.oOo.
Mycroft
.oOo.
Even Blainbridge would have been able to deduce that Potter was worried.
"He's going to be fine, the healer said so, all the bits of Voldemort are gone, it's going to be just fine," Potter was saying as he paced through the sitting room with a comatose toddler in his arms. Mycroft quietly marvelled at the man's stamina. Though Henry looked small enough, the boy was heavy.
"You're wearing a hole in the rug."
"Sorry." Potter sat down, the child's limbs flopping across him until he tucked them into a semblance of normalcy.
"Is there a reason this healer might have lied to you?" Mycroft had made time to read all eight of the history books Potter had brought him, and precisely none of them painted goblins in a flattering light. Then again, there was a suspicious lack of reflection on the wizard's role in starting the wars they finished.
"Bill said she was trustworthy–he was her patient for two decades. Besides, I paid a lot of money for her services, and goblins are known for being buyable if your pockets go deep enough."
"Hmm." It hadn't been Potter who'd paid for the healer's services. Mycroft had loaned the money from Mummy, and soon he'd be finding out what that had cost him. He already knew she'd comment on his weight and how he was failing his sister; Mummy was predictable in that way.
He decided against taking another biscuit. If his future self could lose weight then there was no reason his present self couldn't as well.
"Oh bloody buggering—" Potter cut himself off.
His hair was as limp and exhausted as the man himself. Later, Mycroft would insist that he shower before bed lest he ruin the pillows in the guest room.
"Last time around, they were extremely pissed that I robbed their bank. What if she knew? Do you think…" Potter's fingers moved to check the child's pulse. "Do you think she killed him?"
Mycroft leaned across the coffee table. "Are magical corpses always so alive?"
"Err, no," Potter acquiesced. "Only if they've been kissed, but Henry isn't cold or anything. No, you're right, he's fine. Everything's going to be just fine."
Mycroft sighed and set aside his Earl Grey. "I'm going to bed," he said, though he took his books with him. "Perhaps you'd enjoy a soothing bath."
.oOo.
"Next!" Mycroft called.
The woman who walked in was wearing a nondescript pantsuit and sensible shoes. Unlike the previous candidate, there was nothing flirtatious about her greeting. "I'm Anthea Reyes," she said, "How do you do."
Mycroft inclined his head and looked at her file. She'd sent a CV, but his people had run a background check that was far more thorough. Of the three finalists still in the running to be his new assistant, she had gotten the worst grades and hadn't even attended a Russell Group university.
"You almost failed your chemistry exam," he told her.
"My mistake, sir. I thought you were looking for a secretary, not a chemist."
Oh, but Mycroft liked her. "I make it my business to know as much as possible about as much as possible. I expect my assistant to do the same."
"You want to hire yourself? That's a high bar." She jutted her chin, as if to remind him that even in her sensible shoes she was just as tall as he was.
The other two applicants were better qualified on paper, but Blainbridge had also been qualified on paper. He'd also succumbed to the minutia of having a family. "What do you think of children, Miss Reyes?"
"You're not legally allowed to ask if I want children during a job interview." Her face said something else, though: Anthea Reyes was terrified of the thought of having a family.
"Let us pretend, for a moment, that the position doesn't require you to follow the letter of the law so much as the spirit thereof," Mycroft said. "Are you currently in a relationship?"
"Why do you ask, sir? Are you interested?"
It was Mycroft's turn to have his face give his thoughts away.
She caught his look and grinned. "I believe that relationships are complex things that you need to go into with your eyes wide open. It's all irrational feelings and compromising—I'm not the type to settle for second best."
She didn't mention her parent's long-lived, apparently happy marriage. "Hmm." He steepled his fingers, studying the wrinkles on her shirt (she'd taken the tube that morning), the mismatching thread on her jacket button (not tailored, her own repair job), the air of efficiency and confidence that she carried like a cloak.
"I intend to work for you, Mister Holmes," she said. "Like I said, I'm not settling for second best."
He had told his applicants they'd be interviewed by 'Adam Smith,' though he'd left a few clues for them to find if they were reasonably clever. Blainbridge had been passably intelligent, but Anthea Reyes was imitating true potential.
"When can you begin?" Mycroft asked, and she smiled.
.oOo.
"You're late," Mummy said, tilting her face towards him. Mycroft leaned down to kiss her cheek. "Not only are you late, you're three weeks late. Your father was very disappointed when you couldn't attend our last lunch."
At that, Mycroft gave her a crooked smile. Father loved nothing more than spontaneity, and he'd never pressured his children into anything.
"Well, it's never too late to be the child we wanted," she said. "At the very least, you should be financially independent at thirty two, my dear."
Mycroft took a deep breath and let it out slowly. When the waiter came, Mummy ordered. Apparently, he was having antipasti and a salad, while she was in the mood for mussels. He sipped his white wine gratefully when it arrived, letting her words wash over him.
"—I heard Eurus hasn't been attending her classes. You never did take care of her, it's your fault for making her feel like she was your second favourite sibling—"
He pictured himself as a frozen lake.
"—she came to London and didn't even visit us in Henley, I've half a mind to cut her off for all she pretends not to be my daughter—"
Her words glanced off the surface of Mycroft's mind without touching it.
Their food arrived. He picked through his greens, folding them deftly with his fork. She ate with her hands, using one mussel like a bird's beak to pick the flesh out of the others.
"—not even earning the grades to match that intellect, I don't know what silly ideas you've been putting in her head but do remind her of her lineage. Not a single Holmes has failed to graduate cum laude. I didn't raise her like this—"
No, Mummy hadn't raised her at all. Mycroft thanked all the gods for that mercy; Eurus was a psychopath but at least she wasn't malicious.
"—gone and stained your tie, you always were such a pig Mike—"
"Mycroft is the name you gave me, if you could possibly struggle all the way to the end."**
Mummy pursed her lips and took a sip of her second glass of white. Mycroft knew she was in a good mood because she hadn't ordered dessert. After borrowing fifty grand from her, he'd been expecting her to torture him by ordering herself several cakes and making him watch.
"I've hired a new assistant," he announced.
"A lady? Is she pretty? I'd always hoped you'd amount to more than a minor ministry position."
"I'm not interested in courting my assistant." Mycroft winced; he'd said it too quickly.
"Oho. Not the assistant, I see. Who are you interested in courting, then? I expect grandchildren before I die, and my mother didn't make it past seventy."
Mycroft wondered if Potter knew when Mummy had died in his previous world. Perhaps, if it wasn't soon enough, he'd do as Mummy had done to Grandma and help the process along with a bit of anthrax in her favourite wine.
Who was he trying to fool? She had to be vaccinated against anthrax, otherwise the woman would have succumbed a long time ago.
"Tell me about this woman, Mycroft. Do you need advice in matters of the heart?"
A laugh burst out of him faster than he could smother it. "I think I'll manage," he said, making sure not to smile. He hated how she always made him feel the child who couldn't keep his thoughts off his face.
"Is she fertile? At least I know she isn't stupid, nobody I arranged for you ever managed to hold your attention."
Thinking of little Henry climbing over the back of his settee, Mycroft had to swallow another smile. "That won't be a problem," he said. Or at least, it wouldn't be once the child woke up from the magical healing coma that Potter believed him to be in.
"Oho, I see," Mummy said.
Mycroft wished she'd shut up and let him leave. He was paying for Eurus' education exactly so she wouldn't have any of Mummy's debts hanging over her head. As the first-born, he hadn't been so lucky. Scholarships covered most of tuition, but not the cost of sufficient housing and the like.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Oho," Mummy said again. "That's exactly the wrong attitude when it comes to relationships, you'll find. You must speak your mind, even if it's inappropriate or rude. The heart wants what the heart wants, and you're better off learning the truth than waiting for half-baked feelings to collapse fresh out of the oven."
"I'll keep it in mind," Mycroft replied. When Mummy gave advice it was either a case of following her example or doing the exact opposite.
His life had been simpler before Potter had walked into it, that was for certain. In all his thirty two years, he'd never thought he'd be living with another man, let alone participating in the raising of a child. Nor had he thought he'd have someone look at him with so much fondness.
Mycroft had never thought that he'd get to have a friend.
.oOo.
"I like him for you," Eurus said, kicking her feet onto Mycroft's desk. Unlike with Potter, Mycroft was entirely unsurprised that she'd made it up three floors, past four levels of security, all without getting pinned with a 'visitor' badge.
Eurus didn't like safety pins. She said they tugged at her clothes and itched her skin, but Mycroft wondered if those problems might disappear were they called danger pins instead.
"I'm not courting Harry Potter," Mycroft said, slumping back in his chair with a frustrated sigh.
"Alright," Eurus said. "That's fine, you don't have to be gay."
He peered at her, frowning. "Why are you jumping to conclusions about my sexuality?"
Her cheeks did not blush, but he could see her toes clenching and unclenching in her shoes. Eurus yanked her feet off the table. From when she'd been a child, it had always been her tell.
"Eurus, are you gay?" He had thought her asexual when she'd turned down so many of the men Mummy had suggested. They'd all been suitable straight matches, some of them even reasonably clever.
Suddenly, Mycroft could feel her mind pushing against him, trying to bend him to her will.
He was used to her accidental magic. He pictured his mind as a frozen lake so that her powers brushed right off him.
She didn't need to answer the question. Neither had he needed to ask, but it was a courtesy all the same. She knew it, he knew it, she knew he knew it, et cetera. Sometimes, he had to remind her that he was clever, even if he was nowhere near as intelligent as her.
"I want to change the laws regarding the legality of homosexual partnerships," Mycroft told her, leaning back. "Potter implied it was a perfectly normal and accepted thing only thirty years ahead. We can do better than that."
"He's officially a Black, you do realise?"
Names were powerful things when it came to magic, Mycroft knew. He hadn't paid much attention when Eurus' tutors had come; retrospectively, he understood that he'd been jealous. Now that Potter was his personal bookshop errand boy and font of first-hand accounts, Mycroft had been devouring as much information as he had time to read.
Not Potter, Black. But the thought felt strange, like cold medicine poorly disguised with honey.
"Harry," Mycroft decided. They were, after all, raising a child together. "Harry implied it was a perfectly normal thing."
.oOo.
** This is a quote from BBC canon.
.oOo.
Harry
.oOo.
"Curious, most curious," Ollivander said. He looked just as ancient as Harry had remembered him being three decades in the future.
When Mycroft had taken a rare day off, Harry had jumped at the chance to visit Diagon Alley. Ollivander had been due to arrive on a Saturday, but Blainbridge wouldn't have been able to watch Henry until Monday.
The silence between him and the wandmaker stretched until Harry gave in. "What's curious, Mister Ollivander?"
"It isn't every day that a wizard comes into my store looking for a second wand."
Harry thought Mycroft's eyes were the blue of unyielding metal. Luna's had been blue as a summer day. Ollivander's eyes were like arrows piercing right to the heart of things.
Only Albus Dumbledore was bold enough to wave around a Hallow. "I can't register my current wand. It'll get me killed, or worse." Harry rolled this universe's holly-and-phoenix between his palms, a little disappointed that it had barely offered him a few happy sparks.
"Allow me." Ollivander held out his hand and waited. Harry passed back the holly he'd hoped would choose him. When Ollivander kept waiting, Harry sighed.
He couldn't obliviate the region's only wand-maker—Harry's control was only enough to fool a muggle. It would be easy to leave and get a wand in France instead, what with lighter restrictions on muggle air travel in the '80s. But that'd take time, and Harry had an appointment to take his Apparition exam within the week. Arcturus' vow was nudging him not to inconvenience the man into visiting the Ministry again.
"You'll keep our meeting today private?" Harry asked, fingering his holstered wand. When Ollivander nodded, he handed over the Deathstick. "Here." Ollivander's eyes widened in recognition. For a moment, neither of them breathed. Static charged the air, making Harry's hair stand on end.
"Curious, how curious," Ollivander muttered.
Harry stopped himself from rolling his eyes.
"You've come a long way indeed, Mister Black. This wand is well travelled." Ollivander handed back the Hallow with a little sigh. "A powerful wand, and more loyal than I ever would have guessed. Fate has smiled upon you."
"If I ever meet her, I'll give her a piece of my mind about that."
"The wand chooses the wizard, Mister Black. It is why crafting them is so difficult. One must have the Sight and a steady hand." Ollivander didn't look up, meticulously putting all the wands Harry had tried back into their boxes and back onto the shelves. "But I suspect you knew this already."
"Well, not the bit about divination." It relieved Harry to hear, though—everyone knew Seers were the private sort. "Do you just know what wands you need to make, then?" Had he been younger, Harry would have added, 'Because you should have Seen me coming.'
Ollivander was holding the holly-and-phoenix again, spinning it between his fingertips. "It is an art, not a science. Bless me, what do they teach at school these days? This might have been the wand for you once, but something has shifted. You've changed many things with your arrival here, Mister Black. It is a powerful wand whose allegiance you hold. I am sure you will do great things."
Harry scoffed. "You've said that to me before."
"And yet, I have no recollection of you at all. Neither have I Seen your destiny, though the dice have been recast. On the morning after Samhain, I had the strangest urge to visit Iberia."
The holly-and-phoenix wouldn't work for him, that much was sure. Harry sighed, wondering if he'd be able to reach Gregorovich or Acajor's within the week. It was his own fault for getting his heart stuck on his old wand. "What's the point of fate and destiny if all they ever do is screw us over? I mean, I might wield a wand that can do great things, but, well, people don't want change. Do they?"
"You can bring the wand to the wizard, but you cannot force it's choice," Ollivander said. "The Sight merely tells me which wands to make. Then, I wait."
In the back of his mind, Harry could hear his people's discontent. He knew the changes that'd bring them all forwards, but the British wixen wouldn't like them. For the moment he was powerless and wandless, standing at the bottom of a very long climb. "Do you ever get tired of it? You're here doing your best to make 'the finest wands', while we go around making a mess of things."
Ollivander smiled, beckoning Harry to follow him down a worn stone staircase into a well-lit workroom. "My family has been making wands in this alley for twelve generations. I will not tell you how to use your gift, and you will refrain from telling me how to use mine."
Sawdust and wood shavings littered the workbench. Ollivander went and picked up the wand resting in the bench's vice.
"I went to Iberia following an urge to find an olive branch," the wandmaker said, holding it out to Harry. "I daresay you're a day early, but perhaps a hastily finished, roughshod wand is suitable indeed. Go on, boy, give it a swish."
From the faraway look in Ollivander's crinkled eyes, there was no doubt that this was Harry's match. When he touched the wood it felt warm and rough. There were no sparks or anything like that, but Harry was sure. "This is it," he said, breaking into a grin. He rubbed off a splinter that had been digging into his thumb. "It's perfect."
"A fresh olive twig and the primary feather of a phoenix." Ollivander nodded and led the way back to his front room. "A fine paradox for an enigma such as yourself."
Harry barely looked up as he handed over the hundred Galleons' asking price. He left still cradling his new wand, brimming with a new sense of purpose.
.oOo.
"I'm hoping to join the Aurors," Harry said, and immediately kicked himself. Why else would he be at this job interview?
Amelia Bones looked over her glasses at him, shuffling several papers. "What in Merlin's name made you think you'd be qualified? You meet the bare minimum requirements to carry a wand, Mister Black."
In his old world, he just had to walk into the building for Kingsley to give him the Head Auror's position. Harry swallowed. "My parents went into hiding in France when I was born—I guess they didn't think that I'd need to exist on paper once the war was over. Now that it's safe to come back home..." Mycroft had drilled him until he knew his own life story backwards, forwards, and sideways.
"Mister Black, if your parents were so keen on you being safe, law enforcement is probably the wrong choice of careers for you."
Amelia said it kindly. Harry knew how the woman played poker and was intimidated all the same.
"They're gone. It's just me and my paterfamilias now, Madam Bones. Sorry, if you don't mind me asking, I thought I'd be interviewing with Auror Moody?"
Madam Bones shook her head and set the papers down. "Mister Moody swore to retire the day that the self-styled Lord Voldemort fell. He remains only in an advisory position. And while I'm glad to see you did your research, Mister Black, you're very lucky it's me here and not him." She took the top page and handed it over. "You see, we did our research too. Harry Charlus Black did not exist until a month ago."
Harry's heart sunk to his shoes, but he schooled his face as he took her evidence. They were records of one Metis Selwyn attending various prep schools in France, and even graduating from Sorbonne. If Mycroft had been there, Harry would have kissed him.
"The main reason Mister Moody asked me to conduct this interview is that I am interim head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and I'd very much like to know why Arcturus Black blood-adopted an apparent Selwyn squib. He still has a grandson and three cousins in the direct line."
"We–ell," Harry began, letting his mind piece together a realistic story.
"The truth, Mister Black," she demanded, wearing the same look as when holding a full house. "Is the Lord Black intending to incite a scandal when you get injured? I must warn you that he's likely using you to further his own gains. If you aid in freeing his actual heir, the result will likely be your murder."
"Well, I'm not a squib," Harry said, pressing his flat hands against his thighs so he didn't fidget. Madams Longbottom, Tonks, and Bones had inadvertently taught him how to win at poker. The best lies were the truth, and while these were high stakes he had good odds. "As I said, I was hidden away on the continent to keep me safe. And yes, I promised Lord Black I'd help get his grandson a trial, but I really do want to be an Auror. We lost too many good people in the war. I can't undo that, but maybe I can stop some other kid from growing up an orphan."
"Are you insinuating Sirius Black wasn't given a trial? It's been a month, we're down to processing the stragglers."
Well, if Harry could get that part of his vow out of the way up so soon, he wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. "He just got shipped to Azkaban with the rest of them. The Lord Black wants to know Sirius' charges, at least."
She smirked. "So that he can pay to make them go away? Not in my department, young man."
Technically, it was still Barty Crouch's department, even if he'd been on extended leave for over a year. Harry didn't think it wise to mention that. "Sirius will serve his time, you can make an example of him. Meanwhile, hiring a Black into the Auror corps shows that the so-called 'dark' families are under Ministry control. If you don't want to send me into the field, give me desk work."
Finally, Amelia broke out a real smile. "And here I'd been thinking your paterfamilias was just using you. You know exactly what you're getting yourself into, don't you Mister Black?"
Harry shrugged a shoulder. When talking to lawyers, he knew better than to say everything aloud. He nodded his head towards the papers on the desk, the evidence of his pending illegal blood adoption into the Black family. Harry raised his eyebrows. He still regretted never managing to get Andromeda to teach him the one-brow-up trick.
"I'll see to it that this doesn't get out, so long as you don't cause any trouble. Are we clear, young man? No nonsense, and I won't care if your father was a disowned squib or James Potter himself."
Laughing, Harry reached out and shook her hand. "Crystal," he said. "When do I start?"
.oOo.
"Hullo, my Lord. You'll be happy to hear I've made progress."
Arcturus scowled. When Augusta had been fawning about him, she'd failed to mention that her beau couldn't smile to save his life. "Come, sit. You've ruined my concentration anyway."
There was a small library's worth of books on the shelves behind Arcturus' desk. Harry figured they were all for show, though, not unless the Lord Black was extremely interested in Divination and Arithmancy. Hermione would have killed to read half of that shelf, but Harry was just glad he wasn't in charge of the dusting.
"I've been hired as an Auror," he said, grinning. "Also, Amelia Bones herself is looking into getting a trial for Sirius."
"They must be truly desperate to be hiring the likes of you." Arcturus managed a little smirk. "Well done."
"Also, Moody and Amelia figured out that I wasn't actually born a Black. They're going to bury it for as long as it's convenient to have blackmail over me, but by that time I'm sure they'll like me as a person enough not to use it." At least, that was what Harry hoped would happen. The alternative was that the magic of embodying the Ministry of Magic would kick in and make people start forgetting he existed outside of professional settings. Honestly, he'd been hoping to keep that particular side-effect turned off.
"I give you a month and you come back with this." Arcturus laboured to breathe for a moment. "Who do they think you are, then? Not a Potter, I hope."
'Not a Potter, or else,' Arcturus' tone was saying.
"Metis Selwyn, at your service. A squib-born orphan who was shuffled off to France. It's my muggle identity, and I promise it's quite thorough." Mycroft had been getting Harry out of stupid situations ever since they'd met. It was comforting to have him still doing the same in this world. "That's not really the point, though. She mentioned Sirius was your heir, along with three cousins. Is that Andromeda, Narcissa, and Bellatrix?"
"Did you not bother to study the family tree, boy?" The sneer returned, darker than before.
"I—I thought Andromeda was struck off? Narcissa's married to Malfoy so she can't give you any Black sons. Isn't Bellatrix, err, in Azkaban? It's not really the place for heir-raising, is it?"
"Andromeda's child is just as much a half-blood as you. Why do you think Bellatrix should be in Azkaban? I still have hopes for her once the situation calms down and she can come out of hiding. The Lord Malfoy is mounting a promising defence to save his own skin." Arcturus winced, shifting his cursed leg so it was stretched out in front of him. "If Sirius can be retrieved from Azkaban, there is much hope I'll see a proper blood-heir before I die."
Once the future-Mycroft had helped Harry figure out how to break the notice-me-not that came with them being embodied Governments, Andromeda had helped Harry eke out the details of his plan. When she'd talked of Arcturus, she'd described him as stern, fair, and desperate—Harry hadn't realised the man had quite that many horses in the race
"I don't understand," Harry admitted. "If you have so many options, why did you agree to help me? I have such a long way ahead of me, and I'm not even a proper Black."
"You'll be made a proper Black at the solstice, boy. Mark my words, if you hadn't agreed to a blood adoption we would not be in business." There was a small smile on the man's lips, if Harry squinted. "No, you came to me because you were desperate with a fair plan and a good argument. You're bringing fresh blood, and that's exactly what this family needs to survive. No stain of being a Death Eater, no stigma of being thought a traitor, no drama of running off with a muggleborn.
"Toujours Pur, bah!" Arcturus spat. "Orion was a fool to marry Walburga. There's nothing pure about being mad. You swore to do right by this family. You'll take care of Sirius, take care of the finances in the way I show you, and raise a proper male heir. That, or magic herself will take you. It's the best deals that can be made with desperate men, ha!"
Harry sat and listened to the man cough his way through his bout of laughter. He wasn't sure what to feel—he'd gotten everything he'd wanted out of Arcturus but he also felt…tricked. He had so very many things to bring the Ministry of Magic up to form, preferably before the implementation of CCTV.
He had always been an orphan, and now he had stumbled into a cantankerous grandfather-figure and was raising another toddler. While living in a flat with Mycroft Holmes.
After leaving the Black manor house, Harry donned his Invisibility Cloak and apparated to the motorway bridge he used to watch the cars pass under. It was under construction, though thankfully the bit Harry landed on had been built.
Harry listened to the workers yelling at each other from across the site. He breathed in the scent of hot asphalt and concrete dust. The crane swooped overhead, its floodlight startlingly bright. Sighing, Harry settled himself on a finished bit of railing and watched the cars crawl through the diversion road below. He felt exhausted.
It was slow progress, but Harry had known he'd be in for the long run when he'd left. An adventure, he'd promised himself back on this same bridge, three decades in the future.
He'd come a long way. He had an even longer way to go.
And he still hadn't figured out what to do about Kreacher.
.oOo.
The fic is 38k words = 7.5 chapters long at the moment and growing strong. Thank you for your feedback last chapter. The consensus was that you prefer I update every other weekend. Thanks for reading.