everywhere. Third floor ’n up just went and closed itself off. And not one of you thinks its suspicious. Death trap of a place. Why we’re meeting up here, humph, it’s idiotic.”

Fantastic. Death magic and death traps and Grimmauld eating them, or something.

Not that all these things were equally awful. Of course not. But they did tend to stack up into a big pile that made her particularly not happy in this moment, right now.

“Are you sure you’re not too busy to attend, dear? I can’t imagine how stressful a banking job must be at the beginning. It must be hard to find the time to keep a family on top of all of this.” Mrs Weasley simpered at her future daughter in law across the table.

“How could I abandon my husband to fight alone?” Fleur smiled back. “Having a career hardly exempts one from being a good parent, your husband managed it after all.”

Mrs Weasley was radiating malice like a cursed object. Tonks would scoot away a bit if she thought she could get away with it. “Preparing for a proper wedding too, I don’t know when you find the time to sleep!”

Fleur’s smile pinched in the exact sort of way that Tonks knew to mean she was a hair’s breath away from telling Mrs Weasley that -

The elegant woman responded in the pleasant kind of tone only reserved for those you really, really wanted to punch. “Sleeping with Bill is the highlight of my day, I don’t know how I could stand to miss it.”

Yeah. That Fleur was fucking her son. Oh boy.

“Mrs Weasley, could you pass the bisuits, those jam ones look fantastic and I want to grab a few before Hestia gets them all.” She butted in.

Mrs Weasley’s face contorted in an odd sort of dance as she turned to face her. “Of course dear.”

“Mmmm.” Tonks took a bite and nodded like she was thinking very hard about something. “You think if I learned to bake like this I could land myself a boyfriend?” It was only because she was such a talented metamorphmagus that she didn’t blush furiously when saying something so embarrassing at a war meeting, full of her superiors, and the man she had been trying to seduce for the last year and a bit. Merlin. The things she did to help people. Mum always did say it was going to do her in someday.

“I could give you the recipe if you like.” Mrs Weasley put a hand on her arm consolingly. “I don’t know why any man would turn away a young woman as lovely and spirited as you.”

Tonks laughed just a little too loud and shoved the rest of the biscuit into her mouth.

“The secret is in the vanilla you know, you have to add a bit into the jam before you bake.” Mrs Weasley had switched targets now, though thankfully the woman had no reason to pick her apart.

Fleur sent her a grateful look. Bill, on the other hand, slumped like she had neutralized a potions explosive.

“I’ve never tried that before. Usually I just add a bit of nutmeg to my shortbread.” Kingsley, kind and attentive as Helga Hufflepuff herself and Tonk’s current favorite person the world, inserted himself into the conversation.

“Really? Does it add to the flavor much?” Mrs Weasley turned to him attentively.

“I think so, at least. Maybe I’ll bring some by to the next meeting.”

“Oh I would just love that.”

“This is a war council! Not a bloody bake sale.” Moody interrupts. Rudely. Very rudely.

She would like to tell him to just have a biscuit and shut up. She doesn’t, but she would like to.

“Well I never!” Mrs Weasley puffed up like an owl on the offensive.

Oh Merlin. This was bad. Those two could go at it all night.

“Ah, pardon my tardiness. I was delayed a bit by, well, I have some important news to share.” Dumbledore stepped through the doors quietly, tiredly, but the room went silent as he spoke.

They all held their breath. This couldn’t be good news. She hoped it was, she always did, but she knew. There was a sinking pit in her stomach and she knew.

“The body of Charity Burbage has been found on the outskirts of Hogsmeade.”

Fuck.

———

Luna tapped her wand against the tall stack of parchment squares in front of her. The top most one carefully folded itself into a little swan.

She tapped again, casting silently, and the next one folded into a small hat.

The sky was grey today, pregnant with rain that would break upon the grounds sometime late tonight. If she was lucky, she would wake up the next morning to the soft sound of it pitter pattering against her window.

The hat and the swan both floated up to sit up near the canopy of her bed. They would be there until she cut the spell off, or until she fell asleep. And then they would slowly hover down to the ground, probably over the course of a few hours, as the magic in them ran low. She found it easier to find her magic when she meditated if she had a spell or two like that active to follow back down.

Still, she didn’t really think she could concentrate right now.

She tapped again, and a flower crinkled itself up slowly, the paper under it curling tightly to form a stem. It joined the other little creations. Luna watched them.

She didn’t want to be part of a war. She didn’t want to fight. He Who Must Not Be Named took her Mummy away from her, the hunt for any charm or potion or enchantment that could protect against the imperius curse driving her into more and more dangerous territory until one day she just didn’t come home. She’d gone to the hospital, Dad said. He hadn’t let her see her Mummy in St Mungos. But he came back every day looking more drawn, and more worn, and more grey. Then he stopped going.

Mummy had gone away, he told her, one quiet night under the starry sky. She was up with the stars now, Luna dear. Mummy hadn’t believed He Who Must Not Be Named was gone. She was right. But she could never stop fighting him, not even when there was peace. Not even when he family needed her to stop.

Luna didn’t want to spend her whole life fighting. Not like Mummy.

She couldn’t.

But she couldn’t leave Ginny, and Neville, And Harry, and Ron, and Hermione to do it all themselves either. Not now. Not when she saw the scars snaking around Ron’s arms and remembered how his screams echoed around the Hall of Mysteries. Not when she could feel the skin on Ginny’s wrists go clammy and her pulse stutter, thready under her fingertips, and watch the other girl stare dead eyed at every black owl that swooped through the Great Hall. Watched her dread that one day, an owl would come and land in front of her, too. That she’d learn her family was gone. Hermione would devour section after section of the library. Ron couldn’t keep still, even for a moment, couldn’t slow down even to catch his breath. Neville saw Bellatrix Lestrange’s snarling face in the Prophet and he didn’t look away. He would grip his wand white knuckled and he would act like he hadn’t seen it at all, even when tears gathered up in his eyes. Harry was drowning. He pretended he wasn’t, but Luna could see it.

She couldn’t leave them. What could she do, though?

She didn’t know how to support her friends. They were her very first friends. She needed to be there with them.

She could see bits of it all coming together, pinching and creasing like paper into new shapes. They would fight, and they would run, and they would hurt. Not sight like the seers, or prophecy like Professor Trelawney, just a feeling. A feeling her Mummy had passed on to her.

Every moment she had, she practiced. She could find her magic now, if she had a spell like the little papers to follow. It felt like starlight, and night breezes, and dew in between her toes in the thick mists of the morning just outside her front door. Maybe she could help Ginny and Neville and Hermione learn faster, now. That’s something she could do.

Maybe then it would unfold a little differently. Maybe then it would feel different.

Luna tapped her wand on the parchment. It tore itself in little neat strips and folded up into a neat little accordion. As it floated up to her canopy, it bounced in and out in odd little arcs, like a worm in water.

There was so much going on. There was so much going on everywhere and so many people were hurting and she understood why her Mummy fought but she couldn’t. She couldn’t. How could she make someone hurt like that? It was selfish, wasn’t it, to hope that she could avoid the war forever.

Outside, the stars were starting to shine. Even if she couldn’t see them behind all the clouds. She could feel it. Starlight always felt the same.

Harry had killed people, she knew. She wasn’t upset about that. Those people were trying to kill him, too. How could she ever be upset, when her friend was safe and with her.

Her wand traced lines on the paper, creasing it manually until it became a little box. She didn’t know that one well enough to do it automatically. The practice was nice. Soothing, almost.

In the starlight, sometimes, she dreamed of people dying. People she knew. People she didn’t know. People she knew who looked older, and more ragged, and more hurt than she knew them to be. She could feel the shape of things, a hundred thousand little folds that bent a million different ways and changed and breathed with each step every single took towards a undiscriminating future. It was too much, and too faint, and she barely knew any of it at all. Not enough to be helpful. Not enough to change anything.

She wanted to unfold it all and see. Maybe then it would make sense.

She made a frog, this time.

Maybe Harry could stop it all before anyone had to fight anymore. She knew it was unfair to want that. Maybe they could all run away together and be safe, find somewhere that had never even heard of He Who Must Not Be Named. That was unfair too.

Why couldn’t Professor Dumbledore and the aurors handle it? Why did it have to be them? It stung at the back of her throat. Why did it have to be them?

She wiped away her tears before they could streak up her face. No one would blame her for crying, now. Not during war. She still didn’t want to be called a crybaby.

The rain hadn’t fallen yet, but the air smelled like a storm.

She tapped her wand, and the paper folded up into a little lightning bolt. Then she tapped again, and it tore and crinkled into a much more realistic looking lightning bolt. Like the one on Harry’s forehead. It made her feel a little better.

She should practice. If she practiced, then she could help. She was good at meditating, and feeling things, and if she got better and understood more then she could teach everyone else and they could be better, could understand more.

It was going to be okay, she told herself. She had friends now. Friends who wouldn’t make her fight if she couldn’t do it.

It was going to be okay.

It was all going to be okay.

Chapter Text

It had taken all weekend but finally, finally they had broken through the filth to the actual Chamber. Only about half a day was spent dealing with the minor cave in Lockhart had caused, despite Harry initially assuming that would be their biggest hurdle. Though, really, he felt he should have been less surprised after seeing the state of things at the entrance to the Chamber. Most of the time was just cleaning. And cleaning. And cleaning. Hermione had at some point enchanted a wooden basin to hold all the grime and gunk and little rat bones and whatever else they found. Harry didn’t like thinking about the whatever else for long. The basin was about the size of a bathtub (one of those nice soaking tubs Aunt Petunia always wanted, not the shallow little ones) and could hold many times its volume. A shrinking enchantment, or something. It was about halfway full now. And they’d had to empty it once already. Mostly it was mold. Layers and layers of mold.

Still, Harry counted the whole project so far as a win. For now, they had a nice clean entryway and a stretch of tunnel that was, if not gleaming, then at least not making awful sticky noises whenever they tried to walk through it. He’d even had time to learn several not scourgify cleaning spells. It was very fulfilling to make that kind of progress.

Hermione had insisted on leaving the huge doors alone until she could brew up something that wouldn’t damage the nice bronze, which meant it was time to tackle the main Chamber. Joy of joys, the room was horrifying. Muck all up the walls, snakey slither patterns on the floor, cracked tile with things growing in it, shed all over, whatever was going on with the pool in the back. It was going to need a lot of work.

“What are we doing with that?” Neville choked, looking at the hideous, half decomposed mess of snake flesh that took up the central portion of the Chamber. He was also casting the air purifying spell silently and repeatedly. Ginny was mirroring him.

“Off to the side for now. We can seal it up in a tunnel until we have a clear path out of the castle.” Hermione gagged a little as she said it.

Harry, grateful he didn’t have to answer and therefore get that horrible stink in his mouth, started casting too. Aexpurfo. Aexpurfo. Aexpurfo. Oh thank Merlin it was clearing up a bit. Aexpurfo. Aexpurfo. There sure was a lot of air in here.

“Alright. Levitate the big dead snake on three?” Ron shivered.

“Yes, but Harry, stay out of this one. I don’t know if your magic will automatically try to revive the beast when it connects.” Hermione looked around intently, searching the walls. “Let’s put it in that one, it seems dry and it’s a bit off the ground.”

“Sounds great. I’ll just do the air then.” Harry really didn’t mind not getting close to the huge dead basilisk. Seemed like a win win, honestly.

“I hate you.” Ginny hissed as she passed him.

“Thanks Gin!” He cast another purification spell.

“I hate this.” Neville whined, even as he made his way obediently over near the end of the tail.

Harry, mostly, agreed.

“I don’t hate you Harry.” Luna smiled at him. “But this is disgusting.”

“Thanks Luna.”

“Alright. One.” Ron raised his wand. “Two. Three!”

The great corpse rose off the ground, floating drunkenly a few feet in the air. They moved it with desperate speed, especially since the skin seemed a little bit not so structurally sound, but they crammed it into the tunnel just fine. Harry focused on clearing the air as the corpse trailed meat rot stink behind it. He thought he did a rather good job. It was possible to breathe without gagging now.

Ginny, who had apparently learned a bit of warding from Bill, set up a quick seal with a bit of help from Hermione. Runes and arithmancy and other things Harry didn’t really get, but looked very cool. Sort of sparkly.

“It won’t last long, just a few days, but it’ll keep this thing from stinking up the whole Chamber.” Ginny looked a little pale. Harry was worried about her, he knew she didn’t have great memories in this place, but he also wasn’t going to make a thing about it if she didn’t want him to.

“Thank you Ginny.” Hermione sounded very relieved as Harry cleared up the last of the stink around them. Or, the last for now. Merlin knew what would waft up once they started peeling things up. “Now then, who wants to do what?”

“I’ll get the statue.” Luna piped up first. It seemed like a pretty big job, given that it was a pretty big statue, but Harry trusted that Luna could handle it if she said she could.

“I’ll do the floors I guess.” Ron eyed the floor dubiously, nose wrinkled.

“Well, I can get the blood up then. Got plenty of practice at Grimmauld.” Ginny didn’t look exactly happy about that, but then Harry didn’t think any of this was very pleasant at all, so it was understandable.

“I can collect all the shed, I think it might be useful for potions so it might be worth something.” Hermione volunteered. She’d be best at it, of course, but Harry felt a bit like she was just trying to avoid all the icky stuff. Not that he was going to say that. He didn’t want to get hexxed, thank you very much.

“Dragon shed is used a lot as fertilizer. I don’t know about basilisk shed though.” Neville said thoughtfully. “I’ll get started on the walls then, we’ve got a lot of them.” He was right. There was a lot of wall space, seeing as they were very tall and very domed and had a lot of delicate design work on them. Plus the pillars and such.

“I’ll help Neville.” Harry figured it was a lot better than his other options: the tunnels and the pool of water. Also, Ron was his best friend and he would always be there for him, but if he had to clean grout ever again he’d pitch himself into a horde of dementors. Harry held back a shudder as he imagined what it would be like to have to retile this whole, massive chamber. Horrifying. He just hoped it wasn’t necessary.

Neville, because he was polite, thanked him as they got to work. As the two got going, they even developed a bit of a routine. Neville would peel off the worst of the gunk since he was better at precision casting and less likely to take out a chunk of the stone along with the yuck, and Harry would use a polishing spell to get as much of the rest of it as he could off safely. If there was any left later they could set the bubble beasts on it. Hermione was very strict about being careful with a historical site, however, so he wasn’t going to risk anything more dramatic.

Harry passed a bit of time aimlessly chatting with Neville about brooms, which was just about the only thing they had in common other than their horrible, horrible experiences with certain professors. Neville would talk about how the trees were grown and how all the twigs were shaped and about what new, interesting trees they were experimenting with. And then Harry would talk about flips. And dives. And handling. And broom repair. It was a very informative discussion.

Every once and a while Ginny would say something, or Hermione would correct them about how spells and enchantments actually worked. Several times Ron looked like he wanted to contribute something, but the floor was a bigger task than he’d anticipated and thoroughly covered in snake rot. Which meant it was very smelly. So, he didn’t risk opening his mouth. Luna only chimed in once, to mention a rare kind of floating plant that grew on her roof, but she seemed to be having a lot of fun with the statue. Good for her.

Eventually, though, well, Hermione started to get antsy. Which Harry took, rightly, to mean that she had something to say. Something a bit controversial, perhaps. You know, the usual.

“So,” Hermione broached delicately, slotting into a lull in the discussion. She twirled her wand absently, levitating a thick piece of basilisk shed off to the entrance of the path in, which was mostly clean.  “I found this ritual.”

Ron made an interested, affirmative noise. He was scraping something that might have been moss at one point off of a section of cracked tile with a sturdy, spatula like tool and Harry doubted he was going to open his mouth now. But it was nice of him to participate.

“It’s an audio glamor, which really would be convenient given the ritual and all.” Hermione said with a dubious sort of carefulness.

“What ritual?” Neville asked, sounding very much like he knew he was going to regret doing so. He carefully lowered the sludge he had been spelling off the walls into the slowly filling basin. It was impressively about two thirds full now.

“I’ll tell you later.” Harry didn’t really want to interrupt Hermione with a whole explanation. He  followed up Neville’s removal with a few polishing charms. It was mostly grime free now. He felt very accomplished. He was so good at cleaning now.

“If we’re doing a ritual, I’d kind of like to know what it is.” Ginny looked up briefly from her vigorous scrubbing. Her hands were a spotty sort of brown, somewhere between the greenish color of the muck and the reddish color of old blood. Harry wondered if maybe her insistence about tackling that had something to do with that fact that some of it was probably her blood, since wizards tended to be very particular about that sort of thing. A lot of it was Harry’s, which made him feel a little bad about making her clean it all up.

“Blood ritual, immediate language learning, adjustment period of up to two months with the sheer number we intend to be taking on, and until we adjust fully we might switch between them at random. You don’t have to join, of course.” Hermione sped through the basics absentmindedly.

“Huh.” Ginny said.

“Is that safe?” Neville whispered to Harry.

“Safe as anything I guess.” Harry shrugged. Not much of magic was really safe at all. He’d killed a man with his bare hands at eleven with love magic.

“Anyway! About the audio glamor.” Hermione powered through, resolutely not meeting anyone’s eyes as she scanned the Chamber for the other pieces of shed. “It needs the skin of the person whose voice you’re going to emulate.”

“Skin?!” Ron yelped, his face quickly creasing as the stink of rotting plant matter invaded his mouth.

“Yes, unfortunately, but I had an idea.”

Ron scraped at the ground a little harder and pinched his lips together. He sent Harry a pleading look.

“What’s your idea, Hermione?” Harry recited.

“Well, have you ever gotten a really bad sun burn?” Hermione started tentatively.

“Yes.” Ginny stretched the word out like she was pushing it away from her very slowly.

“And you know how your skin peels? The burned layer?”

“You want to peel us?” Neville looked a little horrified.

“Well, not when you say it like that!” Hermione huffed.

Ron set down his scraper and took a few steps back, coming to stand next to Harry and Neville. “How would we even do that? It’s too cold to just go out and sit in the sun.”

“There are spells that can mimic sunlight. If we did it powerfully enough, we wouldn’t even have to sit there. We could burn fairly quickly.” Hermione reasoned, like this was a normal train of thought. For her it probably was. Restraint was not her strong suit.

“Like tomatoes.” Luna added helpfully, speaking up a bit to be heard over the thin stream of pressurized water she was using to clean up the huge statue at the back of the room.

“Or peaches.” Ron nodded.

“Aren’t you supposed to boil those to get the skin off, not roast them?” Harry thought that was how it was done, that’s how he’d done it at least.

“You want to skin us like tomatoes?” Ginny sputtered incredulously.

“Or peaches.” Ron corrected.

“Shut up Ron.” Ginny didn’t hesitate. “I don’t really want to be roasted or boiled Hermione.”

“Well it’s better than peeling up a few inches of skin.” Hermione defended.

“Is it?” Ron muttered. “‘Least we’d be able to numb that. Sunburns take a few days to peel.”

“Oh don’t be a baby.” Hermione levitated a chunk of shed as wide as she was tall with a sharp swish and flick. “We can smear you with dittany head to toe afterwards.”

“You’d better.” Ron grumbled. “Sun burns are the worst.”

“How bad could it be?” Neville looked a bit lost.

“You’ve never had a sunburn?” Harry asked, just as lost.

“Not really, just a little pink I guess. Isn’t it just itchy?” Neville shook his head slowly.

“Oh Nev.” Harry set a hand on the other boy’s shoulder.

“It is a burn.” Luna chimed in.

“Hurts like one.” Ginny snorted.

“Are you sure this is a good idea Hermione?” Neville looked increasingly nervous.

“Are you volunteering to peel up your own skin then?” Hermione was insulted by the accusation that she hadn’t thought this through, he could tell. To be fair to them though, Hermione was the kind of person who thought setting a professor on fire was a reasonable sort of thing to do. “We could always just not speak in public for three weeks, or even longer, nothing suspicious about that at all.”

“I guess.” Neville hedged. “Do we even have that much dittany?”

“I can order some.” Harry shrugged. It wasn’t like he didn’t have the money. “Hedwig would love the exercise.” It would be a lot of trips to bring it all up. Or a lot of owls, maybe. He didn’t really know how packages worked, with wizards.

“Wasn’t there some growing in that courtyard at Grimmauld?” Ron was gently scourgifying both of his hands.

“You guys found a courtyard?” Ginny hissed jealously.

“We’ll show you next time! Promise!” Ron pacified quickly, flailing.

“It’s not like we can pop in and harvest it anyway.” Hermione shook her head.

“Can’t we?” Ron responded. “I mean, Hogwarts has a working floo system and we’d only be gone a couple hours at the very most. I know the whole garden wants to eat us but I bet Neville could handle it.”

“I can try.” Neville didn’t sound confident. “You said this was a Black garden?”

“Yeah.” Harry grimaced. “It’ll be fine though.”

Neville gave Harry a look that said he disagreed. Strongly.

“You’re taking me too. I want to see that.” Ginny dropped her scrub brush with a wet slap.

“Someone has to stay and play lookout.” Ron protested.

“Luna can do that, can’t you Luna?” Ginny countered.

“I suppose.” Luna was probably the only one of them still cleaning, now. “I have an early bedtime, though.”

“Boooooo.” Ginny dunked her brush back into the bucket of swirly, light blue cleaning fluid. Mrs Weasley’s recipe. As promised, it worked much better than the old recipe.

“Anyway, are you all in?” Hermione interrupted.

“Yes Hermione.” Harry and Ron chorused.

“Yeah, sure.” Neville shrugged. He didn’t sound exactly happy about it though.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Luna, Merlin bless her, seemed to take all this in stride.

“Yeah, duh.” Ginny pulled her brush out of the bucket and started grinding it into the tile. She tossed Hermione a sour look though, and then a scrunchy one at Ron with her tongue out.

“Excellent.” Hermione turned to get back on task herself, radiating satisfaction like a cat. It was a good look on her, Harry thought.

“You go peel that thing in the tiles up Nev, I’ll do walls for a bit.” Ron volunteered, attempting nonchalance.

“You were the one that said you’d get the floor.” Neville eyed him dubiously.

“I think you’d be better at it, I mean it’s plants right?”

“Maybe it used to be.” Neville looked at the sheet of sludgy green that covered the cracked tiles like it might bite.

“See? No problem then.” Ron lifted his wand to the walls.

“If it’s no problem, then you can get it, I’m sure.” Neville smiled stiffly.

Ron made a strangled sort of noise. “Come onnnnn.”

“Good luck Ron.” Neville started to peel up another section of wall ick.

Ron grumbled all the way back to his dead moss.

“You sure any of this is safe?” Neville looked not very comfortable at all.

“Don’t ask me.” Harry wondered if Luna had the right idea, with the pressurized water. That statue was looking pretty clean. “I flew us into a Death Eater attack on thestrals.”

Neville conceded the point. He did not look relieved.

———

Underneath thick velvet, carefully wrapped and warded, lay the solution to all Nott’s hard work these last few weeks. Specifically, the work involved in convincing a number of house elves to dig through the private family library for forbidden magic without tattling to his parents. It was, somehow, both more and less strenuous than anticipated. And he had spent hours talking his dorm mates into giving him some alone time in their shared room this weekend. Zabini had been incredibly obstinate about finding another place to review his charms homework. He was also almost entirely convinced that Goyle thought he was going to spend his time … privately, given the “loan” he had found stacked on his bed when he’d returned from lunch. A sliver of the collection of a young man with centuries of material packed away and very few hobbies to prevent him from delving into his ancestors … preferences.

But had it paid off?

Nott drew back the cloth with a soft, trembling breath. There were two books. One edging just past bulky, and one large enough to break a toe if he dropped it. The biggest of the two, far older and more yellowed than its companion even with the aid of preservative spellwork, proclaimed its title in fading golden scrollwork on the dark, cracked leather of the binding. The Lexicon of the Eternal. It was, he felt, appropriately dramatic and ominous. The second was visually a disappointment. Crisp white pages, a cheerful dull pink fabric cover, and the title: Gregor’s Guide To The Fouleste Pits. There was even a little embroidered pit under the title with a tombstone and a vase of wilting flowers.

Gregor’s Guide was also the book he needed more. The Lexicon focused far more on the academic and theoretical side of necromancy. But Gregor’s? Oh Gregor’s contained one of the few legal necromantic rites in its manicured pages. Or, he was fairly certain it did. He’d had to request the books by name, since the house elves weren’t actually allowed to read anything in the private, family sections of the library and therefore couldn’t search for what he needed themselves. Having to comb through dozens and dozens of historical texts and dark magic tomes, digging through references and bibliographies, praying incoherently that any of the libraries he had access to would have the next in line of a labyrinth of false leads and faint mentions, Nott could safely say he’d spent the last month and a half with a steadily building tension headache and increasingly worsening eye strain.

All that effort and he was down to two fucking books and -

Breathe Nott, breathe. It was a start. And a lead. And something he could actually, physically do. Hopefully.

Gregor’s Guide didn’t have a table of contents, but flipping through it was easy to spot the illustrations of the ritual circle he needed. Then it was just a matter of preparation.

Hysterical laughter bubbled in his throat as he scanned down the page. It wasn’t even hard. Dangerous, maybe, but far from difficult. No potions to brew or astrological necessities, he didn’t even have to strip or purify himself. All he needed was ground yew, quartz sand, charcoal, a flame, and most importantly he needed the corpse. A freshly slain vessel for the intricate, not quite forbidden magics he was to perform today.

It was a rush, a thrill of adrenaline and grasping need that left him swimmingly light headed. The first step was right in front of him. Power, security, a way out of this cesspit of hypocrisy. It would all be his. Gloriously, gloriously his.

The circle took no time at all.

And from the terrarium on his desk Nott withdrew the final piece of the puzzle. A fat, warty toad that let out a long croak as he set it down on the polished stone of the dormitory floor. It stared at its surroundings blankly.

Nott raised his wand. He took a breath. And he hesitated. It would be his first time killing a living thing. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that. The necessity of his actions urged him forwards, though. He needed a fresh corpse. A clean corpse, undamaged by decay or a bloodier death. A whisper, a flash of green light, and the toad lay dead in the circle. Breath barely gone from its lungs before Nott set his wand against the pale powder that set the outer boundary of the ritual space and pushed.

Magic curled out through his wand, tearing out of him with speed and volume that left him gasping. Building tangibly in the air and twisting into the body of the toad. The air smelled of rotting leaves and ozone and blood, crackling like logs on the fire.

And then it was gone.

And the air was still.

And before him, the toad let out a loud, almost triumphant croak. Its eyes gleamed like polished amber and summer sunsets.

Finally, he had done it. The first step towards becoming a true necromancer. His first undead. His True Familiar.

———

Draco Malfoy was terrified. It had been that way for a while, years now he thought. Just a constant sort of buzz in the back of his mind. Honestly, most of the time it was just exhausting. But as he planned how he would complete the Dark Lord’s orders here at Hogwarts, it grew into a stinging fog. Which was why he had been avoiding thinking about those orders for a while now.

No more though. At some point, he had to act. Fiddling with the vanishing cabinet, with almost no results, wouldn’t be nearly enough to keep his family safe from the Dark Lord’s disappointment for much longer. Every time he took a step forward, his father’s words about Lord Mortis’s potential connection to Potter echoed in his head. But he had to do something, and he had to do it soon.

He stared down at the lovely sapphire necklace in front of him, tracing how it nestled into the soft silk that lined the box it was displayed in. He could almost smell the curse that haunted it. There was no one around, the rockiest outcroppings of the great lake’s shore far from a popular spot among the students. But the trembling thread of paranoia that told him to stash his contraband away, and to do it quickly, lingered.

Part of him wanted to hurl the damned thing into the lake. Let the squid sort it out. Maybe cursed amulets were in style in the mertown below the dark, rippling surface. If it sank far enough, it wouldn’t be his problem anymore.

But it would fulfil its purpose.

As would he.

It was the only thing left for him, now. Gone were any grand illusions of sweet victory, of prominence and respect. He didn’t have to be a seer to know that his life, tangled as it was in the webs of those incomprehensibly more powerful and cruel than anything he had ever dreamed of, would end tragically, painfully, and without any meaning at all. And that death may well not be the end of his suffering, but the beginning.

He looked out at the water, sky faintly darkening as clouds began to nip at the air, threatening to drench the land in glassy sleet. There were a few more hours until he could slink back into the dorms. Nott was busy, apparently, for the first time in six years. He couldn’t be arsed to dig into the details of it as long as the room was clean when he came back.

The necklace glinted at him menacingly. It was taunting him. Promising him failure.

But Draco didn’t need to succeed, not this time. What he had was too desperate, too thin to call a plan. It was somewhere between hope and a convincing lie. He would plant the necklace. He would watch a student become trapped by it, maybe even die to its pull. And then he would wait, and watch, and listen.

Lord Mortis shouldn’t have any reason at all to care if Dumbledore died, or if Hogwarts was attacked. But the lure of Potter’s interference dangled threateningly above his head, like the blade of a guillotine. This would be a test. If Lord Mortis was silent in the wake of this then maybe he would complete his task. Maybe he would live long enough to try.

He didn’t expect he would last much longer than a final lunge at his orders sometime before the school year was up, successful or unsuccessful.

The necklace whispered at him, cooing without words, magic like curling fingertips at his nape. He ignored it. Draco slid the thin wood of the lid back over the box. The temptation died as soon as the wood slipped into place. It left him hollow, terror nipping at his heels.

A thing hope was still a hope. He would grasp it tight, even if it cut into the palms of his hands. Lord Mortis willing, he may even make it to the holidays intact.

———

Harry let himself drift in the breeze as he watched Madam Bones far below him. Silhouetted in the light from her open doorway, she floated a large crate to the end of the garden path and then down a worn wooden trail, eventually setting it onto the soft sands of the beach. In the dark, even without the cloak, he doubted she could see him. Not that she was looking up, of course.

Technically, Harry had no idea how he was going to manage this. It was early Friday night, and it wouldn’t be strange if none of them were down for breakfast, or lunch even. So, he had time. And he had seen Charlie and his friends fly off with a crate much like this one in first year. He imagined that a groundylow was probably much less troublesome than a baby dragon, too. Still, balancing the crate between ropes and flying in formation all the way back to Hogwarts? That was going to be difficult.

He had made a promise though, even if it was only to himself.

In front of him and a small ways down Hermione wobbled on her broom. She wasn’t really a flier, and it probably would have been risky at best to hook her up to the crate for the fly back, but she had graciously agreed to play navigator. Which was perfect, because Harry hadn’t even thought about getting one of those. Even if it was, in retrospect, a very important thing to consider.

Floating around him on their brand new Firebolts, his friends all waited silently for Amelia to disappear back inside. Sans Luna, of course, in consideration for her early bedtime. Bottles of fresh Pepper Up clinked in his pockets. More than enough to make it back to school without falling asleep on their brooms. Ginny had insisted she didn’t need any, but then Harry didn’t think he’d ever actually seen her sleep so maybe she was used to the fatigue. Hermione made her take her share anyway.

The streaming light of the door tapered closed, casting the night in front of them into a stark, drowning sort of darkness. Harry tipped his broom forwards, descending in loose curves much more slowly than he’d prefer. But now wasn’t really the time to dive at the ground like Ron dove into bed. His friends trailed silently behind. Or, nearly silent, their passage only heralded by the thick fabric of their robes flapping in the wind like wings.

He touched down second, Hermione scrambling off her broom onto the ground like she was finishing some kind of horrible trial. Or like Angelina trying to get off a rainy Quidditch pitch before Wood could demand they all get back in the air for another play.

She unspooled thick rope from her bag onto the sand. It reminded him keenly of the party clown the Dursleys had gotten Dudley for his seventh birthday party. Dudley had cried. It was a good memory. Harry had wanted to be a clown for a good few years after that, almost entirely because the idea that he could get paid to make Dudley cry and send Aunt Petunia into hysterics trying to sooth her Dudlikins was a very warming thought. In the end though, being a wizard was much better. Or, hm. Harry thought about his life as a wizard so far. Perhaps being a clown would have been a lot safer. And happier. And he’d get paid to do it. And he probably wouldn’t make the papers unless he did something very, very funny.

With some small reluctance, Harry shook the idea out of his head. He couldn’t be a clown now, he had to fulfil a prophecy and kill an evil wizard. Which was not a convincing argument that being a wizard was any better than being a clown, really.

“Ron?” Harry whispered.

“Yeah mate?” Ron looked up from inspecting the box of groundylow.

“D’you think I would make a good clown?” Harry asked cautiously.

Ron thought for a moment. “I think you’d make a great clown, Harry.”

He wasn’t entirely sure that was a compliment, actually.

“Yeah, takes one to know one.” Ginny snorted, sorting out the still unspooling rope with a twist of her wand.

“Shut up.” Ron grumbled, kicking at the sand aimlessly.

“Are muggle clowns different than wizard clowns?” Neville wondered.

“I’ve never seen a wizard clown.” Harry admitted. “Are they funny?”

“Not really.” Ginny had the rope snaking around the box in a series of intricate loops and knots. “But they’re fun to watch, sometimes.”

Harry acknowledged that with a hum. He didn’t remember if Dudley’s birthday clown was funny or not. He mostly just remembered the crying.

“How do you know how to do all that?” Neville was looking at the tightening mesh of rope stupefied. Or, Harry assumed he was stupefied. It was hard to tell, what with it being dark and all.

“Mum does macrame.” Ginny sighed. “The twins used to bribe me to go ask her for lessons to distract her for a bit while they snuck off. I’ve made a lot of those hanging pot holders over the years. It’s not that different.”

“Huh.” Neville nodded slowly.

“How come Mum never taught me that?” Ron groused.

“You were too busy blowing up muggle toys with Dad.” Ginny pointed out helpfully.

“Oh yeah.” Ron made a dreamy sort of noise. “That was the best.”

Ginny unsuccessfully tried to muffle a snort in her throat. She had to cough it out.

The box shook ominously. Harry very much hoped it would contain the little beast. If he had to go skydiving so that a horrible, vicious, bloodthirsty little gremlin didn’t fall right on top of some muggle suburb he was going to … he didn’t know what. Something bad. Definitely something bad.

“This would be so much easier if we had something big to fly on, or tie it to.” Neville mused.

Ron made a pained hissing noise. “Don’t jinx us!”

“What?” Neville looked at him perplexed.

“Listen, you can’t just say things like that.” Ron put a hand on his shoulder. “Next thing you know, we’ll actually have some big, horrible beast following us around.”

“Does it work like that?” Neville inquired.

“Have you met Harry?”

There was a pause.

“That’s fair.” Neville nodded.

“Hey!” Harry took offense to that. His luck wasn’t that bad, was it?

“Be quiet.” Hermione whispered loudly. She’d finished with the rope. “You can talk as loud as you want back at school but we’re all out here in our school robes, unmasked, in front of the head of the DMLE’s house and I for one do not want to be caught.”

Harry had suggested they fly with the full disguise on, of course, but Hermione had threatened something she could only have heard about in a dark arts book if he tried to push it. Dress robes were not at all insulated from the cold and warming charms could only do so much. Plus, they’d left the extra masks at Grimmuald so it wasn’t like there were extras for GInny and Neville. They should probably fix that at some point.

“Not a problem, I’ve got the crate ready for transport.” Ginny shifted, wand aloft to support the loops of rope stretching above the corners of the box.

“Thank Merlin.” Hermione muttered not at all as quietly as Harry felt she had intended.

It took a bit of doing to get the ropes secured to the brooms, but it didn’t take long until they were ready to head out.

“I still can’t believe you got us all Firebolts just for this.” Ron said quietly but not at all happily.

Harry didn’t bother to hide his smug little smile. It wasn’t like anyone could see it in the dark.

“We can all fly at the same speed like this.” Harry responded smartly.

Ron grumbled unintelligibly back.

Harry had figured out the loophole in spoiling his friends. Namely: no one could complain if it was a tactically sound decision. Not even Ron. Which meant, of course, that this was just the beginning.

He hid an even smugger chuckle in the sleeve of his robe. Oh, just wait. Hagrid hadn’t let him get a gold cauldron or gold gobstones on his first trip to Diagon, but that was fine. Now, that money would be going somewhere even better. What use was a massive, triple family war chest if you couldn’t use it to buy presents, after all? Maybe he should buy everyone some nice black Quiddich robes, just in case they ever had to do a long fly like this again.

———

Lucius Malfoy stood at the mouth of a gravel walkway, facing a well warded two story home. It was quaint. Not the kind of place one would expect the Minister to live. He pinched a sigh off between his teeth. The Minister was an obstacle. Robards had been an auror in the last war, and was quickly using that experience to become increasingly effective at his job. Which was inconvenient. And as of two o’ clock that afternoon, it was inconvenient and it was his problem to solve.

He traced the pad of his thumb over the curving fangs of his canes’ snake head. Sharp eyes watched carefully as Theophania Grouse, one of the few Death Eaters with a real talent for warding, slowly wove a path for them through Robard’s ward scheme. One of the few left, at least. The Bones debacle had cost them valuable assets, on top of driving another bloody nail in his coffin. His features schooled themselves into smooth disdain, covering the impatience that was beginning to build like a headache. It wouldn’t do to rush things.

A Death Eater to his right, who had been crowding in on his space steadily for the last ten minutes, chuckled. “Can’t wait to show Robards who’s really in charge around here.” He said with a particularly strong undercurrent of violence. Ah, Brent Anser. Some kind of secretary, wasn’t he? Lucius thought so. It was so hard to tell who exactly was proving themselves the biggest annoyance, with the masks and the cloaks and the cover of night.

Lucius ground his cane down into the gravel. “You will not be going anywhere.” It took effort to keep his voice smooth and loose. “You are a reckless fool, and with the failure at the Bones residence I don’t believe our Lord would be very forgiving if you happened to cause any … problems tonight.” He eyed the young man, tracing the stuttering rigidness of his spine. The boy relaxed with a deliberate slump a bare second later.

“Come on, sir. I deserve a crack at him, don’t I? Bastard put my father in Azkaban last week.” Anser was a strong duelist, but Lucius regretted bringing him along.

He turned to face the Death Eater. “You will stay out here and watch for Auror activity. Unless you’re that desperate to taste the Cruciatus tonight?” Lucius would be happy to oblige, at this point. He’d had a sour day. This was just the garnish to top it all off. He wanted to take care of this quickly and quietly, not indulge in someone else’s pathetic revenge fantasy.

Anser shut up. Absolutely delightful, and certainly his preference.

“All done, sir.” Grouse stood, shaking her wand hand loosely. “The wards will stay up, but they won’t register any intruders for the next two hours. The disapparation and portkey permissions have been overwritten to prevent escape.”

“Perfect.” Lucius gave her a tight smile. At least someone could do their job. “Monitor things from out here, you’re far too valuable to lose to a stray spell.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He took a step down the path, feeling the rippling warmth of the wards part around him. “Gadwall, Crecca, you’re with me. Anser, if I smell you near the house you won’t have to worry about joining your father in Azkaban ever again.”

The last two of their group followed him silently up to the door of the house, long hoods pulled down to hide their glossy white masks. Lucius lifted his cane and rapped on the door.

Moments later, a house elf opened the door with curious eyes. “Master is sleeping now, what have you come this late for?”

Lucius smiled at them. “It’s very important we see your master now. Please tell him it’s urgent, I’m a friend from work with news on Death Eater movements and I need to speak with him as soon as possible. If you could inform him and then come back and let me know he’s on his way, I would appreciate it.”

The house elf thought for a moment, and then nodded. “I will tell him. But you must wait out here until the master says you can come in.”

The door shut. Lucius waited. One of his companions shifted nervously behind him, the rustle of thick robes quite clear in the near silence of the night.

The door opened wide. “Master will be right down, and told me to invite you in while he gets ready, sir.” The house elf bobbed into a little bow.

“Thank you.” Lucius took a step through the threshold. “Avada Kedavra.” The flash of light struck the small body before they could even process the attack.

He took a step forward, trailing robes covering the cooling corpse. His escorts waited on the stoop, existence cloaked in shadow and hidden by the angle of the door. Minutes crawled by and his frustration only grew. He was a busy man. There were other things he needed to take care of tonight. And he had not expected to add a task of this magnitude to the list when he planned his week.

Robards stumbled down the stairs moments later, eyes bleary and robe crooked. “Lucius? What -”

The bright spark of a spell caught the man off guard, stinging jinx knocking him off balance and Lucius moved, two steps forward to meet the wizard’s descent. He raised his cane with intention, wood cutting through the air. The end of it hovered above eye level for barely half a breath before it came cracking down against the side of the man’s skull.

“Shut up.” He growled. “I’m missing dinner with my wife for this little errand.”

Robards fumbled for his wand, shaking sleep off as his focus sharpened. It was too bad Lucius intended to end this without crossing wands with the man. Another muttered curse and the mans arm snapped, ending his search abruptly.

“When you die tonight, your replacement will be Scrimgeour, correct?” They could work with Scrimgeour, or they could work around him at least. He managed to toe the line between ineffectual and genuinely incompetent with the ease of a long career in politics.

Robards spat at his feet, face contorted in fury and hate. “You’ll have your fucking day, Death Eater. Just you wait. You lost once and you’ll lost again and then they’ll lock you up in Azkaban to fucking rot.”

Typical. Truly, why did he expect any civility?

Lucius pressed the end of his cane against the man’s throat. “Avada Kedavra.”

The man slumped back with a flash of green. His corpse sprawled against the dark red rug decorating his entryway.

“Ardeato.” He swept the butt of his cane against the floor, fire quickly catching on the dry wood and thick carpet. He pushed more magic through the spell, watching the bright flames catch and spread like a lunging beast.

His robes flared as he turned, striding out of the burning building. At the end of the path, once he’d crossed out of range of the wards, he lifted his cane once again. Ghostly whispers of the Dark Mark slithered out of the end, twining with each other as they grew and thickened. A wicked skull hung over the house, snake curling through the laughing mouth and out the eye, green light dancing against the warm tones of the building fire.

“I trust that you all can take care of yourselves.” He gave the group a nod and then disapparated with a sharp turn. Narcissa might still be up, after all. He had prepared an exquisite bouquet, and a fine bottle of fairy brewed fruit wine, this afternoon as an apology.

Luckily, Robards had been easy enough to deal with. It might even buy him some leeway with his Lord. Which would be for the best. Pretending he didn’t notice his Lord’s empire crumbling around him was becoming tiresome.