Disclaimer: I'm black haired, black eyed and still living with my parents. Do you still think I'm J K Rowling?

A/N: Thank you geetac , Relent1ess , yuiop, Gemini Peverell , jboat for reviewing. I am sorry for the late update but I am hopeful that next month, I'm going to be able to update more regularly. The chapter's a bit longer to compensate for the long wait. To jboat, I haven't thought about it, but your idea has merit and it would make sense if there were psychological repercussions but I have never considered Harry to be a well-balanced individual anyway.

CHAPTER 9

They say that you never really know someone till you've shared all of each other's deepest, darkest secrets. Thinking of it like that, I must have never really known Al. My son, the Dark Lord.It just shows, doesn't it, you never really know anything, even when you're dead and buried, and starting over a new life to boot.

-An Excerpt from the journal of Cepheus Pollux Black

It was a bright, sunny day, at complete odds with what was happening that day. It ought to have been a rainy, dreary day, the heavens themselves showing their sorrow at Hermione's death… but it was not to be. Harry would still have appreciated it if it hadn't been a day that was fit more for a wedding than a funeral. He looked at Ginny's hand that he was clutching tightly and wondered distantly whether he was hurting her. He looked at her face but except for the dried tear tracks down her cheeks, she looked completely all right, if a little tired. He looked at his other side, where Ron was sitting in a daze, simply looking at the ornate table his wife's body was lying on. The funeral was in the garden of the Burrow, the same place where so long ago, Ron and Hermione had said their vows to always be there for each other. Except now Hermione was gone and Ron was left all alone. It had come as a surprise, finding out that Hermione was sick, it had come even more as a surprise that the Healers had failed to heal her in just a few days. By the time they found out she was incurable, they were past surprise and had made their way to shock. What had seemed like a simple flu had turned out to be a new disease the Healers could cure.

When the end came, they were all tired, all their tears wrung out. At least they had had the time to say their goodbyes, something Harry had never thought would happen with Hermione. When they were teenagers, he had always thought that they would go in a blaze, or at least in a surprise, killed by someone's wand. Nowadays, the idea of death had become much milder, going out in their sleep, or maybe due to old age. He had always thought he would be the one to go first, what with his heart condition, he had never thought it would be Hermione. Even Ginny had been earlier in line, what with her propensity for death defying stunts. Still, they had all shed their tears, said their goodbyes and though he was still angry that something so common such as a cold had brought Hermione down, it was something they were all resigned to and had even accepted to small degrees. As Mrs Weasley had told them, Muggleborns died early, usually because they simply weren't accustomed to the germs going around the Wizarding World, and what was mild for Wizard raised children, was often deadly for adult Muggleborns, and incurable to boot. It was horrible but Hermione had told them all a story about how she had once read that colonisers had brought diseases to new lands that they themselves weren't affected by yet killed the natives in hundreds. By that time, her memory had been so far gone that she didn't remember the dates, the places or even the people. She wasn't even herself enough to figure out that there was something wrong with that scenario, but by that time Harry had been thankful for such small favours. At least she'd go peacefully.

It was lost in these memories that he dimly registered water engulf Hermione's body to leave a crystal casket her body was visible through. He was strangely apathetic to the spectacle. After all, Hermione wasn't really there, it was simply a shell that she had once inhabited. He was sure that if anyone had heard his thoughts, they would have thought him the worst friend ever. Most people there were crying, even those who had never known her in anything except professionally. It was simply that he had become somewhat immune to death. The thought of his own coming demise had necessitated that. Sometimes, he woke up in drenched in sweat, having had nightmares about what would happen after his death, scared out of his wits. But he didn't want to think of that now, it was much better to think that Hermione would go to heaven and watch over them like a silent angel. He had heard enough truth in his life to realise that sometimes, lies were all that kept one from crumbling. He couldn't afford to crumble now, there was simply too much to do. The least of which was not that Al had been strangely taciturn the past week, looking as if he was in some horrible dilemma. There had been no love lost between his aunt and him, but Harry knew it had been different for Al and Hermione. They had always been each other's favourites and he knew it had to be hitting Al hard.

Harry woke up with a start, sweating buckets yet chilled to the bone. It was times like this that he was glad for his little stuffed snake toy. It comforted him, letting him know that what he was dreaming wasn't real, that it wasn't actually happening. He was groggy enough with sleep that he didn't remember that it had already happened once. He fell back into a fitful sleep.

He walked over to Al, careful to keep his movements slow and loud so as not to surprise his son. He felt a burst of irritation that he quickly covered up, the boy had gotten over his meek persona with a bang, doing everything in the most dangerous manner possible. Except for the stiffening of Al's shoulders, he gave no indication that he had registered Harry's presence but Harry didn't take it badly. If he didn't have to, he would have preferred to ignore everyone too. He was just so tired that some days, he thought going to sleep might just be the better option. Of course, he never told anyone that, they'd probably guilt him into therapy all over again. Disregarding his musings as what they were, an attempt to postpone this talk. He went over and seated himself on the railing of the balcony, his body facing inwards, the direct opposite of Al's.

They were quiet for some time, Al looking out at the garden that was blooming with spring flowers and Harry, looking at Al. Finally, Harry spoke up, "You know that if there's anything you want to say, you can always say it to me, right?"

Al didn't say anything for a while after that before finally replying bitterly, "What's the use when it wouldn't change anything?"

Harry said noncommittally, "You don't always speak because it might change something, sometimes; you do it so that things don't change."

Al's mouth twisted a little as he turned to face Harry and said, "You shouldn't try to sound wise. It doesn't work."

Harry shrugged, hiding the disquiet he was feeling deep under, "Oh well, I tried."

"And sometimes, that's all we can do," Al muttered.

Harry shot him a curious look before saying in a cautious tone, "You should have come to say goodbye."

"Really dad?" Al asked mock reproachfully except there was nothing nice about it. "Is that what you really want to say?"

Harry took a deep breath in order to keep a hold on his temper that was already sorely put upon by the reporters before saying, "No. what I really want to say is that you should have been there, with your family. You shouldn't have acted as if you could give a damn about the fact that it was your aunt's funeral."

Al laughed angrily before he hissed out, "You're so wrong it isn't even funny anymore. You call yourself Head Auror yet you know nothing about it what's going on."

Harry couldn't keep a lid over his anger anymore. He had been bottling up everything in order to be the calm person everyone needed to take care of them for so long that he had absolutely no more space left in the container. He growled back in an equally angry manner "If you think your father's such a fool, why are you even here right now? Why not pop off to all those friends of yours who do know everything?"

"I would, except you keep telling me family's everything and even though you don't seem to care, those words seem to have seeped into someone's brains at least." Al was shouting by now.

Harry paused at that, all his ager suddenly draining out of him, tiredness replacing it. "Is that what you think? That I don't care?"

He got up, unable to sit anymore as he ran a hand through his hair. "Do you know how hard it is acting like everything's all right, like you're completely all right just because there's no one else who is? Audrey's been helping but there's only so much she can do to maintain the family while also handling the press matters. Percy's buried in work like always. George, like always, is ignoring everything since a death is involved and no one else seems to know what to do. Bill's missing and Fleur and Angie are doing all they can for the kids while Ginny's completely broken down and Molly seems to have suffered some sort of breakdown. And while I've been doing all I can to keep us afloat, you've been off doing whatever it is you do with Scorpius, and to make matters worse, you took Roxy with you. And you dare tell me that I don't care about my family?"

"IF YOU DID, YOU'D KNOW SHE'S NOT DEAD YET!" there was a stricken silence as Harry turned around swiftly and stared at his sone who suddenl looked horrified and yet relieved.

"What. Did. You. Say?" Harry asked in a deadly calm voice.

"She's not dead," Al answered slowly, panting lightly as if he'd just finished some great exertion.

"She's sick and it's contagious." Al continued as he looked at the mute demand on his father's face. Harry had trained it into his kids at a very young age exactly when they couldn't stretch ot prevaricate anymore, when they absolutely had to come clean. "She's in the Department of Mysteries, only Purebloods are allowed to treat her. Scorp's mum is one of the healers from Mungo's who are allowed there. She told Mr Malfoy who told Scorp, who told me, but Roxy overheard. Alice is working on getting us permits to visit, since I'm also a healer who's well versed in Muggle techniques, but it all depends on what they find in my blood. They took a little of it already, if my blood's vulnerable to the disease, I won't be allowed and my memories wiped, if not, I'll have to swore a vow to not tell anyone till given leave to. The only reason I wasn't memory charmed right away is because Mrs Malfoy talked to Alice and she doesn't know that we know."

Harry asked the simplest question he could choose from the multitude racing across his mind, "What?"

From the look on Al's face, it didn't seem to be a simple question at all.

Harry was gasping this time as he woke up. His head hurt so much, it felt like something was trying to tear it into little pieces. He was picked up in wrinkly arms and cradled close as a high pitched voice crooned at him, "Little Master Cephy be okays. He's be warm, and sleepy and be having bad dreams. Floppy's be making the dreams go away. Hush, Little Master Cephy."

The shrill voice made his head feel even worse. It felt even worse than a hangover. And who was this Little master Cephy? He wasn't this person called Cephy, he was Harry wasn't he, and he had been talking with his son Al. He tried to say this except his tongue felt oddly floppy and he got distracted by it. And then he thought that the person holding him was also called Floppy and that was so funny he giggled, but it made his head hurt and so he whimpered instead. When he finally got himself under control, he asked himself in confusion why someone was able to hold him in the first place. His thoughts felt oddly disjointed. He tried to move his arm lightly, but ended up waving it wildly, he could feel his crossing in disorientation. He was starting to feel really scared and his head hurt so much and then he fell asleep.

When he woke up, it wasn't any better. This time, he didn't even remember being Harry. All he could think of was that sometimes he felt so cold that all those blankets piled on top of him failed to make him feel any warmer, and sometimes he felt that he so hot that kicking of those same stifling blankets was a necessity. It was only as a cool hand touched his forehead in a manner that was so familiar that he had his first coherent thought. Mother.

The hand started stroking his head which felt really good and he mumbled his appreciation. A voice that he took a little while in connected to that hand told him softly, "Yes dearest. It's mummy. We've called a healer to look you up and you'll be feeling better in a little while. It'll all be okay."

Yes, he thought dazedly. Mummy would make it all better. She always did. She did when he didn't want to drink real milk and she got him powdered milk instead. She got it when he refused to eat eggs and gave him potatoes instead. Mummy would make it all better. Soon after, he fell back into an uneasy sleep.

Waking up the next time was better. There was something cold on his forehead and the air around him felt freer somehow. There were people around him, at least two, he was sure. They were talking about him. His head still felt woozy though he wasn't shivering violently anymore and so it took him a while to realise that they were talking about him.

"…too long," someone was saying.

"It's not written anywhere that use of the magic binding spell has side effects!" Walburga said indignantly.

The other woman, who he had trouble placing, said calmly, "One wouldn't expect them to write such things. The spell was for criminals, you see. Either they really committed the crime and don't matter anymore, or they're innocent and don't suffer under the spell for long enough."

Though the words were spoken in a perfectly conciliating tone, they still manage to sound faintly sarcastic, but maybe she simply spoke like that because Walburga didn't fly off the handle at her, something Harry had quite gotten used to."

"Wat?" He managed to ask in a somewhat coherent manner when it seemed they weren't going to talk further.

The woman he couldn't recognize said, "Hello. I am Healer from St Mungos and you are currently running a fever. It seems the magic binding spell that is always used whenever you go to sleep or are too tired to hold your magic close any longer has had a few unexpected side effects. Nightmares, delirium, nausea, high fever and loss of control over your magic are the few effects that have either already manifested themselves or are bound to. That means, that you're going to be sick a while longer, have bad dreams and your head will hurt but I am quite sure you'll be all right in a jiffy."

Harry blinked a little at that and wondered why she was explaining things to him twice. Did she think he wouldn't be able to understand it the first time around? As long as she was competent, he guessed he really couldn't blame her for her less than appreciated bedside manner, he just wished Al could have gotten Astoria to look him over. Well, he thought pragmatically, when you were on the hiding from muggles who were all extremely cautious and hostile to a race whose only reaction to them seemed to be of trying to put them all into quarantine, never mind whether they were actually sick or not, suffering from a gross lack of food since most plants and all animals were either infected or carrying the mutated virus and part of a fast dying population, healers were rare and having anyone beside your bed when you died at all was a miracle.

He had already closed his heavy eyelids, getting ready to slip into the jaws of sleep, when a thought struck him with enough force to make him become alert for a moment before all went slowly blank. What was Walburga Black doing in their safe house?

Lord Voldemort was having a bad day. Actually, he had been having a bad week but since he was currently in the Ministry of Magic, thinking upon all those horrible things that had occurred wasn't such a good idea. H had a horrible temper and right then, he was hanging on by threads to it. He had finally gotten tired of trying to get any of his followers introduce his name in the Wizengamot for a recognition as the leader of a political party. Every time anyone who belonged to his party, The Knights of Walpurgis, tried to introduce such a motion, Dumbledore would intercede, siting some sort of emergency that simply had to attended to, or getting his own supporters to block the motion. Once, he had had Avery introduce a motion to debate on all the matters that affected the future of Magical Great Britain. Refusing to pass tat motionwould have meant adjourning the session for that day because what else didn't the Wizengamot have to do but discuss all the matters that affected Magical Great Britain? It had been a colossal failure, ending up as a debate on whether the newest Muggle prime Minister ought to be told about them and the idea put forth by the previous Prime Minister, about informing the heads of the different important departments also know about them. The debate had gone on for two days, the Prime Minister was finally told about them and the Department Heads were not.

And that was the reason he was currently standing on Level Two, in the Wizengamot Administration Services, trying to get himself nominated as a candidate for one of the Common Seats on the Wizengamot. It was disgusting the lengths he had to go to, to find a way to achieve his goals. If only they knew who he was, they'd all be bowing down before him. He was the Heir of Slytherin, a descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself, and they dared refuse him? Dumbledore might go on about how everyone was equal, but even he believed in Blood Supremacy, why else would he take a dislike to Tom the moment he found out he was living in a Muggle Orphanage? If it had truly been only anout his actions, his companions would have also come under the same scrutiny he had come under, but they hadn't. Every time something went wrong, he was the one who Albus Dumbledore suspected. Even now, years after he had left Hogwarts, he was being thwarted by Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.

Finally, the clerk sitting behind the desk in the small white room filled to bursting with filing cabinets, two desks and four chairs, handed him a thick stack of official looking forms. He said in a bored voice that perfectly suited his bland and boring persona, "Fill them in Blather's Bureaucratic Ink, Express Black, with a Truth Charmed Eagle feather quill, we'll know if you don't, get the signatures of four upstanding citizens who support you with at least ten years of public service behind them, and the stamps of two members of the Wizengamot who have had their seat in their family for at least three centuries. Bring them back with your OWLs', NEWTs' and Masteries' results. They will be cross checked by the Department for an Exemplary Education. The Department for Law Enforcement will look over your history. You will receive the results as soon as possible."

Which, Voldemort took to mean, meant as soon as convenient. Since there was nothing else he could do at that moment except blow the man's brains out which might cause a mark against him in the DLME's records against him, he turned and walked out of the room. It wasn't much of a room either, he thought in disgust as he made his way over to the lift, the bottom of his robes had gathered dust and were leaving a fine trail of it behind him. What, he asked himself in derision, was the use of having magic if you couldn't even bother to wave a wand to clean the place up? When he took over, he thought with a slight curl of his lips, everyone would have to do what he told them to or suffer the consequences. And one of his first edicts would be that everyone acted as a Wizard ought to, with pride I themselves and their surroundings. Living in squalor helped no one and what was diamond, but pressurised coal?

He kept himself separate from the frantic people who boarded the lift with him and paid no attention the couple of women who were arguing at the top of their lungs, not even when one of them slapped the other who promptly burst into tears. The standards at the Ministry were very low. When he took over, everything would rum much more smoothly than this, he reiterated. When the lift opened its doors to the Atrium, he got out calmly, though inside he felt like torturing someone, preferably the man who had knocked into him or maybe the grubby toddler who had dared grab onto him. As he made his way to the fireplaces ringing the Atrium, he thought vindictively that when he took over, he'd make sure that people had to undergo untold humiliation to enter the Hallowed Halls of the Centre of Administration of their country. Having them throw themselves in a muddy ditch covered portal sounded like a perfect idea. Or maybe he ought to have them flush themselves in? Hopefully, someone would end up drowning themselves, he was hopeful the grubby monsters of untold ghastliness would do the happy inauguration.

Getting back to Gaunt Manor; he categorically refused to call it home, that would imply a sort of attachment to the house he simply refused to have; was no better. His study had somehow managed to resemble a menagerie of birds more than anything else in the small period of time he was gone.

"Blipsy!" he yelled angrily. Where was the elf while two ravens, three eagles and five owls proceeded to make his study into a nest? If there was even a single scratch on his tables or chairs, he was going to make Blipsy iron her EARS! He felt a decided inclination to start capitalizing his thoughts but that sounded a lot like signs of insanity manifesting so he decided to do his utmost not to do that. That resolution bit the dust though when he saw one of the owls peck itself on one of its wings and lift its leg a little.

"YOU WILL NOT DO THAT HERE!" He didn't know if owls did their business in that manner but if they were anything like dogs, there was soon going to be a room full of dead birds in his manor, to HELL with their letters!

Blipsy popped in with a cowering expression. He opened his mouth to shout at her before he took in her bedraggled condition and changing his mind, asked instead in shock, "In the name of all that is holy to House Elves, why are you naked?"

She wasn't in fact, naked… just nearly so. There were marks on her arms and face as if she'd been pecked by an army of vicious birds. Her toga was in shreds, not even managing to keep her modest. She cowered a little more at his stare, if that was even possible. He rubbed the area just above his eyes in order to stave off an impending headache, taking in calming breaths. It didn't work and he shot a Bombarda at a vase beside the door he kept for that very purpose.

He felt a bit better after that, if only marginally, and stated out loudly and slowly, "Any nasty business here and all of you are going to become toasty little critters. So, why doesn't the first one of you make its way here?"

He didn't actually expect any of them to understand him but said it as an aside while he extended an arm. The two ravens looked at him with a similar glint in their black eyes and then one flew over to him gracefully and landed on his arm, digging its talons into his forearm. He didn't even wince, whenever he went out, he always made sure to wear his dragon leather battle armour beneath his more normal clothes. One could never be too careful while being a Dark Lord. He untied the piece of parchment tied to the raven's leg and saw that it bore the seal of the Black Family. He broke the seal carefully; you never know when you might need to impersonate someone, and needed the family seal.

It was written by Walburga Black, to his surprise as he had imagined it to be from Cygnus, and cordially invited him in pretty words and flowery language to the God Parent choosing Ceremony of Cepheus Pollux Black.

He tossed it aside as unimportant and though the raven shot him a dirty look, it took the signal and flew off to Blipsy. She looked terrified to see the winged monster make its way to her but held out her hand gamely and as soon as the raven landed, apparated away to dispose of the bird. He hoped there was cooked raven for dinner but held no high hopes for the elf's courage. He would have taken care of it himself but it was hard to do away with birds of the Ancient Houses, if the lineage of the wizards was long, so was the birds' and often, many traits were built into both. He looked at the other birds, all of which were waiting impatiently for him to remove their letters, and held out his arm again.

He was hopeful that by the time he got to the owls, he would be able to do away at least one of them. This letter, he was surprised to note, also bore the emblem of the Blacks, and opening it, he found out that it was a letter from Walburga Black cordially inviting him for an afternoon tea. If anyone had asked him, he would have confidently said that Lucretia would be the one to send him such letters buthe was being forced to reconsider his opinions now and he didn't appreciate it at all. Considering it was evening, it must have arrived in the morning while he was out and he was pleased to note that he had managed to escape having to step foot into that horrid Grimmauld Place filled with Muggles without actually having to do anything except doing what he should have been in the first place.

The raven looked at him silently yet imperiously and he told it contemptuously, "It's already evening, you brainless excuse of a messenger bird."

It made an angry noise but he paid no attention to it as he flung it off his arm and an eagle landed on him, instantly taking its place. The birds had followed the classic behavioural patterns bred into them by most trainers and approached him according to their hierarchy and time of arrival. Ravens, then eagles and then owls went the hierarchy, with different breeds being higher up than others but generally, in a species, the bird that came earlier was the one that approached the receiver first. Such was the case here as well. He looked at the scroll he had removed from the eagle, dumfounded, as he saw it was from Walburga Black as well. It told him that she had discovered a wonderful learning opportunity and being in a sharing mood, she had naturally thought of him, remembering how he had always spent so much time poring over books while he was at school. It also proceeded to tell him that she was afraid that the opportunity might not last long so it might be prudent if he hastened to 12, Grimmauld Place at once.

He read the letter over once again and then looked at all the other birds still in front of him with deep suspicion as he wondered what exactly it was that Walburga Black wanted from him. By the time he had read all the letters, his suspicion had been proved right. They were all from Walburga and ran through the spectrum, ranging from pleadings to angry demands. He still hadn't realised why she wanted to see him so desperately even after reading the last letter but what he had realised was that Walburga had knowledge of curses so bad that a Knockturn Alley tavern keeper would have blushed in embarrassment. Contrary to his own expectations, he didn't feel angry at all. In fact, the post script, which told him in clear terms that he was the abominable spawn of a frog hatched inside squid entrails that was a blot on the face of all respectable dung eaters made him feel like laughing.

He didn't of course, he was well aware that he was being insulted, and quite badly at that, but when someone ran out of traditional insults and proceeded to call you grog spawn, having misspelled frog in haste, flobberworm leavings, the regurgitated food from a whale's stomach and what not, it was very hard not to feel amused as you realised that you had already insulted her worse than anything possible by the simple expedient of ignoring her completely.

He couldn't help it anymore,

he chuckled a little before deciding that though he would have to punish the witch, he might as well go and find out what had put her in such a desperate strait. Why, he might even thank the person who made it happen.

After he had cursed them for setting her on his trail of course.

A/N: Do please review!