Disclaimer: The characters and premise of Harry Potter belong to JKR. Those of Chronicles of Narnia belong to CS Lewis. Will Stanton and his world are property of Susan Cooper.
A/N: Another in the EC universe; takes place in the Spring of 1995. Required reading before this is 'Elijah's Cup', 'Shield of David', and 'Ireland vs. Bulgaria' at the very least; or I can guarantee you will be very, very confused. All mentioned fics available on my profile page. Summary directly from the song 'Men In Black', courtesy Will Smith. Three excerpts in italics taken directly from Susan Cooper's The Grey King; the second from page 22 of the paperback, the third I can't remember. Many, many thanks to Lita of Jupiter, who did a 'beta on this for me at 3AM so that I might have it all the sooner to post. She wins!
"Gwynt Tread y Meirw, is that how you say it? In all its ancient force the Grey King sent his north wind upon us, the wind that blows round the feet of the dead, and with the dead is where we should have been if it weren't for Cafall – blasted away into a time beyond tomorrow. Before we could have seen a single tree bending, it would have been on us, for it came from very high up and no human sighted eye could have seen it. But this hound of yours is the dog with the silver eyes, and such dogs can see the wind . . ."
Will Stanton, The Grey King (pg 82)
EYES THAT SEE THE WIND
"Are you alright?"
Shivering, Will pulled himself up from the sidewalk. Slivers of shattered cobblestone dropped from where they had lodged in the thick wool of his sweater. "I think so. Yes."
Calluses roughened the hand that clasped his own, easy strength pulling him to his feet. Will took a better look around Diagon Alley, trying to ease away the trembling shaking through him. Took a breath, and let adrenaline rush out on the exhale. "What happened?"
"Death Eaters."
Out here? Now? But – it's broad daylight!
Broad daylight of a Thursday morning, the wizard's section of London full of happy, shopping people. Previously.
Now, the man who had barreled into him, knocking him out of the path of a speeding hex, was turned away, studying the chaos.
The spell-smoke was quickly clearing, taken away by a soft breeze winding between the shops. Here and there ranged men and women in uniform black robes with an inconspicuous silver patch, pulling people free of rubble where there had once been stalls and shop-fronts.
Weeping reached his ears, and Will's eyes followed the sound to a smear of blood on cobblestones and a woman, rocking a small child who lay far too still. "Light," he breathed, horror straining the word.
"Dark," his rescuer corrected, turning to give him a swiftly assessing glance.
And his eyes, a pale blue slipping into silver, caught Will in a sharp thrill of recognition. Old instinct roared awake, freezing him in his tracks with hands fisted in a wild need to reach out into the magic and feel. The force of it sent him reeling back a step.
The line where mountain met sky was spinning before him. Very close was the dog, its teeth clamped on the sleeve of his jacket, tugging him back, all warm breath and black nose and staring eyes. And at the sight of the eyes, Will's world spun round and over again so fast he thought he must still be falling. The roaring was in his ears again, and all things normal suddenly became chaos. For this dog's eyes were like no eyes he had ever seen; where they should be brown, they were silver-white: eyes the color of blindness, set in the head of an animal that could see. And as the silver eyes gazed into his, and the dog's breath panted out hot on his face, Will remembered everything -
"- sir! What's wrong?"
Those eyes were boring into him now, and Will blinked unsteadily against the tight grip on his arms. "Nothing," he answered through a tight throat.
But his voice must have been too quiet, because the man with the pale eyes frowned. "Are you hurt at all? Did you hit your head?"
"No," Will said, more strength to him now that he'd had the time to pull away from the memory. "I'm well. Truly."
For a long moment the man didn't say anything, but his fingers loosened from where he'd grabbed Will's bicep to steady him. His measuring look said that he didn't quite believe Will. "In that case, then, I suggest you go home."
Through the rubble of what, mere minutes ago, had been shop-fronts and store windows, those in black robes were working to pull others free of the wreckage. The calls for medi-wizards rang through broken buildings, the flare of small magics bright against the Darkness fading from the street. There was frantic keening and relieved weeping seeping through walls blasted and crumbled by magic to color the air. Hope, Will thought, seeing two women embrace with joyous sobs. A little boy was crying in the arms of an Auror as she handed him to a medi-wizard, turning him carefully away from something hidden from Will by splintered beams. And despair.
Diagon Alley was ravaged.
"I want to help." He still had several hours before his meeting. And the suffering here was so thick . . .
Pale eyes captured him again, assessing. The man nodded. "Anne's directing the volunteers." He pointed to an Asian woman whose black hair disappeared against ebon Auror's robes. "She'll find someplace for you." And with that, the man promptly vanished among the black-robed figures scrambling through ruins.
Will turned, gathering himself. And then he strode through the smoke and crumbled stone to the woman. As he approached, the group she was overseeing lifted a portion of the roof that had collapsed down through Twilfitt & Tatting's, voices and arms straining.
Will stepped forward, and joined them.
He was going to be late.
At least they've found everyone.
Will had been put to work clearing rubble with a host of other volunteers. The grim-faced woman had grunted at the Muggle recruit before assigning Will to a mixed group of witches and wizards without knowledge of the complex tracking spells that were being used to find those trapped in the rubble. They had toiled for hours, racing death to locate the injured first.
They had mostly succeeded.
But the Death Eaters had as well.
Twelve dead. Among them were two children, and three others whose passing had left their own children wide-eyed and crying in the arms of volunteers. One small boy had been pulled from beneath the protective shield of his mother's body, and hadn't made a sound since. An additional twenty or so were seriously injured, and a whole host of people sported smaller hurts. The human part of Will hated the Death Eaters for all of it.
He emerged from the Tube into a London shadowed by the first hints of dusk, and winced. I'm going to be very late. In the face of the last few dreadful hours, his tardiness seemed very trivial. If he didn't need the information so badly . . .
But if he walked quickly, he should be able to find Grimmauld Place within fifteen minutes or so, according to Edmund's instructions. Number Twelve itself was supposedly guarded and hidden, but the owner knew he was coming.
Not that that means anything, if he isn't home.
Still, he might yet have a chance to get some of his questions answered.
When he reached the correct street, Will nearly shot straight by his destination in his haste. There was no gaping hole in the line of townhouses running down the street; rather, the street numbers jumped from Ten to Fourteen without a pause for the one missing in between. For a moment, he stood before the wrought-iron fence staring at the place where Number Twelve should be.
Here goes nothing.
From an inner jacket pocket, Will pulled a screwdriver – the best he could do on short notice – counting the fence's spikes in both directions from the join where Ten and Fourteen met, where Number Twelve should be. And then he tapped against the wrought iron fence with the metal. Shave-and-a-haircut. Two-bits.
For a blink of time, nothing happened.
Then another house shuddered into being, shoving its neighbors brusquely apart to manifest between. The entire street seemed to shoot sideways in the periphery of Will's vision, and he gripped the fence tightly to keep his balance.
The gate swung open the barest inch.
Light.
It . . . wasn't what he expected. And it didn't look like the other houses on the street. Oh, on the outside the architecture was the same, imposing sweeps of stone interrupted by glass and wood. But there was a small amount of lawn that set the house back and apart from those on either side, buffering the line of stone with a dash of green. The path leading to the front door was modest slate.
And instead of the white exterior that blurred every home lining Grimmauld Place into obscurity, Number Twelve was decidedly gray.
Will stepped through the gate, latching it behind him. As his foot hit gray-blue stone, a high, sweet chime sounded just at the edge of his hearing. Doorbell.
I hope he's home.
According to Edmund, the house wouldn't even manifest when summoned unless the owner wanted to allow the caller entrance – and Will had the sense that that was the very least of Number Twelve's protections. But in the time before he reached the doors, he hadn't encountered any others.
That I know of, he thought uneasily. Will raised a hand, and rapped his knuckles against solid oak.
Shifted from foot to foot.
Waited.
Knocked again, a little harder.
He jerked as a low yodeling cry sounded, just beyond the door. Light, what on earth – It sounded again, and was close enough to a howl for him to recognize that there was an animal, likely a dog, on the other side of the door.
Five minutes on the stoop persuaded him that no one was home, even as he searched for a button of some sort that would chime the bell again, just in case. The dog's strange yowling had continued for several moments before fading to silence, but Will had the sneaking suspicion the animal was still waiting just inside the door. No one home. Damn. He'd missed his appointment beyond all hope of redemption, then.
As he shifted back toward the path, the sound of a deadbolt slipping back reached his ears, the door behind him opening. Will turned, and came face-to-face with the grit-smeared Auror from Diagon Alley.
Shock paralyzed them both.
And then the dog he'd heard made an escape bid, darting toward the open door. "Ah!" The Auror reached out in a quick grab, snagging the puppy by the collar with a stern, "No!" Ignoring a discontented whine, he hefted the wriggling pup in one arm without bothering to dodge batting paws. Silver eyes scanned Will as he straightened, searing him to the bone.
His own words from years past came roaring back to him. "Those eyes of his, those silver eyes . . . it was as if they broke a spell." And the Old One within him stirred a little, before settling back into slumber; leaving only a very normal and bemused man behind.
Will didn't know the picture he made, though he assumed it was one of rumpled disarray. Perversely, his first thought was that he would have expected a man who spent twelve years in prison to look more ravaged, though Black had escaped Azkaban over a year ago. His second was chagrin at falling into the trap he warned his students away from; history was many things, but never stagnant.
One dark eyebrow lifted, pale eyes amused. The pup gave a soft grumble from waist-height, twisting to lick at the Auror's wrist. "Professor Will Stanton, I presume?"
"Sirius Black." Will blinked from the dog to his host, and then extended a hand. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance." The grip that met his was strong and brief.
"Likewise." The door opened wider, Black gesturing with one hand. "Come in, please."
Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy
The sound of hinges whirring quietly pulled Will from the bookcase he was perusing. A freshly bathed and dressed Sirius Black entered, the ends of his hair still damp. The pup was notable by its absence. "I'm sorry for the wait. I trust you've been making yourself at home?"
Will nodded. "Your library is quite impressive, Mr. Black." Leather spines, most appearing to have been painstakingly restored, gleamed from an entire expansive wall of the study. Their shine was matched only by the lustrous mahogany desk set before them, facing out into the room.
"Thank you." Black paused. "Would you like something to drink? There's a pot of tea on."
"That would be fine, thank you." Will was feeling awkward, and his host clearly sensed it.
Black settled himself in a leather armchair ensconced in a small nook projecting from the back of the house. It was separated from its twin by a low table. The window to Black's side looked out on a garden that was impressive even in the deepening twilight. "Well, before we're both done in by civility, I imagine you should take a seat, Professor Stanton. What was it you wanted to talk to me about? Edmund was rather close-mouthed about the entire thing, so either you didn't tell him, or it's about some aspect of Wizarding life he isn't quite sure how to navigate just yet."
Oh, thank the Light. No, thank Edmund. Black had, true to the counselor's predictions, cut quickly to the heart of the matter without wasting time or patience on social fripperies. Not what I expected, after dealing with the parents of some of my pureblood students.
"I have to admit I have no real idea of the social customs regarding what I'm about to ask." Will perched on his own seat, uncomfortable with the knowledge that in all probability he was about to be horribly rude, and unable to really see a way around it.
Pale eyes pinned him to the chair.
Will swallowed back his unease. "As you may know, I'm the new History of Magic professor at Hogwarts."
"Harry mentioned it," Black nodded. His mouth twisted wryly. "He seemed quite impressed that a Muggle had a better grasp on the subject than most wizards he knew."
A tidbit of remembered information clarified that statement; Will wasn't in the habit of reading gossip, despite Rita Skeeter's sudden elevation to the headlines of the Daily Prophet. Black was Harry Potter's legal guardian. Confusion evaporated.
Will tilted his head to acknowledge the compliment, trying not to fidget. "But as a Muggle there are sometimes things I come across that I don't quite understand." He hesitated, then plunged forward. "There have been recent references in the papers to the upper crust of Wizarding society. I believe they're alluding specifically to something I have only seen obliquely mentioned in older history texts. The High Families."
"Ah." His host leant back in his chair, a smile on the edges of his lips.
"The Headmaster lead me to believe you might have some knowledge on the subject," Will finished, eyeing him carefully.
"Dumbledore." Black's face tightened.
Will blinked, taken aback at the studious lack of venom in his tone. "Is something wrong?"
"Not at all." On reading Will's skeptical glance accurately, Black shook his head. "Albus Dumbledore and I merely have . . . a few philosophical differences, you might say. But as to your question, yes, I do know a little about the High Families."
Evasion. Come back to it. Mental note made, Will shifted back more comfortably in his seat. "And?" he prodded gently.
"And." Black stared into the middle distance, perfectly still for one moment. Then he roused, blinking. "You must surely have noticed, Professor, that the Wizarding and Muggle worlds are more similar than many would like to admit."
"We are all people," Will said wryly. He propped one ankle on the opposite knee. Made the same, even if life shapes us all differently. "Englishmen. I frankly wouldn't expect much to be different."
Crack!
Will jerked in shock at the sharp sound.
The tiny creature whose appearance had split the air squeaked in dismay, though the tray it was carrying remained perfectly steady. "Oh! Crumbil is so sorry, sirs, for startling the guest. She should not be seen at all, Crumbil will punish herself at once -"
"Oh, no," Will protested, alarmed eyes on his host.
Black ignored him to speak softly. "Please put the tray on the table, Crumbil."
Polished silver, bearing a teapot hidden by a cozy, two cups, and an assortment of biscuits, slid atop the mahogany end-table between their two chairs. The house-elf moved back, crouched against deep green carpeting, ears drooping in misery. "Master, Crumbil is so sorry for the surprise, and she will punish herself immediately -"
"No," Black cut in. Will was not expecting the gentleness in his voice. "No, you're not to hurt yourself, Crumbil. Then how would you do your chores?"
What? The logic there stank of servitude, though it clearly resonated with the little being, who wailed softly. Will frowned, the tips of his fingers turning white with pressure where they were splayed across the wide arms of his chair.
"If you insist on being punished," Black continued, "then tomorrow I would like for you to bring Kreacher with you into the garden, to help you."
Perversely, the house-elf perked up at this statement, long ears stiffening and standing tall. "Thank you, Master," she chirped, large eyes shining. "Master has found the worst punishment for Crumbil, just what she deserves! Thank you! Crumbil will go to make dinner now!"
And with another crack! the small creature disappeared.
"I'm sorry for that," Black said immediately, reaching for the tea cozy. "The previous house-elf attached to my family has been made ill, and so I recently acquired Crumbil. She's very good, but unfamiliar with me and the house. It's taking her some time to get acclimated to my way of doing things."
Thoughts awhirl, Will accepted the cup of tea poured for him. A slice of lemon was perched thoughtfully on the saucer. "I didn't mean to cause a scene," he apologized awkwardly. "Please don't punish her for that."
Dark hair shook. "I haven't," Black explained. "Not truly. I don't hold with abuse." His face darkened, before he seemed to force his features into neutrality. Twelve years in Azkaban. Will shoved that thought to the back of his mind, and listened.
"Kreacher is the house-elf whose line has been attached to my family for centuries. But as I'm sure you're aware, my family has something of a Dark history, especially recently." There was neither apology nor excuse in his tone. "That, coupled with the fact that Grimmauld Place was abandoned for over a decade, has . . . poisoned him, in a sense. I've been working to drive the Darkness from the house and the land, but his healing is a little more ponderous. Crumbil would have insisted on being punished somehow, and as she and Kreacher do not get on at all, I thought I might kill two birds with one stone." Black met his eyes squarely.
Will nodded, unaccountably relieved. "I'm glad to hear it."
The tray had been demolished, nothing left but crumbs scattered across fine china. He was on his second cup of Earl Grey, the scent as pleasingly familiar as the loose bits of leaves swirling in the bottom of his cup. "You were about to explain," Will prompted carefully.
"Ah." His host nodded, setting his own cup and saucer back on the tray. "Yes." Black slid the cozy back over the teapot before sitting back abruptly. Pale eyes locked with Will's. "Have you ever wondered why Wizarding Britain has no royalty?"
What? Will blinked. "No," he admitted. "I hadn't given the matter much thought." Though Wizarding China is still under the rule of an Emperor. And Wizarding monarchies are scattered through Europe even where the Muggles have converted to democratic, socialist, or communist rule. As for the other side of the Atlantic, America never had any such thing. South America is a different story. But then the United States always had done things differently. No schism between Muggle and Magical existed there – something that set that country apart from any other in the world. Although Australia is trying.
But Black was continuing. "In Muggle Britain, the royalty today are little more than figureheads for the nation, independently wealthy with political power only in theory. In the past, the kings and queens were the ruling body – and it was from centuries of their rule that the current bicameral system of Muggle Parliament arose."
"But the Wizarding world has the system without the royalty." Will frowned. "Effect without cause." How –
"Not quite."
The Professor sucked in a breath, speaking before he could think. "The High Families?"
Black nodded. "There are five still in existence today, though originally there were eight."
One word captured Will's attention utterly. "Originally?"
"Fifteen hundred years ago," was the blithe reply. "At least, that's the verification for the first migrations of individuals who would constitute several of the High Families into Britain. It took a few hundred years more for the separate families to become established, recognized powers."
Clarify. Always, always clarify. "Fifteen hundred years ago. That would be the Anglo-Saxon invasions following the dissolution of the Roman Empire?" Will was intimately familiar with that period of history.
"Exactly." His host's attention slid to the bookshelf, a considering expression overtaking his features.
That doesn't seem so long.
"Doesn't it?"
Will started, not having realized that he'd spoken aloud. "Well, the histories of several civilizations, particularly those of the Chinese, Ancient Egyptians, and Native Americans lasted at least three times that. Comparatively, Mr. Black, our country's history is somewhat shorter." Though nowhere near as young as America. Or what today was thought of as the United States; the original inhabitants of the land claimed quite a longer heritage. As would the ancient Britons, Will silently acknowledged.
There was a small, secretive smile in Black's eyes at the Professor's words, though it never showed on his face. If Will hadn't had Merriman as a master, he would never have seen it.
"True," Black reached for the teapot, pouring himself a refill. When the spout hovered over his own cup, Will shook his head at the silent offer for more. "But consider this: the modern standard for one to claim pureblood status is that all four of a person's grandparents had to have been witches and wizards. Yet there are living individuals able to prove unbroken heritage stretching back to the formation of Wizarding Britain. I believe that puts the current definition into somewhat better perspective, does it not?"
Everything's relative. Literally. And relatively, Will felt like he'd been punched in the stomach by that information. "Yes."
Black raised his cup, and took a meditative sip. "Of course, that's only the families' histories here in Britain. Many of them have roots stretching quite further back."
A thrill of terror hit the human side of Will as he realized the full impact of what Black was implying. "And since purebloods generally have more magical power available to them on a regular basis than the average mixed-blood witch or wizard . . ." Light.
Black stiffened, saucer impacting the tray with a distinct clink. "Excuse me?"
A note of danger sounded in the back of Will's mind. His host had straightened in his chair, pale eyes piercing. "It's a common misconception that members of pureblood families are not more powerful on average than mixed-blood or Muggle-born witches and wizards, that pureblood lines throw as many Squibs as mixed families," Will said slowly. He eyed Black, considering each word carefully. "But that doesn't make sense, given that pureblood families practice a form of selective breeding. Sometimes even inbreeding." Will wasn't quite able to conceal his distaste. Black's face was blank. "I've been able to find some corroborating evidence to this theory, though it's quite limited. Most books are entirely silent on the subject."
"And for good reason," Black muttered. There was a moment of silence, in which Black folded his hands across his abdomen, gaze unfocused. His attention snapped back to Will mere seconds later. "A word to the wise, Professor. The High Families at their height collectively had power that would make such elements as Grindelwald and Voldemort look like unschooled children. The general populace was relieved when the infighting died down and the Families faded into obscurity, putting all wizards on an even keel despite their backgrounds. Overthrowing such a widespread assumption would be . . . imprudent."
Light. Will sat very still, Black's warning ringing clearly. With that much power, they decided to remove themselves from public sight totally, and absent themselves from history almost entirely. They still exist. And they want to stay hidden.
Another thought hit him, like a bolt of lightning; his fingers clenched on the leather arms of his chair. Because if Voldemort ever found out who they are, he would hunt them down for their power and knowledge. And then he would become even more dangerous.
"So the Ministry rose out of the strife between the Families?" Will deliberately turned his attention to a somewhat less perilous aspect of the current topic, backtracking.
"Indirectly, yes." Black shed his stern demeanor with such ease that Will blinked. "There needed to be an outside force to counter them. Damage control."
They were that violent? "That seems a little extreme," Will rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. How much power did they actually have?
Black said nothing, a furrow between his brows and skepticism on his face. He stood, moving toward the far end of the bookshelf, fingers sweeping along spines familiarly. Crouching, he pulled a tome from a shelf at knee-height, muttering under his breath. "Here," Black crossed the room, extending the book.
Will took it gingerly. If the Restricted Section has taught me anything, it's to look for the warning labels first. Unfortunately, most of the really dangerous books didn't have them. He pulled his glasses from one pocket, slipping them on to take a good look at the title. "Laws of Magical Britain?"
Black sank back into his seat, loosing a small sigh. "You won't find anything that directly points to their actions; the High Families have always had too much influence for that. But that book is one of the few that lists Magical laws, amendments, and so forth in chronological order and enough detail that if you know what you're looking for, the legal repercussions are spelled out for you."
Speculating about the cause is the tricky part. Will met Black's gaze over the rim of his glasses. "And what would I be looking for?"
"What any good historian would be looking for, of course," Black smiled distantly. "Correlations between the laws in that book, and general Magical and Muggle history. Laws with no clear explanation for their implementation. Vague language. Inconsistencies. Recurring names, even."
"You already know what I'm going to find," Will murmured. So why dance around the topic? Odd, especially for someone with a reputation for straight dealing. He felt more and more as if he was dealing with Merriman again. Research sharpens the mind, indeed. "It's quite rare to find someone so deeply interested in history, Mr. Black." Rarer to find someone so knowledgeable who doesn't move in academic circles. So what aren't you telling me?
A shrug was Black's only concession to the things Will hadn't said. "I wouldn't say that. The topic happens to intrigue me. And it's why Edmund pointed you my way, correct?"
An answer that was no answer. "True," Will smiled. "Might I borrow this for awhile?" He gestured with the book, already pulling the cover back to scan the title page.
"That's why I gave it to you," Black said bluntly. "You would be hard-pressed now to find direct information on the battles between the Families, but the timing of the passing of certain laws might give you some clues as to the effect of their machinations."
You've been out of prison for barely two years. You've had the time to find all this out? Unlikely, with the double-pronged battle to regain his health and life; more probable that Black had done the majority of this research before Azkaban. And before the first war with Voldemort. Which would make him a teenager. Will's first instinct was to disregard that entirely – easier to believe the man had somehow managed to procure books in a prison overrun with Dementors than to believe a teenager as rowdy as Black was reputed to have been had spent countless hours in the library, researching for fun.
Will's instincts were on full alert. Something's off. He carefully closed the book, resting it on the table between them. The tray loaded with empty cups and teapot had silently vanished during the course of his musings. Time to poke harder, and see what happens.
"Aside from their power and money having the influence to keep them shielded from most of history, I'm surprised some dedicated scholar or audacious reporter hasn't dug into the High Families to compile information on them," Will commented. "In my experience, Mr. Black, it's very difficult to keep a secret – especially one as potentially explosive as this – forever."
"History is written by the victors, Professor," Black countered. The man was able to remain still, contrary to Will's fingers tapping restlessly against the arm of his chair. "They determine what appears in the history books."
"But they don't have the power to silence everyone," Will argued back, leaning forward as he was drawn into the discourse. "There are always dissenters. Even if the minority is silent, something remains. It's just harder to find."
"There are things technology can accomplish that magic can't," Black returned, the comment almost a non-sequitor. But not completely. "Correspondingly, magic can succeed where technology fails."
A polite way of saying, "Maybe that's how it works in the Muggle world, but not here." Incredulity swept him under, and Will had to work to keep it from coloring his voice even as his fingers stilled against brown leather. "I've never heard of a spell that could be so wide-spread as to have the effect you're implying." To keep even the most unobtrusive objectors silent, in speech and on paper?
"It's unlikely that you would have," his host shrugged. Black rose, stretching, before stepping away from the chairs they had occupied for the last hours and toward the book-covered wall. "Geasa are not exactly common."
Like the High Families? Will bit the remark back, but couldn't contain the urge to snark, "And that's why there's barely any evidence these people ever even existed? Convenient." If incredibly irritating.
It wasn't that he didn't believe. Will knew how simple it was to keep something monumental hidden from the world; strain the bounds of believability far enough, and people would go out of their way to find any other explanation than the one sitting right in front of them, no magic required.
Black smirked, far too calm for Will's liking. His host's attention was entirely given to the ranks of books marching across the shelves at eye-height. "There's evidence aplenty, if you're not too picky about the credibility of your sources."
For a historian, credibility of sources was everything. But Will was only – mostly – human, too. Curiosity, and cats. Lovely. And he was fed up with the dance of words; he needed something more concrete than vague hints, and he hadn't been able to shake an unguarded syllable from his host's lips yet. "Say I'm not. What would I find?"
That surprised the other man, fine lines appearing around those pale eyes as Black paused to study him. One shoulder leant against the shelves, arms crossing. "Not much. Whispers. Baseless rumors. That sort of thing."
Speak no evil. Yeah, right. Will perked up. "Rumors?"
For the first time, Black hesitated. "Just the one, actually."
And for it to merit any attention, it must be an unbearable truth or an impenetrable lie. But Will bit the inside of his cheek and quelled every impulse to fidget, waging an internal battle against impatience.
He was rewarded.
"An idea spread which theorized that the reason the High Families have survived has less to do with money than magic. That members of the Families learn secrets that have been passed down since the beginning of civilization, and that they are forbidden from revealing these secrets to anyone not of their bloodline." Black leant more heavily against the shelves, completely at ease. "Whether or not it's true, this rumor had the power to set the magical community against the High Families, despite the respect they were accorded. Jealousy, fear, and resentment are powerful motivators."
"Which would easily explain the sudden emergence of the Ministry." Will's eyes hit on the legal codex waiting innocuously on the table at his side, and he was suddenly eager to start poring through its pages.
"If it was a verified theory, which it's not," Black scoffed lightly. "As you said before: convenient."
Almost too convenient. But on that score, only time and research would tell.
"You mentioned, earlier, that you had philosophical differences with Albus Dumbledore," Will said abruptly.
Idling along the bookshelves, Black looked briefly startled by the sudden change in topic; the half-serious debate had faded to thoughtful silence before Will broke it with words. "Yes, I did."
Light. I'm digging myself into a hole, here. "Would you mind elaborating?"
Pale eyes dug sharply into him from across the room, and then flicked away. "As I'm sure you've heard, Albus Dumbledore is one of the foremost wizards in Britain who opposes Voldemort's attempted regime."
Will nodded uncertainly. One palm ran comfortingly across the binding of the codex Black was lending him. "I've heard it said that he is the only wizard Grindelwald and Voldemort were ever afraid of."
"Yes," Black muttered. The man shook himself, a head-to-foot shudder that was over almost before it began. "It's common knowledge that he was instrumental in Voldemort's first fall. Despite what happened to the Potters -" he winced at the name "- there were still the Death Eaters to deal with after their leader vanished. The books would have you think that everything fell apart after Voldemort disappeared, but it wasn't nearly so simple."
Things rarely are. "I see."
"Do you?" Black shook his head, braced against the bookshelf and scowling out at the black shadows beyond the window-panes. "Dumbledore adopted a policy I've learned to dislike intensely. You may have heard of it. The end justifies the means."
And Will did see.
For all he was human, he was always an Old One, an agent of the Light. And for all its warmth and beauty and cool truth, the Light could be harsh. It could burn.
The human in him could cry agreement with Black; but the being in him that would outlast Time understood that sometimes, decisions would have to be made. He had been Sign-Seeker; Bran and Simon and Jane and Barney had fought the Dark in the last great battle for the Earth, alongside him. And not a one of them had been fifteen, at the time.
"If it helps more than it harms," he tried.
A scoffing noise cut him off. "I don't happen to sanction putting children at the front lines of a war."
"You were barely more than a child when you decided to become an Auror," Will pointed out, reckless by now. But a tiny portion of his brain was murmuring, Children? Black was talking about Harry Potter, of course; his godson, the Boy Who Lived. But he had measured out every word of their discussion sparingly, precisely, until now. More than one? Who?
"I was of age by my government's standards," Black bit out. "And I had a choice. Manipulation removes that choice entirely. That is where Dumbledore and I have agreed to differ in our opinions."
A chill washed over the Professor. Yes, the Light had needed the help of children, to stand at the front lines in their war; to fight with no assurance of safety. But Merriman had told them, Bran and the Drews, what the danger was. That they were needed, but they could always walk away. And it was clear that the choice was theirs, no matter how dire the need.
What Black was saying had Will's hackles rising. The only choice the Dark gives is never a choice at all. "That is a very thin line to walk," he said grimly. Too thin, too precarious. Too easy to fall into Darkness without falling so far as the enemy, and so maintaining the façade of never having fallen at all.
Black eyed him for a long minute. "Why did you want to know?" he asked eventually.
Will pushed himself up, rounding his chair to halt at the window. Plush carpeting was springy underfoot. He groped for words to convey the unease he had felt since that afternoon in the Three Broomsticks. "When I interviewed for the position at Hogwarts," he blurted at last, "Dumbledore didn't ask that I bring anything."
Black frowned, confusion lining his face.
Will struggled to impart the sense of wrongness that scraped along his nerves at the memory. "Nothing. Not a résumé, no references, nothing. I had to ask a friend of mine who had tried for a professorship at Queen Ethelburga's College what was expected. She'd undergone multiple interviews and legal screenings before she was rejected, and she hadn't even spoken with the Deputy Headmaster."
"What's your point, Professor?"
Will whirled from the window, frustration boiling over into hot words. "I don't understand how someone can allow a person to teach children, to live at the boarding school in close proximity to the students, and not even demand their résumé, much less any criminal record!"
Sudden understanding flooded silver eyes, swiftly followed by a chilling resolve.
"I have only the basis of my own experience to judge by. But it disturbs me, profoundly," Will said intensely, "that any individual with the slightest affectation of credibility could be given access to Hogwarts and the children there." The last of his breath left him in a loud huff, but voicing his fears only solidified the thoughts supporting them.
I shouldn't have said anything. Not here, not now, not to this man in this situation, so wildly out of context. But who else could I have spoken to? None of his fellow professors, all witches and wizards under Dumbledore. Not the Pevensies, brought there for the nebulous protection Hogwarts had to offer. And the words had been building, increasing in strength, as comments regarding former professors had reached him.
Black shifted now, from where he had been propping up the bookshelf. Moving to the desk, he picked up a quill and within a few quick strokes was finished. Will stepped closer as Black scattered a thin layer of sand across the parchment to speed the drying, folding the note and extending it towards him. "I suggest you expand your research somewhat."
As if he didn't already have enough on his plate to keep him occupied for the next few months. Will crinkled the parchment open enough to scan the words hidden inside. Slatero Quirrell. Defense Against The Dark Arts. 1991-1992. And following that was a listing of other names, only a few accompanied by dates.
The one at the top looks like the most recent. The best starting point, hopefully. "Ah, thank you." Will tucked the parchment inside the cover of the Laws of Magical Britain, and searched for something else to say.
BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG –
The deep chiming from a clock hidden in the far corner of the room caught his attention for the first time. A glance at his wrist confirmed the late hour, and sudden realization sent heat crawling up Will's cheeks. Half nine. Light. So much for dinner. "It's later than I thought. I should probably be going."
Black nodded. "Very good. Do you have everything?"
Book, jacket, glasses. "Yes, thank you."
Will followed his host from the study and down the hallway toward the front of the house. A random thought jumped to the forefront of his brain. I wonder where the puppy went.
And then, halfway through the grand entranceway, something caught his eye.
He hadn't seen it on his way in, but given where it was positioned, that was no surprise. The only reason he saw it now was because the light from the chandelier caught on silver threads gleaming with newness against scorched cloth; an obvious repair. Will paused a moment, stepping closer to the small alcove that housed nothing else.
The Noble & Most Ancient House of Black.
The tapestry was taller than he was, and the names were small. Light!
"Professor Stanton?"
Will jerked free of half-formed thoughts, and found his host waiting patiently by the main door.
"Thank you for your time," Will shook Black's hand, trying not to feel guilty about the hours he had consumed. Twilight had been creeping over the chimneys on his arrival, but it had long since given way to true night.
Black nodded, politeness taking over. "It was no trouble. When you're done with the book, you can give it to Harry or Edmund. They'll see I get it back."
"Of course."
The door closed as soundlessly as it had opened, the only sound that of the lock sliding home.
As he made his way down the path towards the gate, Will found his steps slowing. 'Attached to my family for centuries' . . . able to prove unbroken heritage . . . the formation of Wizarding Britain . . . roots stretching further back . . . forbidden from sharing knowledge . . . And then, that tapestry.
A chill shivered over his spine.
Oh, he didn't know for sure. The top of the tapestry, and the date associated with it, had hung high over his head; he hadn't had enough time to examine the genealogy. But the Blacks were known as some of the oldest purebloods in Wizarding society, though that didn't mean much by the modern classification.
"I believe that puts the current definition into somewhat better perspective, does it not?"
Will thought of the small smile he'd seen in those pale eyes. He didn't know. But I would bet on it. I would.
He paused, on hand on the gate, and looked over his shoulder at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. The night made the gray house darker, the dark windows in the upper floors looking out onto the street like hungry eyes. But against that, the light on the stoop seemed to shine brighter into the yard, spilling out over him where he stood at the end of the path.
One step took him beyond the magical protections on Number Twelve, and into a more tangible, less magical, world. Closing the gate securely, he headed for the nearest Tube station. Will didn't look back to see the house disappear.
Fin
A/N 2: Note for my fellow American readers who might not know; the Tube is the British terminology for the subway line in London. (Like how Chicago has the 'L', and Boston has the 'Green/Red/Blue/Orange/etc. Line', and NYC has the Metro. Or is that DC? I've been on 'em both, but I can't remember. I just call 'em all the subway.)