The house Andrei could see without any trouble—Snape too, having memorised the address—but getting in was another matter entirely. The door might as well have been electrified: it scalded them when they touched the old knocker, then shot out unpleasant-looking spines the moment they tried again—they barely managed to pull their hands back in time. What they failed to watch was the baby. And so they stood there, mildly dumbfounded, watching Harry cheerfully hammer on the lower part of the door with his small palm—he'd been paying close attention to their example, apparently just now. But the remarkable thing was that the door finally opened—grudgingly, creaking, but it opened. They got inside in an instant, the door swung shut behind them, and a cold prickling sensation ran down both their spines—the feeling of being locked inside something dangerous. Snape's jaw tightened audibly.
"Not pleasant," Andrei said under his breath. "Well. We work with what we have. We absolutely must get this house to trust us."
"First priority: surviving," Snape said, scooping up Harry, who was already preparing to investigate everything within reach.
"Are there other options?"
"We're about to find out."
Of the three of them, only Harry was perfectly at ease—he immediately began squirming in Severus's arms and reaching for a decidedly menacing-looking bas-relief on the wall.
A rustling sound, like the wings of an enormous bat spreading open, and a thin figure appeared on the landing at the top of the stairs, dressed entirely in black.
Walburga Black had been living in complete isolation for several months. When the news came that her elder son had been sentenced to life in Azkaban, it had extinguished the last hope she had left. She had chosen to be alone—had even sent away the last house-elf, so that no one would interfere. Interfere with dying, and with destroying the last thing that remained of a proud and numerous family: their home. The house resisted; the house did not want to die. It drained her strength, then replenished it when there was none left, but Walburga Black could not allow herself to lose this final battle.
And now she stood on the landing in bewildered outrage, staring down at two strangers who had somehow entered her perfectly protected house. To the dungeons with them, and torture them until they explained how they'd done it—and who they were. Though she recognised one of them: the Hogwarts gamekeeper. How dare he. She was nearly overcome with fury—and then things got worse.
"Good evening, ma'am," Severus said, with a polite bow, not releasing Harry but managing to pull the edge of his robe over the child before the mistress of the house appeared. "We need to speak with you. Could you suggest somewhere we might settle without disturbing you, if you're occupied at the moment?"
Walburga Black narrowed her eyes, drew a breath, raised her wand, and opened her mouth—she was going to hit both uninvited guests with the Blacks' favourite curse. Ideally several of them. Ideally in a way that made it last. Then the gamekeeper stepped forward, putting himself between her and Snape, and announced:
"We've come to save your family line, so we'll be staying a bit. And is there anywhere to get a glass of water? We're so hungry we've got nowhere to sleep tonight."
The fury shot straight to her head—a hot, blinding pain—her vision swam, her legs gave out, and she apparently died. Darkness swallowed her whole.
***
"Looks like a stroke," Hagrid said, frowning, settling Lady Black more comfortably among the cushions—there was no shortage of them in the drawing room—and explained to Snape's questioning look: "Bleeding in the brain. Disrupts the connection between the head and the body."
"And the connection between the head and continuing to live?"
"That too, sometimes."
"So the Blacks have congenital strokes?"
Andrei sighed—he'd need to explain later. For now, he needed to treat her. Though from what he'd read, wizards were a resilient lot.
"Medical theory later. Can you remove the excess blood from her brain?" he asked Snape.
"The excess?" Snape bent over, studying the lady carefully. "How do I know how much is excess?"
"You can just draw it out, though?" Andrei said, impressed.
"It's a liquid," Snape said, with a shrug. "What's difficult about that? I've removed excess compounds from cauldrons dozens of times. And water."
"Go ahead, then. Carefully. Stop when I tell you. Or—watch her colour."
Snape raised his wand and directed it at Lady Black.
"That'll do—stop!"
The pain was slowly receding.
***
…She hadn't died, apparently. Which was very unfortunate. At least, that was her first thought on coming to what felt suspiciously like the unwashed hands of the gamekeeper himself. Walburga shuddered and would have said as much, but she couldn't summon the strength to open her mouth. At least they'd covered her with something and stepped back, so she could observe the situation through her lashes—Merlin, the humiliation—in her own home. She should never have sent Kreacher away. He'd have had these villains out in seconds.
"I really dislike it when words and actions are so completely at odds," said a pleasant young voice, from somewhere behind her—the young man who had greeted her first. "You announce that you've come to save the family line, and then very nearly finish off its last surviving member. Prematurely. Reminds me of someone, if you'll forgive me for saying so."
"I didn't know she was so highly strung!" the half-giant was protesting. "I'm sorry, all right, it won't happen again. Satisfied?"
The young man snorted. Then he bent toward her.
"Lady Black—I can see you've regained consciousness. Can you speak?"
"How are you feeling?" Hagrid crouched beside her, and looked at her in a way that—
Walburga Black had, since childhood, been acutely sensitive to other people's emotions. They didn't merely reflect on her—they passed through her, like a current. She had learned to contain it, but she had never been able to fully master this terrible, despised quality of hers. It was why she had almost no close relationships. Sooner or later, everyone came to their dark feelings and ugly thoughts. It happened. What a pity she had never learned to forget anything.
But these two—Hagrid and this young man—were genuinely worried about her. She didn't see it; she felt it, and knew it for what it was. There was something strange in both of them—recklessness alongside desperation, hopelessness threaded through with hope, and burning beneath it all a fierce, bright conviction that they would seize their chance, whatever it cost them. It was intoxicating, like strong wine. Against that backdrop, she read their feelings as clearly as her own.
The gamekeeper—Merlin, there was so much of him. He truly was anxious about her. He wanted things to go well for her? He cared about the family line? But who on earth was he? Impossible. No, it was impossible.
And yet. She knew it was true.
No—she was delirious. Or simply dead. And this was some manner of—afterlife. For what sins?
And then she heard a sound that contracted her entire being—a sound she had been certain, utterly certain, she would never hear in this house again. The rapid patter of small feet.
"Who," she said—she didn't recognise her own voice. "Who… is… that?"
"Harry!" both men barked in alarm, and bolted from the room, leaving her in complete bewilderment.
***
In the hallway, Harry Potter was joyfully chasing Kreacher, who was beaming and letting himself be caught—giggling when the little boy grabbed hold of him, steadying him when he skidded on the turns. When they appeared, the house-elf straightened up; Harry seized hold of him, announced:
"Got'im! Self!" and looked at Severus with great pride, then began dragging the elf toward them—Kreacher coming along quite willingly.
"Half-blood guests have brought a child with Black blood into the house of Black!" He bowed low. "Kreacher is grateful. The line of Black will not end. The child with Black blood feels the House, and the House feels the child! Mistress sent Kreacher away, but Kreacher could not leave, could not abandon the mistress—" his eyes, distinctly wild in expression, were shining with tears, but he was speaking coherently enough.
Good—not yet feral, not yet completely gone, Andrei thought. Excellent.
"The little master called old Kreacher, and Kreacher will listen to the little master…"
"I think the mistress will soon have no objection to Kreacher returning to her service as well," Hagrid said, nodding. "I'll speak with her."
"The young masters have broken the mistress's heart," Kreacher began.
"The mistress is alive and will recover," Snape cut him off. "Her heart is in no immediate danger. Is there a Strengthening Solution in the house?"
"For the mistress?" Kreacher asked, deeply suspicious.
"Not for me, certainly," Severus said, and Kreacher vanished almost soundlessly to fetch it.
***
When they returned to the drawing room, Walburga tried to push herself up from the sofa, and Andrei moved to help her on pure instinct—the way she moved, tentative and careful, reminded him of his wife in those last months before— He had to ease her back down. The shock had clearly been too much. He was already preparing his apology, only he wasn't sure where to begin. Walburga was stirring very strange feelings in him.
"What have I done to you," she said at last, unable to hold back, watching Harry toddle determinedly toward her, "that you should be so… concerned about me?"
"Perhaps precisely because you haven't done anything yet?" Snape suggested, in his most courteous voice.
She looked at him with surprise, smiled slightly, and was about to reply—when Harry reached her, patted her knees, and delivered his signature line:
"Mama!"
Walburga choked.
"Pay it no mind, my lady," Snape said, intervening smoothly. "He calls everyone that at the moment—starting with me and ending with him," he nodded toward Hagrid.
"Mama," Harry confirmed, nodding at Severus, who spread his hands helplessly.
Lady Black glanced at Hagrid and smiled faintly, then extended her dry, elderly hands toward Harry.
"Allow me to introduce," Andrei said. "Harry Potter—your great-nephew."
"Dorea's grandson?"
"The very same."
"And what happened to the Potters? His parents, I mean?"
"You haven't heard? Haven't read the Prophet?"
"Kreacher!"
"Yes, Mistress Walburga," the house-elf said, pressing his nose to the floor—but he had, in fact, already delivered the Strengthening Solution, and now vanished again to fetch the newspaper.
Snape took the vial, examined it carefully, and made a small sound of approval.
"Something wrong?" Lady Black frowned.
"On the contrary," he said. "A very good potion."
"The Blacks have always employed the finest potioneers!" Walburga raised the vial to her lips.
"Thank you. Though I understand the Blacks themselves were not without talent in that area."
"In poisons, young man, exclusively— What are you thanking me for?"
"You changed your potioneer two years ago, did you not?"
"How do you know that— Did you know Regulus?"
"He placed orders with me. Allow me to introduce myself properly: Severus Snape, Potions Master."
"A Master? You?"
Severus silently removed a small signet ring from his left hand and held it out along with the now-empty potion vial.
"Compare the hallmark."
"Extraordinary." Lady Black returned the ring, but continued to hold the vial. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-one."
"As the family potioneer of the Blacks, you are henceforth entitled to come at any time with prior notice, to remain in the house, and to make use of a portion of the library and the laboratory," Walburga announced.
"I'm grateful for your confidence," Snape said, a spark of genuine interest lighting his eyes—the Black library was legendary, and Regulus had already gifted him a few notable items from the family collection.
"When might I inspect the… workplace, and which potions will be needed most urgently?"
"You are so eager to work, Mr Snape. How admirable."
"Potions are his passion," Andrei offered—and was immediately subjected to a look that nearly sent his words back down his throat.
Ah, so that's how she is, when she's feeling more herself, he thought, narrowing his eyes. I had a better opinion of her a moment ago. Funny—I think I'm actually offended.
He met Walburga's attentive gaze. She gave a slow nod. A sparring match with her could be genuinely entertaining—but only if she stopped reacting quite so dramatically. As it turned out, strong emotion was rather dangerous for her health. And he needed Walburga—they needed her—alive, well, and fully functional. They were here on business, after all.
"My lady—do you know that your younger son performed an act of extraordinary courage?"
"What?" All at once, Walburga was indifferent to everything else. She would have spoken to a centaur, to a Veela, to anyone. "What do you know about Regulus?"
"Call Kreacher and ask him to bring the object Regulus left behind. Without it, my account will be incomplete."
"Kreacher—I know you heard every word. Do it. Speak."
Snape, who had been keeping Harry occupied with a collection of Transfigured objects—Andrei never did work out what they were supposed to be, and forgot to ask later—went still. And then came the full account: the Dark Lord and the Horcruxes, Regulus, Sirius who was innocent but apparently already in Azkaban…
Lady Black looked as though she were barely alive under the weight of it. Her lips kept forming the words I don't believe it, but she was drinking in every word with such hunger that it was clear this was only self-deception, self-defence—so Andrei caught Snape's eye, and Snape, sensibly, produced a Calming Draught from his own pocket and pressed it into the lady's hand.
"There's nothing to be done for Regulus now," Hagrid concluded, "but I'd like to at least bring his body home. And then we'll need to do something about Sirius. The innocent don't belong in Azkaban."
"And the traitor should get what he deserves," Lady Black and Snape said simultaneously—and glanced at each other.
"Without question," Andrei agreed. "Can Kreacher take us to where he left his master?"
"I'm coming with you," the mistress of the house announced.
"That would hardly be wise," Severus said, holding her gaze steadily—though Andrei noticed his hand twitch. "You need to recover, and that will take at minimum a few days. Can we afford to wait?"
"Out of the question," Andrei agreed. "I'd go right now, if anything. But—will Kreacher have enough strength to Apparate me there?"
"I'm perfectly capable of managing it myself," Snape assured them both.
"Kreacher," Lady Black said, her voice going quiet and precise. "You answer for the potioneer with your life."
Snape looked at her in astonishment.
"The Blacks dislike acknowledging debts. But they always pay them."
At that moment there was a shriek from the hallway, and they all moved at once. Harry, forgotten in the heat of the conversation and its revelations, had finally reached the black bas-relief in the entrance hall. He had climbed up onto a troll-leg umbrella stand and, holding the wall for balance, was poking his finger directly into the mouth of a monstrous demonic face—and each time it snapped at him with its terrible jagged teeth, he yanked his hand back and dissolved into helpless laughter.
Snape swallowed. Walburga gasped and covered her mouth. Andrei lurched toward the child—and nearly fell. His legs wouldn't move.
"—ell," he got out, and Lady Black and Snape nodded in grim solidarity. None of them could take a single step.
"Moldy-what," Harry said agreeably, giving the black face a friendly pat on the cheek, before finally consenting to climb down from the umbrella stand, trot back to them, and hold up his arms to Snape.
"Eat! Gib!"
"I don't suppose there's something we can feed the child?"
"A true Black," Walburga breathed, her eyes on Harry with an expression nothing short of adoring. "The Ifrit has always yielded only to the head of the family…"
"Porridge," said the future head of the family, plaintively. "Plea-ease."