Chapter Twenty-Three
"Okay, here; the International Statute of Secrecy came into effect in sixteen-ninety-two, thereby placing all known magical beings under the obligation to conceal themselves and the presence of the wizarding world, under the threat of imprisonment, from the world at large, in order to protect – "
Harry broke off.
This was so boring.
How could Malachi seriously have spent the entire summer reading this stuff?
They were in the Research Centre at the Foundation. Again. And that was pretty much where they had spent the whole summer, now that the Statute and the politics and the blah of it all had somehow drawn Malachi's intense fixation, ever since Malfoy had dug his claws into him the last few weeks of school.
Harry tossed the history book aside, drawing a knee up to his chest, and flung an arm over it as he looked over at Malachi, who was deeply engrossed in one of the newspaper articles he had come across; "When is Greengrass coming?"
"She said she'd be here after lunch. So, soon, probably."
Malachi's new Slytherin friend had never said so much as two words to Harry in the whole time that they had been in the same year at Hogwarts. They were so off one another's radar they may as well be on different planets and the thought of actually spending an afternoon with her – especially if it involved any more of this dry subject area – was not something Harry was looking forward to. Maybe he'd just head over to the Bistro for something to eat, or down to the Lab to see what his mum was up to, or maybe, even, Mr Black could do with some company and he could feel him out a little bit more about the whole thing with Grace.
"Is this all you and Greengrass do? Sit about reading politics?"
Malachi shrugged, not looking up; "What else would we be doing?"
"I dunno," Harry shrugged, before smirking; "Snogging?"
Malachi shot him a look; "Yeah, right."
Harry chuckled, that must be it; "Come on. Why else would you be so interested in all of this, all of a sudden? You fancy her."
"What?" Malachi laughed, shaking his head; "I don't fancy her!"
"Why not? She's pretty."
"She's not pretty," Malachi eyed him, denying the claim, despite the fact that she clearly was; "And we're not snogging. This is about my dad." He tossed the newspaper he was reading onto Harry's leg; "Look. Anchor Ridge. Someone left me another article about the same thing when we were at school. It's got something to do with him, I think."
"Voldemort?"
"My dad. But, yeah, him too."
Harry glanced down at the article, beginning to read it with the same disinterest he had done with the history book, but this was a bit meatier, at least. Actually, Harry realised with a frown, as the article went on, it was…really, really bad.
Harry glanced up at Malachi, uncertainly, giving the article a double take, as if it might disappear if he did; "What makes you think it has something to do with your dad?"
"Why else would they leave it in my bag to find?"
"To make you think it was him," Harry suggested, eyes glancing over the article again, as he shook his head, the appalling words written gradually sinking in. Thirty-six dead in an unprovoked attack; the building that harboured them blown up in a combustion so violent that only ash was left behind in its place. Another two victims pulled limb from limb and strung up as a symbol upon the remains of it, a warning, of what to expect if you defied the will of the 'Dark Lord' and his promises.
"No way was your dad involved in this," Harry said, assertively. No way, no way.
Malachi didn't seem so sure, just stared at the offending article with almost neutrality, as if he were immune to it now; the reality of what his father had been during the war.
Harry glanced down, hands curling the edges of the paper; "My dad died."
Malachi looked at him, quickly; "What?"
Harry shrugged, head still down, as he crumbled the newspaper in his hands, not looking at his friend as he spoke; "Last night. Mum told me last week it was happening. I didn't…mum asked if I wanted to go and see him. But I didn't. I dunno. Maybe I should have but…"
Harry broke off, uncertain what to say, because he still didn't feel what he knew he should be feeling. He still felt guilty, confused, and robbed of what he knew he really should have had with his father. But he didn't feel sad and therein lay Harry's uncertainty. Anything he possibly could or wanted to actually say on the matter came across as either cold, too matter-of-fact for a son who should be in mourning, or insincere, as, really, he was someone who had never even known James Potter.
"I'm sorry, Harry."
Malachi's hand was on his arm.
Harry met his eyes, then, feeling his guilt intensify under the sympathetic eyes of his friend. If Regulus Black were to die, Malachi would be utterly devastated - inconsolable, probably – which was the way it should be.
"I…I'm not sad," Harry admitted; "I…I don't really feel much of anything."
Malachi just looked at him, in a way that made Harry sure that he understood what he was saying, even if he couldn't really, before he nodded, slowly; "I remember feeling like that. With mum. Numb and not knowing what to do with myself."
Harry paused, wondering if it was the same. But how could it be, when Malachi and his mum had actually had something, whereas Harry and his dad had not. Malachi spoke of his mum with love and melancholy and a smile on his lips, even now, years later and Harry knew he would never do that, speak about his dad in the same way.
He knew it because he'd been through this before, with Sirius, and it was so different and raw and earth shattering, and it hurt, even now, to remember it but he could still do what Malachi had just done; he could talk about him and smile and remember because it was something he and Sirius had had. Something real and tangible and Harry had loved him.
None of that could be said about his father.
Harry shook his head, speaking quietly; "I don't think it's the same, Malachi. I don't feel numb. I just…I don't feel anything for him. I know it sounds horrible and wrong and I'm ashamed to say it but…I just, I don't remember him or anything about him so…how could I be sad?"
Malachi just looked at him for a second, without any judgment in his eyes, and Harry was glad he had spoken to him because, just by saying the words, a weight felt as if it had lifted from him, a weight he didn't even realise was there. As if just saying it and having someone not look back at him with a look of shock or horror or disgust alleviated him of the guilt he felt.
"I'll be back in a minute," Malachi said, suddenly getting to his feet.
Harry frowned, watching as Malachi headed from their spot on the floor, in the private room of the Research Centre always assigned to them when they were there, and quickly he became bored when his absence stretched.
He reached over for one of the journals Malachi had been looking at earlier, the article written by Regulus Black in The Oracle Bulletin and started to read.
It was still so surreal to Harry, that Mr Black had been a Death Eater, that he had written and believed all this stuff when he had been young. Harry still couldn't reconcile it, the truth that he had been with the kind, laughing man who had spent Harry's birthday entertaining four teenagers and a five-year-old, just so – Harry realised, looking back – his mum could have time to deal with the news that his dad was going to die.
Harry didn't know how anyone could not like Regulus Black. He would be happy, more than happy, for a man like that to be his father.
But then, maybe that was the point.
Regulus Black was beloved.
Harry had read the articles, had given his thoughts on them back to Malachi; how Mr Black had not only believed but, also, preached the ultimate abolishment of the Statute, so that wizards and all magical beings could finally be free from the oppression that came with the need to conceal themselves from the muggles and the world, and how the only answer was to stand up and fight for it.
There was no doubt in Harry's mind that Mr Black's words, spoken and written, had helped Voldemort swell his ranks during the war and, probably, that was what had made Mr Black so valuable to him in the first place. How everyone had – and still – liked the young Black heir, and listened to him, unable to resist his charms, which he had put to use, even as a student at Hogwarts, to rally like-minded teenagers around the cause.
"Hey."
Harry looked up at the unfamiliar voice.
Grey, blue eyes looked down at him, uncertainly, as Greengrass crossed her arms loosely across her middle.
He sat up a bit straighter; "Oh. Hi."
The two of them just looked at one another, awkwardly.
When the silence stretched, Harry used his foot to move aside the mess of books and parchments to clear a space on the floor for her to sit. He met her eyes as she moved to do so, saying, stupidly; "I'm Harry."
As if Greengrass didn't know who he was.
She met his eyes, giving him a wry smile as she lowered herself onto the carpet; "I know who you are. You're Malachi's friend."
Malachi's friend.
It certainly beat Boy Who Lived. Or James Potter's Son. Or, Hell, Heir of Slytherin.
"Yeah," Harry agreed; "Malachi's friend."
"I'm Daphne," she said, her eyes dancing with amusement and her lips pursing in a strange sort-of smile; "Malachi's other friend."
"Right," Harry said, almost smiling as well, "Pleasure."
"Got it," Malachi said, as he appeared out of nowhere and plonked down in between them; "Hey, Daphne."
"Mac."
Malachi thrusted a bunch of parchments into Harry's hands; "Orion. I knew there was something."
"What's 'Orion'?" Harry asked, glancing curiously through the pieces Malachi had handed over to him.
"It's a project that the research fellows were working on, the last one that went through right before the Foundation fell during the second war. It's not that well known anymore, I think it was a stepping stone to another project that fell through. But Severus was running it, he knows how it works. You should talk to him."
"Snape?"
"Yeah. It restores memories, kind of. I'm not really sure how it works. I just remember my dad talking about it with some of his staff when it was all going through. It was a big deal at the time, made them a ton of money."
Harry held Malachi's look for a second, before turning down to the information that he had handed over to him; proposals and the aims and outcomes of a Project Orion that was dated way back to nineteen-eighty-seven. And, sure enough, Professor Severus Snape was listed as the primary point of contact and originator of the project.
Harry glanced at Malachi, sceptically, but with Greengrass sitting there they couldn't really speak openly about any of it anymore, not his father's death or Snape or, certainly, not the occlumency lessons that made it possible for Harry to even approach him with this.
So, Harry said nothing, just gave a smile of thanks, and tucked the parchments away into his bag to look over later.
Though his mind continued to mull it over, even as he sat there for the rest of the afternoon with them; that maybe there was something Snape could do that would help him remember something other than the awful little snippets he currently had about his dad.
"Honey, here, let me help you with that."
"Oh, it's fine, Julia –" Lily's sentence broke off when Julia plucked the box she held from her hands.
"If only there were a gentleman in the room to do so for you," Julia said, with a pointed grin in Regulus' direction as she passed him.
"Uh, my hands are a little full at the moment," Regulus' said, voice muffled from beneath where Grace had him pinned to the floor.
"Mr Black is busy, Julia!" Grace confirmed his excuse, releasing his hands to bounce on his chest, and Regulus quickly reached up to tickle her sides, igniting delighted squeals and giggles as she squirmed to get away.
"Pack it in," Julia muttered under her breath, as she knelt down next to them, putting the box down by the fireplace, "This is a funeral."
"She's five, Julia," Regulus said, quietly as Julia had, so that Lily would not overhear; "She doesn't need to hear all this."
"Hear all what?" Grace asked, trying in vain to tickle him back, little fingers clawing at his sides.
"Oh, the joys of life, Miss Grace," Regulus said, reaching up to ruffle her hair and she grinned widely down at him.
"Mr Black, is my daddy coming home soon?"
"Ah. Your daddy?" Regulus glanced in Lily's direction, suddenly feeling put on the spot. He actually knew very little about the Snapes' living arrangements – he had always guessed at some sleepovers, he supposed – but from the hints Severus had dropped before the summer, Regulus knew he hadn't seen Grace for quite some time.
"Yes. I saw you together, you know. You're friends!"
Regulus only smiled.
Before he was forced to answer, the door opened, and Remus Lupin stepped into the room.
"Uncle Remus!" Grace sprung up from his chest, running across the room to greet him.
It was, perhaps, the one and only time of Regulus' life that he would be happy to see the man.
Regulus got to his feet, shooting a grin in Julia's direction when they were suddenly eye level with one another.
"So, you've offered yourself up to Grace's disposal for the rest of the afternoon, have you?"
Regulus gave a shrug; "Well. I won't be attending. And, seeing as the rest of the wizarding world seems so keen to, it was an obvious solution. A funeral is no place for a child."
Harry appeared on the stairs, making his way down to the living room, dressed in a full black suit with Malachi close on his heels, dressed in similar attire, having asked and been keen to go and support Harry.
They, too, seemed oblivious to the sombre nature of the event, bickering and snickering as they came within earshot.
"Shut up, Harry," his son said, laughingly.
Harry laughed in turn; "Protecting the honour of your girlfriend, now? I better watch myself."
"You're the one that thinks she's pretty."
Regulus' interest was suitably piqued; "Girlfriend?"
Malachi looked at him, quickly, before rolling his eyes; "No, Dad."
"Please, tell me more," Regulus approached them, with his arms across his chest and wide smile, which Harry returned, wickedly.
"Yeah, an older woman, Mr Black."
Malachi snorted, giving Harry a shove, and they laughed.
Regulus chuckled, smiling at the display; "And does she have a name?"
"Daphne Greengrass," Harry said, immediately.
Regulus froze.
"Okay. Are you sure you don't mind this, Regulus?" Lily was suddenly in front of him, pulling on her cloak; "I could bring her –"
Regulus quickly composed himself, waving a hand; "Yes, it's fine. We'll have fun, won't we, Grace?" he directed his attention towards Severus' daughter with a smile.
Grace shot him a wide smile from where she was now perched in Remus Lupin's arms; "Yep! Lots!"
Regulus grinned, knowing the little girl would ensure just that.
Lily smiled, going over to kiss her daughter on the cheek, saying quietly but not quietly enough that Regulus couldn't hear her warning to; "- be good for Mr Black. I don't want to hear of any nonsense."
"I don't make nonsense, Mummy!" Grace straightened, indignantly, and Lupin chuckled, before giving her a kiss on the head and plonking her down on the floor for a hug from her mother.
Malachi and Harry headed for the door, Regulus handing over a few galleons when they passed, just in case his son should need it, and then the others poured out of the house after them, until it was just himself and Grace left behind.
"What's first on the agenda today, Miss Grace?"
"Show me something magic!"
Regulus chuckled, holding out a hand; "Alright."
She took it, eyes wide and hopeful as she added; "And then you can tell me stories about Daddy."
Regulus pursed his lips together, trying to muster up some 'safe' tales of Severus Snape he might be able to share; "Alright."
Grace smiled brightly, delighted at his consent, and then she tugged him in the direction of the kitchen; "Come on."
The afternoon passed quickly.
While Harry was a frequent visitor and often accompanied himself and Malachi on various excursions when Hogwarts scheduling allowed it, little Grace Potter was someone Regulus only really saw on occasion.
It struck him, then, how remarkably like Severus she was, upon closer observation, when she had finally settled down from her excitement and took up post at the kitchen table, happy to colour in silence after a couple of hours of watching him transfigure pebbles into roses and freeze water into ice, dropping in little stories and facts about her father as and when she asked.
Regulus dropped in simple phrases, such as, 'yes, your daddy likes it when you hold your wand like this', or 'he's very good at doing spells without speaking', or 'he would never go away and leave a task unfinished'; all of which, really, told Grace very little about Severus at all, nothing substantial, certainly, but the little girl seemed thrilled just to have someone speaking to her, openly, about him and Regulus was happy to oblige.
All the while, Regulus picked up little things that made it startlingly obvious to him who this little girl's father was.
"How does it do that? The magic?"
"Turn the pebble into a rose?"
"Yes?" Grace nodded, keenly; "How does it work?"
"Oh! I use a spell. Sorry, Miss Grace, I should have spoken it verbally."
"No, but how does the spell work? What makes it?"
"What makes it?" Regulus made a show of thinking about the question.
Which he was, wondering if this five-year-old was seriously asking him the technicalities of spell components which, Regulus knew nothing about. Regulus didn't know how to invent spells. He was interested in the final results, of course, and using them, but sitting down and spending hours formulating an enchantment of his own. Well, that was far beyond his capabilities.
Or, frankly, his interest.
That was Severus' forte.
"You'd have to ask your Daddy, Grace."
"You don't know?"
"I'm afraid not."
Grace had looked at him with such scepticism and disappointment at his lack of insight that, for a moment, Regulus felt as if he were looking at Severus' himself!
And there were other things, such as now, as she turned her attention to the simple task of colouring in a little picture of a cottage, keen to stay within the lines – not quite managing but trying – and her expression was incredibly like her father's when he was concentrating in that moment, too.
It was there, in the way her eyes would narrow in focus on whatever she was doing, entirely raptured in the task at hand. The way she would take her bottom lip and hold it there between her teeth as she carried on. How she would glance at a person out the corner of her eye when they dared to interrupt, not answering right away, as if willing them to, please, leave her in peace.
And then the exasperation evident when she finally was forced into giving in, looking up with a roll of her eyes when her focus was sufficiently spoiled by the interruption.
Regulus had seen that look a million times before.
This was Severus Snape's daughter.
Regulus chuckled to himself, moving around the kitchen and leaving her in the peace she seemed to suddenly crave, no longer thrilled at his commentary, and decided to fix them up something to eat.
He reached for the chopping board, where it balanced along the back of the counter, and, as he did, knocked the backpack Regulus recognised as Harry's, over the edge and he heard its contents burst out and spread over the floor.
Grace jumped, glancing at the mess, but said nothing, turning her attention back to her most-serious-task, and Regulus chuckled, stepping around the counter to gather it all back up.
The smile was wiped from his face, however, when said contents came into view.
A dozen copies of The Oracle Bulletin laid scattered at his feet.
James Potter's funeral had been packed.
His father's funeral had been packed, Harry reminded himself.
Though, how he could forget who the man was to him on that day, of all days, Harry couldn't fathom for the event was full of both familiar faces and strangers, all of whom wanted to shake his hand and commiserate with and tell him stories of the man his father had been and how he looked so much like him and how he was certainly following in his father's footsteps, a Gryffindor and a Quidditch player.
How unique.
Harry pushed aside the bitter thought, carefully dodging out the way and changing direction whenever he noticed someone approaching.
They were at the Burrow, now, Mr and Mrs Weasley offering up the residence for the wake – they obviously couldn't have it at their own house – and it was just as crowded as the service had been.
His mum hadn't faired much better, hounded in much the same way, and she seemed not just sad but also uncomfortable, sometimes, when some people, unabashedly addressed her;
"It is incredibly admirable, how you have stayed true to your husband for so long, Lily. So willing to wait for him."
Harry glanced at his mum from where he stood, a little bit away, and he noticed how she shifted, shaking her head; "Oh. Well. Of course…"
"Of course. Many would have moved on. You were so young when you lost him, your whole life ahead of you," the old woman whom Harry didn't recognise – thankfully, as he was sure he didn't want to ever speak with this woman again – went on; "It is refreshing, to see the younger generations taking their marriage vows so seriously."
"Mum," Harry walked up to them, noticing his mum's discomfort, "Mum, can I talk to you?"
"Yes," his mum quickly put her hand on her son's arm, casting a smile at the woman; "Thank you, Beatrice. It was good to see you again."
She led Harry away.
"Are you alright, Sweetheart?" she was immediately concerned, putting an arm around his shoulders.
"Just thought you could use a bit help," Harry shrugged.
His mum smiled, drawing him in close and pressing a kiss to the side of his head; "You're a life saver, Harry."
Harry chuckled, smiling up at her.
"Where's Malachi?" she asked, looking around.
"Don't worry, Uncle Remus is 'guarding' him. Not that Malachi's happy about being under watch."
She smiled and nodded, relaxing at the statement, making to speak again but she was interrupted when they were, once again, approached by others wishing to offer their condolences; "Lily."
"Professor McGonagall," his mum looked shocked – as did Harry – at the unexpected presence of his Head of House.
"My dear," Professor McGonagall took Lily's arm, looking incredibly warm, to Harry's astonishment – she was always such a reserved woman, almost to the point of chilliness – and gave her a nod; "Please, accept my condolences –"
Harry backed away, leaving them to it.
He realised it was actually worse having to face the sympathetic faces of people he knew and liked and admired, as they spoke words of comfort and compassion about his 'loss', than it was when they came from complete strangers.
Harry felt like a fraud.
He turned and could see others looking his way, making to approach, and Harry didn't want to do this anymore. He didn't want to smile and nod, politely, and listen to any more of this, he didn't, and he worried that if he heard another word he might just burst, say something he really shouldn't, and so he dodged the ensuing conversation by taking the exit out of the Burrow and into the garden.
There weren't many people out here, just a few, but that few were enough to send Harry heading in the other direction, particularly when their eyes softened in acknowledgement, another threat of approach.
Harry headed further away, towards the pond, where it was quiet and entirely uninhabited, and, for that, Harry was glad.
He wanted to be alone.
He had done, ever since he'd heard from his mum the week before, that this was happening.
It seemed when it came to James Potter, everyone was so quick and willing to offer up platitudes and comparisons and stories of what a great man he had once been, no one really willing to tell him the truth of who he was – his Uncle Remus had come the closest but even he was biased – but, even then, even if people had told him the opposite, it wouldn't matter.
Harry didn't know him.
He had nothing of his father.
Harry lifted a stone, attempting to skip it along the top of the pond, as his Uncle Sirius used to do when he was younger. He had always laughed and loved it when he did that, happy to watch Sirius do it for hours, as they simply sat and talked by the river near their old home.
The stone Harry threw skipped once, pathetically, before sinking.
He tried again.
The same.
The next one he threw plunged instantly, creating a splash.
As did the next.
But Harry didn't care anymore, happy just to throw the bloody things; to throw anything. And he felt himself becoming wired and agitated and angry at the injustice of it all. That he had never known his father and all these people here, had, and he would never know what or who he was.
The only picture he had of him lifeless in a hospital bed.
Or, worse, those that he had glimpsed in Snape's memories; a cold, hard glare of hate that glared straight at him, meaning it, and Harry chucked another stone at the water and then he ran, ran further up the grassy incline, with nowhere in mind, no direction at all, he only wanted to get away.
Happy to run, to just be running.
To leave all these people behind.
Harry didn't stop until he came out amongst the trees, rather far from the Burrow and the people, though not nearly far enough, but he stumbled when his feet hit the fallen branches and the uneven terrain, making him lose momentum and stop.
He reached up, rubbing the palm of his hand across his forehead and feeling sweat, and he noticed his breathing was uneven from the exertion as he glanced back in the direction of the house.
He really shouldn't have travelled so far.
His mum would be worried.
He was never allowed out the house or Hogwarts, or anywhere, not without someone to watch him.
There was always his mum or his Uncle Remus or Mr Black.
To protect him.
Harry sighed, feeling stupid, as well as a fraud, now. His mum would keep him locked up the rest of the summer, now, when she realised he'd gone.
He sighed and felt himself deflate, shoulders dropping, as he took a step towards the Burrow, beginning to head back, though without any of the same enthusiasm to return as he had had to get away.
But Harry didn't get far.
A snap of a branch behind him quickly alerting him to the unexpected, frightening realisation that he was not alone.
Within a second, something was pulled roughly over his head, an unspoken spell hitting him from behind.
Plunging Harry into darkness.