Title: History is Written by the Victors
Author: Runaway Sun
Warnings: This will most likely be slash, but I will probably have a poll later on. There may be violence later too, so if you're squeamish... well, overly squeamish, this might not be the right story for you. This is also very AU.
Pairings: None for the moment. There may be one later on, but in the end, the pairing doesn't matter to the plot really.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Notes On the Text: This fic is going to be a long journey. I don't have it fully planned out so I can't tell you exactly how many chapters, but there will be many. I think the plot is original as I haven't seen anything like it, but I haven't read everything out there, of course. The beginning does resemble some other fics out there, but stick with me and we'll get somewhere new together. I hope you like it. If you do, review and tell me why. If you don't, please do the same. I want to know how I can improve. Constructive criticism is very welcome. I hope to make a career out of this someday, soooo...
The dream started out the same as any other: it was a seething mass of blurred faces and scenery, garish colors, and inexplicable sensations. Truth be told, he'd have to admit that he'd never had a dream that made any semblance of sense. None were vivid enough to remember nor did they have any sort of comprehensible plotline. They were fleeting moments of unconsciousness that switched from scene to peculiar scene randomly. But this one was different. It pulled him in, drowning him in emotion. There was a sense of overwhelming fear – labeling it as a nightmare – but a bizarre sense of expectation was present as well. It was almost as if a part of him recognized this dreamscape and cautiously welcomed it.
The dream spun, lurching sickeningly from side to side, until the lurid reds, greens, and browns finally morphed into a recognizable forest clearing. It was the same place Sirius and he often visited on warm spring days. However, whereas when Sirius last accompanied him, the once-grassy glade was dead. The trees were rotting; the stream had parched into dry mud; the tall grasses were trampled into an unsightly brown carpet under his bare, dirty feet; and an overwhelming atmosphere of desperation stole his breath.
"Sirius?" he cried out, hysteria emerging in his tone. His expirations came in short wheezes as he began to panic. As soon as the name was out of his mouth, he regretted it. The sound stirred the dead stillness, and the clearing came alive with a vengeance. The trees swayed, dislodging the decaying bark and the debris fell in his face, making it difficult to breathe. Tall, brown grasses transformed into ropes that wrapped around his ankles, aiming to hold him in place. For what, he didn't know, but he didn't care to find out. He tried to run, but the earth became sinking sand, impeding his progress.
The soil held his feet in place and kept them motionless. As he stood there, unable to even wiggle his toes, the silt crept up his legs. When it reached his chest, he noticed that the sand particles weren't pieces of rock or earthen materials at all but tiny brown creatures with sharp claws and milky-white eyes. As one, they met his eyes and smirked, baring pointed teeth, before turning to their next meal: him. He screamed in terror.
His scream was for naught, as the teeth never broke skin. Instead, the little monsters simply disappeared, leaving behind no trace of their existence. As he stared in wonderment at his bare skin, an echoing laugh filled the emptiness. He looked up to see a man standing mere feet in front of him. Frowning in confusion – he was certain the man hadn't been there a few minutes earlier – he examined the man.
He was a little taller and thinner than the average male. His temples were showing the faintest signs of age, a few gray hairs intermixed with dark brown locks distinguishing him as middle-aged. As the man chuckled, he noticed that his teeth were perfectly straight and white. Overall, he was quite handsome. However, it wasn't his uncommonly striking features that caused him to back away. It was the crimson eyes, white-less and slit-pupiled, depths burning with hellfire. And to make matters worse, they were focused solely on him.
"Hello, brother. What an extraordinary imagination you've developed over the eons." He didn't respond to the man's greeting or cynical observation, nor did he comment on the endearment. He didn't know what to make of it. "No welcome for your favorite sibling, Erebus? I suppose this isn't the form you are accustomed to," he said, gesturing to his body, "but surely you could recognize me, no matter my chosen guise." Nothing. His heartbeat was too loud to his ear, drowning out the last few words the man had spoken.
"Hmph, I suppose we didn't leave on suitable terms for an enthusiastic reception. No matter. I came to warn you, brother. They know of your existence and they will find you eventually and come for you." The meaning of his words was lost on the boy, but it did not matter for something else had captured the man's attention. He took a stride forward so that he was standing directly in front of the small boy and kneeled, taking hold of the boy's thin wrists and turning them over between his palms, examining the familiar thin silver cuffs that encircled the joints. Well, familiar to their wearer.
Suddenly, he let out another stream of chortles, but this time they were edged with despair. "You haven't understood a word of what I've been saying, have you?" he asked. The boy shook his head hesitantly. "You don't remember anything." he said, mostly to himself. "It seems they've already found you, boy. Chaos help you…" he said and as he did so, his face flickered. Underneath the human features was a face like a blackened skull. The boy shrieked.
His own scream woke him up, jolting him back into consciousness with the force of an international Portkey. Panting harshly, he slowly relaxed until his breaths came in slow, steady exhalations. The boy's control over his emotions was alarming, especially for one so young, thought the man standing in the doorway. He entered the bedroom slowly, cautiously, knowing from numerous years of Auror training that it was unwise to approach a traumatized victim too quickly. The victim would be filled with adrenaline and likely injure themselves or their rescuer due to it. While he knew this was not the case in this situation, years of habit won over reason.
It was for the best, he supposed. Dumbledore had instructed him to treat the boy carefully and watch him closely. Anything unusual was to be reported back to him. Reading between the lines, Sirius understood that in the Headmaster's eyes, Harry was akin to a wild, unpredictable animal. It seemed unfair in his opinion, but he followed the instructions without question because Dumbledore had yet to lead him astray.
"Harry," he said quietly, unnecessarily informing the boy of his presence. Harry jerked his head in acknowledgement of his observer. "Sirius. I am sorry to have disturbed you." The formality, foreign to any other child Harry's age, rolled off his tongue like water flowing downstream: easily and without effort. His reserved manner was the result of spending far too much time in the company of the portraits of the deceased Black patriarchs, in Sirius's opinion; primarily Phineas Nigellus and Arcturus, as well as Walburga, who, regardless of her gender, was unanimously agreed to be the true head of the Ancient and Noble House of Black during her generation. They had trained him, as carefully and subtly as the Slytherins they were, behind the man's back to be the next heir to the Black family.
Traditionally, the Head of Black family was pureblood; no half-blood was believed to be worthy enough. However, due to information Phineas Nigellus had shared with the other portraits, the content of which Sirius was only vaguely aware of, they had accepted Harry as one of their own. Walburga regarded in the same manner she had Regulus: with satisfaction and domineering love. Harry, unlike Sirius's brother, did not always bow to her wishes, but he never failed to make her proud in the end. His skill with magic was almost unheard of at such a young age, as was his affinity for knowledge.
"You're fine, Harry. I'm sorry about your nightmare." Sirius spoke easily to Harry, unreservedly, hoping without hope that one day he would respond in kind. Alas, it had not worked in the two years he'd been trying. Harry nodded, accepting the man's words for their sincerity.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, prepared for disappointment. "No, sir." The man had expected nothing more than those two short words; nonetheless, he could not smother a flicker of frustration. "But I would appreciate a cup of tea," the boy added. Sirius smiled slightly and nodded before he called, "Kreacher!"
A crack sounded and a creature appeared. It was unlike any human but more human than any animal. It was small, but had large, bat-like ears that flapped against its temples, as well as an equally oversized nose that protruded from its bony face a good three inches. Its bloodshot eyes were sunken, and it wore a wrinkly skin like a many times too big bodysuit. If it hadn't been for the filthy loincloth tied haphazardly around its waist, it would have been naked.
"What can Kreacher do for the Young Master, Kreacher wonders?" The house-elf, for that is what the creature was, ignored the man in favor of the boy on the bed. He spoke in a deep, raspy voice, not unlike a bullfrog's croak and his tone was filled with respect. "Harry would like some tea, Kreacher," the man answered for him.
"Kreacher was addressing the Young Master, not Master Sirius," the house-elf sneered, glaring balefully at the man, before turning back to Harry. Harry nodded once, a half-smile on his lips. "Do as he said, Kreacher. And be sure it's the Graphorn Grey tea with a dash of sugar. Don't bother if we're out. I won't drink Sirius's."
"Yes, Young Master," he replied and disappeared with another craaack. Sirius's face contorted. "Foul little –"
"He'd respect you significantly more if you would cease your insults of Walburga. You are aware of how loyal he is to your mother. Perhaps if you did, he'd even agree to make supper for you without including toadstools and pixie droppings in the recipe… although that may possibly be pushing your luck," Harry finished with a sardonic smile. Sirius barked a laugh.
"Thanks for the advice, but I'd rather continue making my own dinner than give up infuriating my dear old mum." Harry heaved a disappointed sigh.
"Very well. Continue your foolish behavior if you must. However, there may come a day when you regret not taking my advice, Sirius," he said, not bothering to mask his disapproval.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, the pressing awkwardness only affecting the older man. Harry was seated cross-legged on the bed, one hand stroking his ankle absent-mindedly, eyes staring contemplatively at the silver cuffs on his wrists. Sirius hoped dearly that he wouldn't ask about them again. A couple of years ago, Harry had and Sirius had warded him off with promises of "When you're older, Harry," and, "Not now, I'm busy." He didn't know what he would say if he did now. Truthfully, Sirius had no idea what they were. Dumbledore had placed them on the child immediately after Voldemort's attack, saying they would protect Harry. Sirius could only assume that he meant from the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord who had been destroyed by the very child who wore them.
Harry was completely absorbed in his own thoughts and wholly oblivious to the world outside his mind. That is, until Kreacher reappeared, a green goblet with the silver Black crest engraved on the side clutched in his long, crooked fingers.
Kreacher bowed low, offering the chalice up respectfully. Harry plucked the warm drink from the house-elf's grasp, then lifted it to his lips, taking a small, almost dainty sip. He hummed in appreciation of the sweet flavor. "Thank you, Kreacher. You are dismissed." The old house-elf bowed low once again and vanished.
Harry finished his tea in silence, disregarding the heavy gaze of the man. "I am sorry to have disturbed you," he repeated when the cup was drained. Sirius nodded, then stood, taking the goblet in hand. "Good night, Harry. Sleep tight."
"And you as well, Sirius." He smiled at Harry as he shut the door. Once it had clicked shut, the man leaned against wall of the corridor and sighed. That had been a new experience. Not even once in the four years that Harry had been living at 12 Grimmauld Place had he ever had a nightmare, as far as Sirius knew. He had never seen him afraid of anything: not the Murtlap in the kitchen, nor of the Ashwinder they'd discovered in the dining room. Not even the Boggart that had turned into a floating image of a black, bottomless pit fazed him. So what about that dream was more frightening to Harry than his own deepest fear? Sirius wondered.
His musings were cut short by the sound of someone arriving through the Floo and then proceeding to fall out of the fireplace very loudly and painfully, which was accompanied by a series of rather vulgar curses. "Sirius Orion Black!"
Sirius sighed, then quietly called for Kreacher once again. "Fetch a Sobriety Solution for our guest," then added as a second thought, "And Calming Draught for me." As soon as Kreacher had disappeared, he began making his way down the stairs, toward the uninvited visitor in his home.
Harry waited until the screaming, yelling, and swearing had died down, probably with aid from the Sobriety Solution, and quite possibly the Calming Draught Sirius may or may not have sacrificed for the good of kitchen. He had stood by the door, ear pressed against the black wood, listening to the goings-on of the inhabitants of the lower floor. The man who had arrived shortly after Sirius leaving his bedroom was obviously drunk and unwelcome, though tolerated by Head of the Black Family. He was an old acquaintance, if not friend, and they had know each other through Hogwarts, but now that their talk had lowered to a more reasonably volume, he could discern no more from their murmurings.
Hence, his reason to quietly and carefully open the door, wincing at every creak it made, and creep down the hall to the stairs. He held up a finger to his lips to warn the portraits to be quiet as he passed. Thankfully, they did as they were bidden. Harry jumped the loose floorboard at the top of the stairs, then began to slink down the steps, sticking to the shadows as if he belonged in them. At the third stair from the bottom, he froze at the sound of his name like a ghoul in a wand light.
"Harry's been doing well, healthy as an Abraxan. He's never been the sickly sort. He had a nightmare tonight, though. Woke up screaming fit to wake my mum."
"Ah. Yes, well, kids get them, I hear. Can't be helped. I'm sorry about barging in tonight, though. Don't know what I was thinking." The voice was raspy, like someone who smoked their pipe too often or had been yelling without rest for a few hours. Harry saw the shadow of the unfamiliar man grow into a standing position.
"Sit down, James." Sirius's voice grew cold, a tone that was generally reserved for his mother. "As long as you're here, we might as well discuss a few things." James, as Harry assumed the man was called, lowered himself back into the chair.
"Harry has been living with me for four years – he turns seven tomorrow, I bet you forgot that, didn't you? – ever since you were deemed an inadequate guardian for him due to your inability to remain sober long enough to feed him dinner. I, as his godfather, assumed custody of him and have raised him as my own son. However, I cannot allow you continue to behave as if you don't have a child that you should be taking care of or any sort of responsibility. You are wasting away, James Charlus Potter, and you are no longer the man I knew at Hogwarts. That man, while immature, would never have let his son, Lily's son, be raised by another. He would have manned up and taken charge. You run from the truth, seeking alcohol and loose women to fill the hole in your heart. You are a coward, James Potter, a coward! And I won't stand for it any longer." The sound of harsh, anger-filled panting occupied the silence that followed Sirius's furious tirade.
"It's hard, Sirius." He pleaded with Sirius to understand. "She's gone and it still feels like it just happened yesterday. The alcohol makes it better. It helps me forget. Forget that I left her alone that night, unprotected, to go to the bar to celebrate your birthday. Forget that she was murdered and nothing I can do will ever bring her back. Forget that my son and that thrice-cursed prophecy are the reason she's–"
"You will not turn the blame onto Harry. You will not turn the blame onto me or yourself. It is not your fault; it is not my fault; and it is certainly not Harry's fault. It is Pettigrew's fault. In the beginning, I tortured myself, thinking I was to blame for not agreeing to become your Secret Keeper, but then I realized that the outcome would have been the same. Pettigrew would have informed his Master–" Sirius spat the title contemptuously. "–that I was the Secret Keeper, he would have had me kidnapped, then delved into my mind and found the information anyways. Nothing we could have done would have prevented Lily's death."
"Maybe if I had been there, maybe then…"
Sirius's voice was softer now, having lost its razor edge. "It wouldn't have made a difference, except that you would be lying in the grave next to her."
"I wish I was."
"NO! I will not sit here and listen to you – to you –"
"Feel sorry for yourself." Harry stepped out of the shadows. "It's inexcusable," he continued. "To let another raise your only child, your heir, at that. I would be ashamed to call you father; therefore, I shall not do so. Sirius has been far more fatherly than you ever were."
"Harry? Is that you?" James whispered, almost to himself.
"Obviously, unless you know of a secret love child Sirius has hidden away somewhere that I don't." Sirius snorted at that, unable to help himself, then schooled his expression into something stern and fatherly. He hoped. It was difficult to raise a child who was doing a superior job raising himself. "Harry, I thought I told you to go to bed."
"On the contrary, you told me goodnight, implying that you expected me to sleep then. However, you did not tell me to go to bed." It was hard to argue when he put it like that. The way Harry behaved had bothered Sirius before, but never like this. Now he felt almost… embarrassed that he had been outmaneuvered by a child in a battle of wits. But it was just in front of James, so he didn't dwell on it. After all, Harry could wipe the floor with him.
"So you've been listening to our conversation ever since I left your bedroom?" Harry nodded. "Most of it anyways. There were a couple of exchanges I missed here and there."
"Then you know that I am not your true father."
"Sirius. Be reasonable. I have known almost since the beginning. Arcturus made it very clear that I wasn't a Black in the beginning until I had been adopted by blood and had brought honor to the family name. Besides, we look nothing alike, and all Blacks share similar features. I just wasn't sure who my true parents were until tonight."
"I suppose, by that logic, I'm not a Black either," he smiled tightly. "I'm sorry for misleading you, Harry. I just… didn't know what to tell you."
"I understand. You didn't want me to know that my own father had abandoned me." He turned his attention back on the man, raking his eyes down James Potter, taking in the tattered button-down shirt and threadbare khakis, stained with Merlin-only-knew-what fluids. He sneered and the expression looked strange on his boyish face. "You didn't want me to know that he was a worthless drunk and a spineless coward."
"You don't know what you're talking about, boy," James snarled. "She was the love of my life. She was my life, I loved her so much."
"You need to find something else to focus on, to take your mind off of her..." That was Sirius and as soon as he said it, he received a ferocious glare from Harry, but it was too late. The damage was done.
"I have found that alcohol works very well, thank you very much, and I'll get back to it now if you don't mind." James stood angrily from his chair and strode into the living room where the fireplace was. Sirius made a move to go after him, but was stopped when Harry shook his head. "There's no point. He will not pay heed to either of us."
They listened to the sounds of the Floo being activated, a shouted, "The Hog's Head!" and flickering green flames erupting. Sirius released a sigh in the quiet that ensued. "I'm sorry, Harry."
"Don't be. I needed to see that. It only confirmed my feelings."
"Confirmed what?"
"Sirius, I want to be adopted into the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black as your son. I no longer want to be related to a drunkard and milksop. I've researched it with the help of Phineas and Walburga and there are only three days in a child's lifetime when it can occur: the day of birth, on the third birthday, or on the seventh birthday. I turn seven tomorrow. Please think about it tonight and tell me your decision in the morning. Goodnight, Sirius." Sirius made no move to return the nicety as Harry walked toward his bedroom, a smirk on his face.
Harry awoke in the morning feeling very chipper. He wandered into the kitchen, eager for a cup of tea and a couple pieces of toast. Nodding to Sirius who still sat in the same chair as last night, dark circles under his eyes, he sat down at the table across from Sirius. After instructing Kreacher on what to prepare for breakfast, he gazed pointedly at Sirius, waiting. "Have you reached a decision?"
"I have. The ceremony will take place tonight as dusk falls. You deserve to have a blood father who will take care of you and put you above himself. After seeing how far James has fallen last night, I know now that he will never be able to do that for you. He is too rooted in his ways. But, Harry," Sirius stood and walked over to him and crouched, taking Harry's face in his palms, making the choice to ignore Dumbledore's warnings and embrace the boy as his own. "I swear I will. No child deserves to grow up without love. Believe me, I know. I haven't been a very good godfather to you, but I swear I'll be a much better father." He pressed a kiss to the lightning bolt scar that adorned his forehead.
"Alright then." Harry stood from the table, triumphant. "I will see you at dusk." He walked out grabbing the day's paper from the counter where the owl had deposited it. He made sure to hide the headline from Sirius that proclaimed: Famous Auror Dies Of Alcohol Poisoning. Knowing Sirius, James' death would make him sentimental and unwilling to go through with the ritual.
Once Harry had reached the top of the stairs, instead of turning into the second door to the right, his bedroom, the bedroom that had once been Regulus's, he went into the bathroom directly across the hall. He dropped the newspaper into the trash can that quickly consumed the it, chomping noisily with its razor-sharp teeth. It let out a satisfied sound when it was finished.
He then stopped in front of the mirror, taking in the reflection that he would never see again after tonight. The adoption ceremony would change his name, features, and heritage. Never again would he have to wrestle with his untidy hair, trying to do the impossible and make it lie flat. Never again would he have to take a potion in the morning that would allow him to see more than two feet in front of his face. Never again would he see the face of James Potter when he looked in the mirror. Harry smirked, then washed his face.
After Harry had cleaned up, he went down onto the lower landing to speak with the portraits. They were conversing excitedly among themselves, but became abruptly quiet when he approached. All except for Walburga, that is. "My soon-to-be-grandson! I'm so proud. If I were alive, I might've even given you a hug!" The other portraits grimaced and murmured their disapproval. Hugging was not a very Noble and Most Ancient House of Black thing to do.
"Yes, congratulations, Harry. I always knew this day would come," Phineas Nigellus said, almost fondly.
"As I've said before, until you bring honor to this family, you are not a true Black. Remind my grandson of that, will you?" Arcturus said cantankerously. "Yes, sir." Harry had learned to agree to any demand the irritable portrait made, regardless if he intended to follow through or not.
Harry sat cross-legged on the elaborate rug decorated with moving pictures of heroic-looking wizards slaying fearsome beasts. The battles raged on beneath him as the Black patriarchs disclosed to him the accounts of their ancestors lives and their own. They told him of Isla Black, who had been disowned for marrying a Muggle, of Phineas Nigellus's son who supported Muggle rights, and Cedrella, who married a Weasley. They warned him to take heed of his soon-to-be ancestors' mistakes and learn from them, rather than making his own and sullying the family name. Finally, long after his bones had grown stiff, his mind tired, and his stomach ached with hunger, he stood and bid them farewell. They waved him off with reminders and admonitions, saying:
"Do not forget what we have taught you about being a Black–"
"–and other things–"
"–dishonor the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black like my son–"
"Toujours pur."
"Remember the Olde Ways–"
"–and never ever let your guard down in a nest of vipers," finished Sirius as he entered the room. "You might just find yourself bitten." He sneered at the portraits of his deceased relations. They returned the expression sevenfold. "Are you ready, Harry? Twilight is here and its time to begin the ritual."
The ritual, while technically considered Dark, was so uncommon and ensconced so thoroughly from the public by the purebloods who used it to continue their lineage, that it had never been banned by the Ministry. Sirius, who had more than an inkling that it was considered Dark, had decided to use it after much deliberation with his conscience. It was the only one of the adoption rituals he knew of that would make the adoptee truly part of the family, both in name, flesh and blood. In his heart, he felt that was what Harry needed: to feel that he had a father of his own, not a surrogate, but the real thing. Perhaps this would finally bring him out of his shell.
As night fell, trickling darkness into blue sky like viscous ink dribbling from an overturned inkwell, Harry and Sirius met in the dining room, in front of the large window that allowed in the light of the setting sun. Scented candles had been lit and they filled the room with their sickly-sweet smell. An empty bowl and an open book rested on the black oak table that had been recently cleared of an old moth-eaten tablecloth. "Are you ready?" Sirius asked for the second time that night.
"I am."
Sirius nodded, his face grave. He pulled out a ritual knife from within his robe. He held it out, handle first for Harry to take. He complied. Sirius sighed, then began.
"Do you, Harry James Potter, relinquish all ties to your former family, including your name, appearance, and blood?
"I do." Harry mad a shallow slice on the palm of his hand. He held his hand out over the bowl and allowed three drops to drip into it.
"Do you accept that you will be known as Altair Harrison Black, now and forever?"
"I do." He made a second cut, directly parallel to the last and completed the same procedure.
"Do you understand that this is permanent and cannot be undone by anyone?"
"I do." The third wound was made and the last step completed. Harry placed the knife next the bowl.
"So mote it be," Sirius murmured in accordance to the book. "I, Sirius Orion Black, do accept Altair Harrison Black into the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, to bring honor and glory to it, to prolong the line, and to do what is best for the House of Black." Sirius picked up the knife and made a much deeper slash in his own palm than any the boy had done. He held it over the bowl as had been done thrice before him, watching his blood flow into it. There was a greater amount of his blood needed for the mixture; after all, the blood of a Black had to drown the inferior blood.
When the blood flow began to slow, Sirius started to chant in Latin. He did not stop when his charge collapsed and began to writhe in pain. He did not stop when he began to feel faint from blood loss. He didn't even stop when he too fell to the ground, unconscious. His mouth moved even though his eyes were closed. The Olde Magick had taken hold and was unstoppable in its strength.
Harry, now Altair, fell unconscious soon after his spine broke and stretched to make him taller by a few inches. He didn't feel his jaw shatter, becoming more angular, or his nose straighten, nor his vision improve. His hair became longer and wavier, less unruly. His eyes, hidden beneath tightly clenched eyelids, darkened to a charcoal gray, the same color iris every Black was said to posses; there remained the slightest hint of green in his, however. Truly, the only thing that remained the exact same was the ugly, fresh-looking lightning-bolt scar on his forehead.
When Altair awoke, it was to the face of Sirius, hovering worriedly over him. "Are you okay?" he asked, frantic. To this, Altair smiled. He had never felt better in his life, regardless of the lingering aches. "Yes, Father. I am fine." A relieved smile nearly split the man's face in half. He pulled Altair into his chest, clutching him tightly. "Thank Merlin, Altair. Thank Merlin."
"No. Thank Magic."