"Run it by me again, Potter. Because where I'm sitting, it sounds suspiciously like a marriage contract."
Harry sighed, feeling the first signs of an enormous headache coming on. Absentmindedly he rubbed his scar – old habit, as the scar itself hadn't given him a problem going on six years now, ever since Voldemort's final demise. But the girl in front of his desk had always had a talent for giving him a migraine.
Sometimes, back in sixth and seventh year – traitorously – he had fantasized about how his life would have been different if she hadn't been so overtly obnoxious about Hagrid and Ron, that fateful second meeting on The Hogwarts Express. He hadn't noticed her as being anything special at the time but by the Yule Ball in fourth year, he had recognized that she was head-and-shoulders the most gorgeous girl in his year, if not the entire school. Svelte and graceful, with hair so pale it was almost white that fell just low enough to tickle her breasts. He remembered her coming to the ball on Diggory's arm without that damnable sneer that made it look like she was perpetually being held over a dish of curdled milk, and how he had struggled throughout the night to keep his attention focused entirely on his own date, Cho Chang, and not on the enthralling sight of the girl who went out of her way to make his school life a misery.
Delphyne Malfoy, a girl that by the time N.E.W.T.s had come around he simultaneously wanted to snog the living daylights out of and bash to death with Hermione's copy of Hogwarts, A History.
"It's not a marriage contract, it's a simple fact. I am, technically, head of House Black, as declared by my godfather Sirius before he was murdered by your utter bitch of an aunt," Harry replied with false cheer, shaking himself out of memory lane and getting little more than a scoff and an eye roll for his troubles. "But it's a very tenuous hold, because my closest claim to the family is through Dorea Black, who married Charlus Potter, my grandfather's brother. Which," Harry continued tiredly, "I'm sure as the perfect pureblood scion you already know. Must I truly repeat all this nonsense?"
One immaculately styled eyebrow, slightly raised. "I'm rather enjoying myself, watching you stumble your way through The Heritages like a dim child who can't quite remember his morning lessons. Please, don't stop on my account."
That drawl. It was worse than a blood-boiling jinx, it really was.
"Well that's my position. And it's not made any better by the fact that the familial magics of the line consider me to be a zeroth generation pure-blood. Just enough that I'm not disqualified out-of-hand, but if there were any other candidates-"
"Like myself," Delphyne interrupted smugly.
"Like yourself," Harry continued, "then my position becomes much more tenuous."
"Well then, Potter. I think the question is, 'What's in it for me?'"
Harry's grin became wolfish. "Well you can't simply inherit either. A witch's claim descending from a witch's claim. And of course, any child you had would take your husband's line, and the Black's just weren't that keen on playing second beater, we're they?"
"Really, Potter? We're discussing the intricacies of inheritances among the sanguine pur and you lower yourself to inept quidditch analogies. I enjoy the game as much as you do but really? You are such a muggle."
"And yet, you didn't answer the question."
"No." A huff – finally a sign of irritation. "They don't. But do get to the point, Potter."
"Right, long story short, I get to keep the title but get none of the perks unless I produce an heir of acceptable purity and, well... acceptably Black. You're the only candidate that fits the bill, unless mummy dearest is feeling lonely with hubby locked up – again, I might add, thanks to yours truly – in Azkaban. And you can't usurp me without ensuring an heir that's primarily a Black. And the only candidate for that is me... well, there's one great-great uncle but honestly, I think even you would have a hard time revving that engine, the old sod."
Delphyne offered a tight frown, one of perplexity rather than sadness. "So let the house die. You weren't raised among us, you can't possibly care for the prestige of the thing. Why would you even consider this?"
Harry paused – this was his final card. Slowly, he opened a drawer in his desk, reached inside and pulled out a long strip of parchment, handing it over without a word.
A whistle.
"All of this-"
"At least. It's not like the goblins count every ruddy knut then throw them back onto the floor in haphazard piles. But it gives you a general idea of what's in it for me – for us."
"Some of this... it doesn't even make sense. 35 percent share of Madam Malkins, 20 percent share of Trunks Moste Magick. What on earth is a common stock, Potter... In relations to finances, that is - I've met Granger."
"Who gives a toss - flip it over, go straight down to Appendix C," Harry deadpanned.
Delphyne did so, one perfect finger tracing down the page until she found it, eyes bugging out comically as she did so.
"The Black's have Merlin's staff? Just... lying around a mile underground?"
"Yep. So you see now that we have to do something."
"And if we don't," she said haughtily, but by the glint in her eye Harry knew she was caught.
"Then it all rots in the vault, more or less forever." Harry supplied. "Oh, I suppose there might be some time when the right heir of this marries the right heiress of that and Ganymede aligns with Venus just so, but it certainly won't happen in our lifetime."
"It is a lot to think about," Delphyne conceded. "Wait." Eyes narrowed. "Aren't you still dating Weasley? I can't imagine Ginevra would be too thrilled at the idea of me swooping down and stealing her beau. What gives?"
Harry paused, then shrugged and tapped the parchment twice, slowly and heavily. "Like you said, it is a lot to think about."
A short, tinkling laugh. "Saint Potter. I never would have imagined you'd break that mold – well except for that time you tried to kill me. That was different."
Harry winced. Sixth year, he had been absolutely sure she was a death eater – which she technically hadn't been, trying to kill Albus Dumbledore – which she had. One day while trying to catch her in the the midst of a plot he had instead stumbled upon her crying in the quidditch showers. He'd never seen her look so fragile, so delicate and frail and vulnerable – and it had almost caught him when she had seen him staring at her and begun to cast the Cruciatus curse at him. He had been faster though, and had retaliated with a spell of unknown and unimaginable consequences at the time, Sectumsempra.
Despite how much he had hated her in their school days (and they were hardly even polite acquaintances today), seeing her lying helpless on the ground, eyes flickering wildly like a frightened doe as great slashes erupted down her breasts and stomach, blood spilling and beginning to run across the floor... had Professor Snape not been searching for Delphyne as well and gotten there just in the knick of time...
"That was a long time ago," Harry said quietly, before glaring across the desk straight into her eyes. "And anyway, I might note that you had an Unforgivable on your lips."
She gave him a predatory smile. "Tell me Potter," she drawled, adding just the tiniest hint of breathlessness to her voice, "Should we decide to do something about this Black situation, is there something else you'd prefer to find on my lips, instead?"
She laughed at his speechlessness, before rising from her chair. "Some things to think about, at any rate. But if you'll excuse me, I'm afraid I have to be leaving: there's a gala tonight in support of the minister's new Muggleborn Protection Act of Something Something and Other, and as a fully reformed member of society who has completely renounced my imprisoned father's politics and is utterly committed to a new dawn of cooperation and prosperity and unicorns, I think it prudent to attend."
"And I'll be sure to let Kinglsey know just what a paragon of all that's good and light you really are," Harry shot back, imitating her drawl.
"Thank you for your time, Chief Auror Potter," Delphyne called out as she opened the door to his office, performing now for the benefit of his personal secretary. "It's always nice to see that our society's security is in the very best of hands."
When the door closed, Harry let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and got up from behind his desk, walking over to a small wooden cabinet in the far corner. Opening it, he took out a small vial of a vibrant orange liquid – the headache relieving potion. After another moment, he pulled out a much nicer – and larger – bottle of brandy. After conjuring a snifter he poured himself a drink, reflecting on the conversation he had just subjected himself to.
No matter how he gamed it out, an awful lot of shit was about to hit fans.