Hi everyone!

Thank you for the wonderful reviews! They certainly brightened up my day! As for what happened between Mrs Black and the Dursleys: nothing that couldn't be reversed or fixed in some way (after all, it wouldn't do for Dumbledore to use that as an excuse to take Harry away from her). I'll leave it to your imaginations to determine exactly what might have transpired. ;)

Chapter Two

Dominus Black, known to most as Harold Ophiuchus Potter-Black, woke up extra early on the beautiful morning of 31 July. It was his birthday today, and he was finally seven years old.

Barely pausing to throw on a dressing gown over his silk pyjamas, Harry – as he preferred to be called – all but ran down to the family dining room, giving poor Kreacher a scare as he just narrowly avoided a head-on collision with the house-elf on the marble stairs.

"Sorry, Kreacher!" shouted Harry, though he was far too excited to sound properly remorseful. Had his grand-mère heard him, Harry knew he would have been in serious trouble; a respectable wizard did not shout or run about indoors. But it was his birthday, and as was tradition on the morning of 31 July, his grand-mère was already waiting in the family dining room for him.

Just before he would be seen through the opened doors of the smaller and more intimate dining room, Harry stopped and paused to catch his breath. Once his panting had abated – his bedroom suite was all the way on the other side of the Manor, after all – Harry stood up straighter before calmly striding in.

"Good morning, grand-mère," said Harry, though his attempt at a refined greeting was rather ruined by the ear-splitting grin on his face. Harry stood on his tippy-toes and graced his grand-mère's cheek with a kiss, before sitting down in his seat at the table. As though that had been the cue, a huge breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, fried slice, mushrooms, hash browns, tomatoes, and black pudding appeared. Walburga's lips twitched as Harry wolfed down his food and drank his orange juice in its entirety without even pausing for breath.

"Harold," she said in a chiding tone that had Harry flushing in embarrassment. Harry knew he had broken at least a dozen rules of etiquette, but he couldn't help it – it was his seventh birthday, one he had been waiting ages for!

Wizarding tradition dictated that when a child – particularly the Heir of a family – reached the age of seven, he must be presented to all the acknowledged members of his family, however distantly related. It was a test, to see whether the Heir befit the family, and if he was deemed unsuitable for whatever reason, then another would be elected to take his place. The proceedings often became brutal, as many witches and wizards coveted the power that came with being the Head of a family. Harry had been training for months for this very occasion, and he had already gone over the extensive security measures with his grand-mère.

While Harry was certainly nervous, he was more excited than anything else. His morning would mostly be taken up by meeting all the family members, but a grand party celebrating his birthday would follow, where he would finally be introduced to children his own age.

Harry had never been allowed anywhere due to safety reasons, and while the Black Estate was huge, with its very own Quidditch pitch and forest, hardly anyone was allowed onto the property. And with his grand-mère so busy, Harry was often left alone with only the house-elves – Kreacher in particular – for company. Despite the boredom and loneliness, Harry had never even once considered disobeying his grand-mère; Harry knew there were still terrible people out there who wanted revenge for Voldemort's disappearance. Harry sometimes still dreamt of the shouts of his father and James, the latter pleading with his mother to flee, the screams of his mother, a shrill voice laughing, and a blinding green flash of the Killing Curse followed by a burning pain in his forehead.

Of course, the children who would be attending the party had been subjected to an exhaustive screening process by both his grand-mère and the Ministry of Magic. Harry already had in mind a few friendships he wanted to make from what he knew of them, and he couldn't wait.

Harry's thoughts were interrupted by his grand-mère placing the morning's Daily Prophet in front of him. He had started reading the paper four years ago, when his grand-mère thought it best Harry acquaint himself with the wizarding world. Then, Harry could barely read, let alone understand what it all meant, but now he was more than proficient at reading and understanding all the articles.

Today's headline declared: Happy Seventh Birthday, Boy Who Lived! Most of the front page was taken up by a photo of Harry standing by the Black Manor gardens, smiling and waving at the camera. It had been taken a few months ago, when his grand-mère thought the fervour and the sheer number of enquiries about him was getting too ridiculous – and dangerous. She had contacted the editors of various newspapers and magazines, and the bidding war had been rather fierce, from what Harry could tell. The Daily Prophet had outbid the French magazine La Loupe by only a handful of Galleons.

Barnabas Cuffe, the editor of the Prophet, had come by personally to interview him. The Prophet had had to print an additional 500,000 copies due to the enormous demand that followed its release. The interview had been rather short – Cuffe had been too awestruck and nervous, and had ended up spending most of the hour available for the interview stuttering and looking at his scar. Harry had, thankfully, been previously warned by his grand-mère that this was likely to be a frequent occurrence. Harry didn't think not dying was that impressive, but he had held his tongue and remained polite throughout the interview, not showing his impatience even once.

Today's paper largely reiterated what had been said in that interview. Cuffe had written a list of items Harry might enjoy receiving as birthday gifts. When Cuffe had interviewed Harry, he had asked whether or not Harry liked Quidditch, what position he might like to play, his favourite team and player, what his favourite colour was, and what his favourite food and sweet were. Ever since then, Harry had received a barrage of Quidditch supplies and memorabilia, Chocolate Frogs and Fizzing Whizbees in the mail. It had driven his grand-mère mad, and no doubt it would be even worse today.

Cuffe ended the article with wishes for a fabulous birthday from everyone at the Daily Prophet, and an advertisement for a special, one-time magazine exclusive that promised photos of the Boy Who Lived at his birthday party, to be sold separately for only one Galleon. That made Harry's mood sour slightly – he had forgotten that they would be present at his party, as well as many of the "important people" his grand-mère thought he should meet. Harry hoped he would find enough children he liked to keep him from dying of sheer boredom.

Harry sped through the rest of the newspaper to see if there was anything of particular interest. He noted the dates of the next International Confederation of Wizards and Wizengamot meetings, as his grand-mère held seats and would be busy then. Harry wondered if she would allow him to go with her this time.

As though she had read his mind, his grand-mère Vanished the paper before speaking. "No, you may not come with me to the Ministry. We've been over this, Harry. It is not safe."

Ignoring Harry's pleading eyes, Walburga summoned Kreacher. "Help Master Harry get ready for this afternoon." As she stood to leave, Walburga paused by Harry's side. "Go on upstairs, Harry. I know you will conduct yourself as befits the Heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. You'll do well. I'm so very proud of you."

Walburga smiled softly as Harry made his way down the marble staircase. In the soft green robe that matched the exact shade of his eyes – no easy feat considering the rarity of the colour – he looked just like a Black Heir should.

Harry had barely entered the lavish drawing room when his name was called.

"Harold!"

Harry's posture straightened unconsciously at hearing his formal name, and a half-smile appeared on his lips.

"Grandfather," greeted Harry, shaking Pollux's hand firmly. His great-grandfather Pollux was a stately man who had taught him Quidditch the moment he had turned two, citing that if he was old enough to walk, he was old enough to fly. Besides, if he could survive the Killing Curse, then certainly falling from a broom wouldn't kill him. Harry was rather fond of the man. As Harry turned and met the eyes of his great-great aunt Cassiopeia, his smile turned a little more genuine. Harry let her draw him into a warm hug. She was his favourite relative, if only because she acted as if she were still a child herself.

Harry coolly nodded at his other great-grandfather, Arcturus and his daughter, Lucretia. He didn't like them – had never liked them – and they didn't like him either. Lucretia had lost out on being the Heiress of the Black family to Walburga, who, though borne of the second son of Phineas Nigellus, was more powerful and thus was deemed to be more worthy of the title. Her political clout had solidified further when she had married Orion, Lucretia's younger brother. During the war against Grindelwald, Arcturus had lost his magic due to a curse, and Walburga took over the duties of being the Head of the family. Though Arcturus's magic had returned a year later, Walburga had flourished and done so much for the family in such a short period of time that it was decided she should remain the Black Matriarch, despite her youth. When both Sirius and Regulus had passed away, Lucretia had thought the position would pass back to her father and then eventually to her, since she could still bear children. But with the existence of Harry, who, though young, was more powerful – both magically and politically – their hopes had been dashed.

It was only fitting, then, that Lucretia and Arcturus led the first "attack". Snide comments about his having less than half of the pure Black blood were naturally made, followed by questions about politics and laws regarding Dark Magic, all posed in rapid-fire French in hopes that Harry would be embarrassed by his inability to respond. However, their plan failed rather spectacularly. One of the first things Harry had been taught besides English and Latin was French, as the Black family had originated in France, and Harry had been schooled in magical theory, law, and politics by his grand-mère since before he could even read. Harry had never been more thankful that his grand-mère had insisted he study rather than go out and play Quidditch, even when he had whined piteously.

When his great-great aunt Cassiopeia mercifully rescued him, Harry roamed, meeting the other members of the Black family. Some Harry had never met before since they had very little Black blood left to claim, but they were still family, and he dutifully was cordial to them all. Most merely took a few glimpses at his lightning bolt scar rather than outwardly stare, and knew better than to ask questions about how he'd defeated the Dark Lord or how he'd survived the Killing Curse. Harry found he was glad for it.

There was only one other child who was his age – his cousin, Draco Malfoy. His hair was the lightest shade of blond Harry had ever seen, and he stood out prominently among the sea of dark heads along with his mother, Narcissa. If Harry hadn't thoroughly studied the Black family history and the family tapestry, he would have thought Narcissa was adopted.

The blond boy was obviously very intimidated by everyone, and particularly by Harry, no doubt due to having been raised with stories of the Boy Who Lived. Draco strove to hide it by acting haughty. Harry had to stifle his laughter – the boy was clearly trying to appear cold and aloof, but somehow ended up looking constipated instead.

During brunch, Harry carefully arranged it so that he was between Cassiopeia and Pollux. Due to the seating arrangements, Harry managed to avoid the veiled remarks of the others and was able to actually enjoy himself by debating the merits of fouling in Quidditch with his great-grandfather. Harry saw his grand-mère hide a smile at his antics, and the brunch went off fabulously.

Everyone was fairly pleased with how Harry had handled himself, especially Walburga. Even Lucretia and Arcturus could not find reasonable grounds to object to his being the Black Heir. When no objections were brought forth, Walburga raised her glass of champagne. "To Harold Ophiuchus Potter-Black, the Boy Who Lived, and the rightful Heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. My fealty to you, Dominus Black."

Everyone raised their glasses in salute and drank. To Harry's immense disappointment, his glass of bubbly was just a soda.

With the hard part over, Harry relaxed a little and the family presented him with gifts. Every year for his birthday, Harry had always received a racing broom not yet available on the market from Pollux, and this year was no different: Pollux had bought Harry a Nimbus 1700. Harry had quite a collection of fine broomsticks, to Walburga's constant vexation. She clucked her tongue in disapproval, though she knew better by now than to try and discourage either of them from anything related to Quidditch. Harry smiled at Pollux, feeling the envy of many at seeing the broomstick, particularly his cousin, Draco.

The reaction garnered by Cassiopeia's gift was quite the opposite. Cassiopeia, who travelled the world collecting and breeding magical creatures (including some that didn't even exist), always brought Harry a magical creature of some sort for his birthday. Harry had quite a menagerie: a runespoor, a snidget, a crup, a basilisk, and a unicorn.

The unicorn foal was the first creature Cassiopeia had given him, and though fully grown now, the affection they'd shared from when the unicorn was a foal still existed, allowing Harry, despite being male, to remain close to her. The runespoor had been given on his fifth birthday, and the discovery that Harry could speak Parseltongue had led to the presentation of his sixth birthday gift: a basilisk. Harry's grand-mère had still not quite forgiven Cassiopeia for giving a young boy such a gift. The basilisk, of course, could only obey Harry, and to ensure everyone else's protection, the basilisk was kept in a magically reinforced chamber where its deadly eyes could not accidentally kill anything. So naturally, after all the trouble caused by such a Dark gift, Cassiopeia went in the opposite direction: for his seventh birthday, Harry received a phoenix.

As every acknowledged member of the Black family was Dark, such a Light gift was very much frowned upon and caused quite a stir. How Cassiopeia had captured a phoenix in the first place was a mystery. Of course, the fact that the phoenix had not yet escaped its cage was amazing as well. Upon seeing Harry, the phoenix disappeared in a burst of flame and reappeared on his shoulder, its talons gripping him tightly but without breaking the skin. Walburga was not at all surprised; Harry had always had some affinity to animals. That blasted crup of his didn't allow anyone except Harry to come within a foot of it. Walburga wasn't about to complain. Not only was the phoenix priceless, but it was also far less dangerous than the basilisk.

After a few minutes of tense silence, wherein Walburga said nothing and Harry merely stroked the phoenix, the gift giving continued. Most were books, clothes, and toys; rather impersonal gifts, but Harry thanked them all nonetheless. None of the toys caught his eye, and at least ten of the books he'd received would have to be returned or given away, seeing as they already had copies in the library. Harry stifled his sigh; he couldn't wait for his gift from his grand-mère, which would be given to him later that night. His grand-mère always found something perfect for him.

With the exception of his great uncle Cygnus, Narcissa, and Draco, Harry's relatives finally left, and Harry breathed a silent sigh of relief. He had another ten years before he would be subjected to such scrutiny again, and Harry was glad for it.

"Well, dear sister, not that you need my approval, mind, but I heartily commend you. Young Harold will do the family proud."

Harry smiled in thanks and, with his grand-mère's permission, nodded to the adults before grabbing Draco's arm. "Come on, Draco, I'll give you a quick tour before everyone gets here."

Draco debated with himself over whether or not to demand that Harold let go of his arm. After all, while Harold might be dragging him unceremoniously around the Manor, Harold was also the Boy Who Lived and the Heir of the House of Black.

The former title was one his father, whom Draco worshipped, hated. Draco had never been told the full story, but knew from eavesdropped conversations that his father blamed Harold for his incarceration for being a Death Eater. His mother, on the other hand, had never indicated one way or the other how she felt in regards to being related to the Boy Who Lived. As anything related to Harold was considered taboo at home, Draco had never even given it much thought – until his mother had been invited to the ultra-exclusive birthday party of the Boy Who Lived, to be held after Harold's presentation to his family. It was the first time an invitation had been addressed to Narcissa Black and family rather than to Lucius Malfoy and family – his father, a Malfoy, had been deemed as inferior. Draco, who had been told countless times what being a Malfoy entitled him to, had realised then that the Black family name held even more power than that of the Malfoys, and that his mother was much more powerful than his father, despite appearances to the contrary.

Draco still wasn't sure what that meant for him.

Draco was pulled from his thoughts as Harold sped up so that Draco was forced to almost run to keep up with Harold's longer legs. Draco scowled; he hated being shorter than all of his friends. Even Pansy Parkinson was taller than he!

Draco's scowl was quickly replaced by an expression of sheer awe when Harold opened the last door in a hallway and he beheld what looked to be a gateway to a wild forest. He followed Harold in, his head turning every which way to examine as much of the forest as possible.

"Grand-mère had this room built especially for me when great-great aunt Cassiopeia kept giving me magical creatures for my birthday. She actually got me a basilisk last year. Come on, I'll introduce you to him."

Draco came to an abrupt halt. "A b-basilisk? Are you crazy? I'm not going in there!"

"Scared?" Harry taunted, turning around to gaze at his cousin, looking at him the way his grand-mère often examined those who had the audacity to question her actions.

Draco for a moment seemed ready to flee, but in the next, straightened his spine and said, "You wish," though the words didn't come out as strongly as Draco had intended them to.

Harry merely turned around and headed towards the back of the forest, the door closing behind them ominously.

"And how is dear old Lucius?" Walburga asked as soon as the boys left the room.

Narcissa's blue eyes narrowed slightly. None of her family had liked Lucius, especially Aunt Walburga; the Malfoy line hadn't been ancient enough for their tastes. Nonetheless, Aunt Walburga had allowed the marriage, because Narcissa herself had been so insistent and suitable candidates had been scarce. Still, Aunt Walburga had never hid her dislike of him.

"He is well," Narcissa cautiously replied.

"Has he interfered in your training of young Draco?"

Narcissa's eyes and voice turned as hard as granite. "My son is not yours to command, Aunt Walburga."

"On the contrary; he is a Black, despite the taint of the Malfoy blood."

"The taint of the Malfoy blood?" Narcissa said incredulously. "Your Heir is the son of a blood traitor, a Light wizard, and the daughter of a Squib!"

"And Harold is Dominus Black, and the Boy Who Lived, the defeater of the Master your husband," Walburga spat out the word as though the taste of it disgusted her, "bowed over, like the subservient filth he is. It will do well for you to remember exactly who you are."

Narcissa's jaw clenched. "I have not forgotten who I am, but I will not abandon Lucius."

Cygnus, who had thus far remained silent, regarded his only acknowledged daughter. "Even if he chooses to side with the Dark Lord?"

Narcissa turned her head, refusing to answer. Her father had abandoned her eldest sister Bellatrix when she had been sent to Azkaban, and Andromeda had long since been stricken off the family tapestry for her utter disgrace in marrying a Muggle-born. Should he not like her answer, Narcissa had no doubt she would be cast aside as well. Her father's loyalty belonged only to his sister, who acted solely for the good of the Black family.

"Guide that moronic husband of yours more carefully, Narcissa," Walburga coolly warned her niece. "The Dark Lord was defeated by Harold when he was only a babe; when he returns, Harold will be much stronger. Harold will have the support of this family as well as the entire wizarding world, and whoever opposes him will be ruined utterly. Even our familial connections will not spare Lucius this time."

Narcissa pursed her lips in anger, but gave a single nod of her head nevertheless. Her aunt's statement was true, after all. It was only due to Narcissa and her Black family connections that had spared Lucius from spending the rest of his life in Azkaban. It was she who had cautioned Lucius against carelessness, she who had made sure Lucius would never become so entrenched in the Dark Arts and the Dark Lord as to forget himself as her sister Bellatrix had. And when Lucius had been arrested for being a Death Eater, it had been she who had called on those in the Ministry of Magic who owed favours to the Black family to have her husband released.

Lucius had never been comfortable with the idea that his wife's blood was more pure and ancient than his. To soothe his bruised ego, Lucius had convinced himself that his connections and wealth were far superior, and Narcissa had never had a reason to inform him otherwise. And to this day, Lucius remained bitter over the fact that he had needed her help – the help of the Black family – to escape a life sentence. He resented her superiority over him, and so Narcissa had kept the history of the Blacks from Draco, letting Lucius all but brainwash their son into believing that the Malfoys were the most powerful family in the wizarding world. But it would no longer do; Draco, Narcissa was sure, already suspected the truth, and if even a fraction of what she had sensed from Harold was real, Narcissa would certainly need to take matters into hand to ensure her family would remain strong and powerful.

It was perhaps a good thing then that Lucius would not be coming to Harold's birthday party.

Albus Dumbledore frowned into his morning tea; his eyes were clouded with worry and were without their customary twinkle. It was a beautiful summer day and perfect for a lazy Friday morning; Dumbledore had been planning to take a book outside and read by the back gardens when the mood had been rather abruptly spoiled.

Sighing, Dumbledore carefully put down his teacup, taking care to obscure the photo of Harold Ophiuchus Potter-Black. Really, how ridiculous! All this hoopla over a mere boy!

This was precisely the reason why Dumbledore had wanted to place Harry with his relatives in the Muggle world; the last thing the wizarding world needed was a pompous and egotistical child with delusions of grandeur. Dumbledore – and the wizarding world – needed a hero who knew suffering, who knew humility, who could sympathise with the worst and the best of humanity, and remain strong in the face of adversity. A spoiled prince had not been in the cards for Harry at all.

How had things gotten so amiss? Dumbledore's reputation, though mostly recovered, was still tarnished from that fiasco a few years ago. He had had the moral high ground – after all, the Boy Who Lived, the paragon of Light, being raised by a family of questionable morals, long since been known for supporting the Dark? It was positively mad! And yet, when the Daily Prophet had published such lies, accusing him of neglect and mistreatment of the Boy Who Lived and undue use of influence over the employees of the Ministry of Magic, the public had readily swayed over to Mrs Black's side. Many Light families had remained stalwart at first, knowing better than to trust all they'd read, but months and years later, with all the good Walburga Black had done for the wizarding world, the past had quickly been forgotten. They sang her praises while looking down at him in contempt for daring to question the grandmother of their child Saviour.

Why could they not see that the Black Matriarch was a nundu in puffskein's clothing? Dumbledore's eyes betrayed his frustration. Although he had not been invited, prominent Light families who had pure-blood children Harold's age had been extended an invitation to Harold's birthday party. Dumbledore had personally visited them – as some of them were still under his influence – to see if their children could be made to befriend Harold. Unfortunately, the Weasleys – who were his biggest supporters – were on vacation, celebrating Bill's appointment as Head Boy and Charlie's as Quidditch Captain, and they could not make it back in time for the party. And although Cedric had promised to try his best, the Diggorys' only son was too old to be more than a mere acquaintance of Harold's. Dumbledore's reception at Macmillans' and Abbotts' had been too formal for Dumbledore to entrust them with his plans, and he had not been received well at the Brocklehursts', Goldsteins', or McDougals' at all.

But there was still a chance that Harold could be moulded to be the hero that the world needed him to be – once he was away from his grandmother's influence and at Hogwarts, where he would be watched closely and guided carefully.

So Dumbledore would plan, and he would wait.

By the time Draco had caught up with Harry, he was already in the middle of introducing the various creatures to the newest addition to the family. Draco stared in wonder at what could only be a unicorn, a snidget, and a runespoor. The crup that was growling at him was ignored in favour of staring entranced at the golden snidget.

"How did you get those? They're illegal!" Draco said, interrupting Harold, who was trying to name the phoenix perched regally on his shoulder.

Scowling, Harry turned towards the blond boy, careful to not dislodge the as yet unnamed phoenix. Knowing what his cousin was fascinated by, Harry raised his hand in the air and had to wait only a few moments before the snidget gently landed on top of his fingers.

"All the magical creatures in here were a gift from my great-great aunt, and the Ministry had no problems with my keeping them when they saw the sanctuary grand-mère had had built."

When Draco looked as though he might try to grab the snidget, Harry lightly grazed the leg of the bird and the snidget flew into the air.

"Don't come any closer; Castus won't like that."

"Castus?" echoed Draco, still entranced by the snidget that was flying through the air.

"The unicorn? And stop staring at Aurum – the golden snidget – you're making him uncomfortable."

Draco forced his eyes away, trying to conceal his envy. Draco doubted his father could get him a golden snidget; even with all the wealth that was at their disposal, Draco wasn't the Boy Who Lived and so would not be granted that special privilege.

"The crup at your feet is called Fortis, and the runespoor heads are Reputo, Somnium, and Ira."

"A bit heavy on Latin, aren't you?" Draco said snidely, jealousy colouring his tone.

Harry shrugged indifferently. "I started with Castus, and it just seemed right I should continue. Besides, they're great names." Turning to the phoenix on his shoulder, Harry said, "I think I'll name you… Credo."

When the phoenix didn't object, Harry nodded before walking towards the only door in the forest.

"Don't they fight?" Draco asked, curious despite himself.

"The forest is Charmed to prevent any fights from occurring within its confines, and each of the creatures has their own part of the forest where the others aren't allowed to enter. The only one who's sectioned off is Asper, and that's because his stare would kill them all."

Before Draco could say anything in response, Harry opened the door with a flourish.

Translation of the names:
Castus: pure
Aurum: gold
Fortis: strong
Reputo: think
Somnium: dreamer
Ira: wrath
Credo: believe, trust
Asper: violent

A note about Harry in this story: this certainly won't be a Super!Harry story, nor is Harry a genius. His current knowledge of magical theory and politics is really just a regurgitation of his grandmother's teachings. It won't be until much later that Harry truly understands everything he's learning.