"It might be both," said Harry. Eyes closed and face frozen in a grimace.
"Oh fuck, it might be both," Regulus poured all of his fright into the curse word. His silver eyes were wide in panic, ghostly hands gripped his head. He cursed a couple more times but it wasn't much help.
"Maybe, for the sake of my mental stability, let's assume that he has only that one Horcrux. Let's deal with it first and then we'll figure out what to do next."
"Great. Okay. Sounds like a plan." Black cursed one more time. He took a big, calming breath.
And then screamed.
Loudly.
Potter flinched at the sudden noise.
"So where do we start?" spoke quietly the Boy Who Lived. He said 'we' with a bit of hesitation. And the man noticed.
"Kid, look at me," he tried to put his hands on the boy's shoulders but they passed right through. "I know it's scary but you don't have to do it alone. I will help you because I am a sensible adult. You, on the other hand, are a child and while I wish you didn't have to deal with this kind of a problem, you already have some experience. And undoubtedly there is still more to come." His gentle smile reassured the 14-year-old. "C'mon now, pack your things, we're going on a trip."
"Wai- what do you mean a trip?"
"We'll have to go to Grimmauld Place."
"What? No!"
"Excuse me?"
"You are excused," deadpanned the younger wizard as he levelled his honorary Godfather with a glare. "We're not going anywhere. Do you have any idea how many threats and tricks I had to pull to have this house empty for the entire summer? Besides, it's getting late and I didn't eat lunch today. We spent the whole day talking and you still haven't explained how our partnership will work. You didn't even say what you can and can't do as a ghost," Harry said and jabbed his pointer finger at Regulus' chest like that part of the spirit's body spit in his tea and insulted his dead mother. "And thirdly, there's a reason any sane person wouldn't leave their safe, well-protected house. Voldemort's gathering his forces and while I don't think he would attack me right now I am aware that there is a chance of that happening. Especially with my shitty luck."
Slightly taken aback by the sudden outburst, Ex-Death Eater asked "What do you propose we do then?"
"I'm going to order a pizza and then I will do my potions homework with which you will help. After that, you will explain all your abilities while I note them down. It will be easier for me to have my thoughts visually represented right in front of me. And I cannot trust my memory. It's just not the same brain I used to memorize all of the Queen songs."
Not even an hour later a large four-cheese pizza with a garlic dipping sauce was laying in front of the Boy Who Lived. And right next to it was an open potions textbook featuring the Wit-Sharpening Potion as Regulus tried to explain how to prepare it. He quickly realized that while young Gryffindor wanted to learn he didn't know the basics. And we all know whose fault was that.
"No Prongslet, you can't cut the ginger root into thin slices and expect it to have the same proprieties as ginger root cut into cubes."
"But why not? I mean if I just throw it into a cauldron and mix it, it shouldn't matter how I cut it, right?"
"No, listen. You keep thinking of potions as soups. But they're completely different things," the man said softly as he identified the problem in his nephew's train of thought. "You'd eat soup because food provides energy for your body. And while you're at it you'd make it taste good. You want to enjoy your meal. But potions are made for other reasons. They're not supposed to taste good. Pepper-up, Sleeping Draught, Cure for Boils, or even Skele-Gro are more like medicine, you only take it when you need to. Potions are bloody useful, but they aren't necessary when your body and mind are strong and healthy."
"So, I'm supposed to look at it like elixirs are pills prescribed by a doctor?"
"Yes, and if someone making them screws up the dose of even one ingredient then the result may be deadly."
"Jesus, okay. Um, so, could you show me different types of cutting and how they affect potions?"
"C'mere then."
Three hours were sacrificed for learning about the cutting techniques and their influence on the potions. Regulus turned out to be a great teacher: calm, patient and eager to share his knowledge in a way that the young wizard could understand. It reminded Harry of Professor Lupin and that thought distracted him enough to nearly cut his fingers off.
"Careful!" A tangible yet see-through hand slapped the butcher knife before it made contact with the teenager's middle and pointer fingers.
"How – how did you do that?" stammered Potter, staring at the kitchen utensil currently hammered into the floor with wonder and disbelief.
"I meant to tell you but we got distracted by Horcruxes and then your homework," he held his right palm directly below the light stream coming from a streetlamp opposite the house. "As of right now I can barely affect the living world around me but give it time and I will be impacting it just as much as a living person can. Well, "he straightened the black dress shirt getting rid of the wrinkles. "It's not actually time I need but magic," his voice deepened with a hint of wonder.
Harry noticed that the man's tone seemed to change while he entered his "this is a learning opportunity for you" mode. That style made him think about Doctor Who. He used to watch it every time Dursleys were out of the house. He liked the Doctor because he was complex and the message his actions sent showed that the world isn't black and white. From the very first episode, the boy decided that he will, one day, become a menace to society. That's what happens when everything is decided for you. You'll do anything to hold all the cards once you get any sort of freedom and the ability to choose.
"Any magic will do. But dark magic would be better, well, if you could cast some Necromancy-related spells that would be the best for me."
"I'm not of age. The trace is still on."
"Yes, but there are ways of tricking it. C'mon think a little. What would be the most used one? The number one way of making the trace useless?"
Now that he was thinking about it… And looking back before his second year at Hogwarts started…
"If there is someone in a vicinity, someone or rather a couple of people, using magic then the trace can't pinpoint who's casting the spell. So, hypothetically, if there was a manor filled with adult witches and wizards, who use charms and hexes daily and, if a child inside decided to use their wand to, let's say, levitate their book, then it would confuse the trace. And people who work with it to detect underage usage of magic would simply ignore it because of the assumption it was the kid's parents, not the kid who used magic."
"Quite brilliantly put kiddo. See? I'll make a Marauder out of you yet."
"Really?" the teenager cocked an eyebrow.
"It's what your father would have wanted. Your mother? Not as much."
Harry giggled at the thought. Snape would lose his shit. Being a Marauder didn't automatically make him like his father. But it would make him more of a menace to everyone around him. That actually sounds like fun.
Why not follow in his dad's footsteps? He can be quite mischievous and he doesn't even need to try. Being a certified trouble magnet meant a lot of shenanigans.
"I can try but, be warned, I don't know many dark spells, not to mention that I've got no idea about anything Necromancy-related." The Boy Who Lived told his honorary godfather while closing books and hiding parchments laying on the table. After a brief hesitation, he also picked up the butcher knife lodged into the floorboards. He ran his finger along the blade in thought.
"I suppose you should get to sleep now. We have a busy day ahead of us."
Now, Harry could tell you that upon waking up he didn't remember meeting the ghost, that he had no recollection of the previous day's events, maybe he could even try to blame his active imagination. But that would be lying. He knew it happened because even in his dreams scraps of yesterday's talk tickled his brain. At least it wasn't the nightmares. So, it was pretty much a win-win situation.
"Good morning. I made you some tea." The young wizard squinted at Regulus simultaneously searching for his glasses. "Or rather I tried to make you some tea but my hands became intangible when I was reaching for the kettle," he looked sheepishly at the little Gryffindor, "so, there's no tea and your mug with cats on it is shattered now. I'm so sorry."
Potter was somewhat surprised that dead Black knew how to use an electric kettle. He wondered how long did it take him to figure out.
"I suppose you'll have to make some tea yourself and clean up the mess I made."
The kid sighed and started searching for a dustpan.
"What are you doing?"
If the glare Ex-Death Eater received for asking a simple question could kill a dead man he would be even deader. The older wizard held up his arms, palms open as a sign of please don't be angry with me you sleep-deprived little monster I come in peace.
"By clean up the mess, I meant: try to repair the mug without using your wand."
"It won't trigger the trace?"
"It won't but wandless Reparo may take you some time to master so I'd suggest you make the tea in a different mug."
And it did. The Boy Who Had Enough was so concentrated on his task that he forgot about the first cup of tea he made. Sitting in one position on the floor also proved to be counterproductive. Stiff joints popped and cracked as he stood up to pour his cold tea down the drain. He made a new one while looking at the ghost, who was observing the electric kettle as it boiled water.
"Trying to understand how electricity works must be hard for someone who grew up surrounded by magic," thought Harry. He could only remember a little bit as physics wasn't his strong suit. "It's easier to accept that the kettle boils the water. No use to dwell on how it does it."
Wait.
Of course.
"All this time I tried to see broken pieces which are supposed to connect like LEGO pieces right in front of my eyes but I should be visualizing the already repaired mug since it would make my desires clearer." A palm of his hand struck the forehead. The universal sign of disbelieving your own stupidity.
Breath in. Breath out.
"Reparo," this time the intent was clear and the word was there just to focus the magic.
The shards moved closer and took their rightful shape.
The mug with little drawn cats became whole again.
The green-eyed teenager squealed with delight.
"Huh. How did you do it?"
"I changed my way of thinking."
"Good job. It took you only half an hour. Which means we have some extra time for you to get ready."
"Where are we going?"
"Gringotts."
"Why? Didn't you mention some other place, before?"
"You'll see. Now go get your things. Your owl is sleeping in her cage, don't disturb her."
Fifteen minutes later, a boy and his ghost stood in front of 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, waiting, just a couple of seconds for the Knight Bus. Harry got onto the bus wearing a beanie and a hood for a good measure. At his right shoulder hovered, now invisible and intangible, Regulus telling him a story of his first ride in that magical vehicle with his older brother, way before he became a Death Eater. Back when things were a little easier.
No matter how many times Harry saw Gringotts he was always amazed by the building. It looked like a strong wind could bring it down, similar to a house made of cards and yet the magic from every individual column reminded the boy that the construction was solid and powerful enough to stand on its own even in the eye of a hurricane.
"Greetings young heir Potter. What can we do for you?" asked a very familiar goblin.
"Greetings Master Griphook, may your treasures multiply and your swords stay sharp."
The short creature spluttered in surprise. Regulus just lifted his eyebrow at Harry's response.
"An- And may your gold flow and your enemies cower before you, "the surprised look turned into one young Gryffindor couldn't read.
"What is the purpose of your visit?"
"I need to talk to you about the Potter vaults since you are in charge of them and I'll need to talk to Master Goblin responsible for the Black vaults as well."
"Yes, of course," he said something to a goblin on his right in a language Harry didn't understand.
The boy turned to his dead uncle levitating nearby. A silent question was written on his small face.
"Gobbledegook, the native language of Goblins. I never bothered to learn it but ifyouwant to, I'd suggest asking someone who knows it instead of trying to learn it by reading books on the subject."
Griphook saw Harry nodding his head and smiling while staring at nothing, and he wondered if the wizard finally lost his mind. Maybe there was more Black in him than most would think. He, privately mind you, thought that it would be a shame to lose that particular wizard with manners to the shackles of insanity.
"Heir Potter, are you feeling well?"
"Hmmm, wha- oh yes, I'm fine. I assure you," he scratched at his neck embarrassed. "It's just, well, I have a ratherprivatematter to discuss with you and Master?"
"Silvertooth," answered in a quite surprised tone goblin. He didn't know what was more shocking: the fact that young Gryffindor was so respectful towards his magical race or that he could hear him walking into the room.
"Here," Griphook gestured to the door of his office. All three of them, or four if you knew about the ghost in the room, sat comfortably on black leather sofas. Regulus tried to sit but he went through the sofa immediately.
Griphook offered his guest tea. Harry accepted, remembering that he didn't get a chance to drink any out of his newly repaired cat mug before coming to the bank.
"Let's just get down to business," a teenager broke the silence. "I want to claim Potter heir ring and if possible, also the Black heir ring. I know that I'm not in the straight line to the lordship but I still have some claim and support of the previous heir.""
Previous heir?"mouthed Griphook at the other goblin in question.
"Let's see," Silvertooth made a 'hmm' sound as he read a parchment on his lap. The parchment looked old, a bit yellowish and it seemed to be very long.
It definitely wasn't there when they first arrived, so the goblin must have summoned it without making any noise.
"Fascinating,"thought Harry.
"Sirius Black was disowned and as the firstborn, he was supposed to claim the lordship ring. He did claim his heir ring as did his younger brother. Even after being disowned the ring stayed with Sirius, magic didn't reject him and after that Regulus was supposed to claim the lordship ring but he died in mysterious circumstances."
"Yeah, about that." Different, much deeper than Harry's voice interrupted the story. Both goblins looked at the ghost hovering near a 14-year-old. "I was supposed to claim the lordship right after my father's death. Unfortunately, before I could do that Dark Lord requested my presence. I was to give him my house elf for a short mission. The purpose turned out to be hiding his Horcrux," both goblins paled at that, still gaping at the ghost but Regulus wasn't done yet, "and when I found out I swore to destroy that cursed object which turned out to be my undoing. And yet I'm not even sure if the blasted thing was destroyed."The colour on goblins' faces returned fully just as the deceased Black finished the story of the failed Horcrux hunt.
"As you can see," added The Boy Who Lived after stretching a bit, "we worry mainly about either the possibility of the locket not being destroyed or the probability of multiple Horcruxes being created. I'm scared about the second situation being true since it could also affect your bank."
"What do you mean?" stunned Griphook asked the kid."If he made multiple Horcruxes there is an awfully big chance that he decided to hide some of them at Gringotts."
The silence that followed the young wizard's words lasted for a couple of seconds. In the fury of motions, Silvertooth started summoning a variety of parchments while Griphook walked out of his office to call for appropriate coworkers. The manager of Black vaults started muttering to himself in Gobbledegook. Harry understood nothing but he instinctively knew these were curses and swears.
He looked all around himself at the chaos his words started. He knew that the situation was pretty bad and laughing at the chaos would sooner or later come back to bite him in the ass, and yet he let out a quiet chuckle. Then his gaze fell on the tea table where his long-forgotten tea stood cold, like the one he forgot to drink at 4 Privet Drive.