![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
08/14: Black Thoughts
Title: Black, in the Smothering Dark
Chapter Title: Black Thoughts 08/14
Words (this chapter): 6,927
Rating (this chapter): PG-13
Story Info/All Chapters: HERE
Betas:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
maybe_someday8 and amelancholykiss.
-x-
Black, in the Smothering Dark
-x-
Chapter Eight
Black Thoughts
-x-
“What was that all about?” Sirius asked faintly, falling heavily onto the couch when they were again inside. He looked ragged, weary, and Harry could not blame him. He wasn’t feeling much better himself, but at least he had understood.
All around them, the candles lining the walls were flickering to life as they noticed human presences in the room. They cast grim, ghostly shadows along the walls that Harry had never taken notice of before. Was that what everything looked like when you were dead?
None of his thoughts were making sense at the moment, and he wondered if it was really because of Voldemort. It didn’t seem possible that it could be, given how many times he’d seen the wizard before…and in much more daunting circumstances.
How do you answer a question like that when you’re the Boy-Who-Lived?
Sighing, he dropped onto the couch next to his father and closed his eyes, rubbing them with the pads of his fingers. Already he could tell that he would not get out of this conversation with half an explanation or any sort of redirection. His father was trying to make light of the fact that the Dark Lord had just shown up for no discernible reason on their front lawn, but the underlying fear and uncertainty was showing in his voice. Harry tried to ignore it, and found it to be harder than he would have expected it to be.
He laughed dryly and massaged his temples. It did not make answering any easier. “I told you before,” he said quietly, though the words came out harsh and ragged. Harry smiled grimly and turned to regard Sirius from the corner of his eye.
“Voldemort wants me to join him. He doesn’t think I pose much of a threat anymore and he’s decided—on a whim, I suspect—to change tactics.” The humour he’d tried to interweave into his voice sounded much more like a defeated whimper than he would’ve liked, but Sirius seemed inclined to ignore it.
Everything was quiet except for the sound of their breathing—trembling and harsh—and everything was dark except for the sharp cuts of light against their faces, making everything in the room seem more death-like than it really was.
Long minutes were spent during which Harry could feel each individual hair on his arm raise from a chill that wasn’t present—except in his mind. Finally, his father said, “You weren’t taking the Mickey, then.”
It wasn’t a question, more a realization that wasn’t quite acceptance, but defeat. Harry shook his head anyway, even though he wasn’t sure if his father could see it in the dim light. “No,” he said, haltingly. “No—he’s serious. He’s been after me for months, even before I told him the prophecy.” Harry suddenly laughed—a choking, delirious sound. “In fact, I thought the prophecy might discourage him, but it’s only reinforced his efforts. He’s relentless.”
“Right,” Sirius nodded, and then snapped his fingers. When Ginger appeared and Sirius asked her wearily for something strong, she nodded without a word and disappeared. She’d certainly calmed down, but it caused shivers down Harry’s spine to see her so docile. He just wanted something familiar to cling to after all of these revelations rushing at him so fiercely in such a short span of time.
She returned with two glasses of something warm and amber coloured, smiled slightly, and left again. Ginger, it seemed, would not be that something.
“Right,” Sirius said again, voice still faint, but with a bit more determination after his first sip. “And he’s finally reached the bargaining stage, I see. The life-debt obviously didn’t work, and I assume that prodding and persuasion haven’t worked.” It didn’t seem like Sirius was talking to anyone but himself, but Harry looked up sharply, anyway.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” his father asked a little frantically. Harry raised both his eyebrows in confusion and shrugged. He really didn’t see anything obvious about the situation except for the way his heart was beating decidedly slower than it should have been after any sort of confrontation with Voldemort.
At his son’s blank look, Sirius banged his glass down on the table, startling Harry, and leaned forward. “Pure-blood ceremonies,” Sirius whispered angrily. “He’s trying to strike a truce, and you’ve been unwittingly turning him down. I don’t think I have to tell you what happens if you continue to be so discourteous—especially now that he knows you’re aware of your heritage.”
Harry chewed on his lip, utterly confused. “I think you might. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Sirius growled in frustration. If he’d only known—if he’d not been in Azkaban or had any idea at all that he had more pressing obligations than vengeance on Pettigrew—he would have been there all along to raise his son properly. There was no excuse for his negligence. How was he going to make up for seventeen years of proper wizarding training now?
He didn’t know how, but he was determined to try; he had been a Gryffindor for at least that reason: stubborn determination.
“Enemies,” Sirius finally said, focusing on that determination to calm him. “It’s what rival wizarding families use when they want to stop the fighting. Simplified, the first process is flattery, persuasion, prodding…things like that—just trying to talk a family or family member into an alliance. If that doesn’t work, and one is available, a life-debt is sometimes called in.”
“But I don’t owe Voldemort a life-debt,” Harry scoffed.
Sirius smiled grimly. “No, you don’t, but when Voldemort paid his life-debt to you by having my charges dropped instead of saving your life, he negated all fueds with you and your family. Essentially, you owe him an honour debt, though it’s not magically binding because it relies on, obviously, your honour.”
“Oh,” Harry said dumbly. He pulled his feet up onto the couch and wrapped his arms around his knees, burying his face between them to think. It didn’t sound life-threatening, at least no more life-threatening than anything else was for him, but it was confusing, and it almost explained why Voldemort was so relentless with his pressuring. He refused to admit, even to himself, that he was embarrassed for not realizing he’d been so rude—even to a dark lord. “So that means I’m dishonourable? Just for not becoming a Death Eater and killing innocent people?” he asked incredulously.
“You didn’t know,” Sirius answered with a shrug, but Harry could see, from peeking out between his knees, that his father had winced a little bit at the words. “But it doesn’t matter now because he’s already moved on to the bargaining stage. You have a chance to redeem your honour here.” His father sounded significantly brighter at this, and Harry wondered if this kind of honour would be as important to a family like the Weasleys. He didn’t think it would be.
But he wasn’t a Weasley. And he had been a Black for so short a time, he couldn’t help but feel chagrined that he was already disgracing the family. And then he thought it was rather stupid to feel that way at all because this was Voldemort that they were talking about. Who had less honour than Voldemort? Well him, technically, but it wasn’t going to mean that he was going to run off and be a Death Eater because of it. There were more important things than honour, weren’t there? The Gryffindor in him muttered rebelliously at that thought, but he did his best to ignore it. In the end, it won.
“How do I redeem my honour, then?” he asked petulantly. Why couldn’t anything in his life ever just be simple? “Or the family honour,” he added with a sneer.
Sirius narrowed his eyes. “Family honour—even a family like ours—is important. You’ll just have to negotiate with him,” he added with a negligent shrug.
Harry scoffed and lifted his head. “Seriously?” he asked incredulously. “You want me to negotiate with Voldemort? What am I supposed to do? Tell him we can exchange cards on the holidays if he stops killing people?” He shook his head wryly, “I don’t think that’s going to work.”
“I don’t either,” Sirius said, worrying his lip. “Of course it wouldn’t—he’s Voldemort; he’ll want something else…something that would help him,” his father mused.
“I wasn’t serious,” Harry added helpfully. “I don’t think there’s anything that Voldemort wants that would make him stop killing people.”
“Maybe not,” his father answered, “but I bet there’s something that would convince him to stop killing needlessly…or at least stop torturing people before he killed them.” Harry looked at him questioningly. “You,” his father answered worriedly.
“That doesn’t sound like a very good bargain.”
“It’s not,” Sirius affirmed, shrugging, “but it’s all you’ve got to work with right now. You’ve destroyed your honour by not following the ceremonies. You could have easily gotten him off your back if you’d only know what you were dealing with, but you didn’t—thanks to those damned muggles,” he added with a sneer, “so you’ll have to play the game now. If you don’t, you’ll have every dark pure-blooded family out for your blood for disgracing them. Even those that aren’t allied with Voldemort.”
Harry winced, thinking of how much more difficult his life would be if over half of the wizarding world wanted him dead instead of just some. “So what do I do?”
At this, his father gave him a truly wicked smiled. “Learn,” he said simply.
Harry nodded, resigned, but they would have to start in the morning. He was just too tired to do anything else but sleep.
-x-
Excerpt from the Journal of a Necromancer, 435th page.
-x-
Harry slept fretfully all night, and woke up the next morning feeling as though he hadn’t slept at all. He’d had strange dreams all night, and none of them had been meetings with or visions from Voldemort. They made him feel off-balanced anyway.
He had heard lullabies and trilling laughter in every one of them, even though each dream had been completely different. Once, he’d been in an open field at night, staring up at the stars when he heard a woman singing softly. He turned, trying to find the source, only for it to disappear as soon as he did. In another, someone was speaking to him, and though the words were in English, he couldn’t understand anything but his name repeated over and over. Castor. Castor. Castor. And a feeling of being loved had overwhelmed him. He tried to see who was speaking to him, and then the soft laughter started.
He shook it off; there was no reason to change his name. It would only cause more confusion.
Above all of that, however, he couldn’t shake the feeling that these dreams were familiar, even if their settings weren’t. He felt like he’d had those dreams many times before, and when he thought hard about it, he remembered the terrifying feeling of sleeping in his cupboard at Privet Drive when he was old enough to be afraid, but young enough to be unable to do anything about it.
It reminded him of glow-in-the-dark crayons he’d taken from the rubbish bin after Dudley had broken them—and the tiny little stars he’d traced on the ceiling of his cupboard because he was scared and had no nightlight—and the dreams he always had after falling asleep staring at them—trilling laughter, lullabies, and the feeling that he’d always loved thunderstorms, though he didn’t know why—and his mother, whom he’d always known had been redheaded with green eyes even before he’d ever seen a picture of her.
Harry shivered, and tried to figure out why he was almost positive he knew what his mother’s voice sounded like. He needed to get dressed; he was expecting visitors today.
The three days that passed after Harry’s birthday had been spent quietly—every morning and afternoon, Harry would sit desolately in the drawing room and listen to his father tell him all about the things he should have learned when he was younger, all the while wishing he was outside. Sirius had configured the wards around River House to refuse all post and all visitors until he said otherwise, and Harry couldn’t think of a good reason to argue with him about it—except that he was bored stiff.
But now, Ron and Hermione were coming. They had written back the day before Sirius closed the wards to let him know they would be arriving today. Hermione, who had taken to writing him daily, would no doubt be worried, but they would be flooing through later that morning, so long as she hadn’t already contacted the Ministry. He could listen to a scolding when they got there, and not fret over it for one moment beforehand.
He had too much on his mind. Sometimes, he would look up at his father and want to scream at him for being a horrible friend to James, and Lily for being an unfaithful wife. He wanted to scream at James Potter for being so foolish and trusting, but most of all he wanted to scream at himself for not really caring that his mother had been unfaithful or that Sirius had been a bad friend because at least he had family now.
By the time he made it down to the drawing room on the fourth of August, his father was already there waiting with tea and breakfast for their final lesson before he opened the wards for visitors again.
Harry slumped down on the Chesterfield couch across from Sirius and yawned loudly. “Morning,” he muttered.
Sirius raised a single eyebrow in an uncanny resemblance to Lucius Malfoy. During these lessons, his father seemed to be an almost completely different person, and the pure-blood dark wizard part of him showed so obviously that Harry sometimes forgot what Sirius had been like before. It was eerie how he was able to do it, but where Harry expected he once would have been offended by the superior expression on his father’s face, he was now more intrigued and curious—and sometimes he wished he could pull it off as easily as Sirius seemed to.
“Good morning,” Sirius replied in his recently uncovered posh tone of voice. “I trust you slept well?”
Harry rolled his eyes. Yes, he sometimes found it interesting, but at this time of morning, it was more infuriating.
-x-
Sirius watched his son stumble sleepily into the drawing room looking as if he’d slept in his clothes. He had to restrain both a delighted grin at the thought of having a son and an impatient sneer because after three days, Harry still wasn’t catching on.
He cast a glance to the Evans’ portrait above the fireplace and sighed. Lately, Frank had taken to visiting some of the other portraits and Laurel always had to follow him to make sure he didn’t offend any of them with his over-exuberance. So far, the fact that he had once been Minister of Magic—even if it was in America of all places—had intrigued his ancestors enough to prevent a squall. The Blacks delighted in politics.
The night before, when Frank was having a cigar with Sirius’ grandfather, Arcturus, Laurel Evans had told Sirius that Lily had been adept in Cadence Magic when she was younger. It was something that ran in Laurel’s family. Laurel had not had the ability, but her mother, Leslie Dormant nee Prow, had, and Laurel’s grandmother had as well.
Cadence Magic was something that only ran on the female side of the family, and that Sirius had once heard of in one of his history books, but had never seen in action. Supposedly, it was similar to the kind of magic that sirens used to lure victims into the sea, but had a much wider range of usage. If trained correctly, a witch could compensate for magical power with her voice.
The magic was all in the intonation of a spell, but could be used without a wand if the witch in question knew how to project her voice. She could lower or raise the strength of a spell by saying-singing the incantation a certain way. If a witch used the magic enough, her normal voice would often take on a resonating quality that sounded lovely to the ears, but was usually not noticed as the result of Cadence Magic unless someone knew exactly what to look for. Sirius had smiled sadly at hearing everything Laurel said, and tried not to remember the way Lily spoke or cried or laughed. Now that he knew, it was obvious that she’d maintained her studies.
He considered telling Harry about it, but he wasn’t sure what it would accomplish. It was just a trivial little fact, and especially with recent events, there was no reason to dig up old graves. They had more important things to work on anyway, such as Harry’s blatant refusal to behave like a proper young wizard should. Sirius supposed he should be setting a good example for his son, but he really hated acting like such a haughty old lord.
“Morning,” his son grumbled.
He sighed. He would do it anyway. Harry was the Boy-Who-Lived and was being actively pursued by Voldemort. He needed to learn these things.
“Good morning,” he replied, making sure his voice carried the strength his son would need train into his own voice. “I trust you slept well?”
To his dismay, Harry rolled his eyes. This was going to be so much harder than he’d expected. Why was he doing this, anyway? Was it really all that important? Across from the fireplace, the elder Orion Black—who never spoke—coughed pointedly. Yes, it was important; if Harry didn’t learn these things, then Sirius wouldn’t be the only one to disgrace the family. He owed it to Regulus, at least, to bring their name back to its proper standing. Regulus would have been a good heir. If it hadn’t been for Voldemort, Regulus could have done great things.
Sirius sighed again. Now was not the time for that.
“We have discussed everything you need to know to maintain your stance in the ceremonies, and I’m fairly certain that you’ve retained the knowledge.” He paused and waited for an affirmation, smiling slightly when Harry nodded. “Good. There is something else we need to discuss.”
“Yeah?” Harry asked, swallowing a scone. Sirius could only be thankful that he did indeed swallow before he spoke. At least something was getting through that thick head of his. “What?”
In response, Sirius picked up a letter that had been sitting in his pocket since the thirty-first of July. He tossed it to Harry and sat back, massaging his temples.
“I need to go to the Ministry to clear up my accounts and properties now that I’m free. The Goblins have always liked me, so I didn’t have too much trouble whenever I wanted to withdraw money, but technically, the account is frozen and that needs to be fixed in addition to all land-holdings and other property deeds. Some are still in your name,” he added wryly.
“Also,” he added slowly, “we will need to bring in your birth-certificate and you’ll need to submit to a paternity test to prove to the Ministry that you’re really my son. The only problem with that is that it’ll be in the Prophet before morning. Everyone in the wizarding world will know that you’re not a Potter.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Harry asked curiously.
Sirius shrugged. “Nothing—except that it’ll be a hell of a lot of publicity. I just wanted to warn you.”
Harry winced. “Do we have to do that, then?”
“Yeah, unless you want Bellatrix to get everything when I die. I’m sure that’s the only reason Dumbledore kept my alleged ‘death’ from the Ministry. Everything would have immediately reverted to her—Death Eater or not since it’s magically binding.” He paused, and then added, “We don’t have to do that part now, you know, but I think that if we do, we can at least ride the publicity my imprisonment has caused.”
Harry nodded. “Yeah,” he said decisively. “Yeah—let’s do it now. I want everyone to know,” he added with a shy smile. “I’m proud of you.”
Sirius struggled to push all the overwhelming feelings that admission brought forth away, and gave his son a grin. Maybe they would figure out this father-son thing after all.
-x-
At fifteen minutes to four that afternoon, Sirius warily opened the floo connection and lowered the wards to allow visitors in case Dumbledore decided to apparate in instead of floo—if he even came at all. The owl from Harry should have reached him the day before, but he suspected that Dumbledore would be busy, and wouldn’t even think of coming until the weekend. It was a Saturday now, and his son’s friends were supposed to be arriving at four.
That was another thing he was going to have to teach his son, he realised with a groan. The wards were connected to him as well—which he should have realised sooner, but, in his own stupidity, didn’t—and Harry would need to know how to activate and deactivate them. Sirius had known how to do that by the time he was eleven. It seemed that parenting never ended.
Sirius stared at the fireplace, eyes unblinking and unseeing, though his mind was whirling rapidly. He had so many conflicting emotions that he didn’t know what to do with. Would James or Lily have resorted to training Harry the way he had in order to outsmart the Dark Lord? Would they have rather he fight him like a Gryffindor—even if the likelihood of Harry dying from the ordeal would have been greater? Would they be disappointed in him for not putting his foot down? For allowing Harry to negotiate with a murderer?
“Is it ready?” Harry came in, smoothing down his hair self-consciously and adjusting his robes. Sirius smiled; Harry was almost as tall as he was, and he still looked so small and unassuming sometimes.
“Yes,” Sirius answered, nodding to the flames. He checked his watch and nodded again. “They should be here any minute now.”
Harry nodded and worried his lip as he slouched down into a chair to wait. He was nervous, Sirius could tell, even though he was trying so hard not to let it show. Sirius felt a momentary pang of discomfort—that was his doing. It was his fault that Harry’s nervousness only made him more nervous. He’d been training him not to let it show, and when Harry was unable to mask it, he was uncomfortable.
But he was getting better. Harry was improving so quickly, despite Sirius’ worries that his attempts would be in vain.
The fire flared, and Harry jumped up in time to catch a head of bushy hair just before it hit the ground.
“Harry!” Hermione beamed, wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. Harry gagged, unable to breathe, and tried to smile at her. “Oh, I’m so embarrassed. I usually floo so well, but I tripped on a grate several fireplaces back and never caught my footing. Here’s my trunk, and Ron should be coming—here he is!”
The fire flared again and the Weasley boy tumbled out, landing on top of a trunk that had come through right before. “Harry!”
“Hi,” Harry muttered sheepishly. He was buried under the two of them as they took turns hugging him and trying to talk over each other. Sirius smiled sadly. He had a son, but he would never be as close to him as either of those two were. Quietly, he left the room—maybe he could help Fred with the gardening. The thought sent a delicious swirl of wicked excitement through him. For some odd reason, they never could get rid of all of the garden gnomes.
-x-
Harry smiled underneath Hermione’s hair, and slung an arm around Ron’s shoulder when he came up. “Hi,” he said, genuinely pleased to see them. His nervousness and uncertainty over how they would react to everything he’d yet to tell them dwindled for a moment. It had been a great summer with Sirius—with his father—so far, but he couldn’t deny that he was exceptionally pleased to see his two best friends.
“Do you want tea?” Harry asked, breaking apart from them and grinning. “I think it’s already set up in the drawing room.”
Hermione beamed at him before Ron could get a word in. “Yes, let’s,” she said, nodding. “Which way?”
Harry and Ron exchanged looks. Hermione was already wandering out of the antechamber and craning her neck down the hall. She obviously remembered his footnote about a huge library and was trying to subtly scout it out. “Good to see you again, mate,” Ron smiled. “We better catch her before she finds the library.”
Harry laughed and led them out of the room. The drawing room was several doors down, and Ginger had indeed already laid tea and biscuits out for them. Harry sat on the couch facing the fireplace and offered seats to his friends.
“Who are they?” Ron asked, nodding to the Evans’ portrait after he’d grabbed a handful of biscuits and taken a seat next to Harry. Hermione was serving up the tea—even though Harry offered to do it for her—and chattering so fast that neither of them could understand a word she was saying, but she stopped and looked up when Ron spoke.
Harry barely refrained from flinching. He knew he was going to have to tell them eventually, but he didn’t want to yet. He just wanted to catch up with his friends, but what confused him most was that he couldn’t think of a reason not to tell them. Why was he so reluctant to explain everything? Harry looked over at Hermione’s curious face and realised that he just didn’t want to answer the questions right now when they could be doing something else. Hermione would certainly have hundreds of them.
Harry sighed, and decided he should probably just get it over with.
“My mum’s parents,” he said, giving the Evans’ a smile. Frank beamed back at him and Laurel nodded courteously. “Frank and Laurel Evans,” he added. “We found their portrait in my mum’s Gringotts vault.”
Ron and Hermione gave him curious looks. “I thought your mum was muggle-born,” Hermione said. Ron nodded, agreeing.
“I thought she was, too,” Harry said, giving the Evans’—who had frowned curiously—an apologetic look. “Apparently, just about everyone did.” He shrugged, and then added, “It doesn’t make much of a difference to me, but it is nice to have met my grandparents.”
Ron scrunched his eyebrows, thinking, and then said slowly, “But I’ve never heard of the Evans family.”
“Of course you haven’t, boy,” Frank chided merrily. “We’re from New York. The missus dragged me and the girls over after I retired—said she wanted a change of scenery.” Laurel narrowed her eyes at Frank, and he grinned sheepishly at her. “My beloved wife, I mean.”
“But what about your muggle aunt?” Hermione insisted, staring intently at Harry. Harry, honestly, had no idea. He’d not thought anything of his Aunt Petunia since the day after he left Privet Drive. Instead of answering, he looked to his grandparents for an answer. Hermione and Ron followed his gaze.
Frank had a slightly angry expression on his face at the mention of Harry’s aunt, and opened his mouth to respond, but Laurel none-too-gently elbowed him in the ribs, and he closed his mouth. “We don’t speak of that,” Laurel answered for him, giving Harry a pointed look and then flicking her eyes to his two friends to say that it was none of their business. Harry smiled apologetically and shrugged at Hermione.
“Who knows,” he said. She, unsurprisingly, did not look very satisfied with that answer. She had a look on her face that clearly said, none of her business or not, she would be searching every library she could find until she found what she wanted to know.
However, she wisely changed the subject; unfortunately, it was to a subject that wasn’t much better than the first one. “So how was your birthday? How did you like your presents?”
Harry thought back to the book she’d given him on French Ritual Magic and wished that he’d been able to read French. It had actually looked rather interesting, but interesting or not, it did him no good if he couldn’t read French. The Chocolate Frogs from Ron and Ginny were good, though. He told Ron so, and then turned back to Hermione. “I don’t understand French,” he said apologetically, “but if I ever learn, it’ll be the first thing I read.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Harry, don’t you know any translation charms?” Harry smiled sheepishly, so Hermione promised to teach him one before she left. He smiled gratefully at her, and decided to go ahead and get to the part he was dreading most.
“There’s something else I need to tell you two,” he said, looking at his friends. “You both saw the paper from my birthday, right? The article about Peter Pettigrew turning himself in and confessing to everything?” Hermione and Ron nodded. “Well,” he said slowly, “Sirius’s going to have to go to the Ministry soon to straighten up all the paperwork…”
“Oh, good,” Hermione interrupted brightly. “You and Ron can go try for your apparating licenses then.” Ron nodded excitedly.
Harry had not thought of that. He’d honestly forgotten to get his license, and with everything that had happened on his birthday, Sirius obviously had as well. “Yes, I suppose I can talk him into that,” he said, “but that’s not all.”
He paused, taking a deep breath and trying to figure out how best to word it all. He came up with nothing. Hermione was on the edge of her seat in anticipation, and Ron was looking worried.
“It’s not your…scar…is it?” Ron asked, biting his lip.
Harry actually laughed. No, it wasn’t his scar, though if he’d felt comfortable enough to tell them, he would have had a few good stories about that, too. “No,” he answered Ron. “It’s something else.”
“Then what?” Hermione asked, getting impatient. Harry shot her a glare for rushing him. Didn’t she understand it was hard for him to explain this? No, he supposed she didn’t understand. She didn’t know, after all.
“Well, see, I found this tapestry,” Harry finally said. “Like the one in Grimmauld Place,” he added for Hermione’s benefit. She scowled and Ron rolled his eyes, but Harry continued before they could start talking about the Grimmauld Place tapestry. “Only, this one’s different. It goes back a lot further and no one’s burned off of it.”
Hermione visibly brightened. “Oh, really? That’s really exciting. Think of all the history we could learn from it.”
Harry smiled grimly, and decided to change tactics. “Would you like to see it?” he asked her. She was up and out of her seat, heading for the door before he could finish the sentence. Harry and Ron exchanged looks again and followed her out. “It’s in the library,” he added, making Ron groan and Hermione nearly bounce in excitement.
Hermione was like a homing device for libraries, and she was able to find the first floor entrance before Harry even shut the drawing room door behind Ron. Even though he wasn’t looking, he could tell that she’d found it by the startled gasp and the following reverent breathing. He and Ron snickered at her upturned face and Harry pushed her along into the room and up the stairs, then the ladder, to the third floor.
“This level is Black history and Dark Arts,” Harry explained quietly to Hermione who was already thumbing through a rather nasty looking book. Harry gave her a pointed look. “Some are cursed,” he added when she still didn’t put the book down.
Hermione frowned at him. “This one isn’t, obviously, is it? Unless it’s time-delayed, which is possible because it’s a potions book—horrible poisons and their antidotes, it looks like—there could be a poison on the pages, but then, I’m sure the antidote is in the book.” She held the book up for Harry to look at and shrugged her shoulders.
Harry swore when he saw the cover. “I saw that book before; it was hiding another book that I took out,” he said, patting his robe pockets for the journal. “It’s really kind of gross, I should probably return it,” he muttered, finding the bronzed journal and pulling it out from his pocket to show Hermione and Ron.
“It’s nothing but love letters written to a dead guy,” Harry explained to their disgusted faces. He supposed they had just noticed what the cover was made out of. “This bird who wrote them was trying to bring him back to life. Apparently, he was killed by muggles about eleven-hundred years ago, and she was pregnant with his son at the time. It’s kind of like a real-life tragic romance.”
Hermione gave Harry a funny look. “You read it?”
Harry shrugged. “It’s kind of interesting; I’ve not finished it yet, but sometimes she makes notes in the margins about techniques to bring him back to life—not in inferi or zombie form or anything, but as a real live person exactly the same as he was before. She’s tested it on cats and stuff. I bet she was able to do it,” he added, grinning. “She seems really smart, if not a bit crazy.”
“I actually want to read that,” Ron spoke up, sounding confused at his own words. Hermione looked at him, opened her mouth and then turned back to Harry.
“Me too.”
Harry shrugged and put it back in his pocket. “I’m not done with it, yet.” He turned to the shelf that hid the door behind it and pressed his fingertip to a book called The Lineage which pricked him. Harry winced and stepped back as the book made sure he was of Black blood.
“Harry!” Hermione yelled, rushing over and grabbing his hand. She lifted her wand to cast a healing charm, and Harry let her, before nodding at the doorway that stood where the bookshelf. “That was a very stupid thing to do.”
“It was necessary,” Harry insisted, now tugging both her and Ron over to the shelf. He pushed it back further to reveal the other side of the wide door and the Black Family Tree that hung there. “Look,” he said, pointing to Sirius’ line. “This is what I wanted to tell you.”
“What?” Ron asked confusedly, looking up and down the tapestry. Harry bit his lip and refused to answer. He wanted his friends to find this for themselves. It didn’t take very long—Hermione was a speed-reader after all, and she found the extra name under Sirius’ within minute, inhaling quickly when she did.
“What?” Ron asked again. Hermione pointed to Castor Black—1980- and waited for Ron to make the connection. Harry raised his eyebrows when Ron immediately said, “Sirius has got a kid?”
“Yeah,” Harry answered carefully. “He would be in our year.”
“So where is he?” Ron asked. “And why haven’t I ever heard of him?”
Hermione, Harry noticed, was already running her eyes over his features, which had slowly changed over the summer. He didn’t look that much different, and it wouldn’t even be anything to comment on unless someone knew what they were looking for, but Hermione did, and she noticed the shape of his nose and the refinement of his cheeks along with everything else. She narrowed her eyes at him, and Harry, who had come prepared for this, nodded at her and pulled a piece of parchment from his pocket.
Her eyes went wide and she whispered, “It can’t be,” but Harry shrugged and passed over the parchment.
“I don’t get it,” Ron muttered, trying to look over Hermione’s shoulder. “What’s the big…oh merciful Merlin. That’s your birthday, Harry.”
“Exactly,” Harry said quietly.
“And Castor Black’s middle name is ‘Harry’,” Hermione added uselessly. Harry nodded carefully. Hermione looked down at the parchment one last time, and then flicked her eyes back up to him. “And he had the same mother as you.”
“Yeah,” Harry answered, “but a different father, if you haven’t noticed, and woman can’t give birth to two babies on the same day by different fathers.”
“So what does this mean?” Ron asked, knowing exactly what it meant, but unable to bring himself to say it. Hermione, too, shut her mouth long enough for Harry to answer. Even she didn’t want to be the one to answer this question.
“It means,” Harry said with a great sigh, “that Harry Potter does not exist.”
“Does Sirius know?” Hermione asked, sitting down and leaning against the doorway. Ron and Harry followed her.
“Yeah,” Harry said, propping his elbows on his knees. “We found out on my birthday.”
“I don’t get how it happened,” Ron spoke up, twisting his eyebrows in confusion. Hermione looked exasperated, but obviously wanted to hear the answer, too, because she didn’t say anything.
“Sirius was my mum’s first boyfriend,” Harry said. “The went out in secret from fifth year until a year after they graduated. Sirius was going to marry her, but they broke up for something that Sirius won’t explain very well but had something to do with Sirius’ little brother Regulus. Anyway, Sirius was upset, so Dumbledore sent him on a mission that took him out of the country for eight months. When he came back, James Potter was engaged to my mum.”
“This is like a soap opera,” Hermione muttered. Harry grinned at her.
“Yeah, and then, obviously, they had an affair, and I was the result.”
“Wow,” Ron said. “I can see how you look like Sirius now, though,” he added. “I wouldn’t have noticed it if I wasn’t looking, but it’s definitely there.” Hermione nodded in agreement. “So how is he handling it?”
“How are you handling it?” Hermione added.
Harry shrugged and grinned happily. “It was awkward for a bit, but then I was really happy. I’ve finally got family, you know. I feel kind of bad for James, but,” he shrugged again, “he’s dead, and I’m not. And neither is Si—my dad.”
Hermione smiled. “I bet Sirius is ecstatic.”
“I think so,” Harry answered. “He seems to be. He’s always been fatherly towards me, and now I kind of get the feeling that he thought of me as the son that should have been his, and now that I am, he’s feeling pretty righteous. He’d begun to resent James towards the end,” he added thoughtfully.
Hermione frowned. “I feel kind of bad for James Potter, too,” she said, “but I’m glad you have family now.” She frowned further, and then added, “So do we have to call you Castor now?”
Harry shook his head ‘no’, “My birth certificate says my middle name is Harry, so I’m going to keep going by that, but I am going to recognize my last name as Black,” he added. “That’s the other thing that my dad needed to do at the Ministry. We’ve got to have a blood test taken so that we have proof for the Ministry that I’m his heir, and then we’ve got to do all that paperwork.”
Ron shuddered. “The newspapers are going to be all over that.”
Harry winced. “I know; that’s why we want to do it immediately because the Prophet is already running those daily stories on how my dad was betrayed by his country and government and whatnot. He says it’ll lessen the nonsense a bit.”
“This is really weird,” Hermione said after several minutes of silence. “But then, everything weird happens to you.”
Harry laughed and hugged them both.
-x-
NEXT CHAPTER
Chapter Title: Black Thoughts 08/14
Words (this chapter): 6,927
Rating (this chapter): PG-13
Story Info/All Chapters: HERE
Betas:
maybe_someday8 and amelancholykiss.-x-
Black, in the Smothering Dark
-x-
Chapter Eight
Black Thoughts
-x-
“What was that all about?” Sirius asked faintly, falling heavily onto the couch when they were again inside. He looked ragged, weary, and Harry could not blame him. He wasn’t feeling much better himself, but at least he had understood.
All around them, the candles lining the walls were flickering to life as they noticed human presences in the room. They cast grim, ghostly shadows along the walls that Harry had never taken notice of before. Was that what everything looked like when you were dead?
None of his thoughts were making sense at the moment, and he wondered if it was really because of Voldemort. It didn’t seem possible that it could be, given how many times he’d seen the wizard before…and in much more daunting circumstances.
How do you answer a question like that when you’re the Boy-Who-Lived?
Sighing, he dropped onto the couch next to his father and closed his eyes, rubbing them with the pads of his fingers. Already he could tell that he would not get out of this conversation with half an explanation or any sort of redirection. His father was trying to make light of the fact that the Dark Lord had just shown up for no discernible reason on their front lawn, but the underlying fear and uncertainty was showing in his voice. Harry tried to ignore it, and found it to be harder than he would have expected it to be.
He laughed dryly and massaged his temples. It did not make answering any easier. “I told you before,” he said quietly, though the words came out harsh and ragged. Harry smiled grimly and turned to regard Sirius from the corner of his eye.
“Voldemort wants me to join him. He doesn’t think I pose much of a threat anymore and he’s decided—on a whim, I suspect—to change tactics.” The humour he’d tried to interweave into his voice sounded much more like a defeated whimper than he would’ve liked, but Sirius seemed inclined to ignore it.
Everything was quiet except for the sound of their breathing—trembling and harsh—and everything was dark except for the sharp cuts of light against their faces, making everything in the room seem more death-like than it really was.
Long minutes were spent during which Harry could feel each individual hair on his arm raise from a chill that wasn’t present—except in his mind. Finally, his father said, “You weren’t taking the Mickey, then.”
It wasn’t a question, more a realization that wasn’t quite acceptance, but defeat. Harry shook his head anyway, even though he wasn’t sure if his father could see it in the dim light. “No,” he said, haltingly. “No—he’s serious. He’s been after me for months, even before I told him the prophecy.” Harry suddenly laughed—a choking, delirious sound. “In fact, I thought the prophecy might discourage him, but it’s only reinforced his efforts. He’s relentless.”
“Right,” Sirius nodded, and then snapped his fingers. When Ginger appeared and Sirius asked her wearily for something strong, she nodded without a word and disappeared. She’d certainly calmed down, but it caused shivers down Harry’s spine to see her so docile. He just wanted something familiar to cling to after all of these revelations rushing at him so fiercely in such a short span of time.
She returned with two glasses of something warm and amber coloured, smiled slightly, and left again. Ginger, it seemed, would not be that something.
“Right,” Sirius said again, voice still faint, but with a bit more determination after his first sip. “And he’s finally reached the bargaining stage, I see. The life-debt obviously didn’t work, and I assume that prodding and persuasion haven’t worked.” It didn’t seem like Sirius was talking to anyone but himself, but Harry looked up sharply, anyway.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” his father asked a little frantically. Harry raised both his eyebrows in confusion and shrugged. He really didn’t see anything obvious about the situation except for the way his heart was beating decidedly slower than it should have been after any sort of confrontation with Voldemort.
At his son’s blank look, Sirius banged his glass down on the table, startling Harry, and leaned forward. “Pure-blood ceremonies,” Sirius whispered angrily. “He’s trying to strike a truce, and you’ve been unwittingly turning him down. I don’t think I have to tell you what happens if you continue to be so discourteous—especially now that he knows you’re aware of your heritage.”
Harry chewed on his lip, utterly confused. “I think you might. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Sirius growled in frustration. If he’d only known—if he’d not been in Azkaban or had any idea at all that he had more pressing obligations than vengeance on Pettigrew—he would have been there all along to raise his son properly. There was no excuse for his negligence. How was he going to make up for seventeen years of proper wizarding training now?
He didn’t know how, but he was determined to try; he had been a Gryffindor for at least that reason: stubborn determination.
“Enemies,” Sirius finally said, focusing on that determination to calm him. “It’s what rival wizarding families use when they want to stop the fighting. Simplified, the first process is flattery, persuasion, prodding…things like that—just trying to talk a family or family member into an alliance. If that doesn’t work, and one is available, a life-debt is sometimes called in.”
“But I don’t owe Voldemort a life-debt,” Harry scoffed.
Sirius smiled grimly. “No, you don’t, but when Voldemort paid his life-debt to you by having my charges dropped instead of saving your life, he negated all fueds with you and your family. Essentially, you owe him an honour debt, though it’s not magically binding because it relies on, obviously, your honour.”
“Oh,” Harry said dumbly. He pulled his feet up onto the couch and wrapped his arms around his knees, burying his face between them to think. It didn’t sound life-threatening, at least no more life-threatening than anything else was for him, but it was confusing, and it almost explained why Voldemort was so relentless with his pressuring. He refused to admit, even to himself, that he was embarrassed for not realizing he’d been so rude—even to a dark lord. “So that means I’m dishonourable? Just for not becoming a Death Eater and killing innocent people?” he asked incredulously.
“You didn’t know,” Sirius answered with a shrug, but Harry could see, from peeking out between his knees, that his father had winced a little bit at the words. “But it doesn’t matter now because he’s already moved on to the bargaining stage. You have a chance to redeem your honour here.” His father sounded significantly brighter at this, and Harry wondered if this kind of honour would be as important to a family like the Weasleys. He didn’t think it would be.
But he wasn’t a Weasley. And he had been a Black for so short a time, he couldn’t help but feel chagrined that he was already disgracing the family. And then he thought it was rather stupid to feel that way at all because this was Voldemort that they were talking about. Who had less honour than Voldemort? Well him, technically, but it wasn’t going to mean that he was going to run off and be a Death Eater because of it. There were more important things than honour, weren’t there? The Gryffindor in him muttered rebelliously at that thought, but he did his best to ignore it. In the end, it won.
“How do I redeem my honour, then?” he asked petulantly. Why couldn’t anything in his life ever just be simple? “Or the family honour,” he added with a sneer.
Sirius narrowed his eyes. “Family honour—even a family like ours—is important. You’ll just have to negotiate with him,” he added with a negligent shrug.
Harry scoffed and lifted his head. “Seriously?” he asked incredulously. “You want me to negotiate with Voldemort? What am I supposed to do? Tell him we can exchange cards on the holidays if he stops killing people?” He shook his head wryly, “I don’t think that’s going to work.”
“I don’t either,” Sirius said, worrying his lip. “Of course it wouldn’t—he’s Voldemort; he’ll want something else…something that would help him,” his father mused.
“I wasn’t serious,” Harry added helpfully. “I don’t think there’s anything that Voldemort wants that would make him stop killing people.”
“Maybe not,” his father answered, “but I bet there’s something that would convince him to stop killing needlessly…or at least stop torturing people before he killed them.” Harry looked at him questioningly. “You,” his father answered worriedly.
“That doesn’t sound like a very good bargain.”
“It’s not,” Sirius affirmed, shrugging, “but it’s all you’ve got to work with right now. You’ve destroyed your honour by not following the ceremonies. You could have easily gotten him off your back if you’d only know what you were dealing with, but you didn’t—thanks to those damned muggles,” he added with a sneer, “so you’ll have to play the game now. If you don’t, you’ll have every dark pure-blooded family out for your blood for disgracing them. Even those that aren’t allied with Voldemort.”
Harry winced, thinking of how much more difficult his life would be if over half of the wizarding world wanted him dead instead of just some. “So what do I do?”
At this, his father gave him a truly wicked smiled. “Learn,” he said simply.
Harry nodded, resigned, but they would have to start in the morning. He was just too tired to do anything else but sleep.
-x-
Excerpt from the Journal of a Necromancer, 435th page.
30 January, 849
S,
It is over.
We have re-warded everything, and the muggles can no longer find us. There are a group of wizards from Norway who specialize in aura reading that will be coming to help us erase the memories of the muggles we can find. They call themselves Aurors and have developed a charm that reacts only to muggle auras which, when they perform a certain ritual, will confuse and confound their memories. It will make them think everything was a dream. The only problem with that is that they have to focus on each individual muggle that needs his memory erased. It will be a tedious affair, but we are excited nonetheless.
I have also heard that there is a group of wizards from Iceland who devote their lives to necromancy. I’ve contacted them, asking to study their practices in exchange for a fair amount of galleons. One has agreed to come now that we are again safe from the muggles, and I will resume my work to bring you back.
Are you excited?
The Aurors arrive on the first of spring, and will begin teaching the ritual to the wizards of the area. They will learn, and so will I. And once I’ve learned, I will have you back.
Yours always,
R
-x-
Harry slept fretfully all night, and woke up the next morning feeling as though he hadn’t slept at all. He’d had strange dreams all night, and none of them had been meetings with or visions from Voldemort. They made him feel off-balanced anyway.
He had heard lullabies and trilling laughter in every one of them, even though each dream had been completely different. Once, he’d been in an open field at night, staring up at the stars when he heard a woman singing softly. He turned, trying to find the source, only for it to disappear as soon as he did. In another, someone was speaking to him, and though the words were in English, he couldn’t understand anything but his name repeated over and over. Castor. Castor. Castor. And a feeling of being loved had overwhelmed him. He tried to see who was speaking to him, and then the soft laughter started.
He shook it off; there was no reason to change his name. It would only cause more confusion.
Above all of that, however, he couldn’t shake the feeling that these dreams were familiar, even if their settings weren’t. He felt like he’d had those dreams many times before, and when he thought hard about it, he remembered the terrifying feeling of sleeping in his cupboard at Privet Drive when he was old enough to be afraid, but young enough to be unable to do anything about it.
It reminded him of glow-in-the-dark crayons he’d taken from the rubbish bin after Dudley had broken them—and the tiny little stars he’d traced on the ceiling of his cupboard because he was scared and had no nightlight—and the dreams he always had after falling asleep staring at them—trilling laughter, lullabies, and the feeling that he’d always loved thunderstorms, though he didn’t know why—and his mother, whom he’d always known had been redheaded with green eyes even before he’d ever seen a picture of her.
Harry shivered, and tried to figure out why he was almost positive he knew what his mother’s voice sounded like. He needed to get dressed; he was expecting visitors today.
The three days that passed after Harry’s birthday had been spent quietly—every morning and afternoon, Harry would sit desolately in the drawing room and listen to his father tell him all about the things he should have learned when he was younger, all the while wishing he was outside. Sirius had configured the wards around River House to refuse all post and all visitors until he said otherwise, and Harry couldn’t think of a good reason to argue with him about it—except that he was bored stiff.
But now, Ron and Hermione were coming. They had written back the day before Sirius closed the wards to let him know they would be arriving today. Hermione, who had taken to writing him daily, would no doubt be worried, but they would be flooing through later that morning, so long as she hadn’t already contacted the Ministry. He could listen to a scolding when they got there, and not fret over it for one moment beforehand.
He had too much on his mind. Sometimes, he would look up at his father and want to scream at him for being a horrible friend to James, and Lily for being an unfaithful wife. He wanted to scream at James Potter for being so foolish and trusting, but most of all he wanted to scream at himself for not really caring that his mother had been unfaithful or that Sirius had been a bad friend because at least he had family now.
By the time he made it down to the drawing room on the fourth of August, his father was already there waiting with tea and breakfast for their final lesson before he opened the wards for visitors again.
Harry slumped down on the Chesterfield couch across from Sirius and yawned loudly. “Morning,” he muttered.
Sirius raised a single eyebrow in an uncanny resemblance to Lucius Malfoy. During these lessons, his father seemed to be an almost completely different person, and the pure-blood dark wizard part of him showed so obviously that Harry sometimes forgot what Sirius had been like before. It was eerie how he was able to do it, but where Harry expected he once would have been offended by the superior expression on his father’s face, he was now more intrigued and curious—and sometimes he wished he could pull it off as easily as Sirius seemed to.
“Good morning,” Sirius replied in his recently uncovered posh tone of voice. “I trust you slept well?”
Harry rolled his eyes. Yes, he sometimes found it interesting, but at this time of morning, it was more infuriating.
-x-
Sirius watched his son stumble sleepily into the drawing room looking as if he’d slept in his clothes. He had to restrain both a delighted grin at the thought of having a son and an impatient sneer because after three days, Harry still wasn’t catching on.
He cast a glance to the Evans’ portrait above the fireplace and sighed. Lately, Frank had taken to visiting some of the other portraits and Laurel always had to follow him to make sure he didn’t offend any of them with his over-exuberance. So far, the fact that he had once been Minister of Magic—even if it was in America of all places—had intrigued his ancestors enough to prevent a squall. The Blacks delighted in politics.
The night before, when Frank was having a cigar with Sirius’ grandfather, Arcturus, Laurel Evans had told Sirius that Lily had been adept in Cadence Magic when she was younger. It was something that ran in Laurel’s family. Laurel had not had the ability, but her mother, Leslie Dormant nee Prow, had, and Laurel’s grandmother had as well.
Cadence Magic was something that only ran on the female side of the family, and that Sirius had once heard of in one of his history books, but had never seen in action. Supposedly, it was similar to the kind of magic that sirens used to lure victims into the sea, but had a much wider range of usage. If trained correctly, a witch could compensate for magical power with her voice.
The magic was all in the intonation of a spell, but could be used without a wand if the witch in question knew how to project her voice. She could lower or raise the strength of a spell by saying-singing the incantation a certain way. If a witch used the magic enough, her normal voice would often take on a resonating quality that sounded lovely to the ears, but was usually not noticed as the result of Cadence Magic unless someone knew exactly what to look for. Sirius had smiled sadly at hearing everything Laurel said, and tried not to remember the way Lily spoke or cried or laughed. Now that he knew, it was obvious that she’d maintained her studies.
He considered telling Harry about it, but he wasn’t sure what it would accomplish. It was just a trivial little fact, and especially with recent events, there was no reason to dig up old graves. They had more important things to work on anyway, such as Harry’s blatant refusal to behave like a proper young wizard should. Sirius supposed he should be setting a good example for his son, but he really hated acting like such a haughty old lord.
“Morning,” his son grumbled.
He sighed. He would do it anyway. Harry was the Boy-Who-Lived and was being actively pursued by Voldemort. He needed to learn these things.
“Good morning,” he replied, making sure his voice carried the strength his son would need train into his own voice. “I trust you slept well?”
To his dismay, Harry rolled his eyes. This was going to be so much harder than he’d expected. Why was he doing this, anyway? Was it really all that important? Across from the fireplace, the elder Orion Black—who never spoke—coughed pointedly. Yes, it was important; if Harry didn’t learn these things, then Sirius wouldn’t be the only one to disgrace the family. He owed it to Regulus, at least, to bring their name back to its proper standing. Regulus would have been a good heir. If it hadn’t been for Voldemort, Regulus could have done great things.
Sirius sighed again. Now was not the time for that.
“We have discussed everything you need to know to maintain your stance in the ceremonies, and I’m fairly certain that you’ve retained the knowledge.” He paused and waited for an affirmation, smiling slightly when Harry nodded. “Good. There is something else we need to discuss.”
“Yeah?” Harry asked, swallowing a scone. Sirius could only be thankful that he did indeed swallow before he spoke. At least something was getting through that thick head of his. “What?”
In response, Sirius picked up a letter that had been sitting in his pocket since the thirty-first of July. He tossed it to Harry and sat back, massaging his temples.
“I need to go to the Ministry to clear up my accounts and properties now that I’m free. The Goblins have always liked me, so I didn’t have too much trouble whenever I wanted to withdraw money, but technically, the account is frozen and that needs to be fixed in addition to all land-holdings and other property deeds. Some are still in your name,” he added wryly.
“Also,” he added slowly, “we will need to bring in your birth-certificate and you’ll need to submit to a paternity test to prove to the Ministry that you’re really my son. The only problem with that is that it’ll be in the Prophet before morning. Everyone in the wizarding world will know that you’re not a Potter.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Harry asked curiously.
Sirius shrugged. “Nothing—except that it’ll be a hell of a lot of publicity. I just wanted to warn you.”
Harry winced. “Do we have to do that, then?”
“Yeah, unless you want Bellatrix to get everything when I die. I’m sure that’s the only reason Dumbledore kept my alleged ‘death’ from the Ministry. Everything would have immediately reverted to her—Death Eater or not since it’s magically binding.” He paused, and then added, “We don’t have to do that part now, you know, but I think that if we do, we can at least ride the publicity my imprisonment has caused.”
Harry nodded. “Yeah,” he said decisively. “Yeah—let’s do it now. I want everyone to know,” he added with a shy smile. “I’m proud of you.”
Sirius struggled to push all the overwhelming feelings that admission brought forth away, and gave his son a grin. Maybe they would figure out this father-son thing after all.
-x-
At fifteen minutes to four that afternoon, Sirius warily opened the floo connection and lowered the wards to allow visitors in case Dumbledore decided to apparate in instead of floo—if he even came at all. The owl from Harry should have reached him the day before, but he suspected that Dumbledore would be busy, and wouldn’t even think of coming until the weekend. It was a Saturday now, and his son’s friends were supposed to be arriving at four.
That was another thing he was going to have to teach his son, he realised with a groan. The wards were connected to him as well—which he should have realised sooner, but, in his own stupidity, didn’t—and Harry would need to know how to activate and deactivate them. Sirius had known how to do that by the time he was eleven. It seemed that parenting never ended.
Sirius stared at the fireplace, eyes unblinking and unseeing, though his mind was whirling rapidly. He had so many conflicting emotions that he didn’t know what to do with. Would James or Lily have resorted to training Harry the way he had in order to outsmart the Dark Lord? Would they have rather he fight him like a Gryffindor—even if the likelihood of Harry dying from the ordeal would have been greater? Would they be disappointed in him for not putting his foot down? For allowing Harry to negotiate with a murderer?
“Is it ready?” Harry came in, smoothing down his hair self-consciously and adjusting his robes. Sirius smiled; Harry was almost as tall as he was, and he still looked so small and unassuming sometimes.
“Yes,” Sirius answered, nodding to the flames. He checked his watch and nodded again. “They should be here any minute now.”
Harry nodded and worried his lip as he slouched down into a chair to wait. He was nervous, Sirius could tell, even though he was trying so hard not to let it show. Sirius felt a momentary pang of discomfort—that was his doing. It was his fault that Harry’s nervousness only made him more nervous. He’d been training him not to let it show, and when Harry was unable to mask it, he was uncomfortable.
But he was getting better. Harry was improving so quickly, despite Sirius’ worries that his attempts would be in vain.
The fire flared, and Harry jumped up in time to catch a head of bushy hair just before it hit the ground.
“Harry!” Hermione beamed, wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. Harry gagged, unable to breathe, and tried to smile at her. “Oh, I’m so embarrassed. I usually floo so well, but I tripped on a grate several fireplaces back and never caught my footing. Here’s my trunk, and Ron should be coming—here he is!”
The fire flared again and the Weasley boy tumbled out, landing on top of a trunk that had come through right before. “Harry!”
“Hi,” Harry muttered sheepishly. He was buried under the two of them as they took turns hugging him and trying to talk over each other. Sirius smiled sadly. He had a son, but he would never be as close to him as either of those two were. Quietly, he left the room—maybe he could help Fred with the gardening. The thought sent a delicious swirl of wicked excitement through him. For some odd reason, they never could get rid of all of the garden gnomes.
-x-
Harry smiled underneath Hermione’s hair, and slung an arm around Ron’s shoulder when he came up. “Hi,” he said, genuinely pleased to see them. His nervousness and uncertainty over how they would react to everything he’d yet to tell them dwindled for a moment. It had been a great summer with Sirius—with his father—so far, but he couldn’t deny that he was exceptionally pleased to see his two best friends.
“Do you want tea?” Harry asked, breaking apart from them and grinning. “I think it’s already set up in the drawing room.”
Hermione beamed at him before Ron could get a word in. “Yes, let’s,” she said, nodding. “Which way?”
Harry and Ron exchanged looks. Hermione was already wandering out of the antechamber and craning her neck down the hall. She obviously remembered his footnote about a huge library and was trying to subtly scout it out. “Good to see you again, mate,” Ron smiled. “We better catch her before she finds the library.”
Harry laughed and led them out of the room. The drawing room was several doors down, and Ginger had indeed already laid tea and biscuits out for them. Harry sat on the couch facing the fireplace and offered seats to his friends.
“Who are they?” Ron asked, nodding to the Evans’ portrait after he’d grabbed a handful of biscuits and taken a seat next to Harry. Hermione was serving up the tea—even though Harry offered to do it for her—and chattering so fast that neither of them could understand a word she was saying, but she stopped and looked up when Ron spoke.
Harry barely refrained from flinching. He knew he was going to have to tell them eventually, but he didn’t want to yet. He just wanted to catch up with his friends, but what confused him most was that he couldn’t think of a reason not to tell them. Why was he so reluctant to explain everything? Harry looked over at Hermione’s curious face and realised that he just didn’t want to answer the questions right now when they could be doing something else. Hermione would certainly have hundreds of them.
Harry sighed, and decided he should probably just get it over with.
“My mum’s parents,” he said, giving the Evans’ a smile. Frank beamed back at him and Laurel nodded courteously. “Frank and Laurel Evans,” he added. “We found their portrait in my mum’s Gringotts vault.”
Ron and Hermione gave him curious looks. “I thought your mum was muggle-born,” Hermione said. Ron nodded, agreeing.
“I thought she was, too,” Harry said, giving the Evans’—who had frowned curiously—an apologetic look. “Apparently, just about everyone did.” He shrugged, and then added, “It doesn’t make much of a difference to me, but it is nice to have met my grandparents.”
Ron scrunched his eyebrows, thinking, and then said slowly, “But I’ve never heard of the Evans family.”
“Of course you haven’t, boy,” Frank chided merrily. “We’re from New York. The missus dragged me and the girls over after I retired—said she wanted a change of scenery.” Laurel narrowed her eyes at Frank, and he grinned sheepishly at her. “My beloved wife, I mean.”
“But what about your muggle aunt?” Hermione insisted, staring intently at Harry. Harry, honestly, had no idea. He’d not thought anything of his Aunt Petunia since the day after he left Privet Drive. Instead of answering, he looked to his grandparents for an answer. Hermione and Ron followed his gaze.
Frank had a slightly angry expression on his face at the mention of Harry’s aunt, and opened his mouth to respond, but Laurel none-too-gently elbowed him in the ribs, and he closed his mouth. “We don’t speak of that,” Laurel answered for him, giving Harry a pointed look and then flicking her eyes to his two friends to say that it was none of their business. Harry smiled apologetically and shrugged at Hermione.
“Who knows,” he said. She, unsurprisingly, did not look very satisfied with that answer. She had a look on her face that clearly said, none of her business or not, she would be searching every library she could find until she found what she wanted to know.
However, she wisely changed the subject; unfortunately, it was to a subject that wasn’t much better than the first one. “So how was your birthday? How did you like your presents?”
Harry thought back to the book she’d given him on French Ritual Magic and wished that he’d been able to read French. It had actually looked rather interesting, but interesting or not, it did him no good if he couldn’t read French. The Chocolate Frogs from Ron and Ginny were good, though. He told Ron so, and then turned back to Hermione. “I don’t understand French,” he said apologetically, “but if I ever learn, it’ll be the first thing I read.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Harry, don’t you know any translation charms?” Harry smiled sheepishly, so Hermione promised to teach him one before she left. He smiled gratefully at her, and decided to go ahead and get to the part he was dreading most.
“There’s something else I need to tell you two,” he said, looking at his friends. “You both saw the paper from my birthday, right? The article about Peter Pettigrew turning himself in and confessing to everything?” Hermione and Ron nodded. “Well,” he said slowly, “Sirius’s going to have to go to the Ministry soon to straighten up all the paperwork…”
“Oh, good,” Hermione interrupted brightly. “You and Ron can go try for your apparating licenses then.” Ron nodded excitedly.
Harry had not thought of that. He’d honestly forgotten to get his license, and with everything that had happened on his birthday, Sirius obviously had as well. “Yes, I suppose I can talk him into that,” he said, “but that’s not all.”
He paused, taking a deep breath and trying to figure out how best to word it all. He came up with nothing. Hermione was on the edge of her seat in anticipation, and Ron was looking worried.
“It’s not your…scar…is it?” Ron asked, biting his lip.
Harry actually laughed. No, it wasn’t his scar, though if he’d felt comfortable enough to tell them, he would have had a few good stories about that, too. “No,” he answered Ron. “It’s something else.”
“Then what?” Hermione asked, getting impatient. Harry shot her a glare for rushing him. Didn’t she understand it was hard for him to explain this? No, he supposed she didn’t understand. She didn’t know, after all.
“Well, see, I found this tapestry,” Harry finally said. “Like the one in Grimmauld Place,” he added for Hermione’s benefit. She scowled and Ron rolled his eyes, but Harry continued before they could start talking about the Grimmauld Place tapestry. “Only, this one’s different. It goes back a lot further and no one’s burned off of it.”
Hermione visibly brightened. “Oh, really? That’s really exciting. Think of all the history we could learn from it.”
Harry smiled grimly, and decided to change tactics. “Would you like to see it?” he asked her. She was up and out of her seat, heading for the door before he could finish the sentence. Harry and Ron exchanged looks again and followed her out. “It’s in the library,” he added, making Ron groan and Hermione nearly bounce in excitement.
Hermione was like a homing device for libraries, and she was able to find the first floor entrance before Harry even shut the drawing room door behind Ron. Even though he wasn’t looking, he could tell that she’d found it by the startled gasp and the following reverent breathing. He and Ron snickered at her upturned face and Harry pushed her along into the room and up the stairs, then the ladder, to the third floor.
“This level is Black history and Dark Arts,” Harry explained quietly to Hermione who was already thumbing through a rather nasty looking book. Harry gave her a pointed look. “Some are cursed,” he added when she still didn’t put the book down.
Hermione frowned at him. “This one isn’t, obviously, is it? Unless it’s time-delayed, which is possible because it’s a potions book—horrible poisons and their antidotes, it looks like—there could be a poison on the pages, but then, I’m sure the antidote is in the book.” She held the book up for Harry to look at and shrugged her shoulders.
Harry swore when he saw the cover. “I saw that book before; it was hiding another book that I took out,” he said, patting his robe pockets for the journal. “It’s really kind of gross, I should probably return it,” he muttered, finding the bronzed journal and pulling it out from his pocket to show Hermione and Ron.
“It’s nothing but love letters written to a dead guy,” Harry explained to their disgusted faces. He supposed they had just noticed what the cover was made out of. “This bird who wrote them was trying to bring him back to life. Apparently, he was killed by muggles about eleven-hundred years ago, and she was pregnant with his son at the time. It’s kind of like a real-life tragic romance.”
Hermione gave Harry a funny look. “You read it?”
Harry shrugged. “It’s kind of interesting; I’ve not finished it yet, but sometimes she makes notes in the margins about techniques to bring him back to life—not in inferi or zombie form or anything, but as a real live person exactly the same as he was before. She’s tested it on cats and stuff. I bet she was able to do it,” he added, grinning. “She seems really smart, if not a bit crazy.”
“I actually want to read that,” Ron spoke up, sounding confused at his own words. Hermione looked at him, opened her mouth and then turned back to Harry.
“Me too.”
Harry shrugged and put it back in his pocket. “I’m not done with it, yet.” He turned to the shelf that hid the door behind it and pressed his fingertip to a book called The Lineage which pricked him. Harry winced and stepped back as the book made sure he was of Black blood.
“Harry!” Hermione yelled, rushing over and grabbing his hand. She lifted her wand to cast a healing charm, and Harry let her, before nodding at the doorway that stood where the bookshelf. “That was a very stupid thing to do.”
“It was necessary,” Harry insisted, now tugging both her and Ron over to the shelf. He pushed it back further to reveal the other side of the wide door and the Black Family Tree that hung there. “Look,” he said, pointing to Sirius’ line. “This is what I wanted to tell you.”
“What?” Ron asked confusedly, looking up and down the tapestry. Harry bit his lip and refused to answer. He wanted his friends to find this for themselves. It didn’t take very long—Hermione was a speed-reader after all, and she found the extra name under Sirius’ within minute, inhaling quickly when she did.
“What?” Ron asked again. Hermione pointed to Castor Black—1980- and waited for Ron to make the connection. Harry raised his eyebrows when Ron immediately said, “Sirius has got a kid?”
“Yeah,” Harry answered carefully. “He would be in our year.”
“So where is he?” Ron asked. “And why haven’t I ever heard of him?”
Hermione, Harry noticed, was already running her eyes over his features, which had slowly changed over the summer. He didn’t look that much different, and it wouldn’t even be anything to comment on unless someone knew what they were looking for, but Hermione did, and she noticed the shape of his nose and the refinement of his cheeks along with everything else. She narrowed her eyes at him, and Harry, who had come prepared for this, nodded at her and pulled a piece of parchment from his pocket.
Her eyes went wide and she whispered, “It can’t be,” but Harry shrugged and passed over the parchment.
“I don’t get it,” Ron muttered, trying to look over Hermione’s shoulder. “What’s the big…oh merciful Merlin. That’s your birthday, Harry.”
“Exactly,” Harry said quietly.
“And Castor Black’s middle name is ‘Harry’,” Hermione added uselessly. Harry nodded carefully. Hermione looked down at the parchment one last time, and then flicked her eyes back up to him. “And he had the same mother as you.”
“Yeah,” Harry answered, “but a different father, if you haven’t noticed, and woman can’t give birth to two babies on the same day by different fathers.”
“So what does this mean?” Ron asked, knowing exactly what it meant, but unable to bring himself to say it. Hermione, too, shut her mouth long enough for Harry to answer. Even she didn’t want to be the one to answer this question.
“It means,” Harry said with a great sigh, “that Harry Potter does not exist.”
“Does Sirius know?” Hermione asked, sitting down and leaning against the doorway. Ron and Harry followed her.
“Yeah,” Harry said, propping his elbows on his knees. “We found out on my birthday.”
“I don’t get how it happened,” Ron spoke up, twisting his eyebrows in confusion. Hermione looked exasperated, but obviously wanted to hear the answer, too, because she didn’t say anything.
“Sirius was my mum’s first boyfriend,” Harry said. “The went out in secret from fifth year until a year after they graduated. Sirius was going to marry her, but they broke up for something that Sirius won’t explain very well but had something to do with Sirius’ little brother Regulus. Anyway, Sirius was upset, so Dumbledore sent him on a mission that took him out of the country for eight months. When he came back, James Potter was engaged to my mum.”
“This is like a soap opera,” Hermione muttered. Harry grinned at her.
“Yeah, and then, obviously, they had an affair, and I was the result.”
“Wow,” Ron said. “I can see how you look like Sirius now, though,” he added. “I wouldn’t have noticed it if I wasn’t looking, but it’s definitely there.” Hermione nodded in agreement. “So how is he handling it?”
“How are you handling it?” Hermione added.
Harry shrugged and grinned happily. “It was awkward for a bit, but then I was really happy. I’ve finally got family, you know. I feel kind of bad for James, but,” he shrugged again, “he’s dead, and I’m not. And neither is Si—my dad.”
Hermione smiled. “I bet Sirius is ecstatic.”
“I think so,” Harry answered. “He seems to be. He’s always been fatherly towards me, and now I kind of get the feeling that he thought of me as the son that should have been his, and now that I am, he’s feeling pretty righteous. He’d begun to resent James towards the end,” he added thoughtfully.
Hermione frowned. “I feel kind of bad for James Potter, too,” she said, “but I’m glad you have family now.” She frowned further, and then added, “So do we have to call you Castor now?”
Harry shook his head ‘no’, “My birth certificate says my middle name is Harry, so I’m going to keep going by that, but I am going to recognize my last name as Black,” he added. “That’s the other thing that my dad needed to do at the Ministry. We’ve got to have a blood test taken so that we have proof for the Ministry that I’m his heir, and then we’ve got to do all that paperwork.”
Ron shuddered. “The newspapers are going to be all over that.”
Harry winced. “I know; that’s why we want to do it immediately because the Prophet is already running those daily stories on how my dad was betrayed by his country and government and whatnot. He says it’ll lessen the nonsense a bit.”
“This is really weird,” Hermione said after several minutes of silence. “But then, everything weird happens to you.”
Harry laughed and hugged them both.
-x-
NEXT CHAPTER
no subject
Classic!
Oh, I do love this story. Congratulations on the orginial version being nominated, by the way!
I LOVE THIS STORY
(Anonymous) 2006-09-12 03:04 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
no subject
Congrats on that nomination, too. :)
no subject
no subject
♥