note: Kitty update! On Friday the 23rd, my poor cat baby had a series of consecutive short seizures — called a cluster seizure — and it lasted almost an hour, until an emergency vet had given her a second dose of the medicine as I only had one dose and it clearly did not help. LET ME TELL YOU, MY SOUL HAS LEFT MY BODY, I WAS SO TERRIFIED, IT WAS A SINGULARLY AWFUL EXPERIENCE. Long story short, she's doing okayish now, bless her, but she's been diagnosed with idiopathic epilepsy and after her trip to ICU she developed a conjunctivitis which irritated her into giving herself an ulcer in her eye, which we're treating right now. I swear, I have the most cursed health and awful hospital misadventures. Anyway, that's the reason the update got delayed.
We are taking a break from action in this chapter, because I cannot keep solving things with violence and through escalation. No matter how much I personally enjoy it. Once more, onto the breach.
As always, a massive THANK YOU to Katie (dreamsofdramione on ao3 & tumblr), my amazing, peerless beta who puts up with so, so much bullshit. For example, did you guys know I'm dyslexic and English is my second language? No, you did not. Why? Because Katie catches all of my mistakes, that's why. She's an eagle-eyed ninja.
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chapter four: to the manner born
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«SPECIAL EDITION: HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED RETURNS!»
«DUMBLEDORE, POTTER VINDICATED»
«DARK LORD DUELS DUMBLEDORE: INVESTIGATION AT THE DEPARTMENT OF MYSTERIES CONTINUES»
«EXCLUSIVE: HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED HAS RETURNED TO THIS COUNTRY AND IS ONCE MORE ACTIVE!»
«HARRY POTTER: THE BOY WHO TOLD THE TRUTH»
«DES MAGES NOIRS SONT RETOURNÉS!»
«DARK LORD'S DARK DEEDS: HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED FLEES FROM THE FORCES OF THE LIGHT»
The Daily Prophet, The Daily News, The Wizarding World News, Wizarding Times, The Observer, Le Cri de la Gargouille, and, for once, even The Quibbler, spoke with one clear, resounding voice — Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore were exonerated, and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had returned.
Sunlight streamed through the open window and a breeze blew through the room, billowing the delicate lace curtains and rippling them like pale flags, twisting them up towards the chandelier and out of the grasp of Crookshanks' claws. He laid in full sploot on an ivory-coloured rug, bushy tail swishing in agitation, and watched, lyncean and yellow-eyed, as the multicoloured silk ribbons danced in the air like eddies on the surface of the sea.
The room was bright and airy, as rose and white as a whipped strawberry pavlova. The furniture was wooden and cream-coloured. The upholstery, coverings, cushions, and pillows were all blush-pink, and the walls were sprouting murals of a watercolour forest canopy in shades of beige. Shelves were lined with rows of proudly displayed Steiff stuffed animals — bears and horses, monkeys and giraffes, lions and lambs, dogs and cats, and a family of otters showcased at the center of the menagerie.
This was Hermione Granger's childhood bedroom in her grandmother's house, starkly different from her urbane, pastel-blue-and-purple Laura Ashley bedroom in Hampstead Garden Suburb in London, which was overflowing with books and full of traces of the wizarding world. The Grangers drove to the north-east edge of Somerset — mere days after Hermione arrived at King's Cross from Hogwarts, moist-eyed and mute as a turnip about how tempestuous her end of term had been — for the annual summer holidays with the maternal side of the family, as Christmas was routinely spent in South of France with the elder Grangers.
Presently, Hermione, dressed in a sky-blue sundress that flattered her cool complexion, sat cross-legged on her bed and scrutinised, with a frown, the assorted newspapers fanned out across the rainbow quilt, her mind astir as the clamouring chatter of summer cicadas outside the window.
Rumours continue to fly about the mysterious recent disturbance at the Ministry of Magic, during which He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was sighted once more. Highly placed sources within the Ministry have confirmed that a number of trespassers have been apprehended, but no official statement has been released by the Auror Office.
Hermione quickly scanned the article on the front page of The Wizarding World News.
'As the investigation is still under way, we are not at liberty to release any names or details,' said Rufus Scrimgeour, the head of the Auror Office, neither confirming nor denying that the trespassers in questions are none other than Death Eaters—
"Ugh!" Hermione cried out in annoyance and chucked the offensive paper onto the edge of the bed. Earlier in the day, spurred by shock and panic that had followed an unsettling letter delivered by an owl, she had made her father drive her to Wizard's Thatch — a thriving wizarding market town-within-a-town sequestered within the old part of Bath. She'd purchased every available paper at the newsstand, each disappointingly sparse with the details. Certainly, the papers parroted one another and proclaimed the 'return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named' with unmerited confidence and ardor that had escaped them just weeks prior, when Harry had been, to quote a particularly vexing piece, a 'feeble-minded attention-seeker roped into perfidy by Dumbledore's malevolent machinations to undermine the Ministry.'
However, beyond the prosaic fluff, there was a patent dearth of information regarding the events that had transpired in the Department of Mysteries, and absolutely none of them spoke of the Death Eater arrests or their developments. Even The Daily Prophet, that over-priced, rumour-mongering rag, had brushed past the topic with nary a thought.
Why was that? Hermione wondered. Was it truly because the Auror Department was following procedure and treating the cases with sensitivity and due diligence by withholding details of an ongoing investigation? She would like to think so, but her experience with the wizarding world's criminal justice system did not inspire confidence in it.
Cringing from light paraesthesia in her right thigh, Hermione got up, walked over to her desk, and picked up the thick, ecru-coloured parchment that had prompted her inquiries. She gingerly unfolded it and read it once more, examining each word carefully and committing it to memory. Were there more sinister causes for the Ministry's silence? Hermione hoped not, and yet… a troubling thought prickled at the back of her mind. Had the Death Eaters bought their way out of incarceration?
"Meeeeooooow," Crookshanks yawned and stretched on the floor next to Hermione's besocked foot, sinking his claws into the rug with relish.
"Yeah, Crooks, I don't know either."
"Hermione!" Hector hollered with the hearty might of a twelve-year-old boy who was too lazy to walk up a set of stairs to fetch his cousin. "Aunt Emma says dinner is almost ready!"
"Be right there!" Hermione shouted.
She gathered all the papers off her bed and rolled them up before dropping them into the rubbish bin. She folded the letter back up, and deposited it into a table drawer right next to her wand before closing it. Neither her grandmother, her aunt, nor her cousin knew about her being a witch, and it was best she kept it that way.
When Hermione walked down the stairs, she was surprised to see her younger cousin waiting for her at the curtail step. Hector was small for his age, slim and slight, with a face like autumn acorns, both in shape and shade, and pointed, impish features. For years, Hermione had hoped he would show signs of accidental magic and join her on a train to Hogwarts, but such dreams were left behind when Hector's eleventh birthday came and went, and no owl arrived bearing a Hogwarts invitation letter.
She was truly the lone witch in her family.
"Heads up," he said. "Mum thought it's a grand idea to invite the Lindleys from down the street to Nanna's birthday party."
"Who are the Lindleys and why should I care?"
He gave Hermione an exasperated, put-upon look that clearly judged her intelligence to be wanting. "Misses Lindley is a solicitor and practically Mum's new best friend. Her husband does something or other with model boats. The reason why you should care is that they have three children, the eldest of whom is your age and a boy."
"Oh."
"Exactly my thoughts," Hector snorted. "I tried to run interference, but if Mum mentions a Michael to you, abandon all hope."
"I don't know why she bothers, I'm only in Bath for a few weeks during the year," Hermione said, eyeing a grape juice stain on the edge of Hector's sweatshirt, and wishing she was seventeen and free of the Trace so she could discretely Vanish it away instead of forcefully compelling herself to ignore it.
"I think she's got it into her head that you're hopelessly unromanced in that dreary, WALKMAN-banning school of yours."
"It's not dreary," Hermione weakly protested, the tops of her cheeks turning pink. Her First Year, Professor McGonagall really did issue a ban on students bringing their WALKMAN onto school grounds after Hermione's set itself on fire in the Gryffindor common room when she tried to listen to it. It was a rather embarrassing affair, and she wished she hadn't recounted a heavily abridged version to Hector, as he never let it go.
Hector rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't know, now, would I? You never take pictures of it."
"I told you electronics break in the area. There's something wrong with the electromagnetic field there."
Admittedly, box cameras were not technically electronics and she had albums full of pictures she'd taken with her disposable Kodak cameras over the years, but she shared few of them — mostly candid shots of Harry and Ron, and the Weasleys at the Burrow, but never of Diagon Alley or Hogwarts. Even her parents' accustomed eye, the locations were strange and peculiar, and it was almost impossible not to have something magical going on in the background. It never ceased to send a hollow pang of wretchedness through her, how she was unable to share neither the truth about herself nor the wonder of it all, but perhaps Hector's ignorance was a kindness — he could not miss what he did not know, he would not have to tolerate a world empty of magic.
"What could possibly be wrong with it? The school is in the Scottish highlands, not the Bermuda triangle," Hector grumbled, but let the subject go as the pair of them rounded the corner and stepped into the living room. Hector immediately made a beeline towards the television set, into which his gaming console was plugged in, and promptly deposited himself on a thrown cushion in front of it.
Nanna Rose's living room was spacious and well-furnished, decorated in deep sea-foam green and adorned with ornately printed flower-patterns on the wallpaper, furnishings, and textiles. The antique armoire showcased delicate porcelain figurines and the bone china Wedgwood set. Much like the rest of the house, it was neither chic nor twee, but welcoming and sweet, if old-fashioned. Naturally, Hermione's eyes drifted over to the mantel above the fireplace, where a collection of family pictures were displayed. She could see herself in most of them — pale and skinny, wild-haired and buck-toothed — at various stages of growth. The Pooles used to live close to the Grangers before Hermione went to Hogwarts, and then Aunt Charlotte and Hector lived with them during her divorce with Uncle Jordan, before moving out of London and in with Nanna Rose three years ago. As far as extended families went, theirs was a tight-knit one.
"Dad is trying to bribe me with a brand spanking new N64 and the latest Mario game," Hector explained.
"Is it working?" Hermione asked, curiously peering at the screen on which the opening cut-scene flashed into life.
"Meh," he shrugged. "I could use a little more bribing — he did go back on his promise to put more effort into seeing me. My shattered trust, however, could probably find the strength within itself to believe him again… if I was to be gifted a Game Boy Pocket the magazines have been raving about."
"Yeah, good luck with getting that past your Mum," Hermione snorted, though she was positive Hector would manage to sweet-talk Aunt Charlotte into allowing it. If he had come to Hogwarts, Hector would have doubtlessly been sorted into Slytherin.
She studied her cousin's profile pensively and ran an affectionate hand through his dark, wiry hair. Mayhaps it was a blessing in disguise that he was a Muggle. Hermione did not dare to contemplate what would happen to a Muggleborn in Slytherin House. Once more, her thoughts strayed into melancholy, out of which she was pulled by a low voice coming from the kitchen.
"Hermione, child, come here."
"Coming, Nanna."
In the sunflower-yellow kitchen, Hermione was treated to a sight of her grandmother sitting at the table and sealing the lids on the last of the cherry preserves. Before her, trays of sugar plums were spread out; some were cooked and covered with linens, and others were still waiting for their turn in the oven. The evening sun shone through the open windows and turned her grey hair into a silver aureole about her face. She looked up and smiled at Hermione.
"Sugar plum?"
"Yes, please," Hermione said, and popped one in the mouth, its tart sweetness melting on the tongue. "Mmmm, delicious, Nanna. They'll be a hit at tomorrow's garden party."
Nanna Rose's eyes crinkled in delight. It was hard to tell how old she was. Hers was a small face, weazened with age, with velvety skin stretched thinly over strong features, hollowing it out, but one could see clearly that she had been a great beauty in her youth. Her daughters looked just like her, too. Aunt Charlotte and Hermione's mother were close in age and so alike they could pass for twins: both were striking women — gracile and graceful as a willow tree, with skin like porcelain, straight black hair, and large, light hazel eyes. Hermione was their mirror image, sans her caramel-brown curls and small, upturned nose, both of which she got from her paternal grandmother.
The maternal line in their family had been unbroken for generations.
Aunt Charlotte came through the backdoor from the garden, with an armful of blooming magenta-pink astrantias. "Hermione," she said, toeing off her muddy boots before stepping through the threshold, "fetch me the crystal vase from the dining room."
Hermione complied, and half-a-minute later, was filling the vase with cold water in the sink. "They look beautiful," she said, stepping closer to her aunt to admire the damask-smooth petals.
"These Star of Fire blossomed marvellously, didn't they?" Aunt Charlotte arranged them into a bouquet. She picked up the vase and turned to carry it towards the dining table when she stopped abruptly and looked up at Hermione. "Goodness my, I've just noticed, but you've sprouted like a weed. How tall are you, love?"
"She's just sixteen and she's my height already," called Emma Granger from the dining room, laughing. She was setting the Villeroy & Boch dinnerware onto the blue linen tablecloth. "She'll grow taller still."
"Speaking of teenagers," Aunt Charlotte began, and Hermione knew she was in trouble. "Isla is coming over tomorrow for the party with her family. She has a lovely son your age, Hermione. Michael is a polite and smart young man. Isla says he wants to study to be a doctor. I'm sure you'll get along. He's almost as clever as you. Got four A-stars for his A-Levels."
"I'm not sure we'll have much in common." Hermione nervously inched away from her smiling aunt. "I've just finished my… GCSEs. Haven't even picked my A-levels."
"I'm not asking you to marry the boy on the spot," Aunt Charlotte said, a knowing look in her eye. "But make an effort to get along. Perhaps you two can be friends. You hardly have any outside of your school. And he is a very lovely boy, truly. I wouldn't encourage an association with a miscreant or a rascal, dear."
"I, for one, do not oppose this courting business at all." Nanna Rose shuffled over to the two of them, having deposited her jars of cherries into the pantry. "Michael Lindley will take one look at our Hermione and fall madly in love." She patted Hermione's cheek affectionately and the apple of it blushed prettily under her grandmother's scrutiny. "Look at those high cheekbones and those eyes — bright and clear, like sunlit chips of amber, and as lovely as a cat's. Your Mother says you have my look, but you will grow into a woman far more beautiful than either of us ever was, you can see that plain as day. Perhaps, your own daughters will eclipse all of us."
Hermione's fingers flexed and she shook her head. "I think those are a quite a while away, Nanna."
"Not too long, I hope," she said, a worryingly teasing gleam in her eyes. "I'm not getting any younger. In fact, tomorrow, I'm getting older!"
"Stop—"
"Your old grandma is practically decrepit now, dear."
"—please, I'm begging—"
"Spare her some mercy and let her see her great-grandchildren before she shuffles off this mortal coil."
"Nanna!"
"Babushka," Hector whined loudly from the living room, waving a grey, three-pronged controller in the air. "Stop embarrassing Hermione. If she could get any redder she'd turn into a tomato, and I need her alive. She promised to help me and this Super Mario 64* game isn't going to beat itself."
"Your cousin isn't a tomato, she's a blooming English rose and she blushes like one, too," Nanna Rose corrected, her face alight with mirth. "But all right. Children, finish your game while we wait for Dan to return and then it's dinner time."
Relieved, Hermione scurried out of the kitchen as fast as she could, Nanna Rose's delighted laughter following her out the room. She deposited herself next to Hector and breathed out a sigh of relief. "Thanks, I owe you two now."
"I'll consider the debt repaid if you take me to both HMV and Zavvi in the city centre."
"Since when have you been so materialistic?"
"I'm twelve, Hermione," Hector said, slowly, with a deadpan look on his face that said he thought she was being deliberately obtuse. "I'm still figuring out who I am, and I guess the Hector Poole I'm growing into really, really likes video games."
"Fine. I have some spare money, I'll take you to the city centre," Hermione said and picked up the second controller. "Now, observe the master at work, young grasshopper."
"Please," Hector laughed. "You could barely beat Sonic the Hedgehog and it was released five years ago."
Seven minutes later, Mario was being crushed by a Whomp.
Hermione watched mutely as the death animation played on screen.
"So," Hector drawled, "grasshopper, huh?"
"Shut up." She clicked on the saved file and started the level again. She could produce a corporeal Patronus and brave flying across England on the back of an invisible Thestral, she'd be damned if she would relent to a digital Italian plumber. Before she could run the level halfway through, the front door burst open.
"Beautiful ladies and a very handsome gentleman, we were blessed by Lady Luck: they were having a deal at Tesco's," Dan Granger said in lieu of a greeting as he shouldered his way through, carrying a heavy plastic bag and several boxed crates. "Guess who brought home three crates of fresh strawberries and enough boxes of meringue to give you diabetes just by looking? Me, Daniel Granger! There's more than enough for the guests tomorrow, so tonight, we gorge ourselves on Eton mess like kings!"
"I'll get the whipped cream!" whopped Hector and bolted towards the pantry.
Hermione got up and went to help her father with the groceries. He made some sort of joke she didn't catch, but everyone broke into titters and Hermione beamed at the sight, basking in the autumn-rich, ember-warm glow of her family's laugher.
For the span of an evening, she forgot about the perturbing letter she'd received that morning from Professor Dumbledore.
Dear Miss Hermione Granger,
I fear I am contacting you with some troubling news—
Harry woke up tired.
Scratch that.
Harry woke up exhausted.
He glanced at the automatic clock on the bedside table. The screen glowed in the dim, lavender light of the summer morning, bold red numbers flashing: 6:15am. Harry groaned and burrowed back into the warm covers, screwing his eyes tightly shut and wishing he could go back to sleep to re-dream himself.
When Harry dreamt, he dreamt of Little Hangleton: of a cold smoke seeping out of colder throats; of a misting cauldron and a ragged shadow rising from it; of a darkness falling and a spiral downwards; of a waning, topaz-yellow moon and a sky bathed in green; of his shivering heart and rattling lungs, and his body gripped in the confines of fear; and of a boy, bone-white and bone-dead.
In Harry's dreams, he did everything right.
He laid abed, listening to the soft sounds of his shallow breathing and counting seconds as they rolled into minutes, submerging himself in a slice of eternity. Eventually, the sky brightened enough to shyly shine yolk-yellow light into the room and splinch his narrow bed in twain, and the twitters of sparrows and finches nesting on the apple tree outside the window overcame the mournful dawn song of the lark. The clock face flashed 7:58am and Harry blindly pawed at the bedside table for his glasses.
He made his bed, changed out of his sleep clothes into wrinkled jeans and a faded T-shirt, which were simultaneously too baggy and too small for him — he had grown a lot in a short space of time and Harry's clothes refused to accommodate him any longer — and padded downstairs on besocked feet to make breakfast for the Dursley family.
Harry had finished folding the omelettes and was busy frying strips of bacon on the pan when a roar of a speeding automobile sliced through the quaint tranquility of Privet Drive. Harry glanced over at the Dursleys. Uncle Vernon jerked up in his place at the head of the dining table in the living room, bushy brows knitting in a frown over the top of his morning paper, and Aunt Petunia stilled and tilted her head curiously from her place by the kitchen window, where she was making a pot of English Breakfast tea. Dudley was still upstairs sleeping.
There was a sound of a dying engine, a closing of a car door, scuffle of shoes against the brick sidewalk, and, finally, a precise, sharp knock upon the dark-brown door of Number Four Privet Drive.
The Dursleys exchanged silent stares. It was early Saturday morning, and the household was not expecting visitors.
Harry blinked, then a fat drop of grease sparked off the pan and onto Harry's wrist, and he bit back a curse and stuck his hand under cool water to ease the burn. He turned his attention back to the sizzling bacon, peeling the twelfth and last strip of it off the pan and dumping it onto the plate with the others.
"Clumsy boy," Aunt Petunia commented without any real bite as she passed him. She wiped her hands on the front of her checkered apron and opened the door. The stark daylight and the contrasting shadows the figure in the entrance cast upon her did odd things to her visage — her long face paled miserably and her blonde hair acquired an odd lime-green tint to it.
"Tuney!" cried Sirius Black jovially, white teeth flashing with unpleasantness. "I could say it is delightful to see you after all these long years, but I'd be lying."
Three things happened at once: Aunt Petunia shut the door in Sirius's face; Uncle Vernon stumbled out of his chair, roaring 'GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!'; and Harry fumbled with the plate of bacon he was holding, almost dropping it, before he managed to settle it on one of the counters.
The door burst open.
"Now, now, that wasn't very welcoming," Sirius tut-tutted, still smiling, his distinctive, dark-grey wand delicately pinched between the fingers of his right hand. "You're being a rather ungracious hostess in turning a guest away at the door."
"Get out," Aunt Petunia bit out. She clutched at the hallway wall, knocking framed pictures of Dudley askew.
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry noticed that Uncle Vernon froze halfway across the room, stilling like a stone statue, his beady eyes blown wide with terror and rolling wildly.
Sirius took a step forward, then another, and another after that, until he had passed the entryway and walked into the house, backing Aunt Petunia into the living room. "My, without even a word of greeting. You used to pride yourself on having stellar manners, as I recall. Is my memory failing me in my old age? Forgive me, I've spent twelve years in Azkaban — it's as dreadful a place as one could imagine and terrible for the mind. Has Lily ever told you what it is? No? Shame. You'll fit right in."
"What do you want, you freak—"
"Hello, Harry," Sirius greeted, and with a flick of his wand Aunt Petunia lost her voice. She grasped her throat with shaking hands, eyes bulging, her mouth snapping mutely like a fish. "Go pack your trunk, we're leaving."
"What?" asked Harry, dumbly. His fingers turned numb and some sort of explosion took place at the pit of his stomach.
"Pack your trunk. I've promised you, haven't I? To give you a different home," Sirius said. At Harry's prolonged silence, his expression turned uncertain. "Unless you don't want to anymore—"
"Are you mad!" exclaimed Harry, voice cracking. "Of course I still want to!"
"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you I was coming. Everything's been terribly hush-hush since June. Dumbledore warned—"
"How much time do I have?!"
"To pack?"
Harry nodded.
"However long you may need. You won't be returning here anytime soon, so you best take your time and pack everything."
"Great!" Harry was already at the stairs, taking two at the time as he practically flew in his haste towards his small bedroom. "I'll be down in fifteen!"
"Meanwhile," he heard Sirius's voice carry upwards from the living room. "Tuney, you and I have a lot to talk about…"
The rest of what Sirius was saying was lost to Harry when he stumbled into his room and shut the door, gaze ricocheting off the walls and the objects, finding no purchase in his haste.
His trunk was still not fully unpacked from when he had returned from Hogwarts three and a half weeks ago, and Harry kicked it open and pulled an old canvas duffle bag — another hand-me-down from Dudley. Immediately, he dashed about the room and began to stow his belongings. Harry threw himself under the bed, wrenched up the loose floorboard, and emptied his hiding place of all food and valuables. He swept the stack of spellbooks atop the table into the duffle bag and jerked all the clothes off their hangers in the wardrobe and into it, too.
Harry double-checked every nook and cranny of his sickly peach bedroom for forgotten knick-knacks and spare quills, and took down the barely-started star chart of Uranus and its satellites he'd been assigned as Astronomy homework. Hopping around, Harry gathered up the mess of tangled robes in the corner of the room and threw them into his trunk unceremoniously, atop his most prized possessions — the Invisibility Cloak he had inherited from his father, the Firebolt broomstick he had got from Sirius, and the enchanted map of Hogwarts charmed by the Marauders.
He seized Hedwig's cloaked cage, wherein the sleeping snowy owl hooted in discontent, and sprinted back downstairs where he was met with a peculiar sight of Sirius casually leaning against a pale adler door frame. Aunt Petunia's best fine china cup and saucer floated before him with a spoon self-stirring hearty black tea. Meanwhile, Aunt Petunia was sitting at the dining table, grasping her hands firmly on top of it, a haunted expression pinching her face.
"I'm afraid our time together has come to an end, Petunia," Sirius said, spotting Harry. He straightened and dismissed the floating cup with a flutter of his wand. It placed itself delicately on the polished wood table and Aunt Petunia flinched when the spoon clinked against the porcelain.
Sirius's mouth twitched into a smirk. "You best remember what I said: mayhaps, we're all freaks — but every one of us is certainly more dangerous than you."
Harry's eyebrows rose. It felt very strange to be standing here in Dursleys' surgically clean kitchen, beside the top-of-the-range fridge and the wide-screen television, watching Sirius calmly threaten an ashen-faced Aunt Petunia. Harry had never seen this side of his god-father — darkly smooth and disturbingly Slytherin. As soon as the thought arose, Harry dismissed it with a shake of his head. Sirius was Sirius, true-hearted and lion-brave, and Harry's staunchest ally. He would never wish him ill.
"Is this all?" Sirius asked, frowning lightly as he examined Harry's baggage. At Harry's nod, he clicked his tongue and tugged the duffle bag off Harry's shoulder as his trunk cheerfully rolled by itself out the magically opening door, preceding both of the wizards through the entryway.
"Mum, Dad? What's going on?" Dudley's confused voice wobbled from the top of the stairs, but Harry spared him no thought.
He stepped out of the house, and he did not look back.
The car in front of the house was a gleaming silver convertible circa nineteen-thirties or forties — a sporty thing with a BMW logo shining at the front — and although Harry knew precious little about cars, it looked like an absolute classic.
Sirius tapped his wand against Harry's things and Harry watched as they shrunk to a ninth of their size before Sirius deposited them into the trunk of his car. For the first time since his arrival, Harry had the time and presence of mind to take in his godfather's appearance.
He was dressed in a well-tailored linen suit of creamy-white and a pink dress shirt that he left unbuttoned at the top. Startlingly, Harry realised that Sirius looked healthier and younger, by far, than Harry had ever seen him before. His face had lost its sunken, pallid quality and although he was still gaunt about the cheeks, he looked every inch as haughtily handsome as he did in the old pictures with Harry's parents. His grey eyes were sparkling, brimming with good-humour, and his thick, dark hair fell into his eyes with a sort of casual elegance Harry could never have achieved.
Sirius clapped his hands together. "Shall we depart now?"
Harry nodded jerkily as something lodged itself in his throat. Hope, he realised, elated. Wild and free, beating its wings in the cage of his chest.
Sirius put his hands on Harry's shoulders and peered down at him, expression softening, and a wide, white-toothed smile bloomed, gladsome and honeyed. "Prongslet, how do you feel about Venezuelan food?"
Less than an hour later, Harry had found himself in a secluded, quaint eatery in South Kensington, his perpetually messy hair windblown and spiked upwards by Sirius's speeding-laws-breaking driving. Sirius had ordered for the both of them: grilled chorizos, arepas filled with chicken and salty white cheese, spinach and feta empanadas, and a plate of golfeados. The breakfast was warm, rich, and savoury; far heartier than Harry was used to, but delicious all the same.
"Norrell, bless his fastidious, pernickety soul, is set on bleeding dry the Ministry's coffers. Twelve years in Azkaban!" Sirius cried, imitating the plummy voice of the named partner of Strange & Norrell law firm, who were representing Sirius in both his trial and his lawsuit, Black v. The Ministry of Magic. "Charged without a trial! A gross miscarriage of justice! The man is the epitome of sedulity, but Merlin's hairy arse, he's as keen as a bloodhound. If Barty Crouch Senior hadn't passed to his eternal reward, Norrell wouldn't have settled for having the man's job — he'd demand his prick and balls, too."
Harry was munching on the last piece of golfeado — a twisting pastry with cinnamon, cheese, and caramelised sugar — and nodded, listening to and weighing Sirius's words. Apparently, Peter Pettigrew was amongst those arrested at the Department of Mysteries back in June, and the reappearance of the tragic victim of the notorious mass-murderer Sirius Black among the living cast a shadow of doubt on the veracity of Sirius's arrest back in nineteen-eighty-one. Presently, Sirius was on probation until the conclusion of Pettigrew's trial, but Harry suspected he'd be acquitted on all counts, if the dismissal of the criminal charges during his own trial was anything to go by. That, and Gilbert Norrell sounded singularly determined to ensure Sirius would receive the reparations he was entitled to and more.
"Will Fudge resign?"
Sirius nodded over his cup of cream coffee. "He got into a right mess after June. My lawyers—"
"I thought it was only Mr Norrell," Harry said, surprised, "but you have lawyers, as in multiple?"
"I didn't even know I had them until a few weeks ago, but apparently my proxy has arranged for Lord Black to employ a whole swarm of those blood-thirsty sharks on retainer."
"You're a Lord?" Harry sputtered.
Sirius's gaze grew glazed. "My father—Lord Orion Black—had not disinherited me, neither in official nor unofficial capacity. I was never stricken from the will, never disowned… my mother made me think the family had cast me off when she blasted me from the tree… mayhaps my father held out hope I might return into the family fold, or he'd couldn't bear the dishonour of renouncing his own firstborn son. I shall never know the unvarnished truth of it, but..."
"You were not abandoned," Harry whispered, realisation dawned on him with shining clarity. He wondered if this was where Sirius's recent lightness of bearing had stemmed from. "Not truly."
Sirius laughed, darkly. "Circe, Uncle Alphard might consider it the greatest betrayal of the prodigal ways that I am so willingly naming myself a trueborn son of the House of Black, but yes."
Harry tried to wrap his mind around the revelation. Sirius had hated his family's elitist, blood-purist conduct, had revelled in his own rebellion and refusal to abide by their blood prejudice, and yet, he looked relieved by the news. It felt like a betrayal.
Is it though? You would relish it, too, Harry's mind whispered, ruefully. Had the Dursleys welcomed you, had they embraced you, had they shown that they could love you — you would have forgiven them, you would have forgiven everything. Your loneliness is bone-deep, Harry Potter, and you have a yearning, hungry heart.
"Your mother's portrait is going to have kittens," Harry said, smirking slightly, and tension he hadn't noticed before had bleed out of Sirius's shoulders.
After they had finished their meal and Sirius paid the bill — Harry had tried to protest, but then he remembered he hadn't had any Muggle money and sheepishly quieted down — they stepped out onto the street and into the sultry July sun. Sirius's curling hair gleamed under it and he pulled a pair of aviator sunglasses from where they were tucked into the front of his shirt, looking over at Harry, assessingly.
"You need new clothes." It was not a question.
Harry shifted nervously, acutely aware of how poorly he was dressed. "I don't. I have better ones in my trunk."
"You do," Sirius said in a tone that brooked no argument. "I am not parsimonious as Petunia, I have more than enough galleons to afford to dress my godson nicely. Especially now that I have access to the family vaults."
It was not that Harry hated shopping for clothes, but he had never particularly enjoyed it either. The clothes that were not Dudley's hand-me-downs, Aunt Petunia had bought for him at second-hand charity shops or the local Woolies*, if Harry was lucky. He had adamantly opposed Sirius's original plan of taking Harry to Bond Street to purchase high-end or designer brands — and Harry refused to show up at either Selfridges or Fenwick department stores looking like he was a step-above homelessness.
In the end, they compromised.
That was how Harry found himself being dragged through veritably every clothing store on Oxford Street. He'd gotten a number of new sets of socks, undergarments, and comfort clothes from Marks & Spencer. In House of Fraser, he'd gotten three warm coats — one autumn and two winter — and two light jackets, as well as several boots and trainers, and a pair of dress shoes. Debenhams was larger, and thus, there were more things to get: jeans and trousers, wool jumpers and flannels, hats and gloves and scarfs, but Harry drew the line at spending fifty quid per T-shirt. Hence why Harry left H&M and United Colors of Benetton stores with more bags than he could carry — Sirius bought him button-down shirts, T-shirts, sweatshirts, hoodies, joggers, and a sundry of other apparel Harry barely remembered trying on.
The worst part was the salespersonnel; they were brilliantly accommodating and helpful, and readily measuring and complimenting the boy who'd they were dressing under Sirius's watchful eye. Sirius, who was well-spoken, well-dressed, and roguishly charming, whom every single one had absolutely loved on sight and was eager to please, and whose wallet seemed to be as bottomless as his enjoyment of Harry's misery.
"You are a good-looking lad, Prongslet." Sirius laughed, like a heartless demon that he was. "You ought to wear clothes that fit you."
Four hours and a haircut done by a professional and not Harry in a bathroom with a pair of kitchen scissors later, Harry was sitting on a bench in a pair of snug Diesel denim jeans and a Gryffindor-red Benetton polo-shirt that the salesgirl had assured him made his green eyes brighter, and was tiredly eating a soft-serve ice-cream Sirius bought for them off a food-truck at the corner of Regent Street. It was lunch-time, but Sirius had determined they could afford to spoil their appetite with a pick-me-up.
Harry mindlessly ate his ice-cream and watched as people hurried past them, feeling the heavy weight of Sirius's leaden gaze on him and choosing to ignore it.
"You look so much like James, Harry."
A bittersweet pang shot through Harry's chest. Unkindly, he briefly wondered if Sirius truly saw him as himself — as Harry, just Harry — and not as an extension of Sirius's dead best friend. He tried to quash the feeling. It was not fair to Sirius nor Harry. He asked himself why he was acting so petulant and irascible. Sirius had gotten him away from the Dursleys, surely it ought to have made Harry happy. It had, for a while, and yet, he could not quite shake the feeling that something was afoot; that Sirius was while not necessarily lying — not saying everything either.
"I've told you before, haven't I? How I'd run away from home when I was sixteen with naught but the clothes on my back. Your father, my best friend, took me into his house then. He and his parents had fed me, clothed me, gave me a roof over my head, and showed more solicitude towards my well-being than my own mother had," Sirius said, his voice deceptively even. "Your father took care of me so I could take care of you in his stead."
The shard that had impaled Harry's heart cracked and shifted, almost dislodging, but not quite.
"Whatever happens, Harry, you must remember: I will always love you and I only want what's best for you."
Then, Sirius got up, threw the uneaten waffle-cone into a nearby bin, and walked towards his car. Harry followed him.
The ride was silent save for the radio playing Spice Girls. When they stopped at a red-light, Sirius said, "Harry, you are turning seventeen—"
"Sixteen," Harry corrected.
Sirius blinked. "What?"
"I'm turning sixteen, not seventeen."
"I… are you quite certain?" Sirius asked, peering down at him.
"It rolls around every year at the same time for the past fifteen years, so, yeah, I'm positive," he snipped, bristling. He loved Sirius, but sometimes a terrible, shabby thought tickled the back of his mind: what if twelve years in Azkaban had muddled his mind, like Mrs Weasley suspected. Instantly, he regretted his thoughts. He was tired and cranky and proper hungry, it was not Sirius's fault.
"Huh, almost a man grown," Sirius said, a far-away look on his handsome face. "I guess Paws wasn't being difficult then. I'm so used to thinking of—ah, nevermind, we're almost here."
The car turned a corner and Harry looked around. He was not familiar with London, but he knew enough to know that he'd never been in this particular neighbourhood. "We're not going to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place*?"
"No, it's under heavy renovation. We are staying at Avondale House*."
Before Harry could ask Sirius to explain, the car stopped in front of a grand, lush garden square and the building that was facing it. Sirius got out of the car to gather Harry's shrunk baggage and purchases from the trunk, leaving Harry alone to examine the house.
Calling it a house was a gross understatement.
It was a picturesque seven-storey detached mansion. Ivory-coloured and faced with white stucco, it had row-upon-row of large, impressively arched windows and a projected porch terrace bracketed by lofty, Graeco-Roman columns — it was opulent and imposing and cooly pristine. Blooming wisteria snaked and climbed the façade of the mansion, and dripped off window-frames like mauve tears.
"Home sweet home," Sirius said with strained joviality, and clicked Harry's dropped jaw back into place. "There is no Fidelius Charm on it, unfortunately, but we're working on setting one up. Regardless, the wards on it are second to none, otherwise Dumbledore wouldn't have approved of you staying here for the summer."
"Whose house is this?" Harry asked, finally gathering his wits. He scooped up Hedwig's cage and trudged after Sirius.
"You'll know soon enough."
The inside of the mansion was as phenomenal as the outside: high-ceilings, patterned wood floors, intricately designed cornices, a shimmering chandelier, and it was only the entry hall. Harry felt woefully out of place. Did anyone in the Order of the Phoenix even know a family that could afford something like this? The simmering unease that bubbled within Harry's heart for hours now had finally burst and overflowed, sending a shudder through his limbs. It wasn't right—something was wrong—what was going—
"It's us!" shouted Sirius, closing the door and casting some sort of spell on it afterwards.
"Oh, and here I thought it was Death Eaters entering my house so politely with a key, my mistake," said a drawling voice.
Harry's eyes snapped towards the figure who'd entered the hall from the room to the right and visibly paled.
"Malfoy?"
Draco Malfoy gave a thin, close-mouthed smile, which conveyed nothing pleasant. "In the flesh."
"Harry," Sirius said, brightly, ignoring Malfoy's disobliging attitude and impelling him forwards with a gentle push to the back. "Meet my son: Draco Black."
.
.
.
note: * According to Wikipedia, Super Mario 64 came out in mid-June 1996 in the US, but in September in the UK. We're going to pretend that it was a world-wide release or something.
* Woolies is short for Woolworths store.
* According to JKR, Grimmauld Place is in Islington and a short walk away from King's Cross (on which I call bull because walking from King's Cross is never easy or short, both regular traffic and the pedestrian traffic around the station is absolute murder) and Potterhead detectives determined it's likely based on Lincoln Inn Fields. I do not accept this. I refuse to put the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black in Holborn. So, fuck that, Grimmauld Place is in Bloomsbury near Bedford Square; it fits the description of where the house is in the books — a pretty square, a little away from the hustle and bustle, lined with Georgian terraced houses.
* I used to live in smack in the middle of Marylebone (and before that in Bayswater, and before that on 219 Baker Street, and before that in at the edge of Camden near Kentish Town) and prior to uni, the private college I got my A-levels at was in Mayfair — you don't get more Central London than that. Thus, I decided that Avondale House shall not haunt the same neighbourhoods I did, and established it in posh, Regency-style Belgravia.
FINALLY! 🎉 One of the cornerstone premises of this fic has been revealed! I can only hope none of you are disappointed with the development. I agonised over it since chapter one as I did not want to let down anyone's expectations. However, this development isn't entirely out of left field, I have dropped hints pertaining to it in previous chapters. Despite the reveal, there's a reason I have a This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think tag. I'm not done with making readers question where things are going, not by a long shot.
I don't picture any of the characters in this fic as their film counterparts — well, maybe Neville, because it's hard for me to visualise anyone but Matthew Lewis — but Sirius's fancast is most definitely Ben Barnes. Not only because Ben is age appropriate (shhhh, don't remind him he's turning 40 this year, he's in denial about it), but also because Benjamin is the actual love of my life. On my twitter nocturnes I am in my Darklina era and back on my Bin Bons bullshit.
I have a couple of fics in the hearth — no WIPs, thank god, just some long, self-contained one-shots — and exams in May. I am Struggling™. So the update schedule is sporadic and entirely dependent on how this chapter will be received. As always, please be a friend and leave a comment, I want to know your thoughts. ❤️