Chapter 16 - The Burdens of Children
A Hero's Bedtime Story
The lamps in Bones Manor were dimmed, but the light in the DMLE Director's home office was still burning.
Amelia Bones rubbed the bridge of her nose, her desk buried under reports detailing the catastrophic security breach in the Wizengamot. Bagnold was terrified, Lucius Malfoy was posturing, and Dumbledore was… unhelpfully serene.
Her head was pounding, but there was no relief to be found.
A small, creaking sound from her doorway made her look up. Her seven-year-old niece, Susan, stood there in her nightgown, clutching a stuffed badger.
"Susan, honey. What did I tell you? Auntie 'Melia is working."
"You promised," Susan whispered, her lower lip trembling just enough to be effective. "You promised you'd read to me if I finished all my vegetables."
Amelia sighed, the steel in her spine melting. She looked at the mountain of paperwork, then at her niece.
The paperwork could wait.
She pushed back her chair. "Alright, you little terrorist. You win. But one story, and then straight to bed. No arguments."
Susan beamed and scrambled back to her room, diving under the covers. By the time Amelia entered, the girl was already patting the space beside her on the bed.
"Okay, which one is it tonight?" Amelia asked, sitting on the edge of the mattress and rubbing her tired eyes. "'Babbitty Rabbitty and the Cackling Stump'?"
"No!" Susan giggled, as if the suggestion was absurd. "That's for babies. I want a real story. I want Harry Potter!"
Amelia's hand, reaching for the small stack of books on the nightstand, froze.
A familiar, cold knot tightened in her stomach. The Boy-Who-Lived. The entire wizarding world was obsessed with the boy, but for Amelia, the name was inextricably linked to her greatest professional failure.
"Which… which Harry Potter story, Susan?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.
"You know!" Susan said, bouncing slightly. "The one where he escapes the bad Ministry men! The one where he flies away with the Grim!"
The cold knot became a spike of ice. Sirius Black. Her predecessor's mistake, and her inheritance.
The only man to ever escape Ministry custody before being sent to Azkaban. He'd vanished, disappearing to Merlin knows where, and in doing so, had made a complete mockery of her entire department.
And now, witches and wizards were writing subversive, romanticized storybooks about it.
"That one again?" she said, forcing a smile. "I thought you'd be tired of it."
"It's my favourite so far!" Susan declared.
Amelia picked up the thin, brightly-illustrated book. The title, written in whimsical, curling letters, was The Boy-Who-Lived and the Grim Guardian. She opened it, her expression hardening just slightly.
She would read the story of her own failure to her niece to put her to sleep. The irony was bitter enough to taste.
"Alright," she sighed, clearing her throat. "A long time ago, in a land of magic, a brave little boy was left all alone…"
~~ .
The Price of Neutrality
The drawing room of Greengrass Manor was a masterpiece of old, quiet money.
The colours were muted greens and silvers, the furniture was ancient but impeccably maintained, and the air itself seemed to hum with the reserved power of a family that had outlasted wars, ministries, and dark lords by simply refusing to be drawn into their messy, emotional conflicts.
"Daphne, Astoria! Quickly now!" Lavinia Greengrass hissed, her hands fluttering at her perfectly coiffed hair. "Lord Malfoy and his son are at the Floo. You must look presentable. First impressions are everything."
Seven-year-old Daphne, already dressed in a smart, dark blue robe, held her five-year-old sister's hand. Astoria coughed, a dry, rattling sound that was far too old for her small body. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and when she raised her hand to cover her mouth, it trembled.
The blood curse, the ancient malediction that had haunted her mother's line for a thousand years, was already making itself known.
"Mother," Daphne said, her voice clear and firm, stepping slightly in front of her sister. "Astoria is not well. The Floo-smoke makes her cough worse. She needs to rest."
"Daphne, don't be difficult," Lavinia snapped, her eyes darting nervously towards the fireplace. "Lord Malfoy expects to see the whole family. It is a slight if we do not present both our daughters. He is a powerful man."
"She is sick," Daphne insisted, her grey eyes, so like her father's, flashing with a cold, protective fire. "She will not be paraded like a prize foal. Please, excuse her."
Lavinia looked at her eldest daughter's unyielding expression, then at Astoria's frail form. The social embarrassment was great, but the battle with Daphne, she knew, would be greater.
"Fine," she conceded, her lips thinning. "Fine. But you, Daphne, will come down, and you will be perfectly polite. Do you understand me?"
Daphne nodded. "Yes, Mother."
She gave her sister's hand a reassuring squeeze before following her mother from the nursery. When she entered the drawing room, the guests had already arrived. Her father, Lord Greengrass, was standing by the fireplace, a glass of elf-made wine in his hand.
Opposite him stood Lucius Malfoy, who held his silver-topped cane as if it were a sceptre. Beside him, silent and pale, stood a boy with white-blonde hair, who looked at Daphne with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.
"Ah, and this must be the lovely Daphne," Lucius drawled, his voice a silken, condescending purr. "A credit to the Greengrass line."
Daphne performed a perfect, shallow curtsey. "Lord Malfoy. Draco."
She then went and sat on the small, needlepoint stool beside her father's chair, folded her hands in her lap, and proceeded to become invisible.
She will watch and listen.
"Challenging times, Cyrus," Lucius was saying, swirling the wine in his own glass. "Bagnold is rattled. That attack in the Wizengamot, which, I might add, Dumbledore did nothing to prevent, proves that she has lost control. She's grasping at straws. This new budget for Bones's department? It's a desperate, costly mistake."
"All times are challenging, Lucius," her father replied, his voice calm and even. "The attack was regrettable, but hardly a sign of societal collapse. And Bones is simply doing her job."
"She is hunting ghosts," Lucius sneered coolly. "She is persecuting good families on the thinnest of pretexts while the real problems, our economy, our international standing—are ignored. It is time for new leadership. Someone stable. Someone… practical."
"Cornelius Fudge," her father stated, his voice flat.
"He is a practical man," Lucius said smoothly. "He understands his friends. And he will be the next Minister. The winds are changing, Cyrus. This... fence... you and the other Neutrals so enjoy sitting on is beginning to look rather rickety."
Her father's eyes narrowed, just slightly. "My family has sat on this 'fence' for five centuries, Lucius. We have found it to be a most comfortable and profitable position."
"And it will remain so, as long as you have a strong Ministry to protect your neutrality," Malfoy countered. "That protection is failing. A new, more decisive order is coming. A man of your standing must eventually choose a side. Stability, my friend, is on my side."
"I wish we didn't talk about sides, Lucius, when the country is finally at peace. Why cause divide more than what we already have?"
"It's not us who cause a divide, it's who we are that divides us," Lucius pointed out. "Must you abstain from crucial votes when we really need your support?"
Daphne saw her father hide a smile. He always did that when he thought of something but said something else instead. "I wish I could think like you, Lucius, but I do not. My side has always been the non-violent, profitable side. The least we can do is remain amicable."
Lucius hummed and then placed his glass down, only half finished. "We must go. We are visiting the Fawleys next. They do understand the importance of securing one's investments quite well, I think. Come, Draco."
After her father had seen them to the Floo, he returned to the drawing room and stared into the fire, his expression thoughtful.
Daphne waited.
"Father?"
He looked down, as if surprised to see her still there. "Yes, Daphne?"
"What did Lord Malfoy mean? 'The fence is rickety'?"
Her father looked at her, truly looked at her, and saw the keen, analytical intelligence in her young eyes.
He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. "He means that he is gathering power, and he expects us to join him. If we do not, he will eventually consider us an enemy."
"But that's not right," Daphne said, her brow furrowed. "We haven't done anything to him. Why should we be forced to choose?"
Lord Greengrass gave a short, bitter laugh. He knelt and placed his hands on her small shoulders. "Daphne, you are seven years old, but you are a Greengrass. It is time you learned the most important lesson our world has to offer," she listened with rapt attention, "'Right' and 'wrong' are for children's stories. For us, there is only power. Remember this, my daughter: The powerful do what they want, and the weak do what they must."
It was in that moment that Daphne Greengrass began to truly understand what truly runs the world and not what people think that does.
~~ .
The Price of Power
The black Mercedes was a silent shadow, eating up the kilometres of the dark, unfamiliar roads of Eastern Europe.
They had been driving for two days, stopping only for fuel, sleeping in the car. The escape from Geneva had been clean, but it was a retreat, and Harry knew it. The villa was gone. The library was gone. Their home was gone.
And it was all because the old man in the grey cloak had found them.
Zerina was asleep in her warmed travel satchel in his lap. Harry stared out the window at the passing darkness, the silence in the car stretching for hours.
"We're heading to Varna," Sirius finally said, his voice rough from exhaustion. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "I have... assets there. A property in the mountains. It's fortified and unplottable. We'll be safe."
"For how long?" Harry asked, his voice quiet.
Sirius didn't answer.
"Why won't he just leave us alone?" Harry pressed, the childish frustration in his voice surprising him. He hated that he sounded weak. "The old man, Dumbledore, what does he want from us?"
Sirius was silent for a long time, the only sound the steady hum of the engine. "He wants you, Harry," he said, his voice flat and dead. "He thinks you belong to him. He thinks you're a symbol. A hero for his country and the world. He thinks you're his little soldier that he can keep tucked away until he needs you to fight his battles."
"But you're Lord Black," Harry argued, reciting the facts as he knew them. "You're smart. You're rich. You're a powerful wizard. Why can't we just… stop him? Why do we have to run?"
Sirius gripped the steering wheel so tightly it creaked. The car, their fortress, suddenly felt very small and fragile.
"Because he's more powerful, pup," Sirius finally admitted, and the confession seemed to cost him something. "It's not just him. It's not one man. He has the Ministry in his pocket. He has the Order. He even has the entire ICW eating out of the palm of his hand. He has the entire establishment of the magical world. He himself is an institution. Right now... he's just too powerful. Nobody would help us, especially not when we're standing against Albus Dumbledore."
Harry turned back to the window, not saying a word in response.
Not even a sigh escaped him as he frowned at the passing cars.
Too powerful.
It was the same answer as before. The same infuriating, unmovable obstacle. It was the reason they were running. It was the reason they were weak.
He looked at the dark, passing trees, but he wasn't seeing them. He was seeing a chessboard. He saw a board where his pieces were few, and the enemy king was a towering, seemingly invincible piece that controlled every square.
He couldn't win by playing the game.
Not yet.
A cold, quiet resolve settled in his seven-year-old heart. The objective was no longer just survival. It was no longer just vengeance against a rat. The true enemy had a name, and the true objective was clear.
He would not just become powerful. He would become morepowerful. He would become the most powerful of them all.
Chapter 17 - The Black Library
A Spark in the Shadow
Blackwood Keep, Rila Mountains, Bulgaria
14 March, 1988
The safe house in the Bulgarian mountains was a fortress disguised as a rustic retreat.
It was built of thick, dark stone and heavy timber, nestled in a valley so remote it didn't appear on any Muggle map. For the last two years, it had been a place of rigorous, unyielding routine.
Physical training at dawn, Occlumency and mind arts before lunch, Muggle subjects in the afternoon, magical theory at night.
It was a life of discipline, but it was a life of rules.
And eight-year-old Harry was beginning to find the rules just a little bit stifling.
He sat on the thick bearskin rug before the grand hearth, a first-year charms textbook open on his lap. He'd been using his toy wand to levitate a feather around the room for twenty minutes.
§ It is a boring spell, Master, § Zerina hissed from her silk cushion by the fire. She had grown in the last year, her striped scales now possessing a sleek, healthy lustre. § It is a stick-word for a floating feather. Why not just tell it to fly? §
Harry sighed, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "Sirius says I have to learn the fundamentals, Zerina. He says I have to learn the 'proper' way before I can learn his way."
§ The 'proper' way seems very slow, § she observed, her head resting on her coils.
Harry couldn't help but agree. He looked at the feather, his frustration mounting. He didn't want to just levitate it.
He wanted to make it do something. He wanted to feel the power he'd felt in the library, the cold, clean magic of his invisibility. This... this was schoolwork.
He exhaled loudly.
§ It is... cold, § Zerina hissed suddenly, her head lifting. §Master, the room grows cold. §
Harry hadn't noticed. The fire in the hearth, which had been a comfortable blaze moments before, was dying rapidly, the embers fading to a dull, listless orange.
A chill that had nothing to do with the mountain snow outside began to creep into the room.
Zerina, sensing the unnatural drop in temperature, slithered from her cushion. She moved across the floor and coiled herself tightly around Harry's arm, her small, cold-blooded body seeking his warmth.
§ Make it warm, Master, § she whispered, her forked tongue flicking against his skin. § Like your parent does. Make the wood burn. §
Harry looked at the dying hearth and a shiver ran down his spine.
The cold was defintely worse, almost like a physical presence. He knew a simple Incendio wouldn't be enough, not with embers that dead. He knew the spell Sirius used. He'd watched him do it every single morning, a lazy, powerful flick of his wand to blast the cold from the ancient stone.
It was a single, authoritative spell.
He looked over at the sofa. Sirius was outside, reinforcing the perimeter wards. His wand—twelve-and-a-quarter inches, yew, unyielding, as he'd once informed him—was lying on the armrest, forgotten.
A forbidden, electric thrill shot through him. He had been explicitly forbidden from touching Sirius's wand for now. It was an unbreakable rule he'd been made to accept so as to not have any accidents with his unstable magic.
He'd been told he'd be given a real wand soon. But that soon seemed to never arrive.
§ The stick, Master, § Zerina urged, sensing his hesitation. § It is just a tool. You are cold. Take the stick and make it warm. §
His lessons with that annoying girl in the library and even Dumbledore had taught him the value of acting decisively.
So he stood, walked to the sofa, and picked up the wand.
The moment his fingers closed around the smooth, dark wood, he gasped.
It wasn't the inert, dead feeling of a simple stick. The wand was alive. A current of pure, cold power, like mountain snowmelt, rushed up his arm. It did not fight him. It did not resist. It felt... like a greeting.
Like it was testing him and his magic itself, to see if it liked him.
It was as if his magic that hummed in his own blood.
He bit his lip, took a deep breath, and readied himself.
He turned to the hearth, his fear and hesitation vanishing, replaced by a surge of pure, focused intent. He raised the wand, not clumsily, but with a sudden, innate certainty. He didn't just want to light the fire; he wanted to command it.
"Ignis Arcus!"
It was not the gentle, orange flame of a simple hearth-lighting charm. A globe of brilliant, blue-white fire, the size of a Bludger, erupted from the wand's tip. It shot across the room with a sound like a muffled thunderclap and slammed into the fireplace.
WHUMP.
The hearth exploded with light and heat, a contained inferno that lit the room and threw dancing, violent shadows against the walls. The sheer, concussive force of the magic made Harry take a step back, his eyes wide with awe.
He hadn't just lit the fire; he had nearly unmade the chimney.
§ YES! § Zerina hissed, her body vibrating with excitement against his arm. § That is the power! That is the magic of a Master! See? You do not need the silly feather-word! Do it again! Make the pillow fly! §
Harry, his blood singing with the adrenaline of the magic, grinned. He turned, the wand still feeling warm and alive in his hand. He pointed it at a large tapestry of cushion on the sofa. § Wingardium Leviosa! §
The cushion shot off the sofa and rocketed across the room, smacking into the far wall with a dull thud.
§ No, Master! § Zerina hissed, almost impatiently. § Not the stick-word! You do not need it. Just tell it. Like you told the wood to burn. §
Harry's grin widened. He turned his attention to a heavy, leather-bound copy of A History of Magic that was sitting on a low table. He pointed the wand. He spoke no word, but in his mind, he pictured the book flying into his hand. He willed it.
The book shot from the table and into his waiting left hand, the impact almost knocking him off balance.
"Wow," he breathed. This was real. This was the power he'd been craving. This was the answer to Dumbledore. § Again, § he whispered.
~~ .
Sirius Black returned from the perimeter, brushing a light dusting of snow from his dark cloak.
The wards were holding perfectly. The anti-Apparition jinxes, the blood-binds, the Muggle-repelling charms... this valley was now probably one of the most secure places on earth.
He entered the warm keep, a faint smile on his face. He'd left Harry to his boring first-year theory, a necessary, if tedious, part of the boy's education.
He heard a soft pop from the study down the hall, followed by a quiet swish.
His smile vanished. He drew his wand from the holster on his forearm—or at least tried to—only to find it empty.
Then he realized with slight alarm that he'd forgotten it on the sofa.
With movements silent and fluid, he rushed to the room. Brutus was at the local magical enclave for supplies. They were quite alone.
He moved down the hall, his boots making no sound on the stone floor. The study door was ajar. He put his eye to the crack, his heart hammering, every sense on high alert, his blood running cold.
But then he paused.
Because Harry was standing in the middle of the room, his back to the door. And he was holding Sirius's yew wand.
Sirius's first instinct was a hot flash of anger. He had told him never to touch it. His second, which followed a fraction of a second later, was pure, unadulterated shock.
Harry was not just holding the wand. He was practicing. A large, brass paperweight was floating in the air before him, spinning in a slow, perfect circle.
"Alright," Harry murmured to himself. "Steady."
Sirius watched, rooted to the spot, as the paperweight landed gently on the desk. Harry then pointed the wand at a silver letter opener. "Accio Letter Opener."
The silver blade zipped through the air and snapped perfectly into his waiting hand.
These were fourth-year charms. But Harry was eight years old. He had never been taught the somatic components, the precise wand movements. He was casting with intent and will alone.
And he was succeeding.
How?
Then, Harry did something that made Sirius's breath catch in his throat. He pointed the wand at a plain, porcelain teacup sitting on the desk.
"Vera Verto."
Sirius stared, disbelieving, as the teacup wiggled and then shimmered in its place. Its shape softened, its colour paled, and four small legs sprouted from its base. A tail shot from the handle. A second later, a small, white mouse, with the porcelain pattern of the cup still visible on its fur, squeaked and scurried across the desk.
A second-year transfiguration. One that took most Hogwarts students several weeks to master. And he'd done it.
Non-verbally, it seemed, until he'd spoken the incantation.
A small, hissing voice came from Harry's shoulder.
Harry listened to whatever the little snake had to say, and then pointed the wand again, and the mouse transformed back into a teacup.
Sirius goggled.
But Harry was grinning, a look of pure, unadulterated joy and power on his face.
Sirius decided he had seen enough. He pushed the door open.
"I see you've decided to skip the first-year curriculum, pup."
Harry froze, his entire body going rigid. He spun around, his face pale with terror. He fumbled with the wand, trying to hide it behind his back.
"Padfoot!" he stammered, his eyes wide. "I... I... the fire went out! It was cold, and Zerina... I was just..."
Sirius walked into the room, his expression unreadable. He held out his hand, palm up. "The wand, Harry."
With a look of utter defeat, Harry placed the yew wand back in its owner's hand. "I'm sorry, Sirius."
Sirius looked from Harry's face to the hearth, where a brilliant, blue-white inferno was still roaring with unnatural intensity. "The fire," Sirius said, his voice quiet. "It looks a little more than 'lit'. Ignis Arcus?"
Harry nodded, his eyes fixed on the floor. "I saw you do it."
"That is not a hearth-lighting charm, Harry," Sirius said, though there was no anger in his voice. "It is a Black family battle-magic primer. It is designed to shatter a high-level shield. You are immensely lucky you didn't bring the house down."
"I'm sorry," Harry whispered again.
Sirius was silent for a long, heavy moment.
Then, a slow, dangerous smile—the one Harry hadn't seen since before Geneva—spread across his face.
"No, Harry," Sirius said, the smile growing wider. "You're not sorry. And I am not angry." He stepped forward and placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I am impressed. I have been waiting for this. I have been teaching you Occlumency, strategy, economics, and history to build the foundation. But I was waiting for your magic to prove it was ready to be forged."
He gestured to the teacup. "You've been reading the standard course books I gave you. What do you think of them?"
"They're... too slow," Harry admitted, his confidence returning as he saw the pride in Sirius's eyes.
"They are," Sirius agreed. "They are designed to teach magic to children. You are not just a child. You are the Heir of ancient Black and Potter bloodlines. It is time your education reflected that."
Sirius walked to the far wall of the study, a simple, unadorned expanse of ancient, dark stone. He pressed his hand, the one wearing the Black Head of House ring, flat against the cold surface.
"I, Lord Sirius Black, Head of the House, demand access for my Heir, Harry James Potter-Black."
The magic in the room thrummed, like a deep, resonant shiver that Harry felt in his bones. The stones of the wall began to glow with faint, silver light before sliding, folding, and retracting into the wall, revealing a dark, yawning archway.
"What is it?" Harry breathed, his eyes wide with awe.
"It is our inheritance, Harry," Sirius said, a fierce, dark pride in his voice. "The true Black Family Library. Taken exactly as it is, with Brutus' help, from Grimmauld. This is the heart of our knowledge, bound by blood and magic to the Lord of the House."
He gestured for Harry to enter.
The eight year old stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the swirling, perfect darkness. The void resolved, and he found himself in a vast, circular chamber that should not have been able to fit inside their small house.
Shelves stretched up into an impossibly high, dark dome. The books were bound in black leather, in snakeskin, in shadow itself. The air smelled of dust, ozone, and ancient, sleeping power.
"These books," Sirius said, coming to stand beside him, "contain real magic. The magic that builds empires and dismantles them. The spells Dumbledore and his Ministry want everyone to forget. Battle-curses, blood-wards, rituals of concealment, charms of domination. Everything you will ever need to be the man who wins."
Harry stared, his heart hammering. This was the answer. This was the power he had felt in the library, the power he had lacked.
"But," Sirius said, his voice a sharp command, "we do this my way. You must still be able to walk in Dumbledore's world. You must be able to present yourself as the perfect, brilliant, charming student when, and if, the time comes. We cannot neglect the 'light' curriculum. It is your camouflage."
He turned to Harry, his grey eyes intense. "So here is the deal. You will continue to master the standard Hogwarts curriculum. For every ten standard charms, transfigurations, or potions you master to my satisfaction... I will permit you to choose one spell from this library to learn. For now."
He pointed to a black, leather-bound tome on a nearby pedestal. The Codex of Battle-Will. "One for ten. You get the knowledge you need to blend in, and you get the power you need to win. It will be twice the work of any normal student. It will be exhausting. It will be the hardest thing you have ever done."
Harry looked up at his godfather, then around at the shelves of dark, forbidden knowledge. He looked at the power that would ensure he would never have to run again. His green eyes burned with a cold, bright fire.
This was not a chore.
This was his ascension.
"I accept."
Chapter 18 - Echoes and Alliances
The Price of Failure
"You saw him?!"
Minerva's voice was not a shout. It was a low, furious hiss, more potent than any roar.
She was vibrating with a rage that Dumbledore had not seen directed at him in over thirty years.
He barely resisted the urge to flinch and squirm in his seat as she directed all her focus, and her angry glare at him.
They were alone in his office, the door magically sealed, the portraits of past headmasters feigning sleep and he had to tolerate it all by himself.
"You saw Harry Potter in Geneva, and you let him go?"
"I did not let him go, Minerva," he said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. He looked every one of his advanced years. The twinkle in his eyes had been extinguished since his return. "The boy was... strangely quick. He looked at me and vanished before I could even cross the room. An advanced disillusionment charm, or perhaps an invisibility cloak... he was gone. I am going to be examining my memories to decipher how he did that soon."
"He was warned!" she accused, pacing before his desk like a caged lioness. "Because you went to that reporter first! You blundered in, Albus! For six years, you assured me he was safe. You told me the blood wards were inviolate. And now? Now we find he has been in the clutches of Sirius Black since he was a toddler! How could you let this happen?"
"I have admitted my error," he said, his gaze fixed on his steepled fingers. "I placed too much faith in Petunia Dursley's familial bond. It was a catastrophic miscalculation."
"An error?" she repeated, her voice cracking. "It was a betrayal of all Lily and James legacy! Two of the finest people I ever met in my—and now... Albus..." She stopped her pacing, her hands clenched. "Are you even certain? After all this. After Black has raised the boy, protected him, for seven years... Are you truly certain he was the traitor?" she asked pointedly and furiously.
"The evidence is immutable," he said, some of the old conviction returning to his voice. It was the one piece of solid ground he had left. And he would stand by it.
And even if he was wrong about it, of which there was a very slight chance, it was for the greater good that Harry Potter was returned to him, and not be gallivanting around the continent with Sirius Black.
"He was their Secret-Keeper. He murdered Peter Pettigrew and twelve Muggles. He is a dark, dangerous man. And whatever affection he may be showing the boy, it is only to twist him, to mold him into a weapon for his own ends."
Minerva looked unconvinced, a new, terrible doubt warring with a lifetime of loyalty. "Twisted? Or just... raised? He's alive, Albus, but—" she shook her head, momentarily speechless, "I don't like this. Don't like this at all. No thanks to you, he's somewhere unknown. And what are you doing about it now? What is the plan, Albus?"
"I have... inquiries being made," he said, the vagueness of the answer a clear sign of his failure. "My contacts at the ICW are searching for any whispers of Black's movements. But the trail is dead. Sirius is not just talented, Minerva. He is cunning, he is well-funded, and he is a Black. He has access to resources and magic we have not yet fathomed. He will not be found until he wishes to be found."
"So you are doing nothing," Minerva stated, her voice flat. It was not a question; it was a verdict. "You are sitting here, while James and Lily's son is being raised by their murderer. You lost him, Albus. You lost the boy, and you lost his kidnapper. You have failed. Utterly."
She did not wait for a reply. She spun on her heel and marched to the door, her shoulders rigid.
"Headmaster," she said, her hand on the door handle, "I find I am in need of a... a long walk."
The door slammed shut, leaving Dumbledore alone in the echoing silence. He let out a breath he felt he had been holding for days.
A shadow in the corner of the room detached itself from the wall, resolving into the tall, sallow form of Severus Snape.
"A sentimental fool," Snape sneered, his voice a low drawl. "She always was."
"Her heart is in the right place, Severus," Dumbledore murmured, rubbing his temples. "But this is... problematic. My attempt to retrieve the boy has only pushed Black further into hiding, and vanish completely. He will now also be on high alert."
"He has been on high alert for seven years, Headmaster," Snape countered. "He is not an idiot, whatever else he may be. You have kicked the hornet's nest. What would you have me do?"
"I need you to listen," Dumbledore said, his blue eyes meeting Snape's black ones. "Subtly. Use your old pureblood networks, the ones who never truly disavowed him, even if they feared him."
Snape's lip curled. "You want me to ask my... former associates... if they have heard from a notorious blood-traitor? They will laugh in my face before they curse it."
"I can ask Cissa," Snape offered.
"Good," Dumbledore said, "Lucius may be tight-lipped but she anointed you her son's godfather, didn't she? It's a good outlet for now, at least until I can uncover more clues about their location."
Snape went very still. "And if she knows nothing?"
"Then we are still blind. But I have hope as she is his cousin. The bonds of Black family magic run deep, deeper than loyalty to a Dark Lord or the Ministry. If he is truly desperate, if he is reaching out for allies or resources... she might hear a whisper. Find out what she knows."
Snape stared at him for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. "What about Andromeda Tonks?"
"She won't answer to you. I'm afraid I will have to approach her myself."
"As you wish, Headmaster," Snape said. He turned, his black robes billowing, and swept from the room, leaving Dumbledore alone with his spinning gadgets and his profound, bone-deep failure.
~~ .
A Spoken Contract
The gardens of Greengrass Manor were crisp with the onset of autumn. Eight-year-old Daphne sat on a stone bench, her feet tucked beneath her, a thick book on Ancient Runes of the Norse Kingdoms open on her lap. She was supposed to be practicing her penmanship, but runes were far more logical than the looping, frivolous script her mother insisted upon.
Even when she understood quite little, reading it made her fascinated, and it was a good way to pass some of her free time.
After all, magic was magic. She could read it now, and it will be in the back of her mind for later when she could actually practise it.
She was just deciphering a particularly complex passage on binding wards when the sound of raised voices drifted from the open doors of her father's study.
"...it's a phenomenal opportunity, Cyrus! The Malfoys!" It was her mother, her voice high and strained. "Lucius all but offered it! Draco is a good, strong heir. It would secure our family for a generation!"
"It would shackle us to a man who is actively trying to destabilize the Ministry!" her father retorted, his voice a low, angry rumble. "I will not sell my daughter to Lucius Malfoy to secure his vote in the Wizengamot!"
"It is not selling her!" her mother cried. "It is betrothingher! It is what is done! It's what our parents did! It ensures her future, and Astoria's! Do you truly believe Malfoy's resources would not be useful in finding a cure for... for it?"
A cold, heavy silence followed and Daphne's hand, tracing a rune, froze. They were talking about Astoria. About the curse.
Her father's voice, when it came, was like chipped ice. "Malfoy's price is too high. I will not have one daughter serve as a bargaining chip in his game of curing another. The discussion is over. I will not bind Daphne to that family."
The study doors slammed shut. The garden was quiet again, save for the rustle of the wind.
Daphne looked down at her book, but she no longer saw the runes. She saw only the word. Betrothed. It sounded like a contract. It sounded like a cage. It sounded like something that was done to you for life.
She closed the heavy book. Penmanship could wait. She had a new, far more urgent topic to research in the family library.
~~ .
The Diner
The mekhana in the small, mountain town smelled of woodsmoke, roasted peppers, and old ale.
It was rundown, but it was warm. Sirius, glamoured to look like a tired, middle-aged Bulgarian labourer, sat in a corner booth, nursing a bitter black coffee. Harry, his own features subtly shifted, sat opposite him, silently observing.
An older waitress with a kind, wrinkled face and a white apron came over, wiping her hands.
"More coffee, mister?" she asked in warm, accented Bulgarian.
"Yes, please," Sirius replied in the same language, his accent flawless. "And perhaps a banitsa for my son. He's had a long day."
The waitress's face softened as she looked at Harry, who sat quietly, his eyes taking in everything. "Of course, little boy. You look like you need something warm in your belly. You are very quiet, unlike my own grandsons!"
As she bustled away to the kitchen, Sirius's eyes unfocused for a single, imperceptible second. A silent, passive Legilimency probe, now as reflexive as breathing, scanned her surface thoughts.
Thankfully, he only saw…exhaustion. And a deep worry about her eldest son who was stationed with the army near the Turkish border. A genuine, uncomplicated warmth at the sight of a quiet child.
But no threat. No suspicion. And no magic.
Sirius let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The tension in his shoulders, a constant companion since Geneva, eased by a fraction.
The waitress returned, placing a large, steaming slice of the spiral-shaped cheese pastry in front of Harry, along with a glass of water. "Here you are, sweetheart. Eat. It's fresh from this morning."
As she set the plate down, her hand gently brushed Harry's hair.
Harry flinched. It was not a large movement, but it was sharp, his entire body going rigid, his Occlumency walls slamming up at the unexpected, unscheduled contact.
The waitress pulled her hand back as if burned. "Oh! I'm sorry, dear. I didn't mean to startle you."
"He's… shy," Sirius cut in smoothly, offering her a tired smile. "Thank you, madam. This is very kind."
"Of course," she said, her smile returning, though it was now tinged with a flicker of pity. She left them to their meal.
Harry stared at the pastry, his hands still clenched in his lap.
"You flinched," Sirius said quietly.
Harry shook his head. "I don't know why I did that."
Sirius sighed, rubbing his face. "Don't overthink, Harry. It was just a good instinct. And my probe was clean. She's... just a nice woman. Not every stranger is an enemy. Sometimes... sometimes people are just kind."
Harry looked at Sirius, then at the waitress, who was now laughing with a man at the bar.
He processed this as he picked up his fork and took a careful bite of the banitsa. The flaky pastry, the warm cheese... it was actually really good.
They finished their meal in silence. As Sirius paid the bill at the counter, the waitress gave Harry a final, warm wave.
He hesitated for a second, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod in return.
They walked out of the diner and climbed into their battered, nondescript Lada. As they pulled onto the muddy road leading back to the keep, Sirius glanced at his godson.
Harry was staring out the window, but there was a strange, small smile on his face. It was a rare, genuine expression that had nothing to do with mastering a spell or winning an argument.
"What is it?" Sirius asked, surprised.
Harry turned from the window. "I liked her," he said simply. "And the banitsa was very good too."
Sirius stared at the road, a sudden, fierce ache in his chest.
He had been so focused on forging a weapon, a prince, a lord... that he was suddenly terrified he had broken the child in the process.
He looked back at Harry, who had returned to gazing out the "I like her." It was the most normal, childish thing he had heard him say in a while.
Maybe, he thought, as they drove up into the safety of the mountains, maybe the boy was still in there after all.
Chapter 19 - Intent and Influence
The First Lesson of Force
The great hall of Blackwood Keep had been cleared. Tapestries were rolled, furniture pushed against the stone walls. It was a cold, open, unforgiving space.
Eight-year-old Harry stood at one end, his practice wand held in a stiff, formal duelling grip.
Sirius stood opposite him, relaxed, his own wand held loosely at his side. "You've read the books. You've mastered the theory. You've even proven you can cast spells under pressure."
His eyes were not the warm, smiling eyes of 'Padfoot'. In fact, they were the cold, grey eyes of Lord Black.
The Lord Black who had more than enough serious knowledge to impart on this fine day.
"None of that matters now. Theory is a suggestion while a duel is a conversation, and the only word that matters is the last one."
He gave Harry a cold, wicked smile. "Your first lesson, Harry, is to try to survive."
Harry waited.
Sirius nodded.
And that was the signal.
Harry moved.
He didn't linger. He didn't bow. He lunged to the side, his smaller size making him a fast target.
"Locomotor Mortis!" he yelled, his voice sharp.
A jet of blue light shot from his wand.
Sirius didn't even raise his arm. A wandless shield materialized in front of him, and the spell, weak as it was, splashed against it like water on hot stone.
"Slow," Sirius said, his voice bored.
A flick of his wrist later and a non-verbal Stinging Hexlanced through the air in a hiss of magical energy.
Harry dove, rolling behind a stone pillar. The hex hit the stone with a sharp crack. Brutus might have something to say about that later, but he paid it no mind.
"Better!" Sirius called out. "Using cover is good. But that cover is also a trap. You're pinned now, son."
To prove his point, a second hex hit the other side of the pillar.
Harry was indeed trapped.
But then the eight year old boy leaned out, pointing his wand. "Incendio!"
A jet of orange flame roared from his wand, aimed not at Sirius, but at the floor in front of him, trying to cut off his advance.
Sirius laughed. "A barrier of fire? Predictable!"
"Aguamenti!"
A torrent of water erupted from Sirius's wand, hitting the flames. The room filled instantly with thick, choking steam.
"Good use of the environment, pup," Sirius's voice echoed from the mist. "But so is this."
Harry couldn't see. He pointed his wand into the white haze, his heart hammering within his ribs, his breath shallow and quick.
"Relashio!"
A volley of hot sparks shot into the steam, aimed at where he thought Sirius's hand would be.
But it wasn't.
Harry gritted his teeth.
"A Disarming Charm is more direct, Harry!" Sirius's voice came from his left. He'd moved of course.
So Harry spun, just as a Tripping Jinx shot out of the mist and hit his ankle.
And his breath was torn away from his lungs as he went down hard, his chin smacking against the stone. He rolled, ignoring the pain, and scrambled to his knees.
Through the clearing mist, he saw Sirius walking calmly towards him, wand down. He was wide open.
This was his chance.
He poured every ounce of his will into the incantation, the one he'd been practicing from the second-year book.
"Incarcerous!"
A set of thin, flimsy ropes shot from his wand.
Only, they looked like wet noodles.
They hit Sirius's chest and fell to the floor in a pathetic, limp pile.
Harry stared, his mind blank with shock. "But… I said it right!"
Sirius stopped a few feet away. He looked down at the limp ropes at his feet, then back up at Harry. His expression was one of profound disappointment.
"You did," Sirius said.
He raised his own wand. He spoke no word.
WHIP-CRACK.
Thick, heavy ropes, looking more like anchor chains, erupted from the air around Harry. They slammed into him, binding his arms to his chest and his legs together with brutal efficiency.
He was trussed up like a Christmas turkey before he could even blink. Toppling over onto the stone floor, completely and utterly defeated, Harry groaned.
Sirius walked over and stood above him.
"Why?" Harry demanded, his voice muffled as he strained against the bonds. "Why did yours work and mine didn't? The pronunciation was perfect!"
"It was," Sirius agreed.
"The wand movement?"
"There was nothing wrong with your wand movement, Harry," Sirius said imperiously.
"Then why?" Harry yelled, his frustration making his eyes sting.
Sirius knelt, his cold, grey eyes boring into Harry's. "Your intent was weak."
"What?"
"A simple charm, Harry, like your Incendio, just needs focus. It's a mere one-dimensional spell, a command to an element, and that's about it. But a curse... a curse is different. A curse needs will. It needs emotion. Incarcerous is a weak one, barely a curse, but it is still one taught to first and second years."
Sirius tapped the ropes binding Harry's chest. "When you cast, you were practicing. You were thinking about the spell. You were trying to get a good grade in a test."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. "When I cast, I was thinking about how much I wanted to stop my opponent. How much I wanted to bindthem, to make them helpless, to take away their freedom and their ability to harm me. I didn't ask the ropes to appear, Harry. I commanded them."
He saw the dawning realization understanding in Harry's eyes.
"So... you… wanted to hurt me?" Harry whispered as a curious question, rather than a horrified accusation. That alone threatened to make Sirius smile.
But he resisted.
"No," he corrected instantly. "I wanted to win. I wanted to subdue you. A curse is an extension of your will, Harry. The power of a spell is directly linked to the clarity of your intent to impose that will on someone else. You didn't reallywant to bind me. You wanted to see if you could do a spell. That's why you failed."
He waved his wand, and the ropes vanished.
Sirius offered a hand and pulled Harry to his feet. He was unsteady, but his eyes were blazing with a new, cold understanding.
"Your reflexes are good," Sirius said, his voice returning to that of a teacher. "Your instincts for cover are sound. But your will is unfocused. You are still playing. And this is not a game."
He clapped Harry on the shoulder, a gesture that almost knocked him off balance again.
"We go again in two days. Between now and then, I don't want you to read a single spellbook. I want you to go to the Black library. I want you to read the trial transcripts of the Lestranges. I want you to read the Auror reports on the Longbottoms. I want you to understand what it means to take away someone's freedom without indulging your own emotions. Then, maybe, you'll start becoming ready to cast a spell that does it."
"Intent is different from emotions?" Harry questioned incredulously, "How?!"
Sirius only smiled.
~~ .
The Viper's Ink
Amelia slammed the Daily Prophet down on her desk, the sound echoing through her office. The headline, in large, accusing type, read: "MINISTRY IN CHAOS! DMLE BUDGET SLASHED! DIRECTOR BONES' FAILED MANHUNTS LEAVE PUBLIC DEFENCELESS!"
"She's a viper!" she snarled.
Rufus Scrimgeour, the Head of Auror Office of Britain, stood opposite her, his lion-like face set in a grim expression.
He picked up the paper, his yellow eyes scanning the column. "Skeeter, isn't it? She's always been a viper, Amelia. This… this is just another version of her poison quill."
"She's blaming me!" Amelia said, pacing behind her desk. "Listen to this, Rufus: 'Director Bones's obsessive and costly vendetta against rumoured Death Eaters, combined with her department's catastrophic failure to prevent the assassination attempt in the Wizengamot, has led to a total loss of confidence. The Wizengamot's budget committee, led by the pragmatic Cornelius Fudge, had no choice but to slash her funding.' She's—"
"Amelia—"
"—making me the scapegoat!"
"Amelia—"
"She's deliberately ignoring the fact that Fudge's committee blocked our emergency funding before the vote," she growled. "She's not reporting the news, she's creating it. And she's doing it on Malfoy's orders."
"Of course she is!" Rufus snapped. "But the public doesn't know that. They won't read about Malfoy or Nott or the Dark Faction pulling Fudge's strings. They'll read that you are incompetent, that our 'failed manhunts' are the reason their taxes are being wasted. She's giving them the perfect excuse to go and defund the DMLE, crippling our ability to hunt men like Rookwood, and Rita gives them the political cover to do it. They're not the villains; we're the idiots who can't manage a budget."
Amelia looked at him then in fury.
"Amelia, it's nothing new. Calm down."
But she tossed the paper back on the desk in disgust. "And she's smart too, of course. She's sprinkled in just enough truth to make the lies plausible. Our failure to capture the Wizengamot assassin is a black eye. My approval in the public polls is going to be nonexistent after this."
She sank into her chair, the fight going out of her for a moment.
"Now what do we do, Rufus? We're trapped. We can't hunt the Death Eaters with half a budget. And when we inevitably fail, Skeeter will be right there with her acid-green quill to write 'I told you so.' It's a perfect, self-fulfilling prophecy."
Rufus stared out of the window, his jaw set, still reacting minimally to her outburst.
"We do the only thing we can, ma'am." he said formally, "Now that we have you as the Director, we work with what we have, and we have it better than most other departments whose budgets are going to be also cut. What we need to do is—become twice as ruthless and half as public. And in our spare time…" And then as if a plan formed in his mind and a grim, predatory smile touched his lips, "We start looking for a way to get some leverage on Rita. A viper is only dangerous until you defang it."
Chapter 20 - The Lost Brother
There was a reason he had never wanted to forgive his mother for essentially ruining his childhood forever.
It was not because she'd been a crazy bitch who liked to torture her children for no reason at all, whether it was verbally or otherwise.
It was also not because she'd wanted her children to follow the Dark Lord and grow up to be as trigger happy as Druella's children.
No, it was because of something else.
It was something far too visceral, a little too profound to be boiled down to simple black and white reasons.
The actual reason he hated his mother was because she'd never really behaved like a mother.
His father was too weak to ever control her, and his mother had been entirely too unfit to be a real parent. Merlin, she treated her elf, Kreacher, better than her own children.
Although, he would always admit this to himself as a child, Regulus did get better treatment from her than him.
And then he had to grow up to be fourteen, fifteen almost, to figure out that it was because he applied his brain a little too much and questioned his mother a little many times to ever be the 'golden' child.
He'd also joined Gryffindor which had driven a hard wedge. A worse one, if he was honest.
And then Regulus had gone ahead and joined the Dark Lord and fucked up his family for good.
The last thing the Black family had needed was more chaos within itself, and Pollux had already proven that stupidity was contagious with his decision to align himself and sign over his daughters like cattle, and do it to the worst families ever.
"If only grandfather had stepped in before then," he mused to himself, sitting in his cosy armchair by the fireplace, "then all of this would've been avoided."
But no. That was wishful thinking, wasn't it?
It wasn't just his grandfather who had not done the Head of House duties as nicely as he'd been obligated to. It'd been all of them.
"But why?" he wondered. "Why did it have to be us? Why the Black family?"
He knew part of the reason was that they were the most powerful family in Britain. And destruction of their core foundations had begun from almost Grindelwald's time, with Perseus and Cassiopeia's defiance.
His own defiance, running away from home, had felt like the only solution. He couldn't fix his family, so he had run to find a new one.
And he had.
With the Potters.
Charlus and Dorea had taken him in without a single question. They had been more of a mother and father to him in two years than Walburga and Orion had been in sixteen. They were kind, and warm, and they laughed. Their house wasn't a mausoleum of dark magic and whispered resentments; it was a home, loud and bright and filled with love.
And James... James had been his brother. The brother he'd chosen.
And he'd been more of a brother than Regulus.
His grip on his armchair tightened as more memories surfaced.
He'd had a choice. He'd had a place to run to. He'd had a full, loving family to catch him when he fell.
Harry, he thought, his gaze drifting to the empty doorway, had been in a similar, but infinitely worse, situation. His family had been obliterated. He'd been abandoned, not by a cruel mother, but by a world that was supposed to protect him. He'd been betrayed by the goblins, cast aside by his own blood, and left to rot.
And when Sirius had rescued him, Harry hadn't found a new family.
He'd just found Sirius.
He didn't have a Charlus and Dorea to dote on him. He didn't have a James to cause trouble with.
No, he just had a paranoid, hunted, and cynical godfather who was teaching him battle-magic and war strategy before he'd even learned to ride a bike.
Sirius was his only parent, his only friend, his only teacher, and his only protector. The weight of that singular, absolute responsibility was…a bit overwhelming.
He was all that stood between Harry and a world that wanted to either kill him, use him, or worship him. He couldn't afford to get it wrong. Not even a little bit.
A soft footstep on the stone floor pulled him from his dark thoughts.
"Are we going?"
He looked up. Harry was standing in the doorway, his arms crossed. He was ten years old, but his green eyes, sharp and intense, held the unnerving focus of a man twice his age. He was already wearing his outdoor cloak.
"We've been planning it for a month," Harry pressed, his voice low and serious. "You said we would go. Are we finally going to see him?"
He let out a long breath. He'd been putting it off. And for good reason.
It was a risk. A monumental, emotional, unpredictable risk. But it had to be done.
At least, he didn't want Harry to grow up with just him. He'd at least like to try for more.
Besides, Harry's magic was also becoming more controlled, more potent, even. His questions were getting harder. His education was getting challenging. Their combined efforts at secrecy were always under threat—the ghosts of Geneva were still fresh in their minds.
He looked at the boy who was his only family, his sole purpose. Harry deserved the more. As much as he could get him.
Sirius pushed himself up from the armchair, his brooding thoughts evaporating, replaced by the cold, clear focus of a man on a mission.
"Yes," he said, his voice firm. "We're going. Brutus!"
The house-elf appeared with a sharp pop. "Master calls?"
"Our travel cloaks, please. The heavy ones. And the satchel."
"Yes, Master." The elf vanished.
"Glamours up, Harry," Sirius commanded, drawing his own wand.
He ran it over his face, the familiar, cool magic washing over him, lengthening his jaw, dulling his eyes, adding the lines and sags of the unremarkable 'Caspian Sterling'. Harry did the same, his features blurring, becoming softer, less defined, his hair turning a mousy brown.
They were two ghosts, ready to walk in the world.
"Stay close. No magic, no matter what. And not a word of English," Sirius said.
Harry just nodded, his face a mask of solemn resolve.
Sirius put his hand on Harry's shoulder. With a deep breath, he turned on his heel. The keep's warm, fire-lit study vanished, replaced by the gut-wrenching, icy compression of apparition.
They appeared with a loud crack in a muddy, windswept alley in a small village miles from their keep. The air smelled of wet wool and coal smoke.
"This way," Sirius muttered, pulling his cloak tighter.
They walked two blocks to a rundown tavern. The sign above the door was a picture of a dancing bear, its paint peeling. Inside, it was dark, smoky, and almost empty.
A single man sat in a back booth, nursing a glass of dark, cloudy liquid. He was thin, with eyes that darted nervously.
Sirius slid into the booth opposite him. Harry sat beside Sirius, his back to the wall, his eyes scanning the room, the exits, the barman.
The man didn't look at them. He just stared at the table.
"You have them?" Sirius asked in rough, low Bulgarian.
"You have the coin?" the man whispered back, his hand trembling. Whether it was due to fear of being found, or some potion-induced effect, he didn't know.
Sirius slid a small, heavy leather bag across the table. The man's hand shot out, snatching it and weighing it in his palm. A flicker of relief crossed his face.
"Good. Good," the man muttered. He reached into his own pocket and pulled out two small, rusted objects. They looked like old, dented teaspoons. He dropped them on the table.
"Two," the man said. "Unmarked, untraceable and good for one jump both ways. They'll melt to slag on arrival. Destination is Krakow."
"You're sure?" Sirius said.
"I'm sure I want you to leave," the man hissed, his eyes darting to the barman. "You're bad for my health. Now, go. And don't ever come back."
Sirius picked up the two spoons. He nodded once, stood up, and placed a hand on Harry's back. They walked out of the tavern, leaving the man to his drink and his coin.
Back in the alley, Sirius kept one of the spoons in his pocket.
"Krakow?" Harry asked, his voice a quiet question.
"A neutral territory, mostly. The Polish Ministry doesn't share information with the British unless a dragon gets loose. It's fine."
He looked at his pocket watch. "The Portkey activates in one minute. Grab hold, and whatever you do, do not let go. It will feel... unpleasant."
Harry nodded, his small hand gripping the rusted metal with one hand, and Sirius' arm with another.
Sirius took hold. "On three. Two. One..."
He felt it. A violent, gut-wrenching hook behind his navel. The alley, the village, the cold air, all dissolved in a chaotic, blinding vortex of color and pressure. Harry was a solid, reassuring weight beside him.
And then they landed. Hard.
Harry stumbled but didn't fall, his lessons in balance drills paying off. They were in another alley, this one narrower, built of old, dark brick that smelled of rain and ancient magic.
Sirius checked his wand. No alarms. No followers. He let out a shaky breath.
"Come on," he said, pulling up the hood of his cloak. "It's not far."
They emerged onto a street that made Diagon Alley look like a suburban shopping mall. The buildings were tall and gothic, their spires and gargoyles seeming to claw at the overcast sky. The magical district of Krakow was woven seamlessly into the old city, and the air was alive with the smell of strange spices, the cooing of owls, and the low murmur of a dozen different languages.
Harry's head was on a swivel, but he stayed silent, his hand near the satchel where Zerina was hidden.
Sirius navigated the unfamiliar streets with an old, grim purpose. He turned down a narrow lane marked only by a hanging sign of a cage, and pushed open a heavy wooden door.
A small bell chimed.
The shop, Kreska's Magical Menagerie, was utter chaos.
It smelled of sulfur, wet fur, and something that might have been dragon dung. Cages were stacked floor to ceiling, containing everything from slumbering Flobberworms to a cage of iridescent, jewel-toned beetles that clicked angrily.
"Be with you in a moment!" a voice called from the back, rough and tired. "These blasted..."
Harry sniffed the air, his nose wrinkling. He leaned in close to Sirius.
"Is that him?" Harry whispered.
Sirius felt a genuine, painful smile tug at his lips. "Yes, pup."
A door in the back of the shop opened, and a man emerged, wiping his hands on a dirty rag.
He was tall, but he stooped, as if carrying a great weight. His robes were patched. His sandy hair was streaked with grey, though he couldn't have been much older than Sirius. His face was a roadmap of exhaustion, premature lines etched around his eyes and mouth.
"Right," the man said, his voice weary. "What can I do for... for..."
He trailed off, his gaze landing on the two glamoured figures. He frowned, a look of puzzlement crossing his scarred face. He could feel the magic, but it wasn't something he'd not felt before.
Sirius knew that the moment he paused, so he took a deep breath. It was now or never. He raised a hand to his own face.
"Finite Incantatem," he whispered.
The glamour, the face of Caspian Sterling, dissolved. The magic melted away, revealing the high, aristocratic cheekbones, the long, dark hair, and the haunted, familiar grey eyes.
Gasp.
The rag dropped from the man's hand.
His mouth fell open. His pale, amber-flecked eyes went wide, first with utter, profound shock, then with a flicker of fear, and then, beneath it all, a dawning, impossible hope.
"...Sirius?"
His voice was a hoarse croak, a name he hadn't spoken aloud in almost a decade.
Sirius gave a small, pained, broken smile.
"Hello, Remus. How are you?"