Disclaimer- This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the Harry Potter world, which is trademarked by J. K. Rowling. I do not claim any ownership over any characters or the world of Harry Potter. The story I tell here is not part of J.K. Rowling's story canon (which is far better than anything I could write). I'm only borrowing some of her characters to practice fiction writing. The fanfiction story of The Peverell Gambit is for entertainment only, I will make no money off of it, and is not part of the official story line.
Rating: T. There will be murder and torture (typical death eater and vigilante activity), and the occasional bit of bad language and sexual innuendo but nothing overly graphic.
Premise: Time travel.
Pairings: Harry/Bellatrix, sort of. No harem, no slash.
Cover Art: Portrait of Paul Victor Grandhomme by Raphael Collin (before 1890).
July 31, 1960
"People like us, who believe in physics, know that the distinction between past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion."
Albert Einstein
When the pounding in his head subsided, he opened his eyes only for light to assault them. It took a few moments for his vision to clear and he could make out his surroundings.
He was on a tropical island, with the ocean facing him, a steeply rising forest to his back, and nothing but white sand to his left and right. He was also starkers; no clothes, no trunk and, more importantly, no wand.
"Crap," he grumbled as he stood, stretching his aching and sand encrusted body.
Time to take stock. He didn't need his wand for the easy spells or even the hard, provided he didn't mind the excess drain.
"Speculum," he spoke. A mirror shimmered into existence before him. He saw a taller, healthier looking version of his ten year old self looking back at him, one unburdened by a decade of neglect at the hands of the Dursleys. Wild black hair. Bottle green eyes. Pale skin unmarred by decades of war. More importantly, without any curse scar marring his forehead.
"Diem. Tempus. Locus." The date, time and his location appeared in green glowing letters. July 31, 1960, St. Martinique, the Caribbean, Northern Hemisphere.
'It worked. Mostly, anyway,' he thought, mentally writing off the loss of his trunk and wand, and not really caring about the loss of clothes.
He wished Hermione was here so he could tease her about her calculations being slightly off. The bushy haired witch would probably be in a snit that her arithmancy failed to deliver his wand or trunk.
Never mind that she had successfully moved him across time and space while destroying and rebuilding his body. If there were ever a picture next to the dictionary definition of perfectionist, it would be of Hermione.
The current Fort-de-France was likely far different from when he last saw it, making disapparition unsafe. Picking up a stick from the forest behind him and laying it flat of his palm, he said "Point Me, Fort-de-France." It spun to his right. Dropping the stick, Harry James Potter started walking.
August 1, 1960
"It's not what you know, it's who you know." Popular adage, but first printed in 1914, The Electrical Worker May 233/1.
A few hours walk and a quick stunner to an unsuspecting tourist found Harry James Potter poorly clothed in overlarge garments and with a modest amount of cash. He used the cash to buy dinner, better fitting clothes and hire a cab to take him to his target's home.
An evening and day staking out what could be charitably described as a waterfront saloon with an apartment above was well spent when he finally noticed his intended victim leave. A few minutes bypassing some rather amateur wards found him sitting in the darkened study of Guilliame Thierry Peverell, smuggler and occasional murderer. Through the wide glass doors leading to a balcony, Harry watched the moon high over the horizon as it cast its pale light over the harbor.
Peverell returned to his flat quite late, which was fine with Harry. Less chance of being interrupted if most of the town was abed.
Peverell moved about his small, spartan kitchen for sometime before making his way into his bathroom and then to sleep. Harry sat quietly in the dark at Peverell's desk for another hour, meditating.
'Patience is a virtue,' he thought to himself as he continued to sip a glass of his unknowing host's exceptional firewhiskey. He limited himself to just one finger of the good stuff. While he felt the need to celebrate, this body lacked the mass necessary to truly enjoy the bottle.
Finally, he stood and made his way into Peverell's bedchamber. The man was fast asleep. A wordless and wandless "Stupefy" insured he stayed that way.
TPG TPG TPG
Guillaume Thierry Peverell woke to darkness. He was bound to a chair and there was a cloth bag over his head. He was not a man prone to panic. He tried to maintain his breathing and feign unconsciousness. He needed time to think.
"I know you're awake," said a voice speaking perfect school book French. "The sooner we talk, the sooner we can put this unpleasantness behind us."
Peverell remained silent. The voice sounded young and male. It lacked the lilt of the Caribbean French spoken in St. Martinique, so he wasn't a local. His thoughts were interrupted by a stinging hex to his thigh.
'A wizard! Damn it!' he thought as he swore colorfully.
"As I said, the sooner we speak, the sooner this unpleasantness ends."
"Who are you? What do you want?" Peverel asked, his voice raspy as he continued to think. His captor wasn't an auror. They would have come through the front door, wands blazing. That left the darker side of his profession as being the reason for this visit. Peverel felt sick as the odds of his surviving the night plummeted.
"Both excellent questions. In answer to the first, it is not important who I am, but rather who I will be. As to the second, I want a lot. Some of it from you, most not."
"The real question you should be asking yourself," the voice continued, "is how do I get out of this without too much damage."
Peverell paused as he collected himself. He'd been in situations such as this many times in the past. Granted, on those occasions he hadn't been the one bound to the chair. His captor wanted something, otherwise they would not be having this conversation. He could get out of this. Then this bastard would pay, he promised himself. Pay in blood and tears.
"I assure you, my friend," he said, suppressing his rage. Losing his temper would be counter-productive. "I am far more valuable to you alive than dead. What is it that you need from me? If it is mine to give, you will have it."
"Good. What I want is a specific identity. Ironclad. So deep and so extensive that none would ever question it. Not the muggles, not the aurors, not the goblins, and not even you."
Peverell relaxed. "I can do that. I have friends in both the muggle government and among the local magical community. I can have papers for you this time tomorrow."
The voice chuckled, amused. "But you would know, would you not? And that means there would be a weakness and my new identity could be exploited. That I cannot abide. So this happens one of two ways."
"First, I Imperius you. You get me what I want and then you have a sudden fatal accident. Suicide, perhaps in remorse for your many crimes."
"Your second choice is that I use memory charms on you. I've become quite good at them. Your mind should be left largely intact. Of course, memory charms work best when the charmed doesn't resist."
Peverell sat frozen in shock for a moment. Then he began shouting at the top of his voice, calling for help, thrashing at his bonds. There was no give. He overturned his chair, and was surprised that he didn't injure himself as he hit the floor. He continued to scream, trying to roll about the floor. Anything to attract attention.
This went on for several minutes. The voice did nothing to stop or restrain him. Peverell finally shouted himself hoarse and panted as he attempted to catch his breath.
"I placed a cushioning charm on the floor. And silenced the entire room. Your wand is more a match for me than I dared hope. No one is coming to save you, Monsieur Peverell."
"And in case you are thinking to delay a decision, hoping for rescue, maybe thinking that I am bluffing and lack the strength or will to cast an Unforgivable- Crucio!"
Pain. Every nerve was on fire. He screamed and screamed until his throat turned raw and bled, and then he screamed some more. After an eternity, the pain faded even as he body continued to twitch, pulling uselessly against his bonds. To his shame he realized he'd voided his bowels.
"Your answer, Mr. Peverell?" The voice seemed entirely disinterested in which of the two options he chose.
Peverell prided himself on being a brave, ruthless and intelligent man. For almost thirty years he had controlled both the muggle and magical criminal worlds of this small island. From time to time, however, he had crossed paths with even bigger fish. He was alive today as he learned quickly that pragmatism was a better survival trait than futile, even if brave, resistance.
Breathing deeply as he tried to control his sobs and his spasming body, and praying he'd live to see tomorrow with an intact mind, "I'll take the memory charms."
September 3, 1960
"Behind every successful fortune there is a crime." Mario Puzo, The Godfather
Harry couldn't help but feel pleased. Step one of his plan was a success, even more so than he originally dared contemplate.
Guilliame Thierry Peverel had been extensively memory charmed. He could recall in exquisite detail the birth of his son, Henri. His crushing sadness as he held his secret wife's body as she was killed in a failed assassination on her criminal husband. His fear that his criminal lifestyle, and the enemies that came with it, would imperil his infant son, as it had his wife. His resolution to send him away to protect his life. His employment of private muggle and magical tutors to ensure that he was properly educated.
The memories felt so real as Harry had simply duplicated his memories and the emotions he felt following Ginny's murder and his sending away infant James for his own protection. Harry thought his memory charms would impress even Gilderoy Lockhart. Harry's life experiences had provided the model and the intensity of the emotion improved the strength and clarity of the implanted memory.
Even clearer in his new father's mind, because it actually happened, was the pride he felt as he introduced his newly reclaimed son to all his acquaintances in Martinique, both reputable and not so reputable. He had spent the last month wining and dining the most powerful and influential citizens of Martinique, his son in tow.
He was glowing in the thought that his boy would excel in making his way in the world, free of the criminal taint that followed his father. He was very vocal in regaling his friends and acquaintances with stories about his boy's accomplishments. His business associates would sit stunned when the wizard they knew to be a cold hearted killer whipped out photographs whenever given half a chance.
What counted, Harry mused, was that he had legitimate government issued identity papers. Better, he was now personally known by both mundane and magical officials, and many of his father's business acquaintances.
Guillaume had also successfully identified Harry as the son of Maria Black, the great-granddaughter and last descendant of Eduardus Black. The real Maria had passed away from the Spanish Flu four decades ago as a mere infant in New York City, together with her squib parents. She had been buried with them in a pauper's grave.
It had been remarkably easy. He obtained authenticated copies of her birth certificate and baptismal records. He then arranged for the removal and destruction of her death certificate and burial records, and even had her body removed and incinerated. No one cared if the records and grave of a pauper without family went missing.
With his smuggling connections, it was child's play to insert her name on an old shipping manifest with a real newlywed couple immigrating from New York to Martinique. That same couple had passed away from the fever shortly after arriving in the Caribbean.
The simple charm replacing a real but deceased student's name with Maria's on school and medical records, gave her an early paper existence in Martinique. Adding a marriage certificate, placing her name on Harry's birth certificate and baptismal records, and then creating her death certificate, all government issued and proper, gave her, and Harry, some historic solidity within the public records of muggle Martinique.
The compulsion charms that required Guillaume to arrange such a significant history was followed by a targeted obliviation. But only after Guillaume had arranged for fatal accidents to happen to the records clerk, shipping contact, and forger he had in New York. It wouldn't do for someone to remember that Maria Black had died at age two.
Harry had settled for only obliviating Guillaume's local government contacts. They might come in handy in the future. Besides, as part of his criminal dealings, his father had frequently resorted to crude obliviations to cover up his crimes. Another would draw no attention, especially as Harry's were far more subtle than his father's.
Even the Blacks would never be able to disprove his manufactured ancestry as they had blasted Maria's ancestor, Eduardus, off the family tapestry. And if they tested Harry for Black blood, he should pass with flying colors, considering his own descent from Dorea Black.
It was strange knowing that his parents and grandparents were still alive. He had no intention of revealing himself to them as his plans involved beating Riddle at his own game, taking his place at the pinnacle of pureblood society and ruining Riddle's supporters. But still, it was comforting to know that his family was still alive.
With step one done, Harry mused, it was time to move onto steps two, three, four and five. Step two just meant he would mark time in Martinique, receiving private tutoring from witches and wizards of Guillaume's acquaintance for form's sake, for the next few years. When he finally left, there would be scores who remembered Henri Peverell, son of Guillaume Peverell and Maria Black, a brilliant genius of a young wizard. It had the added benefit of refining his school boy accent to something resembling the local French.
Step three involved Guilliame's blood adoption of Harry. The Peverell family magic should accept him, though Guillaume was a descendant of Antioch and Harry of Ignotus Peverell. Antioch's descendants had fled Britain after his murder and were scattered about the world, while Ignotus' had assumed the name Potter and remained quietly in the land of their birth until memory of the Peverell connection faded.
Critically, however, the adoption should be sufficient for his identity so far as the goblins were concerned. The goblins did not distinguish between adopted and blood children.
Step four involved increasing his father's wealth. Guillaume was very well off in comparison to most of the local population. Wealth was relative, however. The pureblood families of Britain would consider him a pauper.
That was easily rectified. Harry had the exact coordinates of several sunken treasure ships. Between the San Jose and the Nuestra Señora de Atocha, Guillaume would be obscenely wealthy by the end of the year, all for the cost of a rented trawler and some gillyweed. Oil sheiks would envy his wealth. And goblins cared not for the providence of gold.
Step five was, of course, establishing his exceptional magical qualifications. Fortunately, the government of Brazil would allow anyone to sit for their OWLs and NEWTs at any time, provided a fee was paid. Harry intended to test out of his OWLs by fourteen, his NEWTs by fifteen, and obtain two masteries by seventeen.
It was well that Castelbruxo still allowed the award of a mastery by challenge, though the standard tuition still needed to be paid. Harry was confident that he would be able to best any of the school's professors.
By the time he was eighteen, he planned to be published in several journals he knew both Dumbledore and Riddle followed. He thought it poetic that he would use Dumbledore's own research on the Patronus as a messenger and Snape's several invented spells to establish his bona fides as a wizard of exceptional knowledge and talent.
Considering the abuse the two men had subjected him to, he felt more than justified in stealing their future research.
If he could arrange an apprenticeship with a potions master, he might even publish the formula for the Wolfsbane Potion. But he thought it wise to share credit with an already existing potion's master. It would further establish his credentials and convince society that he was an up and rising wizard on par with Grindelwald and Dumbledore. Plus, it would be a good deed to give werewolves access to the potion a decade or two sooner.
He toyed with his father's old wand. It fit him so well he'd not bothered to have another made. Blackthorn, rougarou hair core, twelve inches, flexible. Guillaume had commissioned another wand for himself, taking inordinate pride that his wand worked for his brilliant son so well.
"Harry!" His father yelled from the other room. "We need to go! The ball starts soon."
Sighing, Harry stood and adjusted his dress robes. He'd encouraged his father to attend more of these events. If he wanted to be known, he had to be in the public view, no matter how much he despised dancing.
He checked himself one last time before leaving the room. He frowned as he realized his dark hair had shifted back to his normal short but wild state. With a moment's concentration, his wild spikes had transformed into a mass of dark curls hanging down to his shoulders. He tied it behind him. The hair alone reinforced his resemblance to Guillaume.
He mentally thanked Tonks for noticing that he never cut his hair. Without her intervention, he doubted he'd ever realize his metamorphmagus talent, even if it was only limited to his hair and the pigmentation of his skin.
October 3, 1965
Great wealthy families stabilized their fortunes through marriages much the same way that great multinational corporations today stabilize their fortunes through careful mergers and acquisitions. Wealthy European children with titles or inheritance became chattel, to be traded and manipulated like investment stocks." Elizabeth Gilbert, Committed: A Skeptic Makes Peace with Marriage
Arcturus Black lowered the letter from a Guillaume Peverell and rested it on his desk. He again glanced at the two statements, one from Gringotts London and the other from Gringotts Paris. Peverell's wealth was vast, if the statements were accurate. Even more so than the Black's.
But what was more interesting was his claim that his son, Henri Black Peverel, was both a metamorphmagus, even if limited, and a parseltongue. This was in addition to being something of a magical prodigy having completed eight NEWTs shortly after his fifteenth birthday. If true, he mused, this may be too much of an opportunity to allow to pass by.
Decision made, he wrote two quick notes. "Pansy," he barked. When a small house elf with overly large eyes and ears popped before him, he handed her the note. "Take these to Orion and Cygnus Black. Tell them the library Floo will be open today from ten minutes past two until 15 minutes past two."
Arcturus took his security very seriously. Even family was forbidden Floo access unless specifically invited.
"Yes, Master," Pansy squeaked, her eyes looking adoringly at her master. Arcturus dismissed her with a wave of his hand, crushing the rising affection he felt for the small elf. She had served the Black Family for nearly three centuries and had been his constant companion and protector since he was a mere boy. But affection was a weakness to be exploited. Arcturus refused to be either weak or exploited.
Rising, he traveled to the study of Black Manor. As expected, he found his wife reading. He stood observing her for a moment. Melania Black, neé MacMillan, was as beautiful as the day he had met her forty years prior. And like the day he had met her, and most days thereafter, her nose was in a book.
"Dearest," he said quietly. "Do you have a moment?"
Melania lifted her eyes and smiled. "Of course, love. What is it?"
He sat beside her and took her hand. The small fire in the fireplace kept the study warmer than he liked but Melania preferred the heat. It was one reason he spent his mornings in the library while Melania occupied the study, despite her preference for books. The study had a fireplace and the library didn't.
"A Guillaume Peverel has written. He wants a marriage contract between his son, Henri, and Bellatrix." He handed the letter to his wife.
Melania quickly scanned it. Her eyebrows rose when she saw the two bank statements.
"Cygnus is in negotiations with the LeStranges," she said. "You'll have to have him delay matters. If true, this is far more favorable."
Arcturus nodded his head in agreement. It wasn't Peverell's offer to double the bride price offered by any other potential suitor, or his offer to match again whatever dowry House Black deemed suitable for Bellatrix, though that certainly sweetened the pot. What was astounding was the assertion that Henri Peverell was both a parseltongue and something of a metamorphmagus. One would have been eye catching. Two innate magical traits was unheard of. They could not let those traits fall into the hands of their enemies.
According to Peverell, the parseltongue trait was sometimes found in the Peverell family. And that he suspected that Henri's limited metamorphmagus talent was likely the result of his descent from Eduardus Limette Black.
Eduardus had been blasted off the family tree more than a century ago for running off to the Americas with his muggle lover. The Blacks were once well known metamorphmagi, though the ability had not surfaced over the last couple of generations. Being able to bring it back into the main branch of the family was a very attractive proposition.
"What is in it for him? If his son has not one but two innate magical abilities, he could have his pick of England. Why us? What is not being said here?" Melania questioned, indicating the letter.
Arcturus smiled. Melanie's questioning mind matched well with his paranoia. It was unlike Walburga and Druella, who would simply assume that all families desired to become associated with House Black.
"He wants our votes. Some of what is being offered is, in reality, a bribe. This is not widely known but several months ago he submitted a petition to the Wizengamot asking to be recognized as the Head of House Peverell in England. More, he wants House Peverell to be recognized as a Noble House. We've been blocking it, but it is becoming difficult. He's been quite generous in spreading around his gold." He briefly pointed to the two statements. "And it certainly appears that he has the gold to spare."
Melania sat in quiet thought for a moment. "We cannot take this at face value. We also cannot afford to let this chance slip through our fingers. Neither Orion nor Cygnus can head the negotiations. The LeStranges are one thing, we know where they stand and our son and nephew are incapable of offending that House. Peverel is unknown. Either they or their shrew wives may drive him away. Keep them busy. Task them with investigating Peverel's background, as well as that of his son. You will represent the family in the marriage negotiations. Only seek their input prior to contract signing."
Arcturus nodded his head in agreement. Melania's thoughts mirrored his own. "And if this is false?" he said, lifting the paper.
"As a condition to entering negotiations, Peverell will have to place twice the LeStrange currently offered bride price into escrow with the goblins. If his claims are false, then the monies are forfeit to House Black. Either way, we benefit."
Arcturus leaned over and gave his wife a light kiss on her cheek. She gave him a small smile before returning to her reading.
His afternoon conversation with Cygnus and Orion was not so calm and thoughtful. Cygnus and Orion were apparently very committed to the LeStrange union and vehemently opposed Arcturus' meddling. They did not desist until he invoked his Head of House status and even then they left muttering under their breath.
Their opposition to a delay in the LeStrange negotiations was troubling. There was much to gain with little effort. Something else was occurring and was being left unsaid. He resolved to task the Black house elves to keep a closer eye on his son and nephew, as well as their wives. He summoned Pansy and gave her instructions.
The elf left looking pleased as she went about her task. Masters Cygnus and Orion were not kind and sweet, like Master Arcturus. It was for the best that the elves would be watching the bad masters for the good master.
June 14, 1967
"Good and Evil are opposite points on a circle, Dr. Chiver. Greater good is just halfway back to Bad."
Sheri Holman, The Dress Lodger
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Chief Warlock, etc., sat at his desk in his office at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He was looking at the agenda of the next month's Wizengamot meeting and what he saw there made him frown.
The Blacks had reversed course. They were now supporting the elevation of House Peverell to the status of a Noble House, entitled to a seat and vote in the Wizengamot.
Albus had opposed the two year old petition and had been successful only due to an unlikely alliance between himself and the Dark faction of the Wizengamot, led by the Blacks. It required a supermajority vote to elevate a House to Noble status, but Guilliame Peverell had spent lavishly and had come very close these last two years.
Even his supporters had largely supported the petition. House Peverell had been a Noble House in the early days of Wizarding Britain and had only lapsed when their heirs had fled the country many centuries ago. As Guilliame Peverell's direct descent from Antioch Peverell was beyond dispute, it seemed only right and fair to many of the Light faction to support its reestablishment.
With the Blacks' change in position, the rise of House Peverell seemed a certainty. The thought caused a feeling of dread to make its way down his spine.
One reason was the symbol chosen for the House. A triangle containing a circle bisected by a vertical line. The Deathly Hallows. It seemed that Guilliame Peverell was well informed of his ancestors' accomplishments and did not shy away from advertising it. Considering the bloody history of the Hallows, he questioned Guilliame Peverell's instinct for self-preservation. His history, wealth and brashness did not bode well for Britain if he were to be allowed a seat in the halls of power.
Another was Tom's quiet gathering of followers. Albus had his fingers in many pies. It had not escaped his notice that his one-time student was making inroads with the members of the Wizengamot. Albus did not believe in coincidence. He suspected that the Peverell petition and Tom's ambitions were connected somehow.
Tom wanted to rule. His means were clear, revolution or election. The only question was whether he chose the path of politics or blood. Either way, Tom was not someone who could be trusted to use power wisely. It was Albus' duty to oppose him.
He made a decision. Standing, he threw some floo powder into his fireplace and fire-called his good friend, Alastor Moody.
"Alastor," he called out. "I need your counsel."
Moody was laying on his couch, a glass of firewhiskey in hand. His heavily scarred face grimaced in annoyance as his bloodshot eyes glared at the Hogwarts Headmaster's green fire shaped visage.
"What is it now, you pillock? Can't you see it's my day off?"
Albus suppressed a wince. Moody was no respecter of authority and was even less so when deep in drink.
"It's important, old friend." In truth, Albus only had one real friend, and he was rotting in Nurmengard Prison. Still, he had long ago learned that an appeal to friendship was an excellent tool for bending others to his will, so he used it as a carpenter would use an awl.
Moody's response was predictable. He grumbled and groaned, but eventually stepped through the floo to the Headmaster's office. Albus thought it would be far more efficient if they simply acquiesced to his requests without all the dramatics. He'd also learned it would be unwise to share that opinion.
After taking his seat, Alastor stretched and belched. Albus turned up the power of his eye twinkle, refusing to allow Alastor the satisfaction of seeing how irritated he was with his antics.
"Lemon drop?"
Moody abruptly refused. "What is it, then?"
Albus thought he needed to work on his sales pitch for his lemon drops. No one wanted them, even if there was nothing particularly harmful in them. Just a hint of veritaserum and the barest dash of a babbling potion. Something to encourage honest conversation, which everyone claimed to want. The liars.
Sighing, he put his consternation behind him. "What do you know about Guillaume Peverell and his son, Henri?"
Alastor seemed to stare off into the distance, as he searched his memories. "Frenchies trying to buy an old British title," he finally answered. "Purebloods. Rich as sin. The father is rumored to have earned his wealth as a pirate and smuggler. The son is thought to be something of a genius."
Albus nodded. Alastor's summation was common knowledge to those interested in Wizengamot politics.
"I would like to know more, old friend. Tell me, are you interested in an all expenses paid Caribbean holiday?"
He smiled when Alastor's eyes lit up with interest.