Chapter Text
Part 3: Song
He was born on the final hour of the autumn solstice, pink and crying out with healthy lungs. His labor had lasted only two hours. He had newborn blue eyes that would settle later on to a gunmetal grey, and a tuft of obsidian black hair.
He had two older siblings, Pollux and Cassiopeia. Pollux was seven and showed signs of impressive magic. The child shattered windows when angry and killed flies with a wave of his hand.
Cassiopeia was only three, and her black hair made her pale skin look even whiter than it was. She showed signs of being a seeress and seemed to find the future in every dream. She was a wisp of a girl: quiet, flighty, and rarely seeming to behave as a child should.
The day he was born, his mother held him in her arms. “My fastest labor,” she said above the sound of his wails. “He simply could not wait to join the world.”
His father picked him up, and he stopped crying. “Perhaps,” his father responded, “it was that the world could not wait to meet him.” With two children showing signs of magnificent magic but not much sense, his father wished for a different sort of child.
He cradled the baby close and called him Marius, after Mars, the god of War.
“May you be strong, my son,” his father whispered. “May you be powerful, may you be a leader, and most of all, may you be wise.”
***
“Do you remember it?” Sirius asks him one day at dinner, as spring is bursting into summer.
“Do I remember what?” Marius asks, mouth full of mashed potatoes. Remus winces, but he only ever corrects Sirius’s poor eating habits, and never Marius’s.
“Anything from when you were a kid – like, before you got here.”
Marius sets his fork down. “I used to have no memories at all before the day I was found. It scared me. It scared me terribly. I’ve had recurring dreams all my life though, and I’ve started to wonder if maybe they are memories of a sort.”
“What sorts of dreams do you have?”
Marius considers. “I dream of a girl with black hair who sits upside down on a couch. I dream of a man with a long wooden staff and the carved head of a dragon. Mostly, I dream of a house.”
“A house?” Sirius prompts.
“What did it look like?” Remus asks, leaning forward. “I wonder if we would know it.”
Marius frowns and tries to think about it. “It is, hmm, I don’t have the greatest recollection of these dreams. But it is very dark and grand. There is a staircase that seems to stretch on forever. It is lined with, and this sounds very grim, but it is lined with heads. The heads aren’t quite human, but they aren’t animal either. They look like – like –”
Sirius stares at him with wide eyes. “They look like house-elves, Marius.”
The words don’t mean anything to Marius, and he is about to ask what a house-elf is, when Sirius grabs his hands. “I know where you are dreaming of. It's called Grimmauld Place.”
As if in a trance, Marius says, “Number 12.” His eyes widen. “I don’t know how I knew that.”
Sirius says, “But that’s right. It’s Number 12, Grimmauld Place.”
“It’s very common for memories to return to obliviated patients when they return to places they used to visit. It is possible that by being around Sirius, who probably looks like people you remember, and Harry being so magical, that certain things are coming back to you. It has also been such a long time since you had the spell cast on you. Charms tend to get weaker and not stronger with time.”
Marius swallows. He feels like there is this whole part of his mind that is lying in wait – locked up but ready to be released. “Maybe so. I wonder – I wonder if maybe I never wanted to forget either. Perhaps that made some difference.”
“It is possible. The mind is a powerful thing,” Remus responds.
“Oh, yes, indeed it is.”
Sirius smiles at Remus and then at Marius. “You both have such good minds.”
Remus blushes and Marius smiles. “Thank you, Sirius.”
“Maybe we should take a visit to the house sometime. See if anything comes back. I’d hate to not remember anything before 11.”
Remus says, “The memories may not be good,” he looks down at a scar on his hand, and Sirius winces.
“Even still,” Marius says, “I would like to see the house, if I can. I wish to remember as much as possible. Even if the memories are horrific, they’re mine. I try not to be angry that they were taken from me, but I do wish I could have them back.”
“If I could go back in time, I would make sure you never had your memories erased,” Sirius says. “The family seriously messed up, letting someone like you go.”
Marius allows himself a moment to imagine it — staying with his birth family, learning something completely different than he did, and getting to meet Sirius when the man was just a baby. Marius thinks about everything he would lose in the exchange: his adoptive family, his wife, his children, his PhD, Harry. “I appreciate that, really I do. But it never does well to dwell on what-ifs. It is better to start changes in the here and now.”
Sirius leans toward Remus. “Do you think I’ll be that smart when I’m his age?”
Remus smiles and replies, “Doubtful. Wisdom like that is rare.”
***
Harry and Draco are in a train car with Hermione and Ron on the way back home at the start of summer.
“Ravenclaws and Slytherins are generally the friendliest of the houses. I read about it in Hogwarts: A History,” Hermione says. “Everyone gets on okay with Hufflepuffs, but the most lasting interhouse friendships always come from Ravenclaw and Slytherin.”
“Makes sense to me,” Ron nods. “Us Slytherins have all the plans, but we need brains to make them happen.”
“Need brains? What are you, a zombie?” Draco mocks.
“You just said zombie,” Harry notes. “And I don’t think you ever watched Muggle horror movies. Are they magical creatures? Are zombies real?”
“Of course they are!” Draco responds. “But they only ever appear in South America.”
Harry shudders. He hopes he never meets one.
“Fascinating,” Hermione says. “I know what I am adding to my research list this summer.”
Ron groans. “At this rate, you’ll know everything by the time we’re in fourth year and then what will you do, graduate early?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ronald. There are more courses offered every year than there is time to take them. If I don’t study as much as I possibly can, I will be leaving knowledge on the table, and that would be just deplorable of me, don’t you think?”
“No, actually. I think it would be a sign of growth.”
Harry spots Hermione getting angry and decides to change the topic of conversation. “Hermione and Draco, what are you most excited to see when we go back to the Muggle world?”
Hermione says, “I am looking forward to the libraries. I miss C.S. Lewis.”
Draco looks offended. “We have libraries here, Hermione. The correct answer is obviously washing machines.” He says it with such confidence, such swagger, and then looks around at the stunned train car. He colors red and then clears his throat. He adopts a haughty expression. “I don’t like the Muggle world, you know. I just think washing machines are cool.”
Hermione makes a valiant effort to not laugh. She loses. “They are pretty cool,” she agrees, giggling.
Harry smiles. “I like them too! I like microwaves even better though.”
Draco tilts his head. “Microwave? What’s that?”
Hermione hits Harry’s arm. “You had him all of winter hols and didn’t think to show him the microwave?”
“Remus was cooking really good dinners!” Harry says in his defense. “I didn’t need to.”
“I want to see it,” Draco says. “Just in case it is cool. Probably lame though.”
Ron sighs. “One of these days I am going to spend a night with your Muggle families so I can join in these conversations too.”
“You can’t come over to Harry’s house,” Draco says at once. “There’s no room for you.”
Harry shakes his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’d make room.”
Draco sullenly crosses his arms and glares at Ron. “Even if you did spend a night, you’d never know how combustion and engines work. You’d need to learn, and Granda Marius won’t pick you up from King’s Cross so he won’t teach you. So there!”
Harry is about to interject that Granda Marius would love to teach Ron about combustion engines when Ron shouts at Draco, “Maybe I will learn about combustion this summer!”
“You won’t!”
“I will!”
Hermione lights up. “He will! I’ll help you, Ron!”
Ron turns to Hermione and beams. “Thank you! See, I will learn about combustion.”
Then Ron pauses and turns back to Hermione. “Oh dear, I’ve just signed myself up for studying this summer, haven’t I?”
Draco says, “You can back out.”
Hermione deflates. Ron says, “No. I am going to learn about the Muggle world so when you all get back I can talk about washing machines and microbraves.”
“Microwaves,” Hermione corrects.
“Yeah,” Ron agrees. “Those.”
"I still learned it first," Draco says. "It's not like I like the muggle world, but you should remember that I saw it first, Ron."
Ron shrugs. "There's enough of it to go around."
Draco crosses his arms again, and does not reply.
The rest of the train is uneventful, and Marius picks up Harry and Draco. “Thanks for coming to get us,” Harry says, after rushing up to give Marius a great, big hug.
Marius ruffles his hair after ending the embrace. “Always, kid. Draco, good to see you again.”
Draco stands stiffly. “You as well, Granda Marius.”
“Well, you’re being terribly formal. Would you like a hug?”
Draco shrugs and then nods, awfully small. Marius pulls him in for a hug and ruffles his hair too. “Good, let’s get this show on the road.”
The trip back to Privet Drive is free of traffic, and Harry and Marius sing along to the Beatles on the way there.
The next morning, Harry shows Draco how to heat up a cup of water in the microwave. Draco watches as the cup spins, transfixed.
When the microwave dings, Harry coaches Draco on which button to press to get the door to open. Draco takes out the steaming cup of water.
“This is magic,” he declares. “This is a magic box. We have one just like it at the manor.”
“No,” Harry denies. “This is the power of science.”
Draco looks at the microwave, and then back at Harry. “I think I need to conduct more tests to determine if this is truly magic or not.”
Remus calls out from the living room, “Show him popcorn!”
Harry grins. “Merlin, Draco, you’re going to love this.”
Draco does, in fact, love popcorn.
Harry enjoys being back on Privet Drive. He really does. He adores the sound of the washing machine as the clothes tumble round and round. He loves making tea in the morning and sitting shoulder to shoulder with Granda Marius.
Something bothers him, though. “I feel like my old family is watching me,” he tells Granda Marius.
“Your aunt has a nasty habit of watching everyone.”
It is true, Petunia is known for craning her neck and looking at everyone and knowing all their business, all the time.
“I think it’s more than that, though.”
“Well, let me know if you need me to step in.”
It is not that Harry needs Marius to step in, per se, but he notices that Petunia peers at him very intently whenever he is walking to the park or heading to the little grocery store down the block to pick up some candy with pocket money.
She watches him with Draco, and she watches him with Sirius, eyes narrowed.
It is odd, Harry thinks. She doesn’t look judgmental or angry, like she did when he lived with her. She looks determined.
Harry decides to try and ignore her eyes on him. He lives his life. He hangs up clean clothes to dry. He makes dinners with Draco. He goes to the park. He is going to have a great summer, and she can’t ruin it.
When he is walking back one evening from the park, he passes by Number Four Drive. Petunia is standing on the front steps of the house as he passes it, and she quickly moves forward and grabs a hold of Harry’s wrist.
He immediately snatches his wrist back and turns on her. “What?” he asks, a little loudly and a little surprised.
Her light blue eyes get a little bigger with her own bit of shock. He was always quiet back when he lived with her. “I was wondering,” she swallows, “I was wondering if I might talk to you.”
“We’re talking now,” Harry says. He ought to be a little kinder, he thinks. He just doesn’t like being near his old house.
“So we are. Harry, I wanted to talk to you about your family. About your mum and your grandparents.”
Harry stares at her. “What?” He almost can’t make sense of what she is offering. He has always wanted to know more about his mum.
“Do you want to hear?”
Harry cautiously nods. “Yes, thank you.”
Petunia relaxes. “Want to come inside for tea?”
Harry thinks about the house. “No, thank you.”
Petunia smiles, stiffly. “That’s okay. We can talk out here. I just – I know you don’t live with us anymore, and that’s probably for the best given… everything. But I’ve been thinking and, well, you ought to know about the Evans family. You, me, and Dudley – we’re the only ones left.”
Harry stands still, surprised by the entire conversation. He does not know what to make of it. Petunia seems sincere. He does want to know about his family.
“What was – what was my mum like?”
Petunia swallows again and her eyes go glassy. “She was everything I wasn’t. Vibrant. Beautiful. She had rose-red hair that always seemed to catch the breeze. She could sing amazingly, but was easily embarrassed about it. She loved bubbly water but hated soda. What else? She was stubborn. More than me. She couldn’t cook, at least she couldn’t cook when I knew her. She was – she was my sister.”
Petunia stops for a moment, needing to collect herself. Harry can see a picture of his mum in his mind. She wears Hogwarts robes and has long red hair and green eyes and a brilliant grin. She’s humming under her breath.
“She sounds like she was amazing.”
Petunia nods, stiffly. “She was, in a way. My parents always thought so,” and now Harry hears bitterness. “It was always, ‘Lily this’ and ‘Lily that.’ ‘Lily is so wonderful.’ But if she was so wonderful, she wouldn’t have died young, would she have?”
Harry finds himself getting a little bit angry on his mother’s behalf. Under his breath, he says, “She died to save me.”
Petunia doesn’t seem to hear him. “I wondered sometimes why they named her Lily. Lilies are what we bring to funerals, aren’t they? It’s stupid, really, but sometimes I thought, ‘What if you’d named her something else?’ What if she’d been called Dahlia, or Rosie, or something that has nothing to do with flowers, like Penny? Would she have lived longer then? And maybe, maybe she would have. If our parents hadn’t thought she was so amazing. If they had named her something else.”
Harry looks at his aunt, a woman he’s had no contact with for two years, and considers the dim memories he has of his childhood with her. He recalls the fists and the frying pans and the inattention, the neglect and the cupboard and the fear, and the knowledge that no matter what he did, it would never be enough. Petunia has said a lot of things, but none of it sounds like an apology. It might be immature, and Harry almost regrets it as soon as he says it, but he asks, “Would you have loved me more if I’d been named something other than Harry?”
She recoils, as if struck. “Harry –”
Harry cuts her off. He doesn’t want to hear her response, and he doesn’t care for the way she talks about his mum. “We can spend our whole lives on what-ifs, Mrs. Dursley, but it won’t do much unless we change things in the here and now.”
He thinks of Draco, learning in small ways that he is no better than Muggles. He thinks of his friend learning how to use the microwave and run a load of laundry and hang clothing up to dry.
And then, because Harry was raised better than he would have been had he stayed in her house, he says, “Thank you, though. I appreciate hearing about my mum. Good day, Mrs. Dursley.”
He marches on home, shoulders squared.