Harry was in Cassiopeia Black's old workroom at the Black Chateau two days after the meeting finagling with a particularly tricky rune sequence as the woman in question hurled 'encouraging' insults at him.

"I can see how you and Aunt Dorea are related," Harry shouted, ignoring her overly loud mutter of butterfingers.

"Finesse! You are lacking in finesse, Herakles!" she called back. "This is an absolute travesty!"

Had she been alive, Cassiopeia would have most likely thrown him from the room and drawn the necessary runes herself but alas, he was left with a cranky portrait.

"Dorea would be far more lenient," she told him, grey eyes critically scanning the runes he had drawn so far.

"That's because she likes me," Harry retorted.

"Please, there's no need to chase compliments child. I like you well enough," she sniffed.

He ignored the urge to roll his eyes, focusing instead on powering the runes. It was going well and Harry nearly whooped in excitement until he felt a tingle of magic, strong and building. Eyes wide, he hastily threw up a shield as the runes gave off a shockwave of energy that pushed heavily against his shield, though Harry managed to avoid being forced backward a few steps.

"A splendid job nephew," Cassiopeia said dryly, eyes staring in disbelief at the smoking hole at the edge of the circle. "What in the name of Morgana have you done?"

"Might have accidentally smudged something," he mumbled, face dusted red in embarrassment.

"Your mind has been wandering for the past few hours. Care to explain what troubles you?"

The request was more of an order, and Harry thought on it as he cleared the room. He had been going at it for hours, pushing through the beginnings of Old Welsh script with Cassiopeia as quickly as he could, but Harry had reached his limit for the day.

"The Wizengamot," he replied. "They've a new bill on the table."

"I suppose those old codgers have decided to throw money at the DMLE and little else," she said, brow raised in question.

"How did yo—"

"They did the same in forty-six. And again in eighty-one, though that did not go so well when Bartemius's son proved a Death Eater," she told him. "People don't like to give their Aurors money when the head proves unsuitable."

"The current head is unsuitable," Harry retorted.

"Yes, well. When have they ever been up to par?" Cassiopeia countered.

Before he could comment on Madam Bones's tenure, Cassiopeia moved the conversation to where he suspected she wanted to lead it to all along.

"How is your displaced princess?" she asked, face a mask of innocence.

"Is gossip the only thing you portraits do?" he asked archly.

"Nonsense," she sniffed. "We've been known to settle old grudges from time to time."

He rolled his eyes; the Blacks believed that settling grudges was best done with magic and a great many of them had been peeved to discover that portraits did not possess the same capabilities – until a Black had pointed out the close proximity of fencing swords within each portrait.

"Try not to string Walburga up will you? Kreacher will hound me to repair her portrait again," he added sourly.

"I make no promises," she grinned, a wicked glint in her eye. "Perhaps Cygnus – the poor dear could use some livening up."

Harry laughed at the image his mind conjured of what Cassiopeia might consider 'livening up'. Cygnus Black III had spent a full year swinging between puffed up pride that it would be his blood continuing the Black line and consternation over it being through his unruly middle child.

Andromeda had smiled winningly at her father's portrait, introducing him to his adopted grandson – who had been a half blood and the defeater of the Dark Lord – and his metamorphmagus great-grandson who's birth father had been a werewolf. Cygnus had disappeared from his portrait at the Black ancestral manor for two months, until he had decided to ignore the unpleasant bits of his descendant's family trees.

"He'll never return," Harry laughed.

"He will. Else he will be stuck with the portrait of Great-Aunt Elladora – and no soul wishes to suffer that," Cassiopeia retorted.

Kreacher popped in just as Harry removes the last bits of ash and dust, and thick newspaper roll in his arms.

"Mail for Master Herakles," the old elf croaked.

He had cleaned up; still old and slightly stooped with droopy ears, Kreacher stood tall and proud, a fresh tunic-vest with the Black crest stitched in full display.

"Oh my," Cassiopeia murmured, leaning to the side to see the paper. "At least it's flattering."

Dreading the thought, Harry hurried to relieve Kreacher of his burden, cursing internally at the meddlesome reporters of the Daily Prophet.

Harry Potter Makes His Wizengamot Return, Unknown Woman Spotted with Potter-Black Ring

Swearing loudly, Harry skimmed through the article, unconsciously leaning toward Cassiopeia's portrait so she could see the words written.

"That must be the nicest thing they've written about you," she told him.

"The nicest…'Lord Potter-Black has again deigned to present himself at the Wizengamot chambers, a woman of unknown origin on his arm as he presented her fondly to his closest allies'…are you kidding me?"

"You can always murder the reporter," she japed.

"Murder isn't an option," Harry retorted, hands gripping the paper tightly.

"If it's not an option then you are clearly doing something wrong," Cassiopeia shot back. "What did you expect when you gave her that ring?"

"What?" he said blankly.

"The ring, Herakles," she pressed, "It was bound to start rumours."

"A ring to show a claimed ally?" he asked in disbelief.

To his consternation, Cassiopeia suddenly began to laugh; deep guffaws like he had never heard from the woman causing her shoulders to shake. "Come Herakles, we must tell the others."

"Aunt Cassiopeia," he spoke through gritted teeth, "What do you mean?"

It took her the better part of a minute to gather herself, though her eyes shined with overwhelming glee as she stared at him. "Quite the scandal, my dear, very well done. You are correct; the ring is given to claim a person's position as an ally – particularly for those who are offered the protection of the family. For an unmarried lord or lady to present such a ring to someone with whom marriage was a prospect, especially an unknown person such as your princess, would speak of a close relationship."

Harry stared at her, mind working through the implications of his well-meant gesture. "You mean to tell me that there are people who assume she is…"

"The future Lady Potter-Black, yes," she smirked.

"Bloody, buggering…shit!"

"Oh what did you expect?" she asked in a huff. "Herakles, you have not been tied to another woman since your very public split with those friends of yours," she said in slight disdain. "Even your friendship with Lady Bones was seen as just that – a friendship borne of war."

Fucking hell, he thought, running a hand through his unruly curls.

"That can't be the only thing they took the ring for," Harry tried.

"No, there were other options," she conceded. "But when it comes to you society has been practically salivating at the thought of your marriage prospects. Why would they not assume the beautiful woman on your arm is romantically linked to you?"

"That's bloody stupid," he muttered.

She was right, he knew; the Wizarding World had fervently followed the non-existent scandal of his ending relations with the Weasleys, had speculated for years over whether he would marry and name another child his heir. Harry had spent years ignoring those kinds of suggestions and had ended his longest friendships over them.

Elia is going to kill me, he groaned.


He entered his family home as if he were guilty of a monstrous crime – pointedly ignoring the voice in his head that blamed him for thinking the wizarding public would not draw hasty conclusions – and slunk into the library.

The kids were sleeping by now, and Harry walked further in to see Elia tucked into the wingback chair in her corner, the Dornish Princess chatting amicably with Lemelle as her bronze skin shone from the soft light of the fire.

"…witches will use the tea as an excuse to brag and ask pointed questions."

"A normal day in the life of a princess," Elia jested. "Perhaps we need a court fool."

"Are you taking applications?" he teased half-heartedly, pulling soft laughter from her.

"You're early," she noted, straightening at the look on his face.

He shook his head in slight frustration as he sat on the loveseat, "The runes weren't working out as well as I hoped."

Elia smiled encouragingly, "I'm certain you'll find a way."

He grimaced in reply, taking a deep breath as he pulled the magazine forward.

It's now or never, he reminded himself, unfolding it so Elia could see the blazing headline and the moving photo beneath. As far as pictures went, this was not a terrible one.

It was almost, dare he say, nice.

The photographer had caught them as they turned a corner, a wry grin on as face as Elia smirked up at him, a joke passing between them that he couldn't clearly remember – likely something to do with his aunt.

To his horror, she flipped to the writing and started reading bits of the magazine out loud. "Lord Potter-Black looked utterly ravishing…hair in a wild mess of curlsisolation has rendered him a most hand…well, they certainly adore you."

"Look further, you will most certainly find something waxing poetically over his green, green eyes," Lemelle laughed, blue orbs sparkling in amusement.

"Ah, here…green eyes shining with untold emotionheavily smouldering gaze…"

Lemelle was fanning herself, a wicked smirk on her face as she commented, "Is that what children these days are reading? That sounds almost as raunchy as poor Minister Spavin's hidden letters to his wife."

His lips twisted in disgust at the thought, turning his attention back to Elia. Her face was unreadable, eyes skimming the article before they snapped back to him. Releasing a breath, he offered the copy of The Daily Prophet Kreacher had given him, the same photo emblazoned on the front page.

Harry knew when she had realized his blunder as her body stiffening in what he hoped was surprise; her eyes darted quickly to the ring resting on her hand, the gold band had small black diamonds surrounding a flat grey stone, the enlarged P and B etched precisely in the silvery-blue of his birth house.

"I didn't mean for it to come off like that," he blurted out, shifting nervously in his seat.

"Come off in what way?" she asked. Her tone gave nothing away, and Harry could not tell anything from her expression.

"The ring is a sign of an alliance, but they're all gossip hungry vultures who assumed that I'd shack up with the first woman they saw me with," he rambled anxiously, "Not that I wouldn't cause you know you're you but I wouldn't do that to you after everything, and I'd like to think we're friends by now and yeah – I'm just going to shut my mouth now."

His face was flushed horribly as the portrait of his great-great-great-grandmother shook with laughter.

Stupid, stupid Harry, he berated himself.

He had always been terribly awkward around women; his split with Ginny and the aftermath of the war had put Harry on guard most of the time, leaving him to exchanging polite greetings, and Teddy being his heir had only strengthened those notions.

But this was Elia; the Princess-turned-friend who helps him with politics and lets her son call him Papa even though he was a crown prince, who Harry had sworn – even if only to himself – to protect alongside her adorable children.

Not for anything would he lose what he was coming to see as a cherished friendship, nor would he allow the Wizarding World to interfere when they weren't wanted.

"You overthink things," she told him, placing the photo on the coffee table next to her discarded mug. "Let them talk."

"Elia, the entirety of Britain reads these papers," he informed her.

"That is inconvenient," she agreed. "But they were going to gossip anyhow. From the moment they saw me at that meeting. Or why else would your aunt ask for tea?"

"They think you're…" he cut himself off, unwilling to bring the thought to life.

"…plotting to marry you and steal your riches? I imagine a number of people would assume such without knowing the nature of our friendship."

He conceded the point, but he worried still over how it would be taken. "The ring?" he asked anxiously.

"Would you like me to return it?" she questioned curiously, head tilted to the side as her black eyes stared intently at him.

"No," he said quietly. "I mean to honour the intention behind it."

She smiled softly in reply, gaze softening as she stared once more at the photo.