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11/14: Black Vow
Title: Black, in the Smothering Dark
Chapter Title: Black Vow 11/14
Words (this chapter): 7,600
Rating (this chapter): R
Story Info/All Chapters: HERE
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maybe_someday8 and amelancholykiss.
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Black, in the Smothering Dark
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Chapter Eleven
Black Vow
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The next two weeks passed uneventfully. Mrs. Weasley returned to the Burrow several days after the article about Harry’s parentage appeared in the paper, but more articles came after that. And more after that. There were interviews with local wizards and witches who all had something to say on the matter—most of which was in one way or another insulting to his mother’s memory.
All Harry could think, though, was that he would feel a great deal more charitable—and willing to fight a war for these people—if instead of claiming it was a political stunt, someone would just say they were happy he finally had a family. But right then, he wasn’t feeling very charitable anyway. He hadn’t said more than three words to his father in the past fortnight.
He had intended to take Ron, Hermione and Ginny to Eweforic Alley for a day, but instead retreated to his room to brood. He stayed there most of the time.
Ginny and Hermione had come down to lunch later in the day, and they spent the meal discussing it—or rather, Hermione and Ginny discussed it. Hermione had admitted that she was embarrassed that she hadn’t thought of the possibility that the newspaper would bring up Harry’s mother in that light. Harry and Sirius, on the other hand, were furious, even at each other. They stopped speaking immediately after that.
Ginny had ranted over what a disgrace the media was. Everyone thought that the Daily Prophet had no right to portray Harry’s mother in that light. Of course, it was true that she had had an affair, but it wasn’t the wizarding world’s business to know that. The argument had ended when Mrs. Weasley scolded them, and an uncomfortable silence settled around everyone.
Ron had stumbled in after having slept all morning, grimaced when he heard about what had happened, and tried to divert Harry with a game of Wizarding Chess. Harry, naturally, lost, and was put into an even fouler mood. Sirius disappeared for three days after that, and Harry couldn’t bring himself to go looking for his father. Once, Fred had mentioned having help in the garden, but Harry did not follow up the lead.
Bitterness unexpectedly filled Harry during the weeks after the article, and try as he might, he couldn’t shake it. He often caught Hermione watching him with narrowed eyes, but whenever she tried to talk to him, he would retreat to the drawing room and spend the afternoon talking to his grandparents’ portrait.
They asked him where his father was, and Mr. Evans bemoaned that he had no one to read the morning paper to him anymore. Harry, at the time, had felt guilty that he hadn’t even noticed that his father read the paper to a portrait every morning. He wondered if it was a natural reaction to a revelation so shocking. He didn’t think it was, but he did think that it had been a whole lot easier when Sirius was just his godfather.
He did not search out his father; Sirius did not search him out, and days passed. Harry did not understand exactly what ‘family’ meant, but he suspected they might be going out it the wrong way. It was when he was thinking about things like this that he would catch Hermione watching him, but she had given up trying to corner him some time ago.
It amazed him how quickly something like that could happen. It seemed like it had been months since he’d spoken to her.
Sometimes Ron—who had begun to fill the time during which Harry spoke to no one with firewhiskey—would come in the drawing room when everyone else was asleep and they would spend the evening knocking back shots of brandy from the liquor cabinet.
Ron always drank more than Harry, and Harry caught himself wondering more than once if Ron might be becoming too fond of alcohol. Ron hid it—mostly from Hermione and Ginny, but he hid it none the less. Harry wondered how long it would be before Ron screwed up and Hermione caught him. He never mentioned that, though. It wasn’t his business.
One night, when Harry was in an especially foul mood because Ginger had kicked him and Hermione out of the library to clean the floors and he’d had to listen to Hermione bitch and moan—but didn’t bother to keep up his side of the conversation—he opened a new bottle of firewhiskey and deposited himself in front of the fireplace. It was harsh and burning, and Harry didn’t like it, but he drank it anyway.
“Shame on you, boy,” Mrs. Evans chided when she noticed this. “Evanses do not drink such common liquors. Have a brandy.”
Harry looked up at her and frowned. He felt tired and exasperated and a thousand other emotions that he couldn’t place, and didn’t think he would want to, even if he could. “We’re out,” he said. “Well, except for the really expensive bottles. I don’t want to open those.” The excuse, like so many others lately, was flimsy at best.
Mrs. Evans frowned delicately and wandered out of the frame. Frank was missing as well—most likely off chatting with Arcturus on the third floor—and Harry supposed that Laurel had followed him. He leaned back on his hands and sighed. Neither he nor his father had explained to Mr. or Mrs. Evans what the newspaper had said about his mother, and he didn’t think he should, either. There was just something inherently wrong about telling someone—even if they’re dead, maybe especially if they’re dead—that their child was not perfect.
They were under the impression that Lily had been married to Sirius, and Harry was disinclined to correct them. It still rankled him, though, when he thought about it. It must have rankled Sirius as well since he had steadily begun withdrawing from Harry in the two weeks since the article. Harry laughed bitterly at the thought and took a sip of firewhiskey straight from the bottle. It was no better this time than the one before.
Dumbledore, still, had not returned his letter nor had he dropped by for the requested visit. Harry couldn’t help but think that that kind of behaviour was usually paired with guilt—or at least secrets. Neither boded well for Dumbledore’s reputation with Harry, especially with Snape’s enigmatic words filtering through his brain.
Sometime later, when Harry had gone through at least an eighth of the bottle, Ron wandered in. “Alright, Ron?” Harry said. His words didn’t slur at all, and he felt cheated. They should have slurred by then.
Ron plopped down next to him and wordlessly grabbed the bottle of firewhiskey. He took a long drink, handed it back to Harry and sighed. “Evening. S’appening?” Ron’s words were already slurring. Harry stopped himself from wondering if maybe they didn’t have anymore of the usual brandy because Ron was squirreling it away in his room. He stopped that train of thought as soon as it started—he was just bitter with the world; there was no reason to start questioning Ron.
Harry shrugged. “Dumbledore’s ignoring me, and the papers are still talking about my mum. It’s been a shitty day.” He carefully neglected to mention that Sirius, too, had been ignoring him. Ron wasn’t great with advice of that kind, and even if he were, Harry wouldn’t want it.
Ron looked at him sideways, and took the firewhiskey back. Harry didn’t argue with him; he wasn’t a big firewhiskey fan anyway—he had no idea why he was drinking it to begin with. Apparently, Ron was though. Harry frowned again, hoping Ron didn’t get too enamoured with the stuff, but maybe it was too late for that.
“Sorry, mate, about that article,” Ron said. “Bagman wouldn’t even have bet on that.”
Harry gave him a look, and did not reply. It wasn’t worth the wasted breath, he realised. Then, more than any time he could remember, he wished he had a parent he could talk to about this—someone to advise him and tell him what he should be doing. And then, he thought of Sirius, and fought very hard to restrain a bitter chuckle. In the end, he lost the fight, but Ron didn’t notice.
“I think I’m in love with her,” Ron said sometime later. Harry, who had been staring at the empty frame above the fireplace and wondering if Mrs. Evans would be a suitable replacement for a mother figure—dead or not—looked back at his friend. Ron’s red hair was a mess—fallen all over his face and in his eyes, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was staring forlornly into the nearly empty bottle of firewhiskey and methodically chewing his lip. Harry mused in that moment, that other than chess, he’d never seen Ron do anything at all methodically.
He didn’t have to ask who Ron was talking about. It was obvious. “So tell her,” he said. He was well beyond sugar-coated words and walking on eggshells. The suggestion was accompanied by an indifferent shrug of his shoulders; Ron didn’t notice that either.
“No point,” Ron said. “She doesn’t love me back.”
Harry rolled his eyes—something he would have done anyway, even if Ron had been looking directly at him. “Yes, she does,” he said patiently.
Any other time—any time when Ron wasn’t three sheets to the wind—he would have looked up sharply and given Harry a ‘you can’t be serious’ sort of expression. This time, he did not.
“I think she’s still writing Krum.”
Harry knew perfectly well that Hermione was not writing Krum, nor had she been writing him for at least a year. He also knew that, when she thought he wasn’t looking, Hermione gave Ron the sort of tragic, miserable look that the lovelorn characters on his aunt Petunia’s soaps often gave each other. Ron had never noticed any of this, and Harry was tired of reassuring someone who refused to be reassured.
“Probably,” he said. Maybe he was drunk after all, Harry thought. Saying that had given him a sick sort of pleasure. Spitefulness, he realised. That’s what it was. Still, he didn’t take it back—it didn’t matter anyway; Ron had been expecting it, apparently.
Ron sighed, and in the process, the exhaled air fluttered his red hair up and off his face enough for Harry to catch a glimpse of the dark shadows under his friend’s eyes. He swallowed, and turned back to the empty portrait frame. He couldn’t stand to look at Ron anymore.
The rest of the night was spent with Ron polishing off the firewhiskey and Harry listening to Laurel Evans—who had come back in a delicate huff (her husband was having a cigar, which she didn’t approve of, with Arcturus)—talk about her cousin Anna, who was mad, and killed herself on her wedding night. The suicide note, Mrs. Evans said, went like this:
“My auntie was devastated,” Mrs. Evans finished sombrely.
Harry picked at his cuticles while he listened, and wished that something would give.
Sometime after midnight, Ron ran out of firewhiskey and Harry figured he might as well go to bed. He didn’t sleep very well that night, but then again, he hadn’t been sleeping well for the last fortnight. Ginny had not come to him again during that time, and since Ron had spent most of it—after his mother went back to the Burrow, anyway—getting pissed, Harry realised just how little he’d spoken in the last few weeks. It was a startling realisation.
He wondered if he should tell Hermione what Ron was up to, but decided that it wasn’t his place. Hermione wasn’t Ron’s mother, and Harry consoled himself with the thought that it was probably another one of those ‘boys’ dorm’ things. He hoped it was, anyway.
Consequently, Harry spent a lot of time in the library, since Sirius spent a lot of time in the garden with Fred. Harry had never seen someone so enamoured with a house-elf. Maybe it was a defence mechanism. Hermione was always there—surrounded by piles of books—when Harry entered the library. They didn’t talk much. Sometimes he would ask her if she’d read anything interesting, but he was never too terribly interested in any response she might’ve given, and she apparently knew that because her responses were never invitations to further conversation.
Harry wondered if that was his fault. He admitted that he hadn’t spoken to her much and that he’d avoided her when she tried to talk to him, but that was because she only wanted to ‘help’ him, not talk to him. Or, at least that’s what he told himself every time they fell into one of those awkward silences that could only be broken by the turning of a page or one of them leaving the room altogether.
Friendships, he decided, were a lot harder to maintain than they should have been.
The day after Harry and Ron drank firewhiskey in the drawing room, Harry skipped breakfast and went straight to the library because no one else would have been there anyway. His father had taken to having his meals in his rooms, Ron would be hung-over and Ginny would be sleeping in. Hermione, of course, would be in the library, but...but.
He realised that he had nothing to follow that up with, and bit his lip. After being kicked out early the day before by Ginger, he found that he was having withdrawals. Whether from the books or Hermione, he didn’t know, but he didn’t think it mattered. They didn’t speak anymore. In fact, the only speaking he heard lately was his father’s voice reprimanding him for being such a bad host. In his mind, he told Sirius to fuck off because he never wanted to be an aristocrat anyway.
Harry decided it was the books he missed, though he couldn’t be sure that he’d say the same thing under Veritaserum. He reckoned that nothing could possibly please Hermione more than another person who spent all their time in the library, but she never brought it up. Sometimes, even though they weren’t speaking—which he realised now was actually his fault—he felt better just being around her. She was like a constant in his life that had ceased to be constant, but was still there. That was important, he told himself.
She was already there when he walked in around ten that morning, but he wasn’t too terribly surprised. If she left at all—if she even slept in the room he and Sirius had given her—Harry didn’t know about it. She was always there, even during meals. He had no idea where she’d gone when Ginger evicted them the day before.
“Do you ever leave?” Harry asked upon seeing her sitting on the floor in front of one of the shelves. It was meant as a joke, but it was weak, and he only said it to break the silence anyway.
Hermione frowned up at him, and Harry realised he was feeling a bit guilty. Ron, Hermione and Ginny had come to the house to stay with him, and he hadn’t spent much time with anyone except Ron—and that was only because Ron was always in his liquor cabinet when he was in the drawing room. A wave of shame washed over him, and he smiled faintly because just from the look she’d given him, he felt something other than resentment and bitterness. That had to count for something.
“Yes,” Hermione answered blankly. She paused, considering her words, and then added, even though the expression on her face said plainly that she didn’t want to say it, “It’s not as if you’ve taken time to spend with me…or even talk to me. You avoid me every time I try to talk to you.”
Harry sat down next to her and wondered why he wanted to wince when she said that. “Sorry—it’s just…that article really got to me, and it’s obviously gotten to my dad as well because he’s acting strange around me. He doesn’t try to spend time with me anymore, and we’ve only known about this stuff since my birthday. It doesn’t seem like he would be tired of me yet.”
Harry’s eyes widened after he spoke. He had no idea why he’d said all that. He certainly hadn’t meant to use Hermione as a confessional.
Hermione gave him a sympathetic look and closed her book. “Oh Harry,” she sighed. “I’m sure that it’s just hard on him. Sirius doesn’t know how to be a father, and with that article he was reminded of the fact that he’d done something he probably wished he hadn’t. He loved your mum, yes, but he also loved James. It must be very hard on him to be reminded of how he betrayed his friend—and very confusing, too, I would imagine—because he would also be feeling like James betrayed him by marrying Lily.”
Harry gave her a tired look, resigned to the situation. “But I really don’t understand why he wouldn’t want to, you know, at least try with me.”
Hermione put her hand on his arm and leaned forward earnestly. “I’m sure he does, Harry,” she said. “It’s just hard for him. He doesn’t know how, really. You need to help him; show him that you want to try, too. He probably thinks you’re upset with him for betraying James, or something of the sort.”
Harry ran a hand through his hair, an unconscious gesture that he realised he was doing more and more lately. “I don’t think he wants me,” Harry muttered.
Hermione gave him an exasperated look. “Honestly, Harry, that’s such a lie, and you know it.”
He gave her a crooked grin, feeling a weight lift off him that he’d been carrying so long that he’d gotten used to its presence. “I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. It's awful. If I'm on my way to the store to buy a magazine, even, and somebody asks me where I'm going, I'm liable to say I'm going to the opera. It's terrible.”
“Ah, so you do read,” Hermione smiled knowingly. “I’d begun to wonder.”
Harry grinned at her. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, going back to the original topic. “You always are,” he added. He suddenly felt a lot better about everything—not that he wanted to get all sentimental, but he would have almost said that he and Hermione had just had a ‘moment’. He wondered what Ron would think about that, and rolled his eyes. “So, are we okay? You’re not mad at me for ignoring you?”
Hermione gave him a patient smile. “We’re okay, Harry, just don’t ignore me anymore. Tell me when something’s upsetting you.”
Harry laughed. “Alright,” he said. Immediately, images of Ron getting drunk almost every night since their visit to the Ministry, Ginny crawling into his bed, and chats with Voldemort flashed through his mind. He wanted to tell her about those things, too, but he didn’t think she would take them as well as she had with the subject of Sirius.
“I wrote to Dumbledore,” Harry said a minute later. He wanted to distract himself from everything else, and talking about Dumbledore seemed to be the only relatively safe subject. Quidditch had never been something that Hermione put much stock in, so the only other failsafe topic was out. Hermione looked up again from where she’d returned to her book. “It was weeks ago, and he still hasn’t come by or even responded.”
Hermione frowned. “Why do you think that would be?”
Harry gave her a pointed look; he felt like he was in therapy. “Why do you think?” he asked. “Sirius is alive. If you hadn’t forgotten, Sirius died at the end of fifth year. Dumbledore’s hiding something.”
Harry could see her mind working as she thought over that. For some reason, she hadn’t given much thought to it before, and Harry could tell that it was bothering her now. She was upset with herself for not thinking about the situation fully when he explained it to her. “Didn’t you actually see him fall through the Veil?” Hermione asked, confused.
Harry smiled; she was catching on. “Yes,” he said. “And this summer, when Sirius came to get me from the Dursleys, he had no idea what I was talking about. He said he’d been in America—New York, actually—since the middle of fifth year. He left right after Christmas, actually.”
“And Dumbledore never told you that it wasn’t really him?” Hermione asked, alarmed.
Harry shook his head. “No! No…he didn’t, and then, well, we get this letter from him that just tells us to ‘enjoy our holiday’ and ‘oh, by the by, here’s your school list,’ and that’s it. So, a bit later, the day I wrote you guys, actually, I write Dumbledore a letter and ask him to come by whenever it’s convenient, and he never shows up. He never even writes back, and I have no idea what’s going on, and everything is just so fucking weird, that I can’t stand it. Who was at the Ministry? Why didn’t Dumbledore tell me Sirius wasn’t even in England anymore? Why did he cover it up for a whole year afterwards? And why won’t he tell me now?”
Hermione looked suitably horrified, Harry was pleased to note. Finally, someone understood the importance of the situation. His father hadn’t given it a second thought, really, and that scared him, but no one else had, either. Not even Ron—not even Voldemort and— Harry rolled his eyes for even thinking of him, but—Voldemort thought about those things. He considered every angle of everything. Surely Voldemort would have at least taunted him about it? Or maybe used it as leverage against Dumbledore? What the fuck was going on?
Sirius’ death was never reported in the newspaper because Dumbledore didn’t let Fudge know, so the only people who knew were the people who were there at the Ministry. At the time, Harry hadn’t thought much of it—the Daily Prophet would have only reported it as a murderer finally getting his dues, and he was relieved to not have to see that in the paper—but now, he wondered. Did Dumbledore deliberately ignore it because he wanted to hide something?
“Well, it could’ve been a golem,” Hermione said slowly, ignoring his other points.
Harry shook his head again. “No—I’ve been thinking about that—because no one else will,” he added, frustrated, “and I don’t think it was a golem. Those take weeks to make, and why would they have had one on hand to begin with? I think someone pulled a Crouch and Polyjuiced him.”
“But they would need Sirius’ hair for that,” Hermione added.
Harry shrugged. “He’s got a lot of it; I wouldn’t be surprised if someone had nicked some from him before.”
“Well, then who fell through the veil?” she asked. “Shacklebolt, Tonks, Moody and Lupin were there, so it wasn’t any of them,” she mused.
“Unless someone else was Polyjuiced as one of them,” Harry muttered.
Hermione frowned. “No, I don’t think so—they all knew what happened. If they hadn’t been there, then they wouldn’t—besides that would be too complicated. The best plans are simple.”
Harry frowned thoughtfully. “But my dad says Lupin hasn’t been answering his letters,” he persisted.
“Then who held you back after ‘Sirius’ fell through the Veil?” Hermione asked. “It would have to be someone who cared enough and knew enough about the situation. No, I think Lupin was really there…although where he is now could be another conspiracy entirely.”
Harry sneered. “Of course,” he said, thinking of all the possible things Dumbledore could have done. He shifted, trying to get more comfortable under the weight of discomfort in his mind, and winced. Something was digging into his thigh. Harry reached into the pockets of his robes, tying to find the offending object, and laughed when he realised what it was.
“Here,” Harry said, handing it to Hermione. “It’s that journal I showed you. I’ve pretty much finished with it. There’re only a few pages left and it’s getting monotonous. All the bird talks about is resurrecting her dead lover. It’s kind of creepy.”
Hermione took the bronzed journal with a rapturous expression. “This is so exciting,” she said quietly. “It looks so old! I wonder how old it is…it’s like a piece of living history!” She opened the front cover and read aloud, “’For you, my Darling, because even if you are no longer with me, part of you will always be here.’ Merlin, this woman was demented,” Hermione muttered.
Harry shrugged. He couldn’t disagree with that.
“I’ll give it back as soon as I’m done with it,” Hermione promised eagerly. She set her original book aside and attacked the journal with deliberate enthusiasm. Harry couldn’t help but smile. Even with everything strange going on, Hermione would always be there to ground him.
Disinterestedly, he looked at the book she’d set aside and snorted quietly when he realised that it was the very same book that the journal had been hidden behind. Published only under the initials R.A.B., the book appeared to be a discourse on dark potions. Harry couldn’t ever remember being interested in potions. “You done with this one?” Harry asked her. She looked up distractedly and nodded once.
“Yes, if I want to read it again, I can always find it later.”
Stretching, Harry stood up and ambled up the ladder to return the book to the third floor where he’d found it the first time. Maybe there would be something else interesting to read—all the Black family history books were up there, as well. He found Crookshanks dozing on the window seat that he usually favoured and frowned.
“Up you get, Crookshanks.”
The cat looked at him disinterestedly for several seconds, then lowered his head and went back to sleep. Harry half-considered swatting him out of the way, and then decided that Crookshanks had been there first, and he might as well let him stay there. He pulled his outer robes off and bunched them up on the floor to pad it better before sinking down in front of the shelf where the book went.
Harry’s fingers skimmed the bottom shelf as he looked for the place where the book went. He could have let Ginger put it away, but he’d just had a conversation with Hermione—which, not as bad as he thought it would be, was not as easy as it could have been. He was not looking forward to another one; the book created a distraction.
He sighed, put the book back and sat staring at the shelves. He wasn’t really in the mood to read, he decided. He half-stood, thinking it might be fun to spend the day with Sirius, then sat back down when he remembered that his father wasn’t really speaking to him. They were both too stubborn to apologize, he decided, but Sirius was the parent: he should do it first.
Dumbledore would be better to think about. The facts, he realised, were very confusing. According to his father, Dumbledore sent him on an Order mission to America sometime after Christmas his fifth year. Of course, Sirius also said that he’d gotten a new wand in France…and that was a bit odd. Then, Dumbledore didn’t tell him Sirius wasn’t really dead, and…
He was very confused.
Voldemort didn’t seem too surprised that Sirius was alive, either, now that Harry thought about it. It seemed as if he actually knew the whole time. And why hadn’t Harry questioned it more? Sirius was supposed to be dead, and yet, he’d accepted that he wasn’t rather quickly. That wasn’t safe at all!
And why wasn’t his father more concerned that Dumbledore thought him dead? And why hadn’t he bothered to contact him immediately after taking Harry from the Dursleys? Harry shook his head. He could think of no plausible excuses for anything. The Catcher in the Rye was in his trunk; he would read that instead—it didn’t take too much brain power to read, and his brain seemed pretty fried at the moment.
And maybe reading about someone else’s problems would ease some of his lingering bitterness. With a decisive nod, Harry stood and snatched up his cloak, draping it over his arm. He took the passageway that led to the portrait of his Grandfather Arcturus on the third floor to avoid Hermione, and didn’t notice the little vial of black potion that fell out of his robe pocket and rolled behind a book on the shelf.
-x-
That night, Voldemort showed up.
“Two weeks,” the Dark Lord hissed upon materializing in Harry’s bedroom. It was near midnight, and Harry was rereading The Catcher in the Rye because he didn’t care for any of the dark magic books and he didn’t want to read about the Black Family. The library was, sadly, bereft of much else—unless he wanted to read a wizarding romance novel. Harry jerked in surprise and inched backwards, trying to melt into his headboard. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to seeing Voldemort in his bedroom.
“What?” he breathed. He tried to slow his breathing, but quickly realised it was a lost cause.
Voldemort stepped-glided-slithered closer to the bed and peered down at him, red eyes gleaming with the reflection of the moon outside Harry’s window. “It has been two weeks,” Voldemort replied. “I am ready.”
“I’m not,” Harry mumbled.
Voldemort regarded him curiously. “Have you not acquired the Polyjuice?” he asked. “I told you to be ready; you do not wish to displease me.”
Sometimes, Harry almost expected Voldemort to start using the Royal We when he spoke. Every time he didn’t, it caught Harry off guard, which was completely ridiculous and sometimes unsettling. “When have I ever pleased you?” he muttered defiantly, but didn’t look at Voldemort’s face when he said it. “I have it,” he said louder. He didn’t think for a minute that Voldemort hadn’t heard him, but at least he’d chosen to ignore it for the time being.
Harry did not want to do this.
“Very good,” Voldemort purred. His mouth split open in a lipless grin and he motioned Harry out of the bed. “Collect it.”
Harry glared at him and opened his mouth to say something scathing, but then thought better of it. It would not do to piss Voldemort off when he was about to be in his physical presence. Warily, he slipped off the bed and went over to the chair where he’d draped his robe. The Polyjuice was still in the pocket, and he withdrew it without taking his eyes off Voldemort. Vaguely, he wondered how many non-Death Eaters had been so close to Voldemort for such a long period of time and not died in the process.
“Very good,” Voldemort said again. Then Harry felt a push against his mind; instinctively, he fought it, but Voldemort was much stronger than he was. In short order, there was an image in his mind. It was of an old, gothic-looking castle complete with ferocious-looking gargoyles. Behind it were sharp rocky crags, and it was night, of course, but Harry couldn’t help thinking that it really needed lightning and a fierce storm to complete the picture. It was not somewhere he would want to live.
“This is where you will be apparating,” Voldemort explained. “I will meet you there, and we will complete the Vow.”
“How do I know you won’t kill me as soon as I get there?” Harry asked.
Voldemort smirked. “You don’t,” he said, and then he faded. Harry was left staring at the place Voldemort had been standing, heart beating wildly, and hoping that his father had been right—hoping that this Honour thing was something Voldemort put enough stock in to not kill him on sight. Taking a deep, calming breath, Harry reached out to the wards around the manor as his father had shown him, lifted the ones that prevented apparition, and disapparated.
He appeared in front of the gothic manor, and realised it was colder than where he was. It must have been quite a bit further north. He pulled his wand and looked around, feeling as though he was being watched. In the distance, he could hear waves hitting the rocks, and it sounded ominous. Harry tensed.
“Welcome,” Voldemort said from behind him.
Harry jumped and whirled around, wand pointed straight at Voldemort.
“So jumpy,” Voldemort drawled, amused. His words were hissed, and his eyes were gleaming in malicious pleasure.
“Where are we?” Harry asked because he couldn’t seem to think of anything more relevant to ask.
“Gaoth Dobhair, north of the Irish Headlands, of course,” Voldemort answered. He had not drawn his wand, and indeed, did not seem to even notice that Harry’s was trained at his heart. “The Bloody Foreland,” Voldemort explained maniacally. “Do you think it fitting?”
Harry stared, unable to speak, but his hand did not tremble. He could always apparate back. He could—he kept telling himself that. Right now, he was okay. He just had to be rational.
He snorted to himself—apparating to the Dark Lord wasn’t exactly rational to begin with.
“Pity that you did not arrive sooner,” Voldemort continued wistfully. He was still staring at the rocky crags behind the castle. “At sunset, the light turns the rocks red like blood; it’s lovely.”
Harry made a sound that was half-cough, half-sob, and closed his eyes slowly. He was going to die—what had he agreed to? He heard movement, and opened his eyes just in time to see Voldemort take one last step toward him. They were nearly nose to nose. His wand, which was the only thing between them, was pressed into Voldemort’s skinny chest. Harry stopped breathing.
“The Vow,” Voldemort breathed. He closed his hand around his left forearm and concentrated. A moment later, there was the crack of apparition, and Harry jumped again. He was entirely too jumpy. He needed to settle down. He was, also—he realised a moment too late—now out numbered. A Death Eater had just apparated in.
Slowly, Harry turned his head to meet the newcomer. “Snape,” he breathed. He was not sure whether he should be relieved or even more worried. Snape was staring at him in undisguised surprise and barely disguised worry. He, obviously, had had no prior knowledge of this.
“Severus,” Voldemort hissed, an odd smile playing across his lips. “You will not tell Dumbledore of this, will you?” Snape shook his head mutely and very quickly, his eyes still trained on Harry. “Good,” Voldemort purred. “Because if Dumbledore hears about it, you will only live to see the morning so that I may spend more time torturing you.”
Snape visibly shuddered. “Milord,” he said hesitantly. Harry still could not speak. This could all turn out very badly.
Voldemort looked at him expectantly. “Yes?”
“Milord,” Snape drew himself up, and put on his most indifferent face. Harry thought that it was a bit too late for that. “If I may be so bold as to ask, what are you doing with the Pot-Black boy? Will you kill him tonight?” Harry frowned; so everyone knew about his name now, and that Snape had slipped up at first showed how unbalanced the situation had made the potions master.
Voldemort cackled. “No,” he purred. “No, I will not kill Harry—and neither will you. Harry is here at my request. He will be helping me with something tonight.”
Snape looked to Harry, face unreadable, and Harry did his best to give him an encouraging nod.
“You’re to be the bonder, I think,” Voldemort said. He gave Snape a considering look and nodded. “Yes, you will do. Now the Vow.”
Snape’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline as Harry and Voldemort dropped to their knees. “Vow, Milord?” Snape asked curiously. He carefully lowered himself to his knees and looked questioningly at Voldemort.
Voldemort ignored him. “You’ll need your wand, Severus,” he said, and then turned and stared into Harry’s suspicious eyes. “You may go first.”
Harry bit his lip. He appreciated that he would be able to get his protection in before Voldemort, but he only had a basic knowledge of how Unbreakable Vows worked. He was going to have to wing this, and hope that Snape would let him know if he fucked up or left something essential out. He looked pleadingly at Snape, hoping to convey this, and was surprised and relieved when Snape gave an almost imperceptible nod of assent. Snape would not let him get hurt here, and even better—Voldemort hadn’t noticed the exchange.
Harry and Voldemort linked hands. Voldemort’s were cold and bony and Harry shivered at the feel of them. “Do you,” Harry cleared his throat uncomfortably, “Do you, Tom Riddle—better known as Lord Voldemort,” he added uncertainly, “swear that you will not harm me through action or inaction while I am here?”
“I do swear it,” Voldemort purred, and Snape tapped their joined hands with his wand. A tendril of magic wrapped around their fingers as the oath settled into their skin and magic. Voldemort, Harry noticed, seemed to be amused with Harry’s uncertainty. Of course he would be.
“And do you, Tom Riddle,” Harry continued, “swear that you will not allow your Death Eaters harm me while I am here—through your own action or inaction—and if it comes to pass, protect me with your own life?”
The last bit seemed to have caught Voldemort off guard, but he recovered quickly enough. “I do swear it,” he said. Snape shifted uncertainly at the declaration and tapped their hands again. Harry looked to Snape—unsure if that was everything he needed to do—and received a curt nod in response. He sighed, relieved, and nodded.
Voldemort picked up with the Vow there. “Do you, Harry Black, formerly known as Harry Potter,” Voldemort added in amusement, “swear that you will perform the task I have previously asked of you to the best of your abilities while you are here?”
Harry looked to Snape, who had no idea what the previous task asked was, and considered. The wording was vague, but he couldn’t think of anything Voldemort had previously asked of him, other than the reason he was here tonight, that would put him in danger. Snape shrugged minutely. “I do swear it,” Harry finally said.
Uncertainly, Snape tapped their hands.
“And do you, Harry Black, swear that you will not attack me or harm me in any way tonight?”
“I do swear it,” Harry said.
“And do you, Harry Black, swear that any information that you learn here will not be forwarded to any third party whatsoever—through action or inaction—without prior consent from myself?”
Harry frowned, but agreed.
“And do you, Harry Black,” Voldemort continued, “swear that you will give due consideration to my offer, and not immediately dismiss it once the Vow has been completed?”
More vague wording. The Vow really wouldn’t be completed until he gave consideration to Voldemort’s offer, but it wasn’t anything that could harm him. Consideration was passive—he could do that, he decided. Harry nodded, and said, “I do swear it.”
Voldemort grinned, and Snape completed the Vow. “Excellent,” Voldemort hissed, standing. He looked at Snape, and added. “I’m sure you both have much to catch up on. I’ll leave you to talk, and then, Severus, I expect you to show Mr. Black to my study. We will be having a meeting this evening.” And then Voldemort strode off towards the castle, disappearing in the shadows before he made it to the door.
Harry exhaled slowly and looked back at Snape, who was staring at him with furiously glittering eyes.
“What have you done?” Snape hissed.
Harry winced. “I had to!” he whispered back angrily. Snape only stared at him, and Harry realised that he would not get out of this without a full explanation, but he didn’t think he had time for that. Determinedly, he opened his mind as much as he could and stared straight into Snape’s eyes. Snape wasted no time entering his mind. He rifled through all the memories of Harry and Voldemort meeting through their link, of Voldemort’s offer and Harry’s refusals. Snape shifted through Harry’s talks and lessons with his father, and Harry’s uncertainty regarding Dumbledore.
Finally, Snape withdrew from his mind, and stared at him. “Professor Dumbledore, I’m sure, has his reasons for everything. Whether or not one agrees with him is insignificant, as I’m sure you’ve realised,” he said.
Harry looked at him. “You know what happened, don’t you?” he asked. “You know what happened at the Ministry…who fell through the Veil.”
Snape did not immediately respond. “I do not,” he said, and then, almost as an afterthought, added, “But the Headmaster does not, either.”
“Then what does he think happened?” Harry growled.
He didn’t really think he would get an answer, but Snape still seemed to be a little off-balance. He looked at Harry with an unreadable expression, and finally decided to answer. Harry could see the decision on his face. He closed his mouth and waited.
“Sirius Black returned from his mission to America—and before you ask,” he added snidely, “No, I do not know what the mission was—in March of 1996—two months after he left, reporting failure. He then returned to Headquarters where he remained until June of 1996, during which he, allegedly, fell through the Veil.
“The Headmaster then contacted Gringotts Bank and spoke with the Head Goblin. He was informed that you were the recipient of the entire Black Estate, and for reasons only known to him, kept Black’s death from the Ministry and the Papers. Do not ask why; I can only assume, and my assumptions are not yours to hear. You were then made heir to some of the properties, but the Headmaster left others in an indeterminate state.
“When Black returned this past June and collected you from your muggle relatives, Dumbledore was unaware until he arrived at your muggle relatives' home to collect you and take you to the Weasley residence. He used a tracking charm and found that you were, along with another presence, residing at one of the Black estates in Scotland.
“Order members were dispatched—namely Kingley Shacklebolt and Nymphadora Tonks—and reported that, according to identification charms used by upper level aurors, the other presence was Sirius Black.” Here, Snape smiled maliciously. “Dumbledore explained to me that he knew the entire time, but you will not fault me if I have difficulty believing that.”
“And he doesn’t know who was actually at the Ministry that night?” Harry asked suspiciously.
Snape smirked. “If he does, he has been careful not to let slip the information—information which I think rather pertinent. That is all I know.”
Harry gaped. “And what about Si—my father?” he asked. “Why didn’t he go back to Dumbledore immediately after returning to England? Why did he come to get me first? Why didn’t he tell Dumbledore he was back?”
Snape was still smirking nastily. “That is something you will have to ask Black.”
“Right,” Harry sighed. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, disrupting it, and exhaled loudly. “Right,” he repeated.
“Now,” Snape purred, “I believe it is time for you to explain what you are doing here.” His voice was furiously quiet, and Harry shivered.
“He wants me to impersonate him at this meeting,” Harry said, still a bit confused about the whole ordeal. “I have to Polyjuice into him and direct the Death Eaters while he watches in animagus form.”
“Ah,” Snape said slowly. “And for what purpose?”
“I showed you,” Harry exclaimed petulantly. “He says he needs an heir; he wants me to be that heir for some reason. I’ve just got to prove that I’m not the right person for the job.”
To his surprise, Snape gave a loud, surprised laugh. “And who would you rather be the right person for the job?” he asked.
This gave Harry pause. What if Voldemort chose Lucius Malfoy? Or Bellatrix? Or any of the other, nastier Death Eaters? Harry would kill Voldemort just to end up having to kill his heir. It would be a never-ending battle. His life would never be peaceful; he would never be safe. “I don’t know,” Harry finally said slowly. He really didn’t.
Suddenly, Snape grabbed his shoulder and shook him. He leaned down, face inches from Harry’s own. “Then you better figure it out,” he hissed, “because you are in far too deep to back out now.”
And then, he turned and strode off quickly towards the castle. “Follow!” Snape barked over his shoulder, and Harry scrambled to keep up.
-x-
A/N
1. “[Ludo] Bagman wouldn’t have bet” is in reference to what Fudge said to Harry at his disciplinary hearing for fighting Dementors in OotP.
2. “I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. It's awful. If I'm on my way to the store to buy a magazine, even, and somebody asks me where I'm going, I'm liable to say I'm going to the opera. It's terrible.” –The Catcher in the Rye, Chapter 3, by J.D. Salinger.
3. “Pull a Crouch” is in reference to GoF, when Barty Crouch Jr. impersonates Alastor Moody with Polyjuice.
4. “Anna Who Was Mad” is the title of a poem by Anne Sexton.
5. The suicide note is the last stanza of the poem ‘Suicide Note’ (obviously) by Anne Sexton. I’m a bit obsessed with her, I confess.
6. The Bloody Forelands in Gaoth Dobhair really do turn red at sunset. They’re located in North-west Ireland.
NEXT CHAPTER
Comments=♥
Chapter Title: Black Vow 11/14
Words (this chapter): 7,600
Rating (this chapter): R
Story Info/All Chapters: HERE
Beta’d by
maybe_someday8 and amelancholykiss.-x-
Black, in the Smothering Dark
-x-
Chapter Eleven
Black Vow
-x-
The next two weeks passed uneventfully. Mrs. Weasley returned to the Burrow several days after the article about Harry’s parentage appeared in the paper, but more articles came after that. And more after that. There were interviews with local wizards and witches who all had something to say on the matter—most of which was in one way or another insulting to his mother’s memory.
All Harry could think, though, was that he would feel a great deal more charitable—and willing to fight a war for these people—if instead of claiming it was a political stunt, someone would just say they were happy he finally had a family. But right then, he wasn’t feeling very charitable anyway. He hadn’t said more than three words to his father in the past fortnight.
He had intended to take Ron, Hermione and Ginny to Eweforic Alley for a day, but instead retreated to his room to brood. He stayed there most of the time.
Ginny and Hermione had come down to lunch later in the day, and they spent the meal discussing it—or rather, Hermione and Ginny discussed it. Hermione had admitted that she was embarrassed that she hadn’t thought of the possibility that the newspaper would bring up Harry’s mother in that light. Harry and Sirius, on the other hand, were furious, even at each other. They stopped speaking immediately after that.
Ginny had ranted over what a disgrace the media was. Everyone thought that the Daily Prophet had no right to portray Harry’s mother in that light. Of course, it was true that she had had an affair, but it wasn’t the wizarding world’s business to know that. The argument had ended when Mrs. Weasley scolded them, and an uncomfortable silence settled around everyone.
Ron had stumbled in after having slept all morning, grimaced when he heard about what had happened, and tried to divert Harry with a game of Wizarding Chess. Harry, naturally, lost, and was put into an even fouler mood. Sirius disappeared for three days after that, and Harry couldn’t bring himself to go looking for his father. Once, Fred had mentioned having help in the garden, but Harry did not follow up the lead.
Bitterness unexpectedly filled Harry during the weeks after the article, and try as he might, he couldn’t shake it. He often caught Hermione watching him with narrowed eyes, but whenever she tried to talk to him, he would retreat to the drawing room and spend the afternoon talking to his grandparents’ portrait.
They asked him where his father was, and Mr. Evans bemoaned that he had no one to read the morning paper to him anymore. Harry, at the time, had felt guilty that he hadn’t even noticed that his father read the paper to a portrait every morning. He wondered if it was a natural reaction to a revelation so shocking. He didn’t think it was, but he did think that it had been a whole lot easier when Sirius was just his godfather.
He did not search out his father; Sirius did not search him out, and days passed. Harry did not understand exactly what ‘family’ meant, but he suspected they might be going out it the wrong way. It was when he was thinking about things like this that he would catch Hermione watching him, but she had given up trying to corner him some time ago.
It amazed him how quickly something like that could happen. It seemed like it had been months since he’d spoken to her.
Sometimes Ron—who had begun to fill the time during which Harry spoke to no one with firewhiskey—would come in the drawing room when everyone else was asleep and they would spend the evening knocking back shots of brandy from the liquor cabinet.
Ron always drank more than Harry, and Harry caught himself wondering more than once if Ron might be becoming too fond of alcohol. Ron hid it—mostly from Hermione and Ginny, but he hid it none the less. Harry wondered how long it would be before Ron screwed up and Hermione caught him. He never mentioned that, though. It wasn’t his business.
One night, when Harry was in an especially foul mood because Ginger had kicked him and Hermione out of the library to clean the floors and he’d had to listen to Hermione bitch and moan—but didn’t bother to keep up his side of the conversation—he opened a new bottle of firewhiskey and deposited himself in front of the fireplace. It was harsh and burning, and Harry didn’t like it, but he drank it anyway.
“Shame on you, boy,” Mrs. Evans chided when she noticed this. “Evanses do not drink such common liquors. Have a brandy.”
Harry looked up at her and frowned. He felt tired and exasperated and a thousand other emotions that he couldn’t place, and didn’t think he would want to, even if he could. “We’re out,” he said. “Well, except for the really expensive bottles. I don’t want to open those.” The excuse, like so many others lately, was flimsy at best.
Mrs. Evans frowned delicately and wandered out of the frame. Frank was missing as well—most likely off chatting with Arcturus on the third floor—and Harry supposed that Laurel had followed him. He leaned back on his hands and sighed. Neither he nor his father had explained to Mr. or Mrs. Evans what the newspaper had said about his mother, and he didn’t think he should, either. There was just something inherently wrong about telling someone—even if they’re dead, maybe especially if they’re dead—that their child was not perfect.
They were under the impression that Lily had been married to Sirius, and Harry was disinclined to correct them. It still rankled him, though, when he thought about it. It must have rankled Sirius as well since he had steadily begun withdrawing from Harry in the two weeks since the article. Harry laughed bitterly at the thought and took a sip of firewhiskey straight from the bottle. It was no better this time than the one before.
Dumbledore, still, had not returned his letter nor had he dropped by for the requested visit. Harry couldn’t help but think that that kind of behaviour was usually paired with guilt—or at least secrets. Neither boded well for Dumbledore’s reputation with Harry, especially with Snape’s enigmatic words filtering through his brain.
Sometime later, when Harry had gone through at least an eighth of the bottle, Ron wandered in. “Alright, Ron?” Harry said. His words didn’t slur at all, and he felt cheated. They should have slurred by then.
Ron plopped down next to him and wordlessly grabbed the bottle of firewhiskey. He took a long drink, handed it back to Harry and sighed. “Evening. S’appening?” Ron’s words were already slurring. Harry stopped himself from wondering if maybe they didn’t have anymore of the usual brandy because Ron was squirreling it away in his room. He stopped that train of thought as soon as it started—he was just bitter with the world; there was no reason to start questioning Ron.
Harry shrugged. “Dumbledore’s ignoring me, and the papers are still talking about my mum. It’s been a shitty day.” He carefully neglected to mention that Sirius, too, had been ignoring him. Ron wasn’t great with advice of that kind, and even if he were, Harry wouldn’t want it.
Ron looked at him sideways, and took the firewhiskey back. Harry didn’t argue with him; he wasn’t a big firewhiskey fan anyway—he had no idea why he was drinking it to begin with. Apparently, Ron was though. Harry frowned again, hoping Ron didn’t get too enamoured with the stuff, but maybe it was too late for that.
“Sorry, mate, about that article,” Ron said. “Bagman wouldn’t even have bet on that.”
Harry gave him a look, and did not reply. It wasn’t worth the wasted breath, he realised. Then, more than any time he could remember, he wished he had a parent he could talk to about this—someone to advise him and tell him what he should be doing. And then, he thought of Sirius, and fought very hard to restrain a bitter chuckle. In the end, he lost the fight, but Ron didn’t notice.
“I think I’m in love with her,” Ron said sometime later. Harry, who had been staring at the empty frame above the fireplace and wondering if Mrs. Evans would be a suitable replacement for a mother figure—dead or not—looked back at his friend. Ron’s red hair was a mess—fallen all over his face and in his eyes, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was staring forlornly into the nearly empty bottle of firewhiskey and methodically chewing his lip. Harry mused in that moment, that other than chess, he’d never seen Ron do anything at all methodically.
He didn’t have to ask who Ron was talking about. It was obvious. “So tell her,” he said. He was well beyond sugar-coated words and walking on eggshells. The suggestion was accompanied by an indifferent shrug of his shoulders; Ron didn’t notice that either.
“No point,” Ron said. “She doesn’t love me back.”
Harry rolled his eyes—something he would have done anyway, even if Ron had been looking directly at him. “Yes, she does,” he said patiently.
Any other time—any time when Ron wasn’t three sheets to the wind—he would have looked up sharply and given Harry a ‘you can’t be serious’ sort of expression. This time, he did not.
“I think she’s still writing Krum.”
Harry knew perfectly well that Hermione was not writing Krum, nor had she been writing him for at least a year. He also knew that, when she thought he wasn’t looking, Hermione gave Ron the sort of tragic, miserable look that the lovelorn characters on his aunt Petunia’s soaps often gave each other. Ron had never noticed any of this, and Harry was tired of reassuring someone who refused to be reassured.
“Probably,” he said. Maybe he was drunk after all, Harry thought. Saying that had given him a sick sort of pleasure. Spitefulness, he realised. That’s what it was. Still, he didn’t take it back—it didn’t matter anyway; Ron had been expecting it, apparently.
Ron sighed, and in the process, the exhaled air fluttered his red hair up and off his face enough for Harry to catch a glimpse of the dark shadows under his friend’s eyes. He swallowed, and turned back to the empty portrait frame. He couldn’t stand to look at Ron anymore.
The rest of the night was spent with Ron polishing off the firewhiskey and Harry listening to Laurel Evans—who had come back in a delicate huff (her husband was having a cigar, which she didn’t approve of, with Arcturus)—talk about her cousin Anna, who was mad, and killed herself on her wedding night. The suicide note, Mrs. Evans said, went like this:
Dear friend,
Please do not think that I visualize guitars playing or my father arching his bone. I do not even expect my mother's mouth. I know that I have died before—once in November, once in June. How strange to choose June again, so concrete with its green breasts and bellies. Of course guitars will not play! The snakes will certainly not notice. New York City will not mind. At night the bats will beat on the trees, knowing it all, seeing what they sensed all day.
“My auntie was devastated,” Mrs. Evans finished sombrely.
Harry picked at his cuticles while he listened, and wished that something would give.
Sometime after midnight, Ron ran out of firewhiskey and Harry figured he might as well go to bed. He didn’t sleep very well that night, but then again, he hadn’t been sleeping well for the last fortnight. Ginny had not come to him again during that time, and since Ron had spent most of it—after his mother went back to the Burrow, anyway—getting pissed, Harry realised just how little he’d spoken in the last few weeks. It was a startling realisation.
He wondered if he should tell Hermione what Ron was up to, but decided that it wasn’t his place. Hermione wasn’t Ron’s mother, and Harry consoled himself with the thought that it was probably another one of those ‘boys’ dorm’ things. He hoped it was, anyway.
Consequently, Harry spent a lot of time in the library, since Sirius spent a lot of time in the garden with Fred. Harry had never seen someone so enamoured with a house-elf. Maybe it was a defence mechanism. Hermione was always there—surrounded by piles of books—when Harry entered the library. They didn’t talk much. Sometimes he would ask her if she’d read anything interesting, but he was never too terribly interested in any response she might’ve given, and she apparently knew that because her responses were never invitations to further conversation.
Harry wondered if that was his fault. He admitted that he hadn’t spoken to her much and that he’d avoided her when she tried to talk to him, but that was because she only wanted to ‘help’ him, not talk to him. Or, at least that’s what he told himself every time they fell into one of those awkward silences that could only be broken by the turning of a page or one of them leaving the room altogether.
Friendships, he decided, were a lot harder to maintain than they should have been.
The day after Harry and Ron drank firewhiskey in the drawing room, Harry skipped breakfast and went straight to the library because no one else would have been there anyway. His father had taken to having his meals in his rooms, Ron would be hung-over and Ginny would be sleeping in. Hermione, of course, would be in the library, but...but.
He realised that he had nothing to follow that up with, and bit his lip. After being kicked out early the day before by Ginger, he found that he was having withdrawals. Whether from the books or Hermione, he didn’t know, but he didn’t think it mattered. They didn’t speak anymore. In fact, the only speaking he heard lately was his father’s voice reprimanding him for being such a bad host. In his mind, he told Sirius to fuck off because he never wanted to be an aristocrat anyway.
Harry decided it was the books he missed, though he couldn’t be sure that he’d say the same thing under Veritaserum. He reckoned that nothing could possibly please Hermione more than another person who spent all their time in the library, but she never brought it up. Sometimes, even though they weren’t speaking—which he realised now was actually his fault—he felt better just being around her. She was like a constant in his life that had ceased to be constant, but was still there. That was important, he told himself.
She was already there when he walked in around ten that morning, but he wasn’t too terribly surprised. If she left at all—if she even slept in the room he and Sirius had given her—Harry didn’t know about it. She was always there, even during meals. He had no idea where she’d gone when Ginger evicted them the day before.
“Do you ever leave?” Harry asked upon seeing her sitting on the floor in front of one of the shelves. It was meant as a joke, but it was weak, and he only said it to break the silence anyway.
Hermione frowned up at him, and Harry realised he was feeling a bit guilty. Ron, Hermione and Ginny had come to the house to stay with him, and he hadn’t spent much time with anyone except Ron—and that was only because Ron was always in his liquor cabinet when he was in the drawing room. A wave of shame washed over him, and he smiled faintly because just from the look she’d given him, he felt something other than resentment and bitterness. That had to count for something.
“Yes,” Hermione answered blankly. She paused, considering her words, and then added, even though the expression on her face said plainly that she didn’t want to say it, “It’s not as if you’ve taken time to spend with me…or even talk to me. You avoid me every time I try to talk to you.”
Harry sat down next to her and wondered why he wanted to wince when she said that. “Sorry—it’s just…that article really got to me, and it’s obviously gotten to my dad as well because he’s acting strange around me. He doesn’t try to spend time with me anymore, and we’ve only known about this stuff since my birthday. It doesn’t seem like he would be tired of me yet.”
Harry’s eyes widened after he spoke. He had no idea why he’d said all that. He certainly hadn’t meant to use Hermione as a confessional.
Hermione gave him a sympathetic look and closed her book. “Oh Harry,” she sighed. “I’m sure that it’s just hard on him. Sirius doesn’t know how to be a father, and with that article he was reminded of the fact that he’d done something he probably wished he hadn’t. He loved your mum, yes, but he also loved James. It must be very hard on him to be reminded of how he betrayed his friend—and very confusing, too, I would imagine—because he would also be feeling like James betrayed him by marrying Lily.”
Harry gave her a tired look, resigned to the situation. “But I really don’t understand why he wouldn’t want to, you know, at least try with me.”
Hermione put her hand on his arm and leaned forward earnestly. “I’m sure he does, Harry,” she said. “It’s just hard for him. He doesn’t know how, really. You need to help him; show him that you want to try, too. He probably thinks you’re upset with him for betraying James, or something of the sort.”
Harry ran a hand through his hair, an unconscious gesture that he realised he was doing more and more lately. “I don’t think he wants me,” Harry muttered.
Hermione gave him an exasperated look. “Honestly, Harry, that’s such a lie, and you know it.”
He gave her a crooked grin, feeling a weight lift off him that he’d been carrying so long that he’d gotten used to its presence. “I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. It's awful. If I'm on my way to the store to buy a magazine, even, and somebody asks me where I'm going, I'm liable to say I'm going to the opera. It's terrible.”
“Ah, so you do read,” Hermione smiled knowingly. “I’d begun to wonder.”
Harry grinned at her. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, going back to the original topic. “You always are,” he added. He suddenly felt a lot better about everything—not that he wanted to get all sentimental, but he would have almost said that he and Hermione had just had a ‘moment’. He wondered what Ron would think about that, and rolled his eyes. “So, are we okay? You’re not mad at me for ignoring you?”
Hermione gave him a patient smile. “We’re okay, Harry, just don’t ignore me anymore. Tell me when something’s upsetting you.”
Harry laughed. “Alright,” he said. Immediately, images of Ron getting drunk almost every night since their visit to the Ministry, Ginny crawling into his bed, and chats with Voldemort flashed through his mind. He wanted to tell her about those things, too, but he didn’t think she would take them as well as she had with the subject of Sirius.
“I wrote to Dumbledore,” Harry said a minute later. He wanted to distract himself from everything else, and talking about Dumbledore seemed to be the only relatively safe subject. Quidditch had never been something that Hermione put much stock in, so the only other failsafe topic was out. Hermione looked up again from where she’d returned to her book. “It was weeks ago, and he still hasn’t come by or even responded.”
Hermione frowned. “Why do you think that would be?”
Harry gave her a pointed look; he felt like he was in therapy. “Why do you think?” he asked. “Sirius is alive. If you hadn’t forgotten, Sirius died at the end of fifth year. Dumbledore’s hiding something.”
Harry could see her mind working as she thought over that. For some reason, she hadn’t given much thought to it before, and Harry could tell that it was bothering her now. She was upset with herself for not thinking about the situation fully when he explained it to her. “Didn’t you actually see him fall through the Veil?” Hermione asked, confused.
Harry smiled; she was catching on. “Yes,” he said. “And this summer, when Sirius came to get me from the Dursleys, he had no idea what I was talking about. He said he’d been in America—New York, actually—since the middle of fifth year. He left right after Christmas, actually.”
“And Dumbledore never told you that it wasn’t really him?” Hermione asked, alarmed.
Harry shook his head. “No! No…he didn’t, and then, well, we get this letter from him that just tells us to ‘enjoy our holiday’ and ‘oh, by the by, here’s your school list,’ and that’s it. So, a bit later, the day I wrote you guys, actually, I write Dumbledore a letter and ask him to come by whenever it’s convenient, and he never shows up. He never even writes back, and I have no idea what’s going on, and everything is just so fucking weird, that I can’t stand it. Who was at the Ministry? Why didn’t Dumbledore tell me Sirius wasn’t even in England anymore? Why did he cover it up for a whole year afterwards? And why won’t he tell me now?”
Hermione looked suitably horrified, Harry was pleased to note. Finally, someone understood the importance of the situation. His father hadn’t given it a second thought, really, and that scared him, but no one else had, either. Not even Ron—not even Voldemort and— Harry rolled his eyes for even thinking of him, but—Voldemort thought about those things. He considered every angle of everything. Surely Voldemort would have at least taunted him about it? Or maybe used it as leverage against Dumbledore? What the fuck was going on?
Sirius’ death was never reported in the newspaper because Dumbledore didn’t let Fudge know, so the only people who knew were the people who were there at the Ministry. At the time, Harry hadn’t thought much of it—the Daily Prophet would have only reported it as a murderer finally getting his dues, and he was relieved to not have to see that in the paper—but now, he wondered. Did Dumbledore deliberately ignore it because he wanted to hide something?
“Well, it could’ve been a golem,” Hermione said slowly, ignoring his other points.
Harry shook his head again. “No—I’ve been thinking about that—because no one else will,” he added, frustrated, “and I don’t think it was a golem. Those take weeks to make, and why would they have had one on hand to begin with? I think someone pulled a Crouch and Polyjuiced him.”
“But they would need Sirius’ hair for that,” Hermione added.
Harry shrugged. “He’s got a lot of it; I wouldn’t be surprised if someone had nicked some from him before.”
“Well, then who fell through the veil?” she asked. “Shacklebolt, Tonks, Moody and Lupin were there, so it wasn’t any of them,” she mused.
“Unless someone else was Polyjuiced as one of them,” Harry muttered.
Hermione frowned. “No, I don’t think so—they all knew what happened. If they hadn’t been there, then they wouldn’t—besides that would be too complicated. The best plans are simple.”
Harry frowned thoughtfully. “But my dad says Lupin hasn’t been answering his letters,” he persisted.
“Then who held you back after ‘Sirius’ fell through the Veil?” Hermione asked. “It would have to be someone who cared enough and knew enough about the situation. No, I think Lupin was really there…although where he is now could be another conspiracy entirely.”
Harry sneered. “Of course,” he said, thinking of all the possible things Dumbledore could have done. He shifted, trying to get more comfortable under the weight of discomfort in his mind, and winced. Something was digging into his thigh. Harry reached into the pockets of his robes, tying to find the offending object, and laughed when he realised what it was.
“Here,” Harry said, handing it to Hermione. “It’s that journal I showed you. I’ve pretty much finished with it. There’re only a few pages left and it’s getting monotonous. All the bird talks about is resurrecting her dead lover. It’s kind of creepy.”
Hermione took the bronzed journal with a rapturous expression. “This is so exciting,” she said quietly. “It looks so old! I wonder how old it is…it’s like a piece of living history!” She opened the front cover and read aloud, “’For you, my Darling, because even if you are no longer with me, part of you will always be here.’ Merlin, this woman was demented,” Hermione muttered.
Harry shrugged. He couldn’t disagree with that.
“I’ll give it back as soon as I’m done with it,” Hermione promised eagerly. She set her original book aside and attacked the journal with deliberate enthusiasm. Harry couldn’t help but smile. Even with everything strange going on, Hermione would always be there to ground him.
Disinterestedly, he looked at the book she’d set aside and snorted quietly when he realised that it was the very same book that the journal had been hidden behind. Published only under the initials R.A.B., the book appeared to be a discourse on dark potions. Harry couldn’t ever remember being interested in potions. “You done with this one?” Harry asked her. She looked up distractedly and nodded once.
“Yes, if I want to read it again, I can always find it later.”
Stretching, Harry stood up and ambled up the ladder to return the book to the third floor where he’d found it the first time. Maybe there would be something else interesting to read—all the Black family history books were up there, as well. He found Crookshanks dozing on the window seat that he usually favoured and frowned.
“Up you get, Crookshanks.”
The cat looked at him disinterestedly for several seconds, then lowered his head and went back to sleep. Harry half-considered swatting him out of the way, and then decided that Crookshanks had been there first, and he might as well let him stay there. He pulled his outer robes off and bunched them up on the floor to pad it better before sinking down in front of the shelf where the book went.
Harry’s fingers skimmed the bottom shelf as he looked for the place where the book went. He could have let Ginger put it away, but he’d just had a conversation with Hermione—which, not as bad as he thought it would be, was not as easy as it could have been. He was not looking forward to another one; the book created a distraction.
He sighed, put the book back and sat staring at the shelves. He wasn’t really in the mood to read, he decided. He half-stood, thinking it might be fun to spend the day with Sirius, then sat back down when he remembered that his father wasn’t really speaking to him. They were both too stubborn to apologize, he decided, but Sirius was the parent: he should do it first.
Dumbledore would be better to think about. The facts, he realised, were very confusing. According to his father, Dumbledore sent him on an Order mission to America sometime after Christmas his fifth year. Of course, Sirius also said that he’d gotten a new wand in France…and that was a bit odd. Then, Dumbledore didn’t tell him Sirius wasn’t really dead, and…
He was very confused.
Voldemort didn’t seem too surprised that Sirius was alive, either, now that Harry thought about it. It seemed as if he actually knew the whole time. And why hadn’t Harry questioned it more? Sirius was supposed to be dead, and yet, he’d accepted that he wasn’t rather quickly. That wasn’t safe at all!
And why wasn’t his father more concerned that Dumbledore thought him dead? And why hadn’t he bothered to contact him immediately after taking Harry from the Dursleys? Harry shook his head. He could think of no plausible excuses for anything. The Catcher in the Rye was in his trunk; he would read that instead—it didn’t take too much brain power to read, and his brain seemed pretty fried at the moment.
And maybe reading about someone else’s problems would ease some of his lingering bitterness. With a decisive nod, Harry stood and snatched up his cloak, draping it over his arm. He took the passageway that led to the portrait of his Grandfather Arcturus on the third floor to avoid Hermione, and didn’t notice the little vial of black potion that fell out of his robe pocket and rolled behind a book on the shelf.
-x-
That night, Voldemort showed up.
“Two weeks,” the Dark Lord hissed upon materializing in Harry’s bedroom. It was near midnight, and Harry was rereading The Catcher in the Rye because he didn’t care for any of the dark magic books and he didn’t want to read about the Black Family. The library was, sadly, bereft of much else—unless he wanted to read a wizarding romance novel. Harry jerked in surprise and inched backwards, trying to melt into his headboard. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to seeing Voldemort in his bedroom.
“What?” he breathed. He tried to slow his breathing, but quickly realised it was a lost cause.
Voldemort stepped-glided-slithered closer to the bed and peered down at him, red eyes gleaming with the reflection of the moon outside Harry’s window. “It has been two weeks,” Voldemort replied. “I am ready.”
“I’m not,” Harry mumbled.
Voldemort regarded him curiously. “Have you not acquired the Polyjuice?” he asked. “I told you to be ready; you do not wish to displease me.”
Sometimes, Harry almost expected Voldemort to start using the Royal We when he spoke. Every time he didn’t, it caught Harry off guard, which was completely ridiculous and sometimes unsettling. “When have I ever pleased you?” he muttered defiantly, but didn’t look at Voldemort’s face when he said it. “I have it,” he said louder. He didn’t think for a minute that Voldemort hadn’t heard him, but at least he’d chosen to ignore it for the time being.
Harry did not want to do this.
“Very good,” Voldemort purred. His mouth split open in a lipless grin and he motioned Harry out of the bed. “Collect it.”
Harry glared at him and opened his mouth to say something scathing, but then thought better of it. It would not do to piss Voldemort off when he was about to be in his physical presence. Warily, he slipped off the bed and went over to the chair where he’d draped his robe. The Polyjuice was still in the pocket, and he withdrew it without taking his eyes off Voldemort. Vaguely, he wondered how many non-Death Eaters had been so close to Voldemort for such a long period of time and not died in the process.
“Very good,” Voldemort said again. Then Harry felt a push against his mind; instinctively, he fought it, but Voldemort was much stronger than he was. In short order, there was an image in his mind. It was of an old, gothic-looking castle complete with ferocious-looking gargoyles. Behind it were sharp rocky crags, and it was night, of course, but Harry couldn’t help thinking that it really needed lightning and a fierce storm to complete the picture. It was not somewhere he would want to live.
“This is where you will be apparating,” Voldemort explained. “I will meet you there, and we will complete the Vow.”
“How do I know you won’t kill me as soon as I get there?” Harry asked.
Voldemort smirked. “You don’t,” he said, and then he faded. Harry was left staring at the place Voldemort had been standing, heart beating wildly, and hoping that his father had been right—hoping that this Honour thing was something Voldemort put enough stock in to not kill him on sight. Taking a deep, calming breath, Harry reached out to the wards around the manor as his father had shown him, lifted the ones that prevented apparition, and disapparated.
He appeared in front of the gothic manor, and realised it was colder than where he was. It must have been quite a bit further north. He pulled his wand and looked around, feeling as though he was being watched. In the distance, he could hear waves hitting the rocks, and it sounded ominous. Harry tensed.
“Welcome,” Voldemort said from behind him.
Harry jumped and whirled around, wand pointed straight at Voldemort.
“So jumpy,” Voldemort drawled, amused. His words were hissed, and his eyes were gleaming in malicious pleasure.
“Where are we?” Harry asked because he couldn’t seem to think of anything more relevant to ask.
“Gaoth Dobhair, north of the Irish Headlands, of course,” Voldemort answered. He had not drawn his wand, and indeed, did not seem to even notice that Harry’s was trained at his heart. “The Bloody Foreland,” Voldemort explained maniacally. “Do you think it fitting?”
Harry stared, unable to speak, but his hand did not tremble. He could always apparate back. He could—he kept telling himself that. Right now, he was okay. He just had to be rational.
He snorted to himself—apparating to the Dark Lord wasn’t exactly rational to begin with.
“Pity that you did not arrive sooner,” Voldemort continued wistfully. He was still staring at the rocky crags behind the castle. “At sunset, the light turns the rocks red like blood; it’s lovely.”
Harry made a sound that was half-cough, half-sob, and closed his eyes slowly. He was going to die—what had he agreed to? He heard movement, and opened his eyes just in time to see Voldemort take one last step toward him. They were nearly nose to nose. His wand, which was the only thing between them, was pressed into Voldemort’s skinny chest. Harry stopped breathing.
“The Vow,” Voldemort breathed. He closed his hand around his left forearm and concentrated. A moment later, there was the crack of apparition, and Harry jumped again. He was entirely too jumpy. He needed to settle down. He was, also—he realised a moment too late—now out numbered. A Death Eater had just apparated in.
Slowly, Harry turned his head to meet the newcomer. “Snape,” he breathed. He was not sure whether he should be relieved or even more worried. Snape was staring at him in undisguised surprise and barely disguised worry. He, obviously, had had no prior knowledge of this.
“Severus,” Voldemort hissed, an odd smile playing across his lips. “You will not tell Dumbledore of this, will you?” Snape shook his head mutely and very quickly, his eyes still trained on Harry. “Good,” Voldemort purred. “Because if Dumbledore hears about it, you will only live to see the morning so that I may spend more time torturing you.”
Snape visibly shuddered. “Milord,” he said hesitantly. Harry still could not speak. This could all turn out very badly.
Voldemort looked at him expectantly. “Yes?”
“Milord,” Snape drew himself up, and put on his most indifferent face. Harry thought that it was a bit too late for that. “If I may be so bold as to ask, what are you doing with the Pot-Black boy? Will you kill him tonight?” Harry frowned; so everyone knew about his name now, and that Snape had slipped up at first showed how unbalanced the situation had made the potions master.
Voldemort cackled. “No,” he purred. “No, I will not kill Harry—and neither will you. Harry is here at my request. He will be helping me with something tonight.”
Snape looked to Harry, face unreadable, and Harry did his best to give him an encouraging nod.
“You’re to be the bonder, I think,” Voldemort said. He gave Snape a considering look and nodded. “Yes, you will do. Now the Vow.”
Snape’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline as Harry and Voldemort dropped to their knees. “Vow, Milord?” Snape asked curiously. He carefully lowered himself to his knees and looked questioningly at Voldemort.
Voldemort ignored him. “You’ll need your wand, Severus,” he said, and then turned and stared into Harry’s suspicious eyes. “You may go first.”
Harry bit his lip. He appreciated that he would be able to get his protection in before Voldemort, but he only had a basic knowledge of how Unbreakable Vows worked. He was going to have to wing this, and hope that Snape would let him know if he fucked up or left something essential out. He looked pleadingly at Snape, hoping to convey this, and was surprised and relieved when Snape gave an almost imperceptible nod of assent. Snape would not let him get hurt here, and even better—Voldemort hadn’t noticed the exchange.
Harry and Voldemort linked hands. Voldemort’s were cold and bony and Harry shivered at the feel of them. “Do you,” Harry cleared his throat uncomfortably, “Do you, Tom Riddle—better known as Lord Voldemort,” he added uncertainly, “swear that you will not harm me through action or inaction while I am here?”
“I do swear it,” Voldemort purred, and Snape tapped their joined hands with his wand. A tendril of magic wrapped around their fingers as the oath settled into their skin and magic. Voldemort, Harry noticed, seemed to be amused with Harry’s uncertainty. Of course he would be.
“And do you, Tom Riddle,” Harry continued, “swear that you will not allow your Death Eaters harm me while I am here—through your own action or inaction—and if it comes to pass, protect me with your own life?”
The last bit seemed to have caught Voldemort off guard, but he recovered quickly enough. “I do swear it,” he said. Snape shifted uncertainly at the declaration and tapped their hands again. Harry looked to Snape—unsure if that was everything he needed to do—and received a curt nod in response. He sighed, relieved, and nodded.
Voldemort picked up with the Vow there. “Do you, Harry Black, formerly known as Harry Potter,” Voldemort added in amusement, “swear that you will perform the task I have previously asked of you to the best of your abilities while you are here?”
Harry looked to Snape, who had no idea what the previous task asked was, and considered. The wording was vague, but he couldn’t think of anything Voldemort had previously asked of him, other than the reason he was here tonight, that would put him in danger. Snape shrugged minutely. “I do swear it,” Harry finally said.
Uncertainly, Snape tapped their hands.
“And do you, Harry Black, swear that you will not attack me or harm me in any way tonight?”
“I do swear it,” Harry said.
“And do you, Harry Black, swear that any information that you learn here will not be forwarded to any third party whatsoever—through action or inaction—without prior consent from myself?”
Harry frowned, but agreed.
“And do you, Harry Black,” Voldemort continued, “swear that you will give due consideration to my offer, and not immediately dismiss it once the Vow has been completed?”
More vague wording. The Vow really wouldn’t be completed until he gave consideration to Voldemort’s offer, but it wasn’t anything that could harm him. Consideration was passive—he could do that, he decided. Harry nodded, and said, “I do swear it.”
Voldemort grinned, and Snape completed the Vow. “Excellent,” Voldemort hissed, standing. He looked at Snape, and added. “I’m sure you both have much to catch up on. I’ll leave you to talk, and then, Severus, I expect you to show Mr. Black to my study. We will be having a meeting this evening.” And then Voldemort strode off towards the castle, disappearing in the shadows before he made it to the door.
Harry exhaled slowly and looked back at Snape, who was staring at him with furiously glittering eyes.
“What have you done?” Snape hissed.
Harry winced. “I had to!” he whispered back angrily. Snape only stared at him, and Harry realised that he would not get out of this without a full explanation, but he didn’t think he had time for that. Determinedly, he opened his mind as much as he could and stared straight into Snape’s eyes. Snape wasted no time entering his mind. He rifled through all the memories of Harry and Voldemort meeting through their link, of Voldemort’s offer and Harry’s refusals. Snape shifted through Harry’s talks and lessons with his father, and Harry’s uncertainty regarding Dumbledore.
Finally, Snape withdrew from his mind, and stared at him. “Professor Dumbledore, I’m sure, has his reasons for everything. Whether or not one agrees with him is insignificant, as I’m sure you’ve realised,” he said.
Harry looked at him. “You know what happened, don’t you?” he asked. “You know what happened at the Ministry…who fell through the Veil.”
Snape did not immediately respond. “I do not,” he said, and then, almost as an afterthought, added, “But the Headmaster does not, either.”
“Then what does he think happened?” Harry growled.
He didn’t really think he would get an answer, but Snape still seemed to be a little off-balance. He looked at Harry with an unreadable expression, and finally decided to answer. Harry could see the decision on his face. He closed his mouth and waited.
“Sirius Black returned from his mission to America—and before you ask,” he added snidely, “No, I do not know what the mission was—in March of 1996—two months after he left, reporting failure. He then returned to Headquarters where he remained until June of 1996, during which he, allegedly, fell through the Veil.
“The Headmaster then contacted Gringotts Bank and spoke with the Head Goblin. He was informed that you were the recipient of the entire Black Estate, and for reasons only known to him, kept Black’s death from the Ministry and the Papers. Do not ask why; I can only assume, and my assumptions are not yours to hear. You were then made heir to some of the properties, but the Headmaster left others in an indeterminate state.
“When Black returned this past June and collected you from your muggle relatives, Dumbledore was unaware until he arrived at your muggle relatives' home to collect you and take you to the Weasley residence. He used a tracking charm and found that you were, along with another presence, residing at one of the Black estates in Scotland.
“Order members were dispatched—namely Kingley Shacklebolt and Nymphadora Tonks—and reported that, according to identification charms used by upper level aurors, the other presence was Sirius Black.” Here, Snape smiled maliciously. “Dumbledore explained to me that he knew the entire time, but you will not fault me if I have difficulty believing that.”
“And he doesn’t know who was actually at the Ministry that night?” Harry asked suspiciously.
Snape smirked. “If he does, he has been careful not to let slip the information—information which I think rather pertinent. That is all I know.”
Harry gaped. “And what about Si—my father?” he asked. “Why didn’t he go back to Dumbledore immediately after returning to England? Why did he come to get me first? Why didn’t he tell Dumbledore he was back?”
Snape was still smirking nastily. “That is something you will have to ask Black.”
“Right,” Harry sighed. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, disrupting it, and exhaled loudly. “Right,” he repeated.
“Now,” Snape purred, “I believe it is time for you to explain what you are doing here.” His voice was furiously quiet, and Harry shivered.
“He wants me to impersonate him at this meeting,” Harry said, still a bit confused about the whole ordeal. “I have to Polyjuice into him and direct the Death Eaters while he watches in animagus form.”
“Ah,” Snape said slowly. “And for what purpose?”
“I showed you,” Harry exclaimed petulantly. “He says he needs an heir; he wants me to be that heir for some reason. I’ve just got to prove that I’m not the right person for the job.”
To his surprise, Snape gave a loud, surprised laugh. “And who would you rather be the right person for the job?” he asked.
This gave Harry pause. What if Voldemort chose Lucius Malfoy? Or Bellatrix? Or any of the other, nastier Death Eaters? Harry would kill Voldemort just to end up having to kill his heir. It would be a never-ending battle. His life would never be peaceful; he would never be safe. “I don’t know,” Harry finally said slowly. He really didn’t.
Suddenly, Snape grabbed his shoulder and shook him. He leaned down, face inches from Harry’s own. “Then you better figure it out,” he hissed, “because you are in far too deep to back out now.”
And then, he turned and strode off quickly towards the castle. “Follow!” Snape barked over his shoulder, and Harry scrambled to keep up.
-x-
A/N
1. “[Ludo] Bagman wouldn’t have bet” is in reference to what Fudge said to Harry at his disciplinary hearing for fighting Dementors in OotP.
2. “I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. It's awful. If I'm on my way to the store to buy a magazine, even, and somebody asks me where I'm going, I'm liable to say I'm going to the opera. It's terrible.” –The Catcher in the Rye, Chapter 3, by J.D. Salinger.
3. “Pull a Crouch” is in reference to GoF, when Barty Crouch Jr. impersonates Alastor Moody with Polyjuice.
4. “Anna Who Was Mad” is the title of a poem by Anne Sexton.
5. The suicide note is the last stanza of the poem ‘Suicide Note’ (obviously) by Anne Sexton. I’m a bit obsessed with her, I confess.
6. The Bloody Forelands in Gaoth Dobhair really do turn red at sunset. They’re located in North-west Ireland.
NEXT CHAPTER
Comments=♥
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I particularly like the parts when you deal with Ron drinking a lot. It's something that I can really see happening, the character just seems to lend himself to that.
I also like that you put in the bit at the end, where Snape tells Harry to think about who he'd like to be the heir.
Keep up the good work!
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chapter
(Anonymous) 2006-10-13 12:57 pm (UTC)(link)Sirius and Harry (or should I say Castor? It's his first name after all, even if he doesn't use it) are too muck alike for his own good, but it's more realistic to know that they don't have a working father/son relationship. It's too soon for that I think
What I really miss is more "pureblood lessons". I mean, Harry REALLY needs them and I'd really like to know how they act and why they do it. It's a great way to know more of the world you've created. and a cuestion: shouldn't Harry stat using Castor? I think the purebllod would probably have a rule about using your first name because it was given to you to honour some family member and not using it would dishonour him or her and by extension all the family...
Well, I hope you can understand my ramblings...english isn't my first language and I haven't use it in a long time :S
Mereth
Re: chapter
Also, the pureblood lessons aren't over, only it won't just be Sirius teaching him. As you've seen, Sirius isn't such a great pureblood and he waffles between wanting to completely eradicate pureblood tradition and wanting Harry to be as pompous as possible. Others will be stepping up to give Harry tips.
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Catcher in the Rye, great book. i did chapter 3 for an English project last week, coincendence lol ^^
Great chapter... i wonder what's up with Sirius not falling through the veil and seeing Dumbledore before Harry... oh im all intrudged! update soon, i wanna see the DE meeting!!!
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