EDITED: August 3rd, 2021.

Me updating two stories on the same day? It might be a miracle. I hope you're all safe, and remember, comments are always welcome! I hope you enjoy this chapter.

09 - They've Got Their Eyes On You

Cassiopeia Black, later known as Cassie Barton, had had a short but eventful life.

She was the eldest of her siblings and expected to marry into a respected Pureblood family; she was the twin sister of Sirius Black and they were so close they got Sorted into Gryffindor one after the other ("Your mother must have asked the Sorting Hat," Mrs. Tonks had said, "because there was no way Sirius would've ended on Slytherin. She didn't want to be separated from him."); she married Alec Barton right after graduating from Hogwarts and changed her name with her family's blessing, surprisingly; in the summer of 1980, she was kidnapped while pregnant and I was born early as a result; and in 1981, she was declared dead with no reason given to the public, including Mrs. Tonks.

Mrs. Tonks was my mother's first cousin, making her my cousin once removed. She told me little else about herself but confirmed she was disowned because of her marriage to a muggle-born wizard. She had a daughter who was in her third year in the Auror Training Program and, apparently, the young woman had asked if she could write to me from time to time.

Other than that, Mrs. Tonks focused on speaking about the Blacks. One of the oldest—if not the oldest—Pureblood families, they detested everything and anything related to non-magical beings and were very vocal about it during Voldemort's rise. Another fun fact was that they named their kids after star constellations, which explained my second name.

My grandmother, Walburga Black, had been the Matriarch of the whole family up to her death five years ago. She'd had a love-hate relationship with her children, particularly Sirius Black who rubbed elbows with "the wrong sort." My mother and her younger brother, Regulus, had been the apples of Mrs. Black's eyes. But she'd been so fixated on who my mother married that despite their arguments, the abuse, and all the bad in-between, Walburga never thought about disowning Cassiopeia. Not when Sirius walked out on the family, and certainly not when Cassiopeia married Alec Barton, the epitome of progress and everything people like the Malfoys hated.

(But had she known? Had she known whose son Alec Barton was and thought it a blessing? )

I knew so much about the Blacks it left me reeling a little. Like the fact that they were prone to inbreeding (which, ew) to the terrible news that I was related to Draco Malfoy (Harry burst into laughter at this). I spent the morning listening with mild disgust and a great deal of fascination. In my opinion, the House of Black members sounded like they all came out of a Shakespearean tragedy. Or a chaotic reality show. I had to keep reminding myself that I was related to this crazy lot—and Harry certainly didn't let me forget.

"Aha! Here she is." He held the leather-bound book close to him and read aloud, "'Elladora Black, a renowned socialite and member of the Wizengamot, introduced the legislation of cutting off the heads of unruly house-elves. The motion was denied, but it's suspected the tradition was carried out by House of Black members at her behest.' I still find it hard to believe that there's a house with a wall full of heads."

"I don't. Which kind of makes me want to ignore it at the same time. It's not like I'll ever see it in person, is it?" Andromeda had been clear that, as the first and only surviving male scion of the Black Matriarch, Sirius Black inherited all properties related to the family despite his disowning. Even with him in jail for life, nobody else was allowed to touch his money—unless he had a bastard son we didn't know about.

(Andromeda had laughed so hard when Harry stated this that we had to wait minutes for her to calm down.)

Harry leafed through the pages with a pensive frown. "It's so strange."

"What is it?"

"Well, this is your history. Your family history, written in history books for all to see. As if their decisions should reflect on you."

"It's awful," I agreed. "Maybe that's why my mother changed her name." Maybe that's why Alec Barton changed his name upon migrating to England. I winced. "My kids will go through that one day too."

"Not if you move to America," Harry said absent-mindedly. "Hey, listen to this! 'Fleamont Potter was a potioneer known for his famous formula, Sleekeazy's Hair Potion and Scalp Treatment, a haircare potion that, to this day, is still used all over the world. Fleamont married Euphemia Potter and together, they had a son, James, who is the father of the famous Harry Potter, the boy who lived.'"

"Oh, Lavender has some of that! Apparently, it does work—and it asks redheads to not use it. Wait." Something occurred to me, and Harry's current state of dressing did not help. "Doesn't that mean you're filthy rich?"

"I kind of am."

I gestured at him exaggeratedly. Today he looked like he'd thrown on a tarp. "Then why?"

"Because if the Dursleys see a single Knut, I'll never be able to buy school books. Or anything else. It probably wouldn't have lasted that first year."

"If I were you, I would've slapped them with a wad of bills the moment I found out I was rich." Which I was. "Or at least throw a bag of galleons at them and make sure it landed on one of their heads. Or a river."

Harry snorted. "If it's any consolation, Hagrid made a pigtail grow on Dudley."

"What? Like, did it just appear or did it literally grow out of his—"

"I don't know and I don't want to think of my cousin's arse," he said firmly. "He got what he deserved for stealing my cake."

"Ooh, Harry Potter's being stingy," I teased. I cupped my mouth. "Call the presses!"

I expertly dodged the book he threw at me, letting it land on the pile of books we'd compiled last day. The bookseller at Flourish and Blotts had been both elated and dismayed when we asked for "any source mentioning the Blacks" because half the store's contents had something to say about them. All of it was bad. But bad was useful too so we resorted to going to a local coffee shop that had the same books and allowed us to borrow them; neither Harry nor I had any enthusiasm for buying a dozen books more.

"Will you stop saying that?" Harry complained.

"I will never tire of wanting to sic the press on you." I frowned. "Then again, they are so short-sighted they'll end up tightening a noose around their own necks."

I frowned again, this time in confusion. I turned to Harry—and found him staring at me with a sort of freaked-out expression.

Tom's words. Again.

"Stop trying to ride off my coattails," Harry said at last. "Did you decide what you're going to look for exactly? Because this... this is a lot."

Honestly, the task was turning to be nothing short of overwhelming but trust Harry to not make any drama out of this. I really owed him a lot for helping me, considering...

"I know for sure that I won't be rubbing elbows with Bellatrix Lestrange anytime soon or start calling Malfoy 'cousin'. But there's nothing about mother's death. Truly nothing." I walked back to Harry, gazing over his head at the wall of articles and notes I wrote the night before. Here and there were pictures with Harry's chicken scratch on the edges. "If it weren't for him, we wouldn't know. I would have never known... of that and this." I gestured at our work. "It's like the earth had decided to swallow her whole... erase who she was."

And what else had she been but a puppet waiting to be strung to the beat of her family's sick ideals? She chose the first out she had at hand and ended up in a loveless marriage. This, in the end, led her to her death.

"Something Mrs. Tonks said keeps bugging me," Harry admitted.

"That she had an unhealthy amount of anecdotes about beheadings, executions, and etcetera etcetera?"

"Never mind that. It's just—what was your mum doing at my parents' house? Why at that time and that day?" Harry's parents died on Halloween night, one of the busiest for wizards and alike.

"I can't even imagine," I said. "You heard Mrs. Tonks—she wasn't the sort that liked to step out of her bubble. Something triggered her... or someone."

And we would never know because the dead can't speak. If they did, oh, how much heartbreak could've been prevented.

•••••◘◘◘◘•••••

Harry had written to Ron and Hermione all summer. He got letters from them and some trinkets here and there that he wrapped carefully before placing them inside his trunk.

I wrote too, but only Ron wrote back properly. Most of his postcards came glued to Ginny's own letters; he always had something to say or something to complain about.

Though Hermione was slowly getting back into talking to me, she wrote in riddles. As in, she spoke about everything and anything absolutely not related to our second year at Hogwarts. Like the more she ignored it, the easier it would be to forget.

(Ha!)

But the disappointment of her responses was drowned by my constant bewilderment of Marie's technological gibberish and Nymphadora Tonks' ludicrous Auror tales.

Nymphadora—who underlined five times "call me Tonks" in each of her letters—was Andromeda Tonks' daughter and my first cousin twice removed. The Black family tree was so exasperating I just referred to her as cousin and she did the same. Tonks was peculiar in her tastes, not unlike a Muggle punk, but she had a good sense of humour. She never let the conversation die and picked up threads of conversation that, to me, seemed insignificant. At times, she noticed when I didn't want to speak about certain topics and didn't bring them up again.

Did all Blacks had that sort of sixth sense? Could we all pick up details out of nothing and obsess over them for days without end?

Both Tonks women wrote back a simple and capitalized YES.

"Anya."

I hummed questioningly, not looking up from Death Omens. Another unfortunate obsession, but I couldn't seem to drop it. The book was very interesting, mixing legends of old with facts and weaving them into interesting theories that rang true in the Wizarding World. In fact, the data was so uncanny it often made my skin crawl.

Harry hated the book. He glared at it whenever I brought it with me. Once, he hid it, but I found it soon after asking Tom the bartender to summon it (and it announced itself by hitting Harry's door repeatedly from the inside). He didn't try it again after that time, but he was very good at expressing his distaste in silence.

"Do you know where Marie got Snuffles from?"

"Snuffles? Ah, the dog." I shook my head. "No. Why?" If anyone should know, it had to be him. Harry and Marie had sneaked around with the dog who knew how many times behind my back.

"It's just..." he tapped the table nervously. I peered at him over the book. "Nothing."

I closed the book and settled it next to the salt shaker. The sounds of the pub had almost drowned out his uneasiness. Almost.

"What is it?" Harry's eyes darted back and forth; they kept returning to the divination book. I glanced at him then at the book, flinching when the dog's eyes flared alive.

"Ah, I see. you think Snuffles is a Grim." I tried to not grin. "He isn't, don't worry."

"How can you be sure?"

"Harry, why would the Grim choose to chase you of all the billions of people around the world? It's not like you're going to drop dead any time soon."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence," he said sarcastically, then stood up and took his jacket from where it was draped.

"What? I was just joking, I wasn't trying to be mean." But Harry was already closing on the backdoor of the Leaky Cauldron. "Harry!"

I stood hastily—and struggled to find a place for the book in my person. No jacket, no pockets—I could tuck it under my shirt but it would stand out awkwardly—

"Tom! Could you keep this safe for me? Thanks!" I dropped it at the bar and rushed after Harry.

It figured the whole of the Wizarding World decided to gather in Diagon Alley the one time Harry Potter decided to be dramatic and dash into the unknown. It was practically impossible to see him over the gaggle of pointed hats and flying notes. At the same time, it was no open-brainer where he could've gone; we visited two places only too many times—the ice cream parlour and the Quality Quidditch Supplies store. It was a good thing that both stores weren't that far from each other—either I found him or I didn't. And if I didn't I would have to work on an apology for something I was pretty sure wasn't my fault.

It was a good thing that whichever place he was, both stores weren't that far from each other. Quality Quidditch Supplies was surrounded but I didn't spot Harry in the crowd; I had the feeling the crowd itself would be admiring him instead of the spectacular Firebolt if he were there. So off I went to Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, keeping both eyes wide open as I searched for a head with untidy dark hair and its matching blue full-zip sweater.

And I found him. He was right there at our table—but he wasn't alone. There was a tall ginger-haired boy with a rat on his shoulder and a shorter girl with her bushy hair braided thickly into a single plait.

I had no idea they would come here today. Neither had expressed such a thing. Yet there was Harry Potter, sitting with Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, our best friends.

Or his. Maybe only his. The picture the three formed was perfect: laughing, having the time of their lives. There was not a spare chair waiting for me—there was no place for me at all.

So I turned on my heel and tried very hard to not look back.

There was someone next to the backdoor of the Leaky Cauldron, sitting in a butterfly position as she played Gobstones. One nearly exploded in her face, but she was fast enough to lean back and avoid singing off her eyebrows.

"Still as bad as I remember," I teased, grinning as the girl startled badly and hit her head on the brick wall. "And your reflexes need work too."

Ginny Weasley's eyes lit up. "Anya!" She scrambled to her feet, her lanky arms swinging around my waist into a hug. I floundered a little but accepted it as gracefully as I could—with an awkward pat on her ginger hair. She had grown these last couple of months, shooting up to the point that I could tuck her under my chin. One more year and we probably would keep growing at the same time and same height.

She leaned back and kept beaming. "How have you been? I told Ron that we would catch up with you and Harry before September 1st but he didn't believe me—I just won a galleon!"

"Yeah, I wouldn't hold out on that," I said. "Ron still owes me twelve sickles and a Chocolate Frog since first year. When did you get in?"

"A few minutes ago, but we arrived in England about two hours before. Dad figured it'd be better if we stayed in London instead of going back home so that we don't lose the Hogwarts Express."

Ginny was rambling. I figured that was a good sign.

"Tell me everything about your trip." I threw an arm over her shoulder and tucked her close.

She flushed. "Are you sure? I—I ramble a lot. Fred and George say it can get annoying."

"Ginny, those two knuckleheads can't keep their mouths shut so they don't have a leg to stand on. Don't hold back."

She didn't. She talked and talked about Egypt, about her brother Bill's job, about her other brother (Charles, I think) dropping on them in a surprise visit, about her and Ron getting lost in the Library of Alexandria (yes, the very one that supposedly got burnt down), and of that time Fred and George's pranks on Percy backfired when their mum accidentally served everyone soup full of scarabs.

Without realizing it, I was having a good time. I couldn't get a word in but it suited me just fine—I wasn't sure about sharing my most memorable events of the summer. Pretty sure Harry already did that with the others.

The Leaky Cauldron was packed with Weasleys. With almost all the family staying over, they filled the pub to the brim, taking the biggest table in the middle and most of the space. I hoped Tom the barkeeper wasn't charging for space because they did take most of it.

At least their presence brought a certain cheer to the dingy pub. There were the twins, Fred and George, playing with enchanted paper planes that transformed into different transports midair; Mr. and Mrs. Weasley at the head of the table eating and reading a newspaper (this one missing Sirius Black's face, surprisingly) at the same time; and Percy, the third eldest child of the family, who was sitting the closest to us and reading a familiar book.

He was the first to see us.

"Hello, Anya!" he said, extending a hand. I shook it, amused when he didn't let go as he continued speaking. "Marvelous to see you! Ready for your additional course load?"

Amidst the trips to Hogwarts' hospital wing and my unfortunate rendezvous with a basilisk, I had to choose additional electives for third year. For obvious reasons, I was in no place to choose so I sought out Percy and asked for his advice. In a very Percy fashion, he was candid about all subjects, which I appreciated a lot.

But boy, I was crossing my fingers behind my back. If he asked about the electives I chose, he would be really disappointed.

"I have been reading everything about the subjects," I said cheerfully, carefully thinking about not bringing up my fascination with Divination or my excitement for Care of Magical Creatures for the next days. "Harry can attest to that, seeing that he had to deal with me losing them every once in a while."

"Oooh," Fred Weasley cried, a hand to his chest and lips puckered into a mock kiss. "Barton had her knight in shining armour carry her books. What else did you two do, huh?"

"Yeah, Anya," said his twin, also clutching his chest dramatically. "What did you two lone lovebirds do this summer? Was it his turn to rescue you from your evil relatives?"

"Nah, it was her turn again. Harry saved her from the Slytherin monster, remember?"

"Knock it off!" Ginny exclaimed sharply. The twins' grins slid off their faces at her enraged face.

"Fred, George, stop teasing Anya," said a tired voice. Mr. Weasley looked up from his newspaper, sending a smile in my direction. "It is very nice to see you again, don't mind the twins."

"Never, Mr. Weasley. How are you?"

"As fine as I can be. All this traveling was a welcome respite from my job but duty calls in the end." His eyes flickered to the pillars to my right, where a lone poster of Sirius Black watched us.

Ah, so that was what he meant. Mr. Weasley's division dealt heavily with Muggle interaction and they, too, were appraised of the Sirius Black situation. But I figured Mr. Weasley had to hold back a lot of information, considering the explanation of Black's motives to non-magical beings was flimsy at the most.

My eyes inevitably slid to Mrs. Weasley sitting next to him, studiously looking at the newspaper but not really reading it. Something in my stomach churned.

"It's very nice to see you as well, Mrs. Weasley."

Her eyes flickered to me. Then she harrumphed and went back to the newspaper.

None of the Weasleys dared to make a sound. They all focused on anything that wasn't Mrs. Weasley or me.

Ginny slid her hand into mine and dragged me to the stairs. Once we were at the top overlooking the rest of the pub, she leaned on the rail and said, "Ignore her, she's been like that since... since that morning we came back."

Since Tom Riddle. Of course, everything went back to him.

"She didn't seem particularly happy to see me. Does she blame me for what happened?"

"It wasn't your fault," Ginny argued. I raised an eyebrow and she sighed. "Dad already explained everything to her, but I don't think her head has wrapped around it yet."

"So she thinks I did everything on my own accord. Great." I leaned on the railing as well. "Just great."

"Her opinion doesn't matter, anyway," said Ginny. At my raised eyebrow, she threw her hand into the air. "What? It's true!"

"Ginny!" Mrs. Weasley called from below. "Get down, we're going shopping!"

"But I already have my books!"

"Your new robes, dear!"

"What new robes? You said Aunt Muriel donated me hers!"

Flustered, Mrs. Weasley gave her daughter a flashing glare and gestured at the floor pointedly. Ginny sighed.

"Now she's being silly." She grimaced, moving toward the stairs. "Sorry, Anya."

"It's okay. If I don't get to see you, my room's 304."

"Three-o-four," she repeated and thundered her way down. With a goodbye wave, she and the rest of the Weasleys left.

Not all of them though. Mr. Weasley moved to bar, picking up a new copy of the Daily Prophet—this one showcasing Black in his full deranged glory.

A faint suspicion rose in me. Could Mr. Weasley know something about Black that I didn't? He had to be informed about the criminal, after all, as his job demanded so. But what would the Ministry of Magic allow this man to know?

I started to climb downstairs when the backdoor opened once more and Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered. To my bewilderment, there was a strange ginger cat in Hermione's arms and Ron was way behind her and scowling.

The cat's face suddenly snapped in my direction, yellow eyes staring straight into my own. His squatted face did not look away as the trio sat at the bar around Mr. Weasley—if anything, his eyes seemed to grow bigger as he focused on me and only me.

Skin crawling, I climbed up and returned to my room.

Anya Barton, bested (scared away?) by a random cat. Today really hadn't been my day.