SHAMELESS PLUG!

My first original novel, Strangers In Boston, is now available on Amazon under my pen name, T.S. Mann (get it?). It's free to Kindle Prime members and $4.99 to people who want to download the Ebook. Paperback copies are available for $12.99. Check it out, and if you like it, please leave a review. Basically, it's American Harry Potter. Except there's no school, no wands, and if you use magic improperly, it can drive you insane and possibly destroy the world. No pressure or anything.

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We now return you to your regularly scheduled fanfic.

Harry Black
and the Resurrection Game

Harry Potter and all associated characters and situations are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no claim to ownership.

Chapter 6: A Series of Tense Conversations (pt 2)

2 August 1994
The Wizengamot Office of House Wilkes

Harry Black wore his most haughty and confident sneer as he stood before the portrait of the late Erasmus Wilkes. It was an act, of course, as he was quite nervous about this conversation. While he had been assured that there was no harmful magic attached to the portrait that could be brought to bear against him, the Toymaker's reputation for mad genius was as legendary as it was terrifying. But his biggest fear was simply making some mistake that would allow the portrait to see through his disguise. The portrait of the former Lord Wilkes was the last option the Azkabal presently had for gathering intelligence on Voldemort's plans and, hopefully, tracking down his remaining Horcruxes. So he really needed to persuade the portrait that he was someone who could be trusted with the most sensitive information the Death Eater might possibly know.

And so, in preparation for this meeting, Harry had used his limited Metamorphmagery to give himself the same hair color and eye color that both Erasmus Wilkes and Amy Wilkes shared. He'd also caused his Sowilo scar to temporarily disappear, although doing so was mildly painful. More importantly, he'd used his Occlumency training to temporarily alter his own demeanor so that he would seem to be the sort of person a psychopath like Wilkes might find congenial. Thus disguised, both physically and mentally, Harry woke up the dead man's portrait as part of a bold stratagem: persuading the portrait that the real Erasmus Wilkes had been Harry's …

"Father?!" Wilkes exclaimed before giggling for a few seconds. "Really? I think I would have remembered siring a child."

"Sadly," Harry replied, "you weren't around for the delivery." Then, he switched back into Parseltongue briefly.

"Though I would assssume that thisss would be enough to prove I wasss your ssson."

"I ssssuposse it isss persssasssive evidence," Wilkes hissed in return before returning to English. "Of course, I only remember things that happened before I was updated, which was May of 1980, I think. Stupid of me really. Like somebody not making out a will because they think they're too young to die. So am I to assume that the stork brought you sometime after that point?"

"You died in December of 1980," Harry said flatly. "Mother was two months pregnant at the time. She gave birth to me in a DMLE holding cell on the 23rd of June, 1981. Then, she handed me off to Lord and Lady Goyle and went off to Azkaban, where she died within a year. Today is the 2nd of August, 1994."

Wilkes sighed loudly. "Such a shame," he said wistfully. "We had some good times together, Linnea and me. She wasn't as clever as me, bless her, but she had a wonderful mean streak in her once I taught her how to let it out."

Then, Wilkes turned his full attention back to Harry. "And since my orphaned child is here to wake me up instead of … oh, a senior Death Eater or something, can I assume something unfortunate happened to the Dark Lord and his delightfully violent agenda?"

Harry nodded with a rueful expression. "The details are murky, but on the 31st of October, 1981, the Dark Lord set out personally to murder the family of James Potter. But something went wrong when he tried to use the Killing Curse against their infant son, Jim Potter, and the magical backlash destroyed his body."

Wilkes blinked. "Well … that was clumsy of him." Then, he shook his head and studied Harry more closely. "Hang on a minute! Lord and Lady Goyle?! Any child of mine should have gone to the Malfoys!"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know what happened there, but the Malfoys fobbed me off onto House Goyle. They were … adequate guardians, I suppose."

Wilkes shook his head. "Blimey! The Goyles! I'm amazed that you even learned to read! And it's been thirteen years since T… since our Lord fell?"

The man's eyes flashed angrily. "Okay, first things first. Who killed me? And was I avenged? Or was I just an idiot and blew myself up while futzing around in my lab?"

Harry sniffed disdainfully. "It was a blood traitor named Weasley—one of Dumbledore's minions—who tracked a bunch of dead Muggles back to you, but it was Alastor Moody who struck the killing blow during an Auror raid. Wilkes Manor was burned to the ground in the process."

Then, the boy's lips rose into a cruel smile. "As I understand it, the Dark Lord paid him a personal visit in response. You will be pleased to know that he tortured and murdered everyone Moody ever cared about in front of him and then took a leg and one of his eyes for good measure. Moody's a broken shell of a man, though killing him is certainly on my long-term to-do list."

"I'm glad to hear it … Hadrian, was it? Seriously? Hadrian? However did you get stuck with such a ridiculous name?"

"No idea. I'd assumed that Mother named me before passing me over, but I've never known for sure. To be honest, I usually go by Harry at school. Stupid people find that more … likeable. Is it important in terms of inheritance or for some other reason?"

"No, no. Our charter has no naming requirements. You have Wilkes blood in you. That's all that matters." He looked the boy up and down. "And Harry's a good fit for you. Harry Wilkes! That's good! An action name! So, how old are you, Harry?"

"Thirteen," Harry lied.

"Heh. Big for your age, aren't you?"

The boy snorted. "Call it the benefits of clean living."

Wilkes giggled again. Then, he shook his head and began pacing within the confines of the frame. At one point, he looked at the side of the frame quizzically and rapped it with his knuckles.

"I appear to be trapped in this frame," he noted. "I suppose my frame that was hanging in the attic at Funtime House went with the rest of the building."

"… Funtime House?" Harry inquired.

"Yes, yes," Wilkes grumbled. "Officially, it was Wilkes Manor, but that was so booooring!"

"Of course it was. Funtime House it is then. And yes, I've been told it made an impressive bonfire. Do you have another frame hidden anywhere?"

"One," Wilkes said absentmindedly. "But that doesn't help. The magic that keeps me trapped here is on the painting itself. Heh! The cowardly kittens were so frightened of the Big Bad Toymaker that they didn't even want me moving into other frames here in the Ministry of Magic. Pitiful!"

Then, he gave a sour expression as he looked past Harry at the rest of the office. "And the perfidious bastards have cleaned out my office too!" he spat. "My yo-yo! My rubber ducky collection! Even my pickled baby's breath!"

Harry blinked a few times. "Baby's … breath? Are we talking about the flower?"

The Death Eater snorted. "No, of course not! I had a bottle in which I'd collected the dying breaths of various babies I'd killed over the years! I was saving them for a project I was working on! And now, who knows what happened to them!"

Harry took a moment to fortify his Occlumency so that he could stay in character. It was difficult. "Out of morbid curiosity, just how many … babies did you kill? You know, for their dying breaths."

Wilkes waved his hand distractedly. "Honestly, only about four, I think," he said in what sounded like petulant disappointment. "It would have been five, but one time, I couldn't get the cork out of the bottle fast enough. Damned nuisance!"

"Four, almost five?"

"Yes, but that's only the babies," the Toymaker said while raising his chin imperiously. "My total death count is much, much higher. How about you? Are you living up to your old man's expectations? How many kills do you have so far? Total, that is. No need to break it up by ages or anything."

Harry did his best to look bashful instead of appalled. "Only one so far. But it was one of Dumbledore's people, if that helps. And I killed him with a spell I boosted with Parselmagic! He splattered all over the wall like … I don't know, a big bucket of tomato soup, I suppose. At the time, I thought it was rather impressive."

The boy did his best impression of a son trying to please his father while trying not to think about how gruesome Remus Lupin's death was nor about the fact that it was retroactively undone. Wilkes's face split into a broad grin.

"You're doing Parselmagic already? And I bet you don't even have a teacher! Good show, Harry! Please tell me you're taking Ancient Runes. There is so much you can do with Parselmagic when you're doing high level enchanting."

Harry's face lit up. "Like that snake-in-a-box that makes people laugh themselves to death?"

"You've heard about that!"

"Yeah, it's, um, been in the news lately." The boy looked thoughtful. "By any chance do you know a Death Eater named Peter Pettigrew?"

"Pettigrew? Oh yes, Mr. Nemo's protégé he keeps bragging about. I've met him a few times, but he hasn't taken the Mark yet. Or at least, not by the time I was last updated. Why?"

"Well, at some point, you gave him one of those boxes. Just a few months ago, he was exposed as having been a secret Death Eater all this time, and he left it behind for the hit wizards to find. Five of them are still in St. Mungo's giggling like fools."

Wilkes gave his strange giggle again. "Well, good for Mr. Pettigrew! I'm glad I was able to help him bring smiles to so many faces!"

"And you made it with Parselmagic?"

"Oh yes! It's easy once you know how! Honestly, it's just a common Rictumsempra augmented with Parseltongue and then inscribed on a children's toy!"

"That's it? No one from St. Mungo's has any idea how to cure it!"

Wilkes tapped his nose conspiratorially. "Think about it, Harry. That curse could be undone by a simple Finite Incantatem uttered in Parseltongue. But how many Parselmouths does St. Mungo's keep on staff? And if there are any at all, how many of them are willing to expose themselves as Parselmouths just to cure some poxied hit wizards of the delight my little toy has brought to them? After all, my father taught me by the age of three that I needed to conceal my status as a Speaker, and that was before our Lord made Parseltongue into a weapon of mass destruction!"

Then, he suddenly looked alarmed. "Please tell me no one knows that you are a Parselmouth!"

Harry shook his head. "No, I've been careful. But … you mentioned the Dark Lord again, and I guess that takes us to the real reason I worked so hard to get here and meet with you." He took a deep breath. "I wanted to ask if you know of any way to restore Lord Voldemort to life."

Wilkes took a step back within the painting and suddenly grew quite serious. "And why do you think that reviving him is even possible?"

"Because two years ago, someone smuggled a cursed diary into Hogwarts belonging to a former student named Tom Marvolo Riddle. Do you know anything about him?"

Wilkes grinned again. "Know him? Oh, sonny boy, there are all kinds of interesting things I know about Tom Marvolo Riddle. But alas, none I can share with you. So Tom's diary was brought to Hogwarts? What happened next?"

"Well, as I understand it, the diary somehow contained a part of Voldemort's soul. It possessed a student and used him to unleash Slytherin's Monster—a basilisk, by the way, if you didn't know—on the school. And the whole time, the diary was draining the life force from the student it was possessing in order to generate a spectral version of Lord Voldemort that came close to coming fully back to life."

"But obviously not quite all the way." A strange intensity came into Wilkes's eyes. "What happened? What went wrong?"

Harry snorted contemptuously. "Jim Potter! He stuck his big Gryffindor nose where it wasn't wanted. As incredible as it seems, he killed Slytherin's Monster with a magic sword. And then, he used that same sword to stab the diary itself, which destroyed it and, apparently, the soul fragment."

For a second, a look of terrible frightening rage passed over his face, but then, it faded, and he seemed as affable as ever.

"Yeah, I reckon basilisk venom would do it," he muttered to himself, though Harry still heard. "And you haven't killed this little shit yet?"

Harry shrugged. "He's rather hard to get to and surprisingly good at staying alive. It helps, I suppose, that he spends a lot of time hiding behind old Dumb-as-a-door's skirts."

"Ha!" Wilkes barked out. "Dumb-as-a-door! I love that! And anyway, I suppose it's for the best. I imagine T…" He caught himself and grew frustrated for a second at nearly misspeaking. "I imagine Lord Voldemort will want to kill the brat personally. He might take offense if anyone does it for him."

"I'll remember that. But what I need to know now is—Did our Lord leave any other items that could be used to resurrect him that I can get to and use?"

Wilkes suddenly grew very serious and stared at Harry appraisingly for a while.

"Harry, are you sure that you're committed to our Lord's return? No matter what the cost?"

Harry nodded somberly. "The blood traitors and Mudbloods took everything from us, Father. I am committed."

The Toymaker's face broke back out into a broad grin. "Then step closer and listen carefully, my son. Because I've got a few things to share with you."

Five minutes later, Harry stepped back out into the antechamber with a pensive expression on his face.

"Well?" Regulus asked. "How did it go?"

Harry looked up at him. "I've got good news and bad news. The good news is that I know where the fourth Horcrux, the Gaunt Lord's ring, is hidden, as well as some idea of what the protections around it are."

"And the bad news?" Lucius asked in a tone indicating he was expecting the worst.

"The bad news is that I can't tell either of you about it. Nor anyone else! Because I'm not the Secret Keeper!"

3 August 1994
"Potter Manor"
11:00 a.m.

The day after Harry's swearing-in (and his brief but informative encounter with Erasmus Wilkes), his study group resumed for one last week prior to the start of the Quidditch World Cup. Feelings about the Cup were mixed, largely but not entirely along gender lines. Ginny Weasley joined most of the boys in being beyond excited about the event, while Anthony Goldstein joined most of the girls in being largely uninterested. But there was one aspect of the Cup that held everyone's attention—Harry's scheme to make money off of it.

All summer long, Harry's "brain trust," as Sue Li liked to call it, had put a lot of effort into perfecting their Eye-Spy magitech, and they had successfully made a half-dozen prototypes. George Weasley in particular had been a boon to their activities with his nearly savant-like skill at rune-working. And when he wasn't working on the magical side of things, Harry was also coordinating the business side with his financial partners: Lucius Malfoy, Malcolm Finch-Fletchley, and Sirius Black, all three of whom had agreed to invest financially in the Eye-Spy project along with House Wilkes. Unbeknownst to them, however, there was a secret outside investor. Harry decided not to share with his other partners that a front company for the Unspeakables had a 12% stake in what was tentatively called Eye-Spy Productions.

The specific contribution of those various partners, aside from providing raw materials to make the flying cameras in the first place (and in the case of the DoM, not shutting them down and Obliviating everyone involved), was to pay for the Eye-Spy's first field test. They had arranged to have the four national teams of the British Isles appear on August 6 at a pair of exhibition games to be held at the Hogwarts Quidditch Field. The exhibition games—England vs. Wales and Scotland vs. Ireland—would be free to all current Hogwarts students and staff, but anyone else could come buy a ticket with a small donation to the Hogwarts General Fund.

More importantly, however, during each match, the stadium would be ringed with Eye-Spies, seven in all. One each to track the Quaffle and the two Bludgers at all times, one to watch each of the Seekers, and one trained on each of the Keepers. After the match's conclusion, the information crystals of all seven Eye-Spies would then be edited into one master recording, complete with audio commentary to be provided by Ludo Bagman and Gwenog Jones, who had both been hired by Lucius for that purpose. And then, the brain trust could turn to how best to market their recording to the general public.

The most promising medium so far was enchanted mirrors. They were a well-established medium for various audio-visual magical effects. More importantly, one of the many businesses owned by the Finch-Fletchleys was a small mirror factory in Birmingham, which allowed the group as many mirrors at they needed for experimental purposes at no cost.

In fact, Hermione was holding one such mirror at this very moment, while Anthony maneuvered an Eye-Spy around the room with his wand. The orb was bulky, about two feet in diameter, but it was still able to levitate itself with ease when directed to do so. When it had reached a position about five feet away from George Weasley, Anthony gave a command and then lowered his wand. The Eye-Spy hung in the air. George waved cheekily at the orb and then moved around the room, slowly at first but then faster and more erratically, singing the Hogwarts School Song as he went. The Eye-Spy tracked his movements easily.

"Okay, tracking seems to work," Anthony said. "Let's check the audio and video quality, and then we can take it outside and make sure it can react fast enough to track someone on a broom."

With a word and a flick of his wand, the orb floated over to a nearby table and landed, at which point Sue Li came over and removed a small crystal rod. She handed the rod over to Hermione, who popped it into a small depression at the bottom of the mirror she was holding. The mirror had been specially made by Sir Malcolm's factory to the group's specifications, and upon arrival, George painstakingly etched the proper runes into the frame. Once the crystal rod was in place, Hermione touched one of those runes with her wand. Instantly, her reflection disappeared to be replaced by an image of George waving. Everyone crowded around her excitedly to watch the playback.

"I wonder if this was what Thomas Edison felt like when he saw the first film recording played back," Anthony mused.

"Pfft!" Sue scoffed. "You would make this all about Edison!"

"Oh, don't you start!" Goldstein snapped ruefully. "Edison's greater historical importance compared to Nikola Tesla is unquestioned."

"Hush, both of you!" Hermione interrupted. "You always get into a shouting match over the Edison/Tesla rivalry and end up wasting hours on it."

Harry and George just looked at one another.

"I have no context for this, do you?" Harry inquired. George shrugged in response.

Then, Harry suddenly looked alarmed. "By the way, where is Fred?! He's not off somewhere about to blow up my new home, is he?"

"Nah!" Beat. "Well, probably not. He's giving Ron, Ginny, Neville, and Amy pointers on 'proper slicing and crushing' techniques after he saw poor Longbottom nearly melt a cauldron and barely vanished the contents in time."

"That's … uncharacteristically noble of him," Harry said cautiously.

"Well, he's started taking potion-work more seriously in general," George said before adding, "Also, it gets him and Ginny both out of helping Mum in the kitchen. She's been going spare with all the stuff she's cooking for hoity-toity folks who will be showing off at the Cup. I think the Muggles call it 'tail-gating,' which sounds a bit rude but probably means something different than I was originally thinking."

While Harry and George chatted, Hermione was unable to break-up Anthony and Sue's longstanding disagreement over the relative merits of American-based inventors Thomas Edison and Nikola Tesla. Then, Anthony suddenly smiled mischievously.

"Say, Harry? Are you still trying to come up with a new name for Potter Manor?"

"Uh, yeah?"

"How about Menlo Park?"

"DON'T YOU DARE!" Sue exclaimed. "Besides, Menlo Park wasn't Edison's home. It was the town where he set up his business!" She turned to Harry herself.

"If you want to rename this place, you should call it Wardenclyffe Tower!"

"Oh, that's auspicious!" Anthony said sarcastically. "That project failed! And the Tower got torn down and sold for scrap! Besides, this house doesn't have a tower!"

"ENOUGH!" Harry yelled. "Okay, here's what we're going to do. We're going to set this whatever-this-is aside for later so we can go out and test the Eye-Spies in the air. Then, your homework will be to come back tomorrow with a written report explaining in twenty-five words or less what the new name of Potter Manor should be and why."

"Oh, can I play too?" said Ginny as she entered the room along with Fred's other Potions students. To Harry's relief, it turned out that they'd also been under the supervision of Penelope, Titus, and Bobby.

"Fine, fine. We'll make it a contest! Whoever comes up with the best name gets a gift certificate to Honeydukes or something."

"Sounds fun," Neville said. "Only we won't be here tomorrow. We'll all be meeting at Longbottom Manor because you wanted to use the pool."

"Oh yes, the submersible broom!" Hermione exclaimed. "How are you coming with that?"

Harry shrugged. "I think I have the rune sequence worked out, but it hasn't been a priority. I mean, how likely am I to need a broom I can fly underwater anytime soon? We'll see how good my runework is if I start to drown, and Neville has to dive in and save me."

Everyone chuckled, but then Amy spoke up.

"Say, where's Sirius? I haven't seen him all day."

Harry grimaced. "He's with … Archie. Today's the day Sirius is going to open up his own family manor house."

With that, everyone headed outside for the flying experiments, but Harry caught Hermione's eye and got her to stay behind.

"Before I forget, would you mind terribly if I asked you to do a bit of outside research for me? Specifically, research in a Muggle library because we're at a dead end magically?"

"I suppose so. I can pop by my local library this weekend. What's the topic?"

Harry looked around to make sure no one was around to hear. "Anything you can find out about a little town somewhere either in Yorkshire or Lancashire called Little Hangleton. And also, anything about residents there, past or present, named either Gaunt … or Riddle."

From an owl post sent that same day …

Lupin

I've been waiting to hear back from you for weeks. The Headmaster informs me that you will not be returning as Caretaker, an understandable decision. But that is no reason to break off all contact. You were the one who proposed using Animagery as a possible cure for Lycanthropy. If I'm to evaluate your suggestion, I need those notes you promised me.

Snape

Dartmoor National Park
4:00 p.m.

It had taken the group most of the day to reach their destination. They'd started early that morning, but the drive from London to Princetown took nearly four hours in Ted Tonks's rental car, followed by a five-hour hike through the soggy marshlands of Dartmoor. A good amount of that time had been spent with the Black Brothers and their cousin Andromeda regaling Ted and Nymphadora Tonks with stories about their childhood visits to Chevenoir, the ancestral home of the Ancient and Noble House of Black.

Centuries before, it had been the Castle Black, whose foundations had been laid in the Sixth Century in the aftermath of the Ancient Families' victory over the Druids. Castle Black stood proudly for eight centuries. But then, alas, in 1471, Lord Sagittarius Black picked the wrong side in the conflict between the Muggle Houses of York and Lancaster and paid for it with his lands and his head. Castle Black was leveled to its foundations by York-aligned wizards on the order of King Richard III.

But the House of Black survived through Sagittarius's son and Heir, Perseus Black. Percy the Black avenged his father while serving as a battle-mage to Henry Tudor, who rewarded his wizarding ally greatly upon his coronation as King Henry VII. Construction of a new seat for House Black began in 1486, a year to the day after Richard's death at Bosworth Field. But instead of a castle, Perseus chose a different course. The new Lord Black fancied himself an artist and scholar as well as a warrior, and on the foundations of Castle Black, he raised a massive, three-story mansion in a new architectural style of his own design. The King was a great admirer of this new style, and Muggle architects would soon mimic Perseus's innovations, leading to what Muggle historians now refer to as "the Tudor style" but which was commonly known as "the Perseiad style" until the advent of the Statute of Secrecy. The most iconic feature of the mansion was its heavy use of British oak timbers which had been magically darkened to the color of ebony. Perseus christened his new family manse as Chenenoir or "Black Oak."

Or at least he would have had an inattentive scribe not misspelled it as "Chevenoir" in all the official documents filed with the Wizengamot.

As the quintet continued their slog through the fens of Dartmoor, Ted Tonks led the way, as his long-ago Boy Scout training allowed him to follow the map to their destination. Nymphadora followed along beside him. Having grown bored with tales of ancient Black history, the youngest Black present had taken to grumbling about their long trek.

"I still don't see why we have to walk!" she exclaimed in exhaustion.

"Because it's the only way, dear," said Andromeda from the rear. She and Regulus were following Sirius who walked in the middle while leaning heavily on a staff.

"The Floo is blocked off from the inside," Regulus added. "And the place is Unplottable, so no one can Apparate or Portkey in. We wouldn't even be able to find the place if scouting from above on brooms, even ignoring the risk of being seen by Muggles. We must first travel to Chevenoir the hard way. Only then can we be keyed into the wards by the master of the house."

"Which, barring disaster, will be me in a little while," said Sirius merrily, though his good cheer disguised his obvious exhaustion from the long hike. "And once I've claimed the place, I can open up the Floo again, and you can be home in time for supper!"

He stopped suddenly and then, with a cry, pointed to a large standing stone in the distance. "Ah! There it is! Beardown Man! And just beyond it, the Devil's Tor!"

Then, with a loud "Woohoo," he dropped his staff, shifted into his dog form, and bounded off towards the standing stone.

"Dammit, Sirius!" Reg exclaimed while pausing to retrieve his impetuous brother's walking staff. "Wait for us!"

Dora just shook her head. "Great. A big, tall rock. And a bunch of smaller rocks. Totally worth spending my day off on this."

"Well," said Andromeda, "at least there are no Muggles about to see a Grim bounding across the moors of South Devon! It would cause a panic down in the local village!"

Seconds later, the quintet regrouped around Beardown Man, a ten-foot-tall slab of granite which, according to Sirius, had been placed there over 4,000 years before by the ancient Druids for some inscrutable purpose. Muggles referred to such stones as menhirs, liths, or simply standing stones, and the word "Man" referred not to a human but to the Celtic word for "stone." Not far from Beardown Man was an oddly shaped rocky outcropping that had been known as Devil's Tor for centuries, but for reasons that were now obscure. Certainly, Nymphadora did not think it looked particularly menacing or ominous as she jogged towards it in pursuit of the shaggy Grim.

"Okay," she said, while breathing hard. "What now?"

Sirius grinned. "What now? Now, you and Ted get to be amazed by Chevenoir in all its glory!"

With that, he touched the gem on his Lord's Ring to the surface of Beardown Man and spoke.

"I, Sirius Orion Black, Lord of the Ancient and Noble House of Black, do claim that which was promised. By my blood and the blood of Arcturus Black and the blood of all the Lords Black who have come before, I do claim full rights to Chevenoir! Toujours Pur!"

Instantly, a shiver passed through Sirius's body as he bonded with the wards of Chevenoir, and the four ley lines which fed them. From nearby, there was a … not a sound, but something that felt like sound. Like the idea of a gigantic rusted door slowly swinging open even though there was no door to see. The four Blacks plus one turned in the direction of the sensation, and about 100 yards away, there was a great shimmer as centuries of protective wards opened up and allowed them to witness what lay hidden within.

All five of them simply stared in shock until Nymphadora spoke at last.

"Yeah," she muttered sarcastically, "I'm completely amazed at the glory of Chevenoir."

Visible before them was the space where Chevenoir had once stood, now with naught but fragments of its foundation still in place to hint at its former size and grandeur. The black stone chimney that once rose more than three stories tall was now stood barely two, but what remained was plainly visible, for there were no walls left to obscure its view. Shattered stone and burnt timber lay all around the remaining foundations, which had for the most part collapsed into the mansion's cellar.

"No … impossible," Regulus gasped. "Chevenoir … gone?!"

Andromeda sobbed and put her hands over her mouth as Ted came up behind her to put an arm around her. Sirius just shook his head and then snarled.

"No, no! It's a trick of some kind! An illusion!"

With that, he took off towards the ruins in a run, dropping down onto all fours and shifting into Padfoot again in mid-stride.

"Dammit, Sirius! Come back!" With a curse, Regulus tore off after his brother with the others following after. Nymphadora was in the rear, but as she drew near the wreckage, she stopped as something else drew her attention: a small mound of rocks about 100 feet away from the ruins that seemed to be manmade. After sparing a glance at her parents and cousins, she headed in that direction instead.

At the edge of the ruins, Padfoot stopped and changed back to Sirius who dropped to his knees.

"What could have happened here?" he asked in a daze. "This place was built to last for centuries! To withstand wars! Who could have done this?!"

Regulus came up beside him and cast several investigatory spells he'd learned as an Auror.

"This fire burned itself out … roughly three years ago. I can't tell more precisely than that but … Sirius, I think Chevenoir must have burned down sometime around Grandfather's death!"

Sirius looked up at him in shock. "Do you think there's a connection? For that matter, do we even know for sure how he died?" He rose unsteadily to his feet. "Could Grandfather have died in the fire?!"

"Easy, Sirius," Andromeda said. "Let's not jump to conclusions."

Meanwhile, Nymphadora had reached the small pile of stones and cast a few spells of her own on it. Then, she called Ted over.

"What is it, Dora?" he asked with concern. "What have you found?"

"A grave, it looks like. There's one body buried under these rocks. Human, male, and under preservation Charms, I think. There are also two much smaller and fresher graves beside it. From the size, I'd hope they were house elves, because the alternative would be infants or small children. Do you know any more specialized Charms to use on dead and interred bodies?"

Ted nodded and began to cast even as the other three moved to join them.

"What have you found?" Andromeda asked cautiously.

"One male, wizard, deceased. Around ninety-years-old at the time of death, which was about three years ago. Significant lung damage, though that wasn't the cause of death."

"Arcturus would have been about that age when he was reported dead," said Regulus woodenly. "And he had long term lung damage due to a curse he took during the Grindelwald War."

"What was the cause of death, Ted?" Sirius asked in a shaky voice.

"I can't tell precisely without disinterring the body and doing a full examination in a medical facility," the Healer replied. "But I can say this. The body is under preservation Charms, and there is very little tissue degradation. It is also fully intact with no signs of physical trauma or burns. If this is Arcturus Black, well, I don't know if he died before or after the house was destroyed, but he definitely wasn't inside at the time."

Suddenly, all five of them whirled around with wands drawn at the sound of a soft pop behind them. It was an emaciated house elf in ragged clothes.

"You … you … came," the creature gasped before falling over. Instantly, the wizards and witches rushed over.

"I recognize her!" Regulus said in amazement. "It's Ophelia! She cooked for Grandfather! Merlin, she was old when I last saw her, and that was in 1978!"

As Regulus talked, Andi reached into a bag she'd brought and pulled out several potions which she gently fed to the barely conscious elf. Meanwhile, Ted cast several diagnostic Charms.

"This elf is indeed showing signs of advanced age. But also signs of malnutrition. Can she really have been living out here all alone since the house burned down?"

"Possibly," Regulus said. "Even without the house, the ward scheme remained intact. Besides, this area is a confluence of four ley lines. I assume a house elf could survive even without a master or a home with that much ambient magic."

Meanwhile, Sirius moved closer to the stricken house elf.

"Wake up, Ophelia," he said gently. When the elf did not respond, he closed his eyes and slumped his shoulders before he took a deep breath and spoke more firmly.

"Ophelia! I, Sirius Black, Lord of the Ancient and Noble House of Black, do hereby order you to awaken!"

Instantly, Ophelia's eyes shot open and she gasped painfully. Andromeda shot Sirius an angry look, but he ignored it.

"M-master Sirius," the elf croaked. "You came. You came at last."

"Yes, Ophelia. I'm here. Now please—tell us what happened here? How did Chevenoir come to be destroyed?"

The house elf blinked its eyes and sobbed piteously. "Oh, Master Sirius, please forgive us! We… we was ordered!"

Everyone looked around to one another in shock at Ophelia's confession.

"Ophelia," Sirius continued. "Do you mean that Grandfather ordered you to burn down the house?"

She shook her head no. "Ophelia means … that Master Arcturus ordered Catesby to destroy … the Book!"

The Tonkses were all confused by that comment, but Sirius and Regulus gave one another anxious looks. There was only one "Book" to which Ophelia could be referring,

"Ophelia, tell us everything. Start with how Grandfather died."

The house elf nodded and began her tale in a weak and trembling voice punctuated by occasional wracking coughs.

"Twas in June of 1979. Master Arcturus had suffered his ailments for many, many years. But one night, he became gravely ill, wracked by palsy and stammering. The spell passed, but Master Arcturus could no longer move his arms nor legs, and he could hardly speak."

"A stroke, most likely," said Andromeda softly. "It had always been a risk with his condition."

"Why didn't anyone call a Healer?" Ted wondered aloud, but Ophelia answered.

"M-master Arcturus had given us elveses the—cough, cough—strictest orders should he b-become in-in-incapacitated. Lock down the House of Black Oaks tight so none could get through save for his Heir. We s-sent owl messages to young Master Sirius. But … he never came."

Sirius paled, and the others looked at him expectantly.

"I … I remember getting messages back then summoning me to Chevenoir. But … they never said why. They certainly never said that Grandfather was gravely ill!"

"We—cough, cough—was ordered not to reveal such in writing nor to leave the House of Black Oaks. But still we sent messages. And waited."

Sirius shook his head, aghast. "Mother and Father had already disowned me by then," he explained guiltily. "Cast me out and struck me from the Tapestry. I just assumed Arcturus wanted to finish the job. Or worse, turn me over to the Death Eaters to curry favor with You-Know-Who."

"He would have never done that, Sirius," Regulus said. "Grandfather never had any use for the Dark Lord. That's why he never removed you as his Heir. He prepared me to take over in your place if you died fighting Death Eaters, but … you were always his preferred Heir."

"I … I didn't know," Sirius said weakly while blinking back tears. But then, Ophelia turned her tearful eyes towards Regulus.

"We elveses tried to find you too, Master Regulus," she wheezed. "But you was hidden from us. The owls returned with their letters unopened."

Reg swallowed deeply. "The spell Grandfather gave me to let me fake my own death. It also incorporated an anti-owl ward. The inability of an owl to find someone is often considered evidence of death."

"But Master Arcturus, he n-never gave up hoping. N-not even after s-stupid newspapers said Master Sirius had gone bad and was sent to the evil place. He gave us elveses one order to r-rule over all other—cough—all other orders. To keep him alive as long as possible. No Healers, no pain relievers to weaken—cough—weaken his resolve or hasten his end. Keep him alive until—cough—until one of you returned."

Sirius's lips quivered. "How … how long, Ophelia?"

A tear rolled down Ophelia's cheek. "Twelve years. Every day of it suffering in pain."

"Merlin, why?!" Ted exclaimed.

"Because of my Father," Andromeda said coldly. "If Arcturus had died while Regulus was presumed dead and Sirius convicted of treason, Cygnus could have petitioned the Wizengamot to have him declared the only viable Heir and immediately claimed the Black Lordship. And then, he'd have probably turned all of House Black's resources straightaway over to Narcissa!"

She sneered at the memory of the man who'd expelled her from the family and the cruel sister who'd taken such delight in it. "But as it happened, Cygnus only survived Arcturus by just a few months, most of which was spent in the grip of senile dementia."

"Yes," Ophelia said softly while shutting her eyes in pain. "Young Toki did his work well, even though it cost him his life."

The wizards and witches looked at one another in confusion.

"If I remember correctly," Regulus said slowly, "Toki was Grandfather's youngest house elf. Ophelia, what do you mean by that?"

The frail elf took several deep breaths, as if preparing herself for the end.

"Forgive us our sins, Master Regulus, Master Sirius. We… we was ordered. In December of '91, just—cough—days before Christmas, Lord Arcturus Black finally passed from this Material World. Not all Ophelia's and Catesby's and Reba's and Toki's magic could preserve the Master's life for—cough, cough—for one more second. And so, we did magic to his body to preserve it and then buried it in the garden that once grew here. And from that garden, young Toki plucked three berries from the Deliriosos Lacrimae bush that—cough—that Lady Hester Gamp Black had planted there some hundred years a'fore. Then, young Toki—cough, cough—entered the home of Cygnus and Druella Black by stealth and squeezed the berries so that the juice dripped down onto Cygnus Black's lips while he slept."

"Merlin's bones!" Andromeda whispered in a horrified voice. The others turned towards her and she explained.

"Deliriosos Lacrimae or 'Tears of Madness' is a dangerous plant that is illegal to own privately. The juice from a single berry can cause irreversible insanity. And the juice of three berries would have been a lethal dose."

She looked away, her eyes blinking madly. "It appears I was wrong. My father did not suffer from senile dementia. He was poisoned on the orders of the Lord of his own House with a substance that drove him to screaming insanity before killing him painfully."

Despite herself, she chuckled and gave Ted a grim smile. "And now, dearest, you know where that part of me comes from."

"Waitaminute!" Nymphadora exclaimed. "Do you mean to say that house elves can be used as assassins?!"

Ophelia had a sudden severe coughing fit before she was finally able to answer. "Not easily, young Miss. We house elveses are not meant for such things. It is against …" She paused and then began again. "Young Toki returned to report that his task was complete. Then, he ended himself. We buried him in the garden next to the Master."

"And then, you destroyed Chevenoir," Sirius said. "On Grandfather's orders?"

Ophelia shook her head. "We did not destroy our home by choice. But Catesby's—cough—final task was to destroy… the Book. The Final Option."

Regulus and Sirius looked at one another again in understanding. The Final Option was the name of a ritual contained in every copy of the Anathema Codex. Not truly a spell, it was rather a sequence of seemingly random words that, if spoken aloud by one holding the book, could instantly destroy it. As the name implied, it was a last-ditch defense used to prevent a copy of the Codex from falling into the hands of someone unworthy. The Final Option's destructive capacity varied according to the desire of the one who triggered it. It could incinerate just the Codex or everything within a half-mile radius or anything in between. But regardless, it would always kill the one who cast it. In this instance, Catesby, Arcturus's most trusted house elf, acted on his master's last orders and used the Final Option to destroy the Black copy of the Anathema Codex along with himself. Whether he planned to destroy Chevenoir and all the Dark objects and grimoires within it to keep them out of the wrong hands or it was simply a mishap caused by a house elf triggering the Final Option rather than a wizard could never be known.

"What happened then, Ophelia?" Regulus asked gently. The house elf took a few seconds to catch her breath.

"The great house of your ancestors was no more, Mr. Regulus. Catesby was destroyed along with it. Tweren't nothing left even to bury. Reba and Ophelia survived here alone, with no one to serve, no one to give us orders. But even with Chevenoir gone, there was still wards and magic and the ley lines what fed them. That was enough for a time. Reba went just three months after Chevenoir burned. Of a broken heart more than anything else. Ophelia buried Reba's remains next to Toki and the old Master. Then, Ophelia waited and waited, hoping that someone from the House of Black would come so that Ophelia could tell her story."

The tiny creature looked up at Sirius. "Has Ophelia been a good elf, Master Sirius?"

"Yes, Ophelia," Lord Black answered gravely. "You've been a very good elf. All of you have. Grandfather would have been very proud of you all."

She smiled. "Then, Master Sirius, can Ophelia rest now?"

"Of course! Andromeda, give her something to help her sleep until we can get her home."

Ophelia shook her head.

"No, Master Sirius. Ophelia is not needing sleep. Chevenoir is gone. Ophelia's old Master is gone. Ophelia's kin are gone. Ophelia wants to rest now. The only rest a house elf can ever have. Please, Master Sirius. Can Ophelia rest?"

Sirius swallowed painfully, and his voice shook when he finally spoke.

"Y-yes, Ophelia. I order you to rest."

She smiled and closed her eyes … and breathed no more.

At Sirius's direction, the group held a moment of silence for Arcturus Black and the last of his faithful house elves. They buried Ophelia next to Reba and Toki, and then Sirius transfigured the earthen burial plots into small stone markers that bore their names. But he did not reshape Arcturus's own grave. Instead, he used magic to move the stones aside and expose the old man's perfectly preserved body. He looked more peaceful in death than any of the Blacks who knew him ever remembered him being when he was alive.

While Ted and Nymphadora watched, Sirius, Regulus, and Andromeda raised their wands as one, and Sirius began to speak the words that his Grandfather had taught him as a child.

"I, Sirius Orion Black, Lord of the Ancient and Noble House of Black, hereby testify before Magic itself. Be it known that Arcturus Rigel Black the Third died a true Son of the House of Black. That he conducted himself to the last moment of his life with dignity and courage and with the highest values of wizardry. That he …" Sirius faltered for a moment but then continued.

"That he stood in his place along the Watchtower until the very end. And that whatever his sins, his soul and heart were always pure. We Blacks are named for stars and planets and heavenly bodies because it is from star stuff that we are born. And it is to the stars that we commend Arcturus Black: our kinsman, our Lord, our blood."

For years after, the younger Muggles of Princetown, Devonshire would talk excitedly about the strange lights in the skies they had all seen on the night of 2 August 1994. Was it aliens or secret government testing? But the older Muggles just shook their heads and went back to their business. Strange lights in the sky above the Devil's Tor wasn't anything special to be concerned about.

It was Dartmoor after all.

4 Privet Drive, Surrey
10:00 p.m.

As the elder Potters were getting ready for bed, their son Jim was engaged in some late-night studying in the privacy of his room. The current topic of research was a forbidden if not illegal book entitled Animagery: The Deeper Mysteries, and Jim only read it at night for fear his parents would discover it and hit the roof. Presently, the boy sat at the cheap writing desk in his room, wearing pajama bottoms and his new favorite T-shirt. Lily had taken him to a Muggle shopping mall the day before to buy him some new Muggle clothes so he could go out in the neighborhood inconspicuously. He'd been moody and untalkative for days ever since their conversation about the Triwizard Tournament, and to Lily's mild concern, he had mostly chosen all-black clothing.

In particular, Jim insisted on buying one special T-shirt he saw hanging in a shop window, the same shirt he was wearing now. It was mostly black, but on the front was a picture of a black raven perched on a tree branch against a background of purples and grays. Along the side was a single word in jagged, blocky letters written in a bloody red that popped against the black shirt: "NEVERMORE." The shirt had mesmerized Jim when he saw it, and he asked Lily what it meant, which led to a brief explanation of American Muggle writer Edgar Allan Poe and then, to her surprise, a side-trip to a Muggle bookstore for a paperback edition of Poe's works.

That evening, Jim had skimmed through the entire book, most of which he found dreary and quite sinister, but Poe's poem The Raven stuck with him, and he read through it several times before finally deciding that he'd put off the inevitable long enough. He picked up the Animagery book again and turned back to the passage he'd found so confusing the night before.

While many would-be Animagi struggle for years to fully master the transformation, it is my belief that their difficulties lie not in any deficiency in themselves nor any hidden complexity in the process of attuning to the proper morphic resonance. Rather, what holds back most wizards and witches who falter in their journey is fear. Not fear of discovery by those who would persecute Animagi. Not even fear of a transformation gone wrong that results in permanent injury, death, or perhaps worst of all, irreversible entrapment in one's animal form. No, the greatest fear transcends those banal concerns. It is the fear of embracing magic's true potential. It is the fear of what small-minded fools dare not contemplate in all its terrible majesty, and so they brand with that insipid placeholder name: The Wild.

The true Animagus does not simply "turn into an animal." Rather, he subsumes into himself the totality of what his animal is, what it symbolizes, what it truly means. The first humans worshiped the spirits of the animals around them as gods, as the totemic rulers of the higher realms. Later, Muggles rebelled against a spiritual hierarchy that required them to acknowledge the superiority of the totem animals, the ineffable distillation of what every breed of Earthly animal represents in mortal minds. And so, those Muggles invented new gods. Gods made in their own image with human forms and human foibles. The totem animals withdrew from us, for they were creatures of Magic and, deprived of worship, could not bear this fallen world of Reality with its plebian constraints for what is and is not possible. The totems are Wild animals, and it is in the Wild where they live and hunt, bloody in tooth and claw, while waiting for us to remember them and call their names once more.

If you, reader, would truly be as one with the animal inside you and have completed the preliminary trials, the next step is to open your mind, not just to becoming an animal, but to becoming the idea of an animal. You must see as your animal sees, hear as it hears, smell as it smells, taste as it tastes. But do not limit your senses to the material world. Strive to see as the animal sees in the Wild, where the idea of a thing is as real as the thing itself. No, more real. You must see as your animal sees when in the realm of thought and symbol. And so, ask yourself: Through which symbols does your animal see the world? Sun, Moon, Love, Rage, Fear, Youth, Age, Wisdom, Trickery, Air, Water, Fire, Earth, Fertility, Death. These are the most common and basic symbols which might attach to your spirit animal, but there are many others, as many as there are animals. As many as there are dreams about animals and people to dream them. When you dream about your spirit animal, what do you see? What does it see? What do you imagine seeing through its eyes? Focus on the eyes first, young Animagus. For as it was said long ago, the eyes are the windows to the soul.

Jim put the book back down and rubbed his own eyes. Then, he looked up into the mirror attached to the back of his desk and stared wearily into his own reflection and then more deeply into the reflection of his own green eyes, the eyes he'd inherited from his mother. He and Harry both had Lily Potter's green eyes, but Harry's were more vivid. The color of the Killing Curse some had said, though Jim had mercifully never witnessed that spell being cast.

Well, there was that one time when he was a baby, but he didn't remember very much about that and tried not to think about what he did remember. He shook his head and set such thoughts aside.

"The eyes are the windows to the soul," he murmured. Then, Jim Potter closed his eyes and breathed slowly and deeply.

"Quoth the Raven, Nevermore," he whispered while imagining watching the world through a raven's eyes, whatever that might mean. He opened his eyes and gasped. This was for three reasons, all equally compelling.

First, Jim's eyes were now solid black from pupil to iris to sclera. They did indeed look exactly like the eyes of a raven.

Second, the whole room around the boy became brighter thanks to the raven's superior night vision, and he was dazzled by his newfound ability to see in the ultraviolet spectrum. The room was now awash in colors he would never be able to describe to anyone else. There were simply no words.

Third, and perhaps most importantly, Jim was startled to see an obese translucent man with a thick moustache standing behind him and staring down at him with an expression of pure malevolence.

"WHOOAH!" Jim yelled while jumping out of the chair and then knocking it over as he turned around to face the intruder.

"Freeeakk!" growled Vernon Dursley in a voice like nails on a chalkboard.

"Dude! It's just a ghost!" hissed Steve, who lifted his head in his terrarium to watch the confrontation.

"Jim!" shouted James Potter as he burst into the room in response to his son's terrified yell. "What is it?!"

Startled, Jim squeezed his eyes shut out of reflex. When he opened them again, his vision had returned to normal, and there was no sign of the ghost that had frightened him. He shook his head and turned to face his father.

"It was nothing, Dad. I … just fell asleep at my desk. Must have had a nightmare that woke me up and made me yell. I'm sorry to have worried you."

James studied his son for a moment. Then, his expression softened. "Don't worry about it, son. You've been through so much recently. I don't blame you for nightmares. Do you want a Potion of Dreamless Sleep?'

"No, that's ... that's okay, Dad. I'll just get into bed. I'm sure I'll be fine."

James nodded and wished his son good night before exiting the room and closing the door behind him.

Jim exhaled slowly and looked around the room for a moment. Then, he closed his eyes again and concentrated. When he opened them, his strange new "raven vision" had returned … along with the angry ghost that Jim now thought he recognized from old pictures.

"Vernon Dursley?!" he asked in shock.

In response, the mask of pure hatred on Vernon's face slowly melted away to be replaced by one of complete astonishment at having been recognized and named.

"Yes! Yes, that was my name! Vernon Dursley!" Vernon was speaking in a surprisingly reasonable tone for a dead man. Then, he suddenly grew confused. "Hang on. Do you mean to say you can actually see me?!"

Five minutes later …

"So … I'm dead?" Vernon asked incredulously. By this point, he was sitting on Jim's bed looking more depressed than spooky. Jim sat across from him in his desk chair and tried not to think about whether the ghost might leave some sort of ectoplasmic residue all over his bedsheets.

"Yeah. Since sometime in October of 1992. It's August of '94 now, so just under two years, I reckon."

Vernon nodded slowly. "I remember waking up in the night unable to breathe. I remember Petunia shaking me and screaming my name. I would have screamed myself if I could. I could feel my heart pounding, like it wanted to rip out of my chest. It was terrifying. And then, everything just went black."

He shuddered. "Everything after that is just a blur until you said my name. It was like … like hearing someone call me Vernon finally woke me up at last. Before that, it was just a lot of terrible nightmares where I spent my time trying to scare people out of the house even though, for some reason, I didn't really want them to go."

Jim nodded and explained what he'd learned about the ghostly condition after a late-night conversation with Nearly Headless Nick. Most ghosts were wizards or witches because they had an internal reservoir of magic when they died, but ghosts could arise from deceased Squibs or even Muggles provided that they died in magically active areas or as a result of a magical attack. The one exception was the Killing Curse which, as far as anyone knew, never left ghosts behind. Most newly risen ghosts ceased to exist a few days after dying, with magical folk lasting longer as ghosts than those without magic. There were only two ways for a ghost to persist for longer. If the ghost haunted a sufficiently magically active building, either one connected to a ley line or one with an unusual number of wards and other long-term enchantments, the spirit could leech off the ambient magic to maintain a continued existence.

For ghosts without access to such magic, the situation was more dire. Such ghosts could only maintain their existence by feeding off the fear of mortals in their vicinity. Ghosts of that nature were classified as 'feral' ghosts. There was speculation that they eventually evolve into poltergeists like Peeves, but that theory had never been confirmed. Regardless, feral ghosts were the reason for Muggle ghost stories, stories far more terrifying than one might expect after meeting the friendly and talkative ghosts found at Hogwarts and other ghost-laden magical sites. A feral ghost could exercise power over its surroundings in order to cause poltergeist-like phenomena specifically to frighten nearby Muggles, thereby generating the emotional energy needed to survive, but it was a balancing act. Scare the Muggles too much, and they would flee the haunt, depriving the ghost of sustenance. Making matters worse, ghosts who were reduced to feeding on human fear would not truly wake up and remember their prior lives. They acted more like intelligent predators concerned only with provoking the fear they needed to exist.

The reason there were so many ghosts at Hogwarts was that it was the Ministry's policy to convey ghosts who might otherwise have become feral predators and thus threats to the Statute of Secrecy to Hogwarts or to other magic-intensive locations that could support a large population of intelligent ghosts. In fact, the Hogwarts Charter specifically codified the agreement of the Founders that the school should be a sanctuary for the Restless Dead. While techniques existed to exorcise a ghost permanently, they could also be bound for a time instead, and so the most humane solution for most feral ghosts was to ship them to Hogwarts where they could fully awaken. The alternative was to keep the haunted area free of Muggles for as long as it took to allow the feral ghost to dissipate for good, although this was often viewed ethically as equivalent to killing a ghost a second time and was generally a last resort.

Of course, all the ghosts of Hogwarts were wizards and witches, at least as far as Jim knew. Most Muggle ghosts didn't last long enough to attract Ministry attention, and the few who did in the past were relocated to other places (although Sir Nicholas became evasive when asked where those places were). But Jim had certainly never heard of a Muggle ghost being brought to Hogwarts.

As for Vernon, he had likely subsisted on the renters who'd stayed at 4 Privet Drive after Petunia and Dudley's departure and only begun to awaken to full consciousness after the Potters reestablished and reinforced the wards that Dumbledore had put on the place when Harry was first sent there in 1981. That apparently had been enough—barely—to allow Vernon to remember his living days, a process which accelerated when Jim reminded him of his name.

"Does that mean I'll stay here forever?" he asked fearfully. "I wasn't exactly religious when I was alive, but I always felt there was some kind of afterlife. Is … is this it?"

Jim shrugged. "I … don't know. Professor Dumbledore says that after death comes the next great adventure, but I don't know if that's anything more than wishful thinking. Maybe a ghost is someone who's afraid to go on. Or maybe a ghost is someone determined not to fade away to nothing."

The boy's face brightened. "My History of Magic teacher is a ghost. I can ask him." Then, his face fell. "Though, he's hard to get useful information out of. I'm not entirely sure he realizes he's dead."

Vernon looked amazed at that, but then shook his head and changed the subject. "Do you … do you know what happened to Pet, I mean … my wife and son? Are they alright? And where are they?"

"Well, I don't know exactly where they are," Jim replied earnestly. "But as far as I know, they're okay. They moved a few months after you died once the money from the … I wanna say, injured ants?"

"Insurance," Vernon supplied.

"Right. Anyway, Aunt Petunia got a lot of money from that, and she bought a house somewhere closer to that school Dudley's attending."

"Good, good," Vernon said with some satisfaction. "I always made a point of having the biggest life insurance policy I could get and also the biggest widow's pension that Grunnings offered."

His face darkened. "I always knew I'd die fairly young." He leaned towards Jim and gave him an intense expression. "Jim, are you … sure my death was from natural causes? That there was nothing … freakish about it?"

Jim was taken aback. "By freakish, do you mean magical? 'Cause … that's kind of an offensive term to us."

Vernon made a face as he bit down on what was probably going to be a rude remark. After a few seconds, he spoke again.

"I'm … sorry. I didn't mean to offend. But still … was there magic involved in my death? Was it … him?"

Jim stiffened. "Do you mean Harry?"

Vernon nodded fearfully.

"Then no!" the boy snapped. "I may not like my brother very much at the moment, but I know he didn't do anything to kill you. He was at Hogwarts when you died, and I was there when he was told about it. He was completely shocked by the news."

Then, Jim's voice grew colder. "He also told us that you tried to murder him."

Vernon looked at the boy in surprise before shaking his head. "All I remember is trying to get him out of the house. That last day, he showed up waving his wand around, and then, those … creatures started swarming over the house. I knew they were after him. I thought maybe he summoned them or something. But all I knew was that they were trying to break in, and they'd have killed us all. So I grabbed the little monster and threw him out the back door."

He lifted his chin defiantly. "I know you're going to judge me harshly for that, but I have no regrets. I'd been waiting for years until the day that Freak tried to kill us all, and when it finally came, I acted to save my family. If I had it to do over again, I'd do just the same. And for the record, when I call him the Freak, I don't care if it offends you … because it fits him. Since the day he came to us, he was … unnatural. I don't mean he was magical, although if I had my way, I'd have had no truck with that either. But even by the standards of your kind, he was … something else. Something … wicked."'

Jim started to respond, but Vernon interrupted him. "Animals hated him. Did you know that? My sister's dog, Ripper. Scary name, I know, but it was the gentlest beast you'll ever see. But every time the Freak got near it, the dog went berserk. It seemed like every few weeks we'd have a meeting with his teacher telling us about how he terrified the other children or picked fights with them. One teacher quit altogether in the middle of the year after he turned her hair blue. It was always something like that with him."

"That's just accidental magic!" Jim sputtered. "It's not a sign of him being ... evil!"

"Was it accidental magic when he threw hot bacon grease at my face? It almost blinded me! And then, he just laughed."

Jim stared at the ghost. "So if Harry was so awful, why didn't you call my Mum and Dad to come take him back? I know they told you to call them if he happened to show magic!"

Vernon looked down at the floor in defeat. "We tried, lad. We tried. We talked about it all the time back in the beginning. But every time we set out to call your mother, it would just … come over us. Like … like a wave drowning us."

"What would come over you?" Jim asked quietly.

"The fear," Vernon said in a shaken voice. "I can't explain it to you. But whenever we even contemplated sending the Freak away, Petunia and I would be overcome by a sense of … doom. A total certainty that if we tried to send him back to your parents, he would kill us all."

Vernon snorted. "He'd kill us if we sent him away. He'd kill us eventually if he stayed. And finally, somehow, he killed me. I just know it. The last decade of my life was spent waiting for the Freak to kill me and hoping, just hoping that my Petunia and my Dudley could get away."

Then, he sighed with a strange contentment. "And they did get away from him. So I guess I died well after all."

Jim shook his head. "No, I'm sorry. I know you believe what you're saying. I'm certain of it for some reason. But … Harry's not like that. I don't believe he was actually scheming to kill you or something like that. And he's not evil or … freakish!"

Vernon looked at the boy speculatively. "Isn't he? Jim, you and he look nearly the same. Yet you and I are sitting here talking, and I have none of the constant terror and anxiety and unnatural rage that I felt every time he and I were in the same room! And I knew him a lot longer than you have. Are you truly so certain that there's nothing wrong with him? You've never had any doubts about him?"

Jim swallowed. "Well, I mean, it was a little rough when we were starting out…"

"Uh-huh. Tell me, Jim. You and your family have moved into my old house. But where is your brother living now if not with you all?"

Jim looked away for a moment. "He's, um, living at Potter Manor. The house I grew up in."

"Oh? And how did that happen?"

"It's not important."

"Oh, Jim," Vernon said sadly. "I'll wager it's very important. How did he end up in your grand mansion while your whole family ended up here in the house where I died?"

The boy fumed. "I … don't really understand all the details except that it was mostly the fault of Uncle … I mean … my father's solicitor. But anyway, my father ended up owing Harry a magical debt that he couldn't repay. And so, to save my dad from dying due to breaching a magical oath, we had to give Harry our house and move into this one."

"Well, that was certainly convenient … for him at least," Vernon said rather snidely.

"Stop it! It wasn't like that!"

"Come on, lad. I know you distrust him at least a little. I don't know how, but I can sense it. Some bit of ghost freakishness, perhaps. But you know he's dangerous."

"I only distrust him because I'm under a spell!" Jim hissed quietly, afraid he'd lose his temper and wake his parents. "My … someone put a spell on me that causes me to distrust Harry."

Vernon chuckled. "Just because you're under a spell doesn't mean that distrusting him isn't the wise thing to do, lad. Just promise me that when you go back to Pigfarts or whatever that place is—you'll be careful around him. Or I promise, you'll regret it. He'll make certain of it."

Jim was silent. "I'd like to get some sleep now," he said after a long pause.

Vernon nodded. "Are you … are you going to tell your mum and dad about me?" he asked anxiously.

"I don't know. I'll have to think about it."

The ghost looked suddenly anxious. "If you do tell them, do you know what they'll do with me? I assume you lot have ways of … getting rid of problems like me."

Despite himself, Jim felt a wave of sympathy for the dead man whose house they'd claimed. He wasn't sure he believed anything the man had said about Harry, but he also wasn't sure what exactly would happen to him if the elder Potters decided to have him exorcised. He recalled once again the look on Sir Nicholas's face as he told Jim what was done with the ghosts of Muggles. Or more accurately, what Sir Nicholas pointedly did not say on the topic.

"I won't tell them anything right now," Jim finally said. "Provided you don't do anything to make me think you're a danger to me and my folks."

Vernon smiled. And then, he slowly faded from view.

4 August 1994
No. 12 Butterfield Lane, Oxford

The beetle flew into the townhouse through a cracked window in the boy's room just before dawn and quickly found a perch on top of a door frame where she could observe without being seen. After watching the house for a few days, she had figured out the Muggles' routine. Every morning around 9:00, the woman drove her son to a nearby sports center, which was probably for the best given the boy's size.

"Fair's fair, though," said the beetle to herself. "He's still overweight, but he seems to have lost a few stone since his father died, if those pictures on the mantle from his childhood are any guide. The exercise must have done him good."

After dropping off the boy, the woman would return to the townhouse, pour herself a cup of tea (milk, no lemon), and watch the Muggle teleovisual thingee all day until it was time to pick the boy up around five. To the beetle, it seemed a drab, pointless existence, but she supposed that everyone dealt with grief in their own way.

At 9:05, moments after the Muggles' departure, the beetle flew down from her perch into the kitchen, but it was a witch whose feet landed on the floor in front of the refrigerator. Inside, there was a large jug of milk but also a smaller metal jug the Muggle woman used for her tea service. The witch produced a vial from one of her pockets and carefully doled out three drops into the milk and swirled it around. She returned the small jug to the refrigerator and then placed a spell upon it to let her know the next time it was removed from its position. The witch closed the refrigerator, became a beetle once more, and flew out of the townhouse.

Forty minutes later, the witch was sitting on a nearby park bench reading over her notes for her upcoming interview when she heard the ringing of a soft bell that no Muggle around could have detected. She glanced at her watch and waited for another fifteen minutes before packing up her papers into a satchel and then striding confidently down the sidewalk towards Number 12. Once at the door, she pressed the bell and waited. A few minutes later, the door opened to reveal the Widow Dursley, and while the Muggle was annoyed at the interruption of her routine, her eyes were already slightly glassy with the tell-tale symptoms of the potion that had been slipped into her tea.

It was not Veritaserum, which was highly illegal to use on Muggles. Rather, it was the witch's personal blend of the Babbling Beverage, the Confusing Concoction, and Gregory's Unctuous Unction. When consumed, it would cause the drinker to become very talkative, to become eager to share secrets, and to consider the next person they saw to be incredibly trustworthy. Best of all, when the effects wore off, the drinker would have no memories of revealing any such secrets, and after a week, it was completely non-detectable. And even if discovered, it was only considered Class I Mugglebaiting, which held at most a 30 Galleon fine, which the Daily Prophet would pay.

"Yes?" snapped Petunia Dursley.

"Good morning! My name is Margarite Scarabee, and I'm a reporter. Could I come in and speak with you for a few minutes?"

Petunia blinked a few times, and then grudgingly welcomed her guest inside, neither knowing nor caring that the other woman was a witch.

An hour later …

To the reporter's consternation, Petunia Dursley had not been as good a source of gossip about the Potters as she'd hoped. She'd gotten loads of information about Lily Potter during their childhood, but the Muggle knew almost nothing about House Potter and its secrets beyond a general disdain for James Potter. And she knew absolutely nothing about the Boy-Who-Lived! Of course, Petunia apparently could talk for days about the sins and shortcomings of the former Harry Potter, but her stories were outlandish, elevating what were obviously minor accidental magic episodes into deliberate attacks while attributing every bit of ill fortune her family had ever suffered to "the Freak." Furthermore, she all but admitted to abusing the boy who'd been left in her care and was proud of having done so. Finally, before giving this interview up for a lost cause, the reporter tried one last tack.

"Mrs. Dursley," she said while removing a small glass object from her purse. "Would you do me the kindness of taking this item for a moment."

Petunia narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but she remained under the potion's effect. The Muggle reached out and took the Remembrall from the witch's hand. It immediately turned a violent red.

"What?!" Petunia said fearfully, only now realizing that her houseguest was a witch. "What is this thing?"

Rita Skeeter didn't answer. She just grinned from ear to ear.

Next: Little Hangleton.

AN1: Check out the Sinister Man's web presence on the POS wiki, the POS TV Tropes page, and my Discord server (through which you can see advance previews of this story as it is begin written). Also, the Sinister Man would be profoundly grateful if you checked out my P*****n page and supported my original fiction. Patronage is not necessary to get the free POS previews via Discord.

AN2 (What the Sinister Man is reading): Nothing new at the moment, I'm afraid.

AN3: Special thanks to my Discord editors: 100beep, AjithSen, AquaWolf, Azumi, Banshee, Bob, Cibirochka, cog and star (any). DA SWIMA BOI, dragonsandotters, Empathize_Not_Advise, EssayOfThoughts | Aich, ILoveTheBlacks, kean, Krisni, LFGB, Luq707, MoldyShorts, Mr. ZYesterday, Rubric of Ahriman, Sakkiko, scallionpancake, TNT, TrendyTreky, Tuesday, and WhoKnows. Thanks, guys!

AN4: I had originally stolen "Pigfarts" from "The Brother" by Magiclulajane, an interesting and witty take on WBWL which sadly hasn't been updated since 2016. I have since been informed that it was originally a thing in "A Very Potter Musical."

AN5: Vital Statistics: Reviews: 16,102. Followers: 16,850. Favorites: 15,036. Communities: 236. Discord followers: 4041! Go Team POS!