Chapter 5: Crossing the threshold

AN: I've retroactively renamed 'Henry' as 'Sherry' because having 'Henry' and 'Harry' was confusing and annoying. Please just roll with it.

.oOo.

Mycroft

.oOo.

Mycroft Holmes was a busy man, arguably the busiest man in Britain. If there was a crisis at hand, he'd be the one solving it. If the world stopped spinning, he'd be arranging for gravity to stop faffing around. If Her Majesty needed a favour, she asked The British Government, and Mycroft delivered.

Which was why, of all the things he had to do, he'd naturally also been saddled with flat-hunting. Blainbridge did the leg-work for them. Having an ex-assistant was almost as useful as having an actual one. For all that the man used to be too sleep-deprived to do his job, Blainbridge was really coming into his own as a housekeeper-nanny.

He also had astonishingly good taste in real estate.

"I don't know what you think we'll need five bedrooms for," Harry said. The floorboards were creaking as he strode from one room to the next, throwing open all the doors to let in the weak December sunlight.

Mycroft would be taking the master with the walk-in wardrobe and en suite, Harry could have the next largest one. Henry would eventually need a room of his own, one bedroom would be Mycroft's new study, then a guest room for Eurus and another guest room for guests. "Perhaps six bedrooms would have been more prudent," Mycroft admitted.

The space echoed a bit, but once they filled it with furniture and hung some drapes Mycroft could picture it being quite homely. Mummy would hate the high ceilings; she always said that stucco decorations were terribly bourgeois. For that reason alone, Mycroft wanted to rent the place. With Harry now pulling his own financial weight, they could afford it, too.

"We should buy the building," Harry said.

"Sorry, what?" Blainbridge contributed.

Mycroft often wondered what his future self had done to convince Harry he was made of money. Mentally counting off his relatives, Mycroft thought it possible that one would pass along a hefty inheritance. As it was, Mycroft had a long wait before he'd be getting his hands on any of the Holmes fortune, especially not so long as Mummy had a say.

"It's much easier to ward a building than a flat, and you can't ward something properly if you don't own it," Harry added. Blainbridge had walked over to the window, absent-mindedly humming.

"Please refrain from bewitching my ex-assistant. His faculties are limited enough already." Mycroft took his umbrella from where he'd set it against the wall, resting his weight on it. Living on the fourth floor would certainly be favourable for his health. "The owner had it up for rent, so let's begin with that. Once we're settled we can always renegotiate. I'll use the usual means to secure everything you can't protect with your methods."

The floorboards groaned as the three men left. The first magic Harry would be casting on their new flat was a charm to silence the wood.

.oOo.

"She was murdered," Eurus said. Mycroft would be having words with Anthea in the office tomorrow; it was unacceptable that he hadn't been informed of his sister's return from Germany. They'd all been working overtime because of a series of IRA bomb threats over Christmas and New Years, but just because she had a few days off didn't mean she should stop working completely.

"Eurus, dear, it makes people uncomfortable when you say it with quite so much glee." She'd always had a hard time emulating the proper range of human emotions. She was also the fastest learner Mycroft had ever met.

"Nobody realised she'd been missing because of the Christmas holidays. I unlocked the door and the smell, Mycroft, it was incredible!"

He buried his face in his hands and lowered his voice. They could hear Harry bustling about the kitchen, plying a barely-conscious Henry with supper. "What did you do, Eurus?"

"It wasn't me that killed her," she said. Mycroft was glad that he could tell she wasn't lying. "I only found her. The Head of House went and called the police. Two detectives even interviewed me."

"Did you say anything? Why didn't you call me, I would have sent for our lawyer."

"I'm studying law, Mycroft."

"You're failing at studying law, Eurus. Never mind Mummy's upset at your grades, are you being suspected of murder?"

"I thought I heard voices," Harry said, popping himself onto the sofa. "Hullo Eurus, when did you get back?"

"I landed in Heathrow six hours ago."

Mycroft would be docking Anthea's pay.

"Anyway," Eurus said, "I've decided to study homicide." At her feet, Johnny whined.

Mycroft told the dog, "Me too," then smiled at his sister. "I'll begin with the paperwork tomorrow, but I doubt you'll be able to begin until the new term in October."

"I'll finish the winter semester at the University of Nuremberg ," Eurus said. "And in March, I'll move in with you. Thank you for getting me my own room in the new flat. Harry did promise he'd be teaching me magic ."

Seven months. Seven months living with Eurus, Harry, and a quasi-comatose baby. "Excellent," Mycroft said, clapping his hands. "I'll begin immediately."

"No," Eurus said, so he sat back down. "Tell me how things have been going. Did you bring him to Mummy's for Christmas?"

"I'm right here," Harry said. Henry was lying across his lap, eyes unfocussed, drooling. "Mycroft was working over the holidays, and so was I. Apparently, trainee Aurors get last pick for holiday leave." He was smiling at Eurus. Mycroft still suspected Harry had taken those shifts intentionally; it would have been his first Christmas away from home.

"Have you dealt with any homicides?" Eurus asked, leaning forward. At her feet, Johnny started panting.

Mycroft excused himself to fetch the tea tray. The familiar, almost indulgent way Harry was talking to his sister about murder was deeply unsettling. It was as though Harry had held such conversations many times before, but that would have been impossible in a world without Eurus in it. If the wizarding world was full of such talk, Mycroft was very glad his sister had never managed to control her mind magic enough to start learning the wanded kind.

The kettle took its time reaching a nice whistle. When Mycroft returned with a pot of his favourite evening blend and some of Harry's home-made meringues, the two were discussing magical forensics.

"I'll put Henry to bed," Mycroft decided once he'd poured them all fresh cups. He had replaced the pine table with stained oak, finally living up to the need for coasters. Henry didn't struggle as Mycroft dressed him in clean pyjamas. The nappy was charmed to last two days between changes, but Mycroft checked it anyway.

Henry's green eyes looked right past him, barely blinking. "Good night," Mycroft said, squeezing the tiny hand and turning off the lights.

As he shut the bedroom door, he could see Henry's eyes staring blankly ahead, as always.

.oOo.

"He's making great progress," Healer Aeseraph said to them.

"I was hoping for a bit more progress," Harry said.

Mycroft nodded. The boy was able to open his eyes, blink, sit, and eat. These were not acceptable developmental markers for any child his age, let alone a Holmes. Sherlock hadn't talked until he was five, but Eurus could almost as soon as her tongue was coordinated enough to form the words. Both had been reading by age two, which had made entertaining them easier for Mycroft to manage.

"Look, he's started tracking with his eyes," the Healer said, moving her finger around in front of Henry's face. "You said it was curse damage? I still don't understand which curse would cause something like this, but so long as he's getting better I wouldn't worry too much."

"We were shopping in Diagon during an attack," Harry told Healer Aeseraph, voice slipping into the monotone of familiarity. "Two stray spells hit him. He seemed fine and the hospital was overloaded, which is why we didn't come in until he got sick."

"Yes, yes." The Healer sat down and began fiddling with the buttons of her painfully green coat.

Mycroft had a country to run. Anthea was waiting outside the building with his phone so that it wouldn't break, and he desperately missed it. Even if he didn't have an important call until later, Mycroft could have taken great joy in throwing the thing at her certificates adorning the walls.

"Healer Aeseraph," Harry said, stepping forward with a dangerous smile. "I know we've gone through all the usual means, but perhaps there's something else you could do for him?"

"W-well, Mister Black," she said, "There is one thing you could try, but it isn't, well—" She glanced over her shoulder at the door.

"I work for the Auror corps," Mycroft watched Harry say. For the first time, he saw the man that had led a nation instead of the one with flour handprints on his arse. "I can find out where you live, where your parents live, what kinds of wards you have on your house, the name of your House Elf, where your wife's parents live…" Harry grinned. "I am an Auror, but also a parent, and a Black. Tell me what other treatment we are trying, Healer Aeseraph."

The answering smile was a bit shaky. "I believe a few hundred Galleons' hazard pay would help me forget the age of the child that'll be taking part in an adoption ritual."

Mycroft made a mental note to check if Healers swore Hippocratic oaths that were magically binding. The fact that Henry's Healer could be purchased filled his stomach with icy dread.

"You will receive your money after giving an Unbreakable Vow," Mycroft decided, leaning on his umbrella. "Then you will assist us in performing the ritual, I assume on the next solstice? Such a shame you couldn't have remembered your moral loopholes earlier."

Harry looked at him, expression shifting from surprise to calculation. He turned back to the Healer. "How will an adoption make him wake up?"

"New blood will cause his body to shift, adapting to his new parentage. In the usual adult adoptions only the person's magic changes, in a child the appearance changes also. Hence they were outlawed: to alter another wizard's progeny is an insult to their family and blood."

Harry snorted, picking Henry up. "That hasn't stopped anyone in the past. Hell, they're barely illegal at all. You can have two hundred Galleons, half up front with the vow and half after the successful ritual. And if it doesn't work, you'll remember that I know all those things about your family, yeah?"

The Healer nodded. Harry didn't shake the woman's hand as he led the way out.

"What?" he asked when they were in a cab back to Baker Street.

Mycroft blinked. He hadn't realised he'd been staring. Across from him, Anthea caught his eye and smirked.

"Nothing," Mycroft lied, turning to look out the window.

Harry shrugged, but then Anthea outright laughed. "You impressed him," she said. "That's the look he wears when people surprise him."

He'd hired her because he liked that she wasn't afraid to talk back, but in that moment he wished for good old Blainbridge with his obsequious deference. Mycroft felt his face heating.

But at least she hadn't told Harry the true reason behind his look. Seeing Harry bristling with magic and power, he hadn't thought impressive. No, Mycroft's traitorous mind had thought—well. Mummy wouldn't approve, but Eurus would be cackling.

.oOo.

Harry

.oOo.

"You," Moody barked. Harry didn't look around to check who was meant. When Mad-Eye was around, he required con—

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" The stinging hex was easy to dodge. "Good," Moody said. "You're not an idiot."

Training under Alastor Moody was exactly how Harry had expected it to be. The first week, he was too sore to move when he got home from work, too tired to even hear the murmuring voices in the back of his head. The second month, as wizarding Britain corralled itself into a semblance of post-war normalcy, he started gaining muscle. Mycroft would watch Harry work his way through entire four-egg omelettes with wide, envious eyes.

The third week after Christmas, Moody brought Harry into an interrogation room for a chat.

"I don't care who your father is," he said. "I don't care who your grandfather is, or your adopted great uncle." When Harry nodded, Moody continued, "I've been doing this job long enough that I can sniff out a bad egg."

"Technically," Harry had to say, "you're retired."

"Bah. Who else'll whip you runts into shape?"

Nobody besides Harry had joined the aurors in the past year, while six colleagues had gone into well-earned retirement. Regardless of Harry's dodgy paperwork, Amelia hadn't had a choice in hiring him.

Then Moody set a piece of creased parchment down between them. "Now, I've seen you file enough reports to know your handwriting, Black. Explain this."

The Longbottom family is in danger. Please keep them safe.

In retrospect, Harry should have worded it better. He swallowed.

When he'd said goodbye to Augusta, Amelia, and Andromeda, Neville's gran had looked him right in the eye for the first time in five years and made him swear that he'd save her family from 'that Lestrange Bitch.'

Just like in Harry's old world, Lucius Malfoy had run his coercion spiel after Voldemort's fall. He was taking full advantage of his own father's recent passing due to 'Dragonpox' to distance himself from 'youthful mistakes.'

Harry had felt the waves of discontent as both factions fought over the definition of innocence. Sometimes he felt their spiking malice in the back of his mind, but never anything serious. While nudging Amelia towards getting Sirius a trial, Harry followed the news from the Prophet and office gossip. Once a week he reported to Arcturus, who relayed the news to Bellatrix in the Black vacation home in France.

"And this," Moody said, placing the muggle birth certificate of Metis Selwyn on the table, right beside the official record of blood adoption that Arcturus had paid good money to have buried in the Ministry's archives.

"Well," Harry said, clasping his hands on his lap.

"And while you're at it," Moody continued, setting down a blurry muggle photograph of Harry leaving Saint Mungo's with little Henry in his arms, "Explain this."

Harry licked his lips. He could feel his heart in his throat. He'd always known that Moody was the most skilled Auror on the force, not because of his magical abilities but because of his ability to think. And yet he'd believed, after two months with the man, that he'd gotten out from under his scrutiny scott free.

"The truth, boy. Harry Black, Metis Selwyn, whatever your name is. Your healer refuses to divulge any secrets, but it's very suspicious that you have a toddler when Albus has lost one."

"You're kidding. If Dumbledore lost a baby, he has no right—"

"Calm down. Tell it from the beginning." Moody sat down and swept the papers to the side. Two mugs of tea appeared. Harry snorted a laugh.

He'd seen it done so many times and thought the rulebook was all cheap tricks, yet here he was wanting to spill his heart out.

They were in an interrogation room, and this was an interrogation. Harry took his mug, cradling it for warmth. He only pretended to drink, letting the steam hide his face.

"Sorry," Harry said, sipping in a careful breath. "I'm next of kin. Dumbledore had no right leaving him with them." He gripped his mug tighter, then unclenched his jaw. "Not that I have anything against muggles, I just don't think those muggles should be raising a magical kid."

"Did Arcturus Black put that in your head, boy?"

Even when trying to be gentle, Moody was rough-whittled at best. He was missing part of his nose, but not as much as he would be come '95. "That toddler is safe with me."

Harry strangled the inner voice saying that, if Henry were truly safe, he wouldn't be lying comatose in bed. If there was one thing Harry didn't need while being intimidated by Alastor Moody, it was a guilty conscience.

"Albus and I have our disagreements," Moody said slowly. "It's why I didn't come running to him as soon as I saw you and your sprog in Saint Mungo's. But this, it's dodgy. I don't like dodgy. You can show me that little Potter's fine or you can come with me in cuffs for a visit to the headmaster."

Harry's heart plummeted, and he made sure to show it on his face. "He's not fine. That's why we were in Saint Mungos. There was residual curse damage, we're working on it, the healer said he'll be right as rain. I even took him to the goblins."

"That's risky," Moody said, "You don't just go trusting goblins."

"What else was I supposed to do? He's—" Harry set down his mug, sloshing the tea. "He's so small," he said, running his hand through his hair. "I just want him to grow up and have a chance."

"A chance at what?"

To be everything Harry had never been able to become, Harry didn't say. "I just want him to be happy," he whispered, as if it were a birthday wish that lost its power when said out loud. He shook his head at his own stupid sentiment. "He's going to be fine, just so long as you don't try to fix things."

"Hmph." Moody was scowling, hard. "You want another cuppa, boy? Biscuit?"

Harry pretended to drink deeply. Some dribbled down his face, making the collar of his robes soggy. Grimacing, he went back to holding the warm mug in his cold hands.

"I'm not hungry," he said. He picked up the familiar parchment note. On his first day in this universe, Harry had tossed it through the Auror department's floo. He should have imperiod a muggle to write it when he'd lost the version painstakingly prepared in his own world. "I was just trying to keep Neville safe."

"Boy was safe alright, I wasted a full Auror guard on the family for a week." Moody's scowl couldn't darken much further.

Harry felt glad that someone sensible had intercepted the note. "Thank you," he said. He set down his mug and tugged at his damp collar, hating the way it clung to his skin.

Harry watched Moody watch him and wondered what it would take to get himself out of the situation. He certainly wouldn't drink the Veritaserum, that trick hadn't even worked when he'd been fifteen.

He concentrated on the bubbling, chattering pulse of his people and took a calming breath. There was a spike of something determined, and he didn't know if the emotion came from himself or from them. "Moody," he said, leaning forward, "what is it you're hoping to gain?"

"I don't trust you," the retired Auror said, then scowled harder as if startled by his own honesty. "I want to. I think you're a decent asset to the force. But I can't send you in the field or let you at sensitive files if I don't trust you."

Harry sunk deeper into the role he knew he had become. The embodiment of the Ministry of Magic supressed his own smile.

"You don't need to send me out in the field. I discussed it with Madam Bones. It'll be much better if the trainee Black is seen around the office doing grunt work. Under your control. Under your watch. Think about it."

Slowly, Moody nodded. Then he shook his head like he was chasing away a fly. "I don't trust you," he said again, "but I want to."

"Good," said the Ministry of Magic. "That's fair. You're just doing your job."

Moody nodded and downed his own tea in one go.

"Now, you do your job, alright? And I'll do mine."

"Yes," Moody said, his eyes not quite meeting those of the Ministry of Magic. "I have an appointment with Amelia now. I'll send…someone will…alright."

Moody left the room, not even bothering to close the door. In interrogation room two, Harry Charlus Black slumped into a long, exhausted sigh.

.oOo.

After that, Harry kept his head down. They let him keep his desk shoved in the corner of Auror Fowler's and Moon's office. With how often those two were in the field it was practically like having the room to himself.

By the first of March they were all just calling him Harry, as in 'Harry, can you look over this report to see if I missed something?' or 'Harry, would you compile the evidence for the Lestrange case and send it up to Amelia?' or 'Harry, I'm running behind with the paperwork, do you want to help me file this?'

Amelia even came by a few times to discuss Black's trial. She'd conducted an interview with Sirius in Azkaban but wanted to make a high profile case of it. Justice and Transparency was Amelia's campaign slogan now that Crouch Senior had stepped down as head of the DMLE.

"Sorry, did you say Crouch resigned after his wife died of grief?" For all their talk and planning, she'd never outright said it.

"Harry, have you not been listening at all?"

He winced. "It just surprised me, I guess." In this timeline, Barty Junior had gotten sent to Azkaban a year earlier, leading to a cascade of consequences that ended with Fudge's early election. Bellatrix hadn't attacked the Longbottoms because she'd been suffering a miscarriage, while the Lestrange family had barely managed to annul the marriage before getting sent to Azkaban for attacking the Bones'. And a certain rat had never showed up in the Weasleys' back garden–Percy's pet garden gnome was a bit of an embarrassment.

"Was there a reason you're asking after my predecessor's private family affairs?" Amelia asked. "His son might have rebelled, but it isn't fair how much they're punishing Crouch Senior for his boy's sins."

Despite working in the Ministry, despite being personally involved in Death Eater trials, despite her younger sister almost dying in an attack, Amelia Bones continued to have faith in humanity. Even in 2009, she'd still been impressing Harry with her willingness to give people the benefit of the doubt.

"I just…" Harry shook his head. Some matters were best discussed with Moody, not her. The retired Auror managed to come into the office surprisingly often considering the retired part of his job description. "Thanks for letting me know. As for your previous question, the Lord Black will agree to Veritaserum in the trial so long as you pre-submit all questions. Anyway, if all you can find of Pettigrew is a finger, there's no way you can pass that off as manslaughter, either."

"There are twelve dead muggles that speak very clearly of manslaughter, Harry."

He winced. Amelia's influence and power had grown so far that he could almost feel her annoyance in the back of his mind. "His barrister is going to argue that Peter killed them. If Peter started flinging spells then it was self defence, which you can't even charge him for breaking the Statute over. The best you have is that he was an unregistered animagus, that's eighteen months on the seventh floor."

"Harry, the people don't want Sirius Black to get away with eighteen months coddled in a Dementorless cell." Amelia set down a teacup—that Harry hadn't sent for–to run her fingers through her hair. It stood in angry spikes. "They'll enjoy the Veritaserum and it'll cast a very pleasing shadow on Malfoy and his ilk, but as it stands someone must fall for the Potters' deaths. The Prophet already spun its narrative painting Pettigrew as a hero while Black was the traitor. Spitting in the face of that will have people up in arms."

She was wrong. The dark faction would love having Sirius Black acquitted. Dumbledore's supporters would love the story of redemption through the love of a light family. As for the middle ground, they just wanted to see someone punished, and if the whole thing got pinned on Pettigrew, that'd be enough.

The whole thing went swimmingly until they were holding the actual trial down in courtroom ten, and Sirius decided to admit to killing the muggles. Under Veritaserum. Acceptable collateral damage, apparently, so long as Peter wouldn't get away.

Amelia Bones, who was officiating, pointed out that Peter had, in fact, gotten away.

The betrayal stabbed through Harry like a cursed dagger. He couldn't help wondering if his godfather had done the same, the same godfather who had promised him a home—and gone off and died.

Stuck in this world with a godfather who was an actual mass-murderer brought a sour taste to his mouth. And even if he'd wanted to, it was impossible to prepare a defence when his godfather kept forgetting anything that the Dementors thought might be a happy memory. Harry shuffled his mental priorities around and put Get rid of Dementors back near the top, just under:

Save Neville's parents
Become the Ministry of Magic
Get Henry healthy and safe (Kill Voldemort)
Get Sirius a trial
Figure out a way to uphold the Statute once video cameras become widespread
Get Wizarding Britain into reasonable shape

He didn't quite know how to go about the last two. Waiting for another civil war to kill off a large part of the dissenting population, he knew, wasn't a reasonable course of action. Looking around the courtroom full of clamouring idiots, Harry was a tiny bit tempted.

Amelia called for order. Sirius was sentenced to thirty months in Azkaban. Arcturus seemed almost proud as he followed his grandson from the room.

The assembled Wizengamot all looked very unhappy as they filed out, but their thoughts felt almost content. Nothing made wizards happy like inflicting a bit of torture on someone whom they thought deserved it.

"Mister Black, a moment?" The voice was unmistakable—so was the silver beard. He was also the only person who could pull off the plum-coloured robes. "I've been quite keen to meet a relative of both Charles and Arcturus. Would you indulge an old man in a spot of conversation?"

"Albus Dumbledore," "Albus Dumbledore," Harry said, trying to sink into his role. "A pleasure to meet you." He let Albus lead him into an antechamber.

"I've heard a great many things about you already," Dumbledore said. "You have changed a number of happenings since your arrival here, young Mister Black."

"There wouldn't have been much point in coming otherwise," Harry said, then promptly kicked himself. He'd always been terrible with authority, but it would be nice if that fault didn't rear its head while talking to Albus-bloody-Dumbledore.

"There have been rumours," Dumbledore began, "of a certain young Potter never reaching the care of his aunt and uncle."

The man's eyes were sharp and clear. It was almost a relief, knowing that Dumbledore was one of the few people that would have seen Harry as more than just his mantle.

The Ministry of Magic sighed. "That's the thing about rumours—you shouldn't trust them."

"And yet, I find, they often carry a kernel of the truth."

For a moment Harry pictured the man as he'd been at the end of his first year. 'Alas, earwax,' he'd said. Even if Dumbledore could see through his mantle as a personified government, he'd never seen past Harry's mantle as saviour.

"I have all the right paperwork filed. If you want to start a legal battle, you're not going to win it before Sirius gets out of Azkaban."

"And he'll be supporting your claim, Mister Black? Forgive me, I was always under the impression that Sirius wanted to distance himself from your family."

James Potter had been Sirius' family, and distancing himself from James was what had gotten Harry's parents killed. He bared his teeth in a mockery of a grin. "We'll see about that."

On his list of mental to-dos, just under Get rid of the Dementors, was another important point. It read, 'Do not make an enemy out of Albus Dumbledore.'

Harry mentally crossed it out. "You're not sending Harry Potter to be raised by muggles,"

The old man frowned. "I see," he said. Harry very much hoped he didn't.

Dumbledore's portrait had offered advice, solace, and an endlessly patient ear. Harry had come to love the man in death, but retrospectively it was because he'd forgotten how bloody annoying he was alive. "If that's all? I have to see Sirius before he gets carted back to that hellhole."

"Alas," Dumbledore sighed.

Harry left.

.oOo.

Once Eurus moved in, she was everywhere. Harry hadn't realised how much he'd come to appreciate the evenings spent sitting quietly with Mycroft, just reading or chatting, until she steamrolled her way into their lives.

"What's that?" she asked when he was cooking, as if she hadn't deduced it already.

"Banana bread," Harry said.

"Yes, but is it for now or after supper?"

"Eurus, you're a grown woman, you can have your banana bread whenever you bloody well like."

… …

"What's that?" she asked when he was reading, as if she hadn't memorised the contents of all the shelves in the library. "You must be about to reach page 472. They have sex, then she almost dies."

Harry snapped the book shut. Neither Johnny nor Henry turned away from watching the traffic outside. Harry looked over to Mycroft's chair, the one that had been reupholstered in this universe but not in his old one. Unfortunately, the man was working long hours because of what was going to be the Falklands War. Even if he were there he'd probably just pretend to keep reading his own book. Mycroft was constantly studying history.

"Thank you, Eurus," Harry said. "And why is it that she almost dies?"

"The author needed the nuns to tend to her so they see her mole, and later she'll be convicted of witchcraft."

"Great." He set the book aside, then turned to his flatmate. "What is it you want from me, Eurus?"

"You said you'd teach me. You're not teaching me."

"I told you to practise clearing your mind." If Snape were alive, he'd be laughing at the irony. Actually, Snape was alive, probably drowning in cheap alcohol, self-pity, and grief. Harry shrugged. "Alright, I hated that bit of the mind-magics too. How about this: you try make me do something for a minute, then stop for a minute. I'll tell you when it's working."

"Is that it? Your grand attempts at education? The reading list you gave me was two chapters of a book, and your plan is just 'try not to'?"

"Well, yeah." Harry stuffed the last of his banana bread in his mouth. "You've had fancy tutors all your life, ergo sometimes not-fancy is the way to go. Give me your best shot. Something I wouldn't want to do."

She scowled at him. Harry wondered if he hadn't been a bit harsh, she was Mycroft's sister after all. Perhaps he should apologise and come up with something better?

Harry snorted, rolling his eyes. "That was good. But we already knew you're good at this. Now," he glanced at the watch Mycroft had gifted him for Christmas, "Try to not make me do anything."

The urge to apologise only grew stronger. After a minute, Harry gave her a little smile.

Eurus was frowning. "How do you stop yourself from accidentally using Imperio whenever you want someone to do something?" she asked.

Thinking of his colleagues in the Auror department, Harry shrugged. "Patience, self control, and the knowledge that it's really not satisfying when everyone's your puppet." He'd figured out that Eurus was like a better adapted Sherlock, but with magic. He pondered on what explanation would appeal to a sociopath. "You can still manipulate people into doing what you want by deducing stuff, it's more challenging and interesting besides. You never struck me as the kind to take the easy way out."

She leaned forward in her seat. "Are you trying to manipulate me into behaving? Mikey has tried that a hundred times already. You already agreed that it's a subconscious accidental magic, I go to the effort of interrupting my studies to move in with you, and all you've done so far is to tell me to practise clearing my mind? I'm beginning to think you don't mean it at all when you say you care about this family. In fact—"

"—thank you, Eurus, that's enough. And you're still using the Imperius, though it was a lot less than before. Let's go again. If you can practise switching between high power and low, you'll eventually figure out how to turn it all the way down to off. I believe in you."

From his place by the window, Johnny got up and whined. He trotted over to his master and put his head on her lap. Harry wondered how much of the dog was still dog, and how much of it was Eurus enforcing her will.

"Thank you," she said, eyes firmly on the top of Johnny's silver head. "I'm ready to try."

.oOo.

The pending blood adoption was making Harry nervous. He knew it was a normal thing that used to be done all the time. He'd barely felt anything after Arcturus took him into the Black family, but that was because he was an adult. The reason the rituals weren't done on children was because they were still growing into themselves.

Sure, Harry wanted little Henry to get a chance to grow up and be someone very different from who Harry had been, but with this, he'd be different on the nurture and the nature side.

Mycroft didn't say anything as he handed over a thick envelope just as they were sitting down after dinner. He'd been late again, but that wasn't unusual.

What was unusual was the red ribbon around what was quite obviously paperwork.

While the elder Holmes retreated to his usual seat and history books, Eurus sat forward to watch.

"What's that?"

Harry sighed. "I don't know, Eurus. You tell me."

"Either adoption papers or a certificate of marriage."

She'd timed it perfectly. Mycroft started coughing and didn't stop until Harry cast an Anapneo. "Are you alright?"

"Jolly good," Mycroft replied. His face was flushed. In all his years knowing the man, Harry had never heard him lie so badly.

"Alright." Harry untied the ribbon and found very authentic documents tracing his own identity as Henry Sherrinford Holmes' uncle, while Mycroft had adopted the boy as his son.

Harry stared at them. He mouthed the words, Henry Sherrinford Potter-Holmes. When he looked up, Mycroft was watching him, an almost pleading expression on his face.

Eurus had the decency to smother her laughter into Johnny's greying fur.

"You said names were important in magic. I thought you'd like it. Another layer of protection to keep him safe." Mycroft's face was still red.

Harry smiled at him. "It's a good name. Thank you." Then he laughed. "We can call him Sherry."

"Should I have done this differently? You weren't…marriage isn't legal. Yet. Eurus, you know that." It was the sharpest Harry had ever heard Mycroft address his little sister.

"Mycroft, I love this," Harry said. "Thank you. It's a beautiful gift." It had surprised him, yes, and in a corner of his heart he was doing a giddy little dance. He'd never realised Mycroft could be so earnest and awkward. It reminded him of his old friend's promise.

'Perhaps, my friend,' he'd said, 'Perhaps it'll be something better.'

Every weekend, I update two of my fics. A Public-Private Partnership will continue to update every 14 days, as per common vote.
To my reviewers: see you in the comments. To my lovely lurkers, I'll be seeing you in my statistics as usual. Thanks for reading!