They may not be geniuses, but George was sure something was going on. The one time he'd been reaching for the Prophet's animated comics his mum had snatched the entire paper up, tucked it in her apron pocket and scolded him for not eating. Since he'd just finished two plates of food that comment immediately flagged a foul. George looked from the paper she hid to the woman trying to tower above his seat. She had a frenzied air about her. Her hair frizzed, her eyes wide and full of a meaning he didn't understand. His stomach clenched. Something was off. She was hiding it from them. Why did she feel the need to keep them penned like a bunch of chickens in a shed? Under her demanding and expecting gaze his hand clenched around the metal spoon till it dug into his palm. She was so controlling it suffocated him. She looked ready to yell at him. He hated the yelling. If she really wanted him safe and happy, and not only under her thumb, why couldn't she explain what troubled her rather than taking those feelings out on everyone under her? His spoon dipped back into the bowl beside his plate. He wasn't hungry in the slightest. His stomach might sick up later if he ate another bowl.
Stiffly, George picked up his spoon and shoveled some food in his mouth. Molly turned with a flurry of skirts and stormed from the table. He heard her mutter a banishing charm. From that morning forwards he hadn't seen a single copy of the Daily Prophet. Naturally, he decided they had to find out what the woman was hiding.
Ever since there'd been a ban on all owl post coming to the house. Any questions about it was met with banshee level reprimands. A red haired matron of a banshee who'd already been grating on him. He'd almost cried when he found her in their room burning mail order forms he'd created. The forms had been charmed to bring customer's responses automatically to his notebook, a pure bit of brilliance on Granger's part, and now he'd have to tell her he not only lost the money but the forms and supplies had been destroyed. He hadn't thought his mum to be particularly anti-werewolf, he was actually certain she hadn't even read the form all the way through before blowing a howler level scream down the hallway, sending him running to his room. He got there in time to see her dragging the box of "contraband" from under his bed. The forms which had taken him a month to make with help from Granger's owled advice. The materials (like test potions) too big and messy to burn right there, she'd grabbed them up and rushed downstairs to toss them in the flames of the fireplace. George stood rooted in the doorway of their room. He wasn't going to cry. He wasn't.
Fred found him like that. His twin put an arm around his shoulders and squeezed tight.
Fred muttered, "That's fucked up."
"What are we going to do? That was the galleons Granger made from the first batch of Wolfsbane." George's face flushed. His eyes burned. Molly may as well have burned the gold itself. George had been the one put in charge of the money and ordering. They'd trusted him with it and he hadn't hidden it well enough. He choked out the estimate of what they'd lost, "15 galleons worth of test supplies."
They didn't have a lot of money, which is why they'd been so careful once Granger got them going on a good idea. The three of them worked hours and hours on those test potions. They'd blown off most of their classes, but they'd gotten Outstanding marks in potions and charms because of those tests. Without those tests they wouldn't have anything to submit to the next round of Quality review.
"Buggered sideways is what it is," George's voice came out rough. His voice might have finally stopped changing, he might have Owl accreditations and own his own business, but George felt like they were five again. When their mother made an effort to weekly have them turn out their room under her eye. When anything she didn't approve of, like their earliest experiments, were thrown out with the household trash to be banished. This time it hadn't just gone to the trash. That she'd actually taken the time to burn it all had been a pointed statement. It dug so deep in him he couldn't side step or avoid it.
If he had a vendetta against the woman and it fueled his ambitions, ain't no one around going to stop him. He'd move him and Freddie out if he had to. Even Granger would probably have a thing to say against the information censorship. If he had to sneak around and get what they needed, he thought himself vindicated.
The next morning he pushed Freddie out of bed, shoved a robe on him, and snuck themselves downstairs to the floo. They had to make sure not to trip the creaky stair alarms their mother had placed on the fifth and seventh step, discretely ignoring the underage magic restrictions by using the wands they'd bought from that Mundungus Fletcher chum, they floated themselves on down and tossed some powder into the flames. A whispered "Leaky Cauldron" later found them in the pub and inn's mostly empty main room. At the smart time of 5:03 most were hunched over their plates or staring blurrily into their tea. The red heads kept their hoods up and shuffled right through to the Alley. The Prophet offices had these nifty muggle-inspired machines which ate knuts and spat out the issue of the date you spoke at it. Five knuts and five taps of their wands later George had the past Prophets stacking in the bin. His eyes widened at the first issue he saw, which was promptly buried under the others. He threw those aside into a half sleeping Fred's unsuspecting arms before grabbing up the issue showing Potter and the convict side by side.
"Blimey," his twin mumbled, dropping half the papers, the insides of them slipping out and spreading across the Alley pavers in an unorganized mess.
"Freddie!"
"Sorry sorry."
"One job!"
"Shite job. Why're we here so early you tosser?"
"Look!"
The first issue shared between them, they stood close together, their shoes scuffing the dropped papers as they tread on them. Too preoccupied with the dilemma presented to them, at least until they'd read the whole thing through first page to last. Then they bent down to the Alley pavers and scrambled to sort what they'd dropped.
"Fucking arses, do you think Bill and Charlie know?"
George shrugged, "Dunno, but while we're here reckon we better hire an owl and send them the copies with a letter?"
Freddie agreed, "Ya, best do it. They're not paying for the Prophet and who knows what mum would be willing to tell them." Fred was no longer sleepy, now just troubled and glum.
"Better put in the letter to Bill not to contact the house through post unless he wants it nabbed."
Fred looked dejected. He slumped and murmured, "I thought her throwing out the order forms were bad. What if Hermione's been writing us?"
George frowned, his twin's expression exactly mirroring his own turmoil. The odd assortment of freckles across Fred's nose weren't even visible outside the shining lumos of his wand. He didn't want to go home. He didn't know what to do. It was damn lucky Granger had wanted to rent that storage space from Tom at the Leaky otherwise all of their merchandise might have been tossed in the recent potions prohibition. George was angry enough before this, he was frenzied now. Mum had wanted to keep this from them. Why? To isolate Granger and Potter? As if he'd let that happen. He met Fred's eyes reflecting the wands light.
"We had plans."
"We still have plans."
"Now we just have to make some more."
"Reckon Bill or Charlie can sneak us out for that holiday Granger invited us on?"
His brother grinned, "Good thing we didn't ask mum yet."
George grinned back, feeling maybe there was more than one way they could set the dog loose among the pigeons.
"Freddie boy what a handsome fellow you are. Keep this up and you'll totally get Johnson. She likes 'em smart you know. Too bad you got the short end of that stick." he waggled his eyebrows only to dodge as Freddie smacked him with that chunk of papers.
"Let's just get to the post office you dunce."
It was only a week later, when Bill and Charlie had been called to the house as the "heirs" to Weasley and Prewitt, that George knew something was very very wrong. More wrong than his mum being a controlling banshee and more fucked up than stopping their post communications with Granger and Potter. Bill and Charlie arrived in the garden when he'd been flying, the wind hitting his face freeing his mind from the heavy oppression of the house. Since he'd read the papers and been yelled out for wanting to write his friends, he had been spending as little time inside as possible. Just being near his mother right now made his stomach crawl. When his brothers appeared in a side-along he dove down.
"You got our letter and the Prophets?"
"Ya. It's worse than you think. Mum and dad sent letters too. They're expecting us to join Dumbledore's group, the same one that got Gideon and Fabian done in. The unsanctioned one. Its so bloody illegal, I can't see what they're thinking. Even if we didn't die it could ruin our lives. We get caught participating in that, throwing spells around injuring people, the family could be strapped down paying sanctions till our grandchildren die. What the bloody buggering..."
"Circe's tits," Charlie added. The dragon tamer looked broody and hostile. He didn't look happy about being called home, having to take time off work, and for some ill thought out orders.
George felt as if the dirt had risen above his feet. As if the ground of the Burrow would continue rising till it swallowed him. His breathing became rough and short.
"Mum and dad want you to join that group?"
His older brothers shared a long look. It was clear they'd met up in England before they'd made their way here, probably wanted to strategize. Bill wasn't a curse breaker for nothing and Charlie didn't get himself into situations he couldn't get out of. They'd been motivated enough and smart enough to keep their passions out of Molly's reach. George wished he'd learned and done the same. He may still be 16, but he'd taken his Owls. No one could snap his wand now even if Freddie and he ran away.
"Ya, but they also had been invited to the Longbottom estate for tea."
"Not a request," Charlie sniped. "Longbottom is our Liege house. Our family lives on their land. We'd sworn to them centuries ago, that tea offer isn't a request. And mum and dad haven't responded. Apparently Lady Longbottom isn't getting along these days with the Macmillan and Dumbledores. Which puts us in a bind doesn't it."
Charlie's temper could be explosive, but he'd gotten better over the years at controlling it. He couldn't well survive his work if he let his emotions out near the dragons. That'd be begging for a bad situation. He once told George they were very sensitive to the magic around them. Anything too strong, too negative or malicious, and they'd chase and burn it before stopping to care if it left them vulnerable. Dragons thrived on instinct. You couldn't have uncontrolled emotions around them.
He understood why Charlie was so frustrated. Mum and dad had been fretting since they got a letter from the Weasley's Liege Lady. Something George only knew about because he and Freddie were testing a prototype for a listening device. It was still rough and had limited range, but from the upstairs bathroom if they crouched on the floor near the toilet's floorboard gaps then they could hear what was happening in the kitchen below. They'd taken to doing so in the week since they'd snuck out. It was the only way they could hear what their parents were honestly talking about. From what Fred and George listened in on none of it sounded good for their friends.
Dumbledore's group was moving. He was asking things of them again. Just like when Dumbledore convinced Arthur Weasley to propose a bill to search old families for dangerous artifacts. It wasn't the old man who'd felt the backlash of it, but the Weasleys. It put them under even more financial strain and had made them a target for Lucius Malfoy. Ginny had almost died because dad angered the man. All because Dumbledore asked it of them. Now he was asking for more. His mum and dad had been whispering about moving into the headquarters, to act as housekeepers and cooks and cleaners for Dumbledore's group, since they might soon be thrown out of Longbottom's lands.
George's face felt cold. He had a basic idea of how expensive things were now. How expensive it was for the family to publicly snub someone. It'd been disastrous after the artifacts bill passed the legislature. Actively going against their Liege Lady's orders? He didn't think the family could afford it.
"But the Weasleys vowed to keep this land, keep arms with the Longbottoms," His voice sounded weak. He felt weak. What was he supposed to do? George held his broomstick and wished this wasn't happening. All he wanted was to open a shop, to spend his life experimenting and making people's lives lighter and happier.
Charlie told him in a whisper, "The Prewetts and the Weasley's don't always get along. That's why Aunt Muriel was so angry about Mum and Dad's, um, accident."
"We all know Bill was an accident. No need to beat around the bush."
Bill hit him. George grinned. It felt fake and put upon. It strained at his cheeks, not quite stretching far enough. His joke couldn't even cheer himself up.
"Shut up you. You want mum to hear you?"
The reminder worked like a silencio. George had his priorities straight and a war had been brewing with their mother since she'd destroyed their business property. He turned a grave, serious expression back to the older boys.
"The Weasley's Liege Lady has ordered us to fall in with Black. The Prewitt's historically supported only the Macmillan and Dumbledores. It's put dad in the right hot seat, because if he actively acts against his Liege house its bad news. He's been working against the Blacks and Malfoys for years and he's not sure what to do."
Charlie muttered, "Safest bet to stay neutral, act for neither but against neither."
Bill huffed, "You know they won't do that."
"So what, if they cave now you know who'll be in the hot seat in twenty years? Us. The Prewetts don't have a Liege, they're not legally held to any obligations. The Weasleys are," Charlie huffed. "And I don't care if they're giving me a damn title just because there aren't any more Prewetts left. My last name is Weasley. I don't want their mistakes falling on me, on you, on any of us."
"Lady Augusta Longbottom called us to her Manor. If they don't show up within the week, we'd best do it then. Mum and dad are so deep in Dumbledore's business I'm afraid what they'd be convinced to do."
George told them what he and Freddie had overheard about moving to the headquarters of the order of the Phoenix, of acting the maids to pay for their keep, and the calculating look his brothers shared after that declaration sent a shiver up his spine. He and George had learned more than a few of their tricks from this lot. It's why they'd never dared to test their experiments on them. For Gryffindors they could be conniving and vicious when they wanted to be.
"Well that settles it then. We'll meet with Lady Longbottom."
Sirius just left the Wizengamot trial for Lucius Malfoy. The right ponce had what's coming to him. While Malfoy's lawyer came up with an excuse to prolong the evidence review period, it was a desperate effort to scrape together counter evidence to the actions done in Pettigrew's memory. Sirius suspected this time Lucius wouldn't be getting out of his sentence. It wasn't looking good for the blonde peacock.
Now Sirius just had to decide what he'd do with Cissa. Before she married into that family she'd been a quiet, sweet girl. She'd always been loyal, extremely so, to the point Cissa had to beg the hat not to sort her into Hufflepuff. She admitted this to them as children during the family Yule celebration of her first year. Sirius remembered how harshly Bella had mocked her for it too. Her kindness and willingness to help had never swung to her favor, instead getting her stuck with a spineless ponce for a husband.
Young Draco, from what Hermione said, was on the precipice between his parents' drastically different personalities. He seemed incredibly loyal to the two friends he'd met on the train, but he sometimes stepped foot into his father's realm of mockery and debasing those considered lesser. Blacks might be half crazy from birth, but if the boy was going to survive in their house he had to grow a backbone and half a brain to keep up. Cissa, that kind and sweet girl he'd known, might be nothing more than a memory and even if she now needed his help he wasn't sure he could trust her.
Sirius wasn't at all sure what he'd do with the two of them. Unfortunately, he had a meeting scheduled with them this afternoon so if he was going to decide it'd be best to do so quickly. On top of that, he had three more letters he needed to write. Ones he'd been putting off for so long he had written them a hundred times in his head, and if he didn't just send them soon he'd do something rash like try to approach the banes of his existence in person. That would go over so well. The unmaking of his plans always fell through under him. He put his head on his arms, the study quiet around him, and when he screamed there was no one in the warded space to hear him.
The mind healer he'd gone to three times this week said it was ok to yell. It was ok to admit he'd been wrong to the people he hurt. It was ok to not be perfect. It was expected even. Then why did he feel like such shite and why couldn't he even write three letters?
Severus sat in the headmaster's office leaning against the wall for support. Minerva sat to his right crying into her hands. She was already mourning the Potter boy. He wanted to yell at her, shake her, tell her to get it together. The boy wasn't dead yet. Albus, however, was leveling a cold stare at him. Severus' mental shields were up, but he hadn't contained his response in time.
"You've been raising him like a lamb to slaughter."
Albus didn't deny it. Beside him Minerva cried harder. The damn woman should stop crying. She should be defending her lion, but when had she ever stood up to the Headmaster? She may as well be his talking piece. Severus had a lifetime of bitterness built up and no small amount of its sources had been ignored by these two. Instead of helping an abused and bullied boy they'd covered it up. Because he didn't fit their image of a perfect world. They wouldn't outright kill him, but they'd let him suffer. That was worse, so much worse. He'd been smart enough to vow and protect the boy, not vow to serve the man who'd turned a blind eye to his werewolf attack, who'd half-assed the protection of Lily. A girl who'd spoken too much about equality and somehow made those three lunatic boys into better men just by her association. Albus had let her die. Planned on it happening even. Oh Severus had no small amount of resentment for the old man after that. He might have been grieving, but he wasn't stupid. Albus Dumbledore might have let powerless muggleborn Lily Evans live, but the moment the outspoken woman had become a Potter her clock had been ticking.
For Dumbledore who espoused the greater good and had empowered Grindelwald's vision, he couldn't let those views be aired from such a powerful light family. She'd been so convincing even James Bloody Potter (and his slightly smarter idiot of a best friend) had been changing their tune. They'd gone to muggle shops. They'd gone to muggle music events. They'd come back to Hogwarts their seventh year with the evidence and much tamer behavior. She had been changing them and at the time Severus, who still loved her, hated them all the more for it. But she was gone. His bitterness had built up and built up, but it didn't have anywhere to go.
The Headmaster knew this. He knew him so well and had taken advantage of it for fourteen years. An under paid, under appreciated, lacky ordered to make more potions, do more rounds, take on more classes when other professors were unwell, all with the promise he could protect the Potter spawn. The one with Lily's eyes.
No one tried to stop him when Severus stormed from the manipulative man's office. The blue, twinkling eyes which had just probed the outer defenses of his mind watched him go. Not for the first time Severus wanted to haul the man over that desk and punch him. He swore he'd never be a brute like his father, but the urge to hit things had been so deeply laid into him he didn't think it'd ever go away. Not when he existed in a world were legilimency attacks weren't covered in any of the laws and the blasted Headmaster of the nation's biggest magical school had been performing it on his students since the school days of Voldemort. The man had ranted about it more than once. Anger over the Headmaster's past actions had fueled more than one of the crucio sessions Severus had endured after giving the megalomaniac bad news from Hogwarts.
Alas, his position of a spy in this school was getting more and more pointless with each Daily Prophet article. The families spawning Death Eater children no longer wanted Potter dead, but hordes of others rallied behind the idea in their stead. Severus had made that vow over Lily's dead body to protect her child. If it meant protecting the horcrux too... He supposed his love for Lily always had been stronger than anything else.
Stronger than his hate for the two vicious masters. Stronger than his dislike for children and idiots. Stronger than his dead rivalry with James Potter and his sycophants, even if the werewolf and the rat had turned out just as spineless as Severus always suspected. Stronger than his dislike for the rich heir Black who'd rubbed Severus' broken nose in his own low self worth. He'd do anything for Lily. Short of bringing her back to life as a mindless inferi, the next best thing would be to keep that boy of hers alive. Even if he was a horcrux holding the worst sort of magic and even if his existence extended Snape's own suffering. He was Lily's. He'd given his heart for Lily and this is what she decided. He would follow through even if Dumbledore had him killed for it.
Snape sat in his office that night with a bottle of fire whiskey next to him. He already felt so tortured by the situation and inadequate for not having a solution to Harry's problem. Harry who had her eyes and her penchant for making friends. Harry who's face lit up in excitement just like hers had. Severus couldn't think of a damn thing to get that horcrux out of the boy. Perhaps it was the fuzziness of his drunken head, but when the latest post arrived via Elf delivery that evening he stared at it. The shadows of the dungeon around him drew long and dark. It caressed and absorbed the magic leaking off the House of Black's seal. He hadn't seen that seal since his friend Narcissa married and switched the seal on her letters. With shaking hands he opened the letter.
Dear Severus Snape,
I wanted to apologize in person, but doubted you wanted to see my mug ever again. So I'm saying it here and I'll say it again in person if I ever get the chance. I'm sorry we treated you so horribly. I can never make up for or take back what I've done, to the people I've hurt or failed, and I don't expect your forgiveness. You however do deserve the respect of my deepest apologies. I was an arse. I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive myself for the things we did.
Please, if you need answers or would like to talk feel free to respond now or years from now. I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors.
Hermione told me how you saved my Godson's life from a cursed broomstick his first quidditch game. If there's ever anything you need and it's within my power to give, I would gladly do it in thanks.
Sincerely,
Sirius Orion Black
Severus' hand clenched around the letter. He glared at it. His breathing turned erratic. He nearly tossed it in the fire then stopped himself.