Hi!
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter thus I'm not making money out of this.
Thanks to itachisgurl93 for beta-ing that chapter for me so quickly. :)
Thanks to the reviewers: DarkRavie; sleepingdragon504; sweetmiracle; Flightless Bird; Womgi; NatsumeShin; itachisgurl93
Wearing Masks
Chapter 3: Better Than the Rest
Dumbledore heaved a sigh.
The summer had been quite a busy one. And now, at a week into August, he still had not organized the welcoming feast –which he usually organized before the end of the previous year– nor had he checked the list of first year entering Hogwarts this year.
Two years ago, the possession of his defense teacher had Dumbledore worried about a possible return of Tom and he went to look for answers at his old colleague, Horace Slughorn –Tom had been a part of his elitist club and Dumbledore was sure that if anyone alive had an inkling of what young Tom might have done if would be Horace.
Horace had not been easy to find, but the information he had, were of the utmost importance. Apparently, young Tom had asked his professor about immortality and the ever so talkative slug had slipped about Horcruxes.
Dumbledore's heart had skipped a beat at this.
Horcruxes!
The vilest, darkest magic, a wizard could perform. Only a lunatic would try such a thing: tearing one's soul in pieces to be put in an object –as it was highly dangerous to put it in a living being– at the price of another human life.
The minute Dumbledore had heard this word, he called on his old friend: Alastor Mad-eye Moody to discreetly search for some key items, most certainly having a link to the Founders of Hogwarts as young Tom had been obsessed with them.
So far, They had found four Horcruxes which they had destroyed with fiendfyre: the Gaunt ring –that Dumbledore had fetched himself from the Gaunts' Shack–, Rowena Ravenclaw's Diadem –which was found in Hogwarts itself thanks to its ever-so-faithful house-elves–, Gryffindor's Armory pendant –which had been buried with James Potter in Godric's hollow under the misconception that it was his–, Tom Marvolo Riddle Diary –which had somehow made its way in the hands of an innocent Muggle-born Gryffindor who had immediately taken it to him after the diary had answered her.
Unfortunately, Moody had traced Helga Hufflepuffs cup back to Bellatrix Lestrange's vault which could only be accessed by her or her heir and the Slytherin locket they had localized, had been a hoax. Apparently, Regulus Black had managed to snatch it away before he died.
Dumbledore had looked for a way to access Bellatrix Lestrange's vault, but it seemed impossible, even if Lady Lestranges were to died, the Lord Black would inherit it as it was her dowry vault.
Dumbledore had long suffered from the betrayal of the Black heir. He had had so much hope, hope that Sirius would be an inspiring hero for the future generation of Pure-blooded children trying to find a way out of their family bigotry.
He had believed that, for Sirius, James was as much a brother, if not more, than Sirius own blood brother had been. But he would betray them so easily.
Dumbledore let a tear slide down his aged face at the though.
He remembered his last conversation with the strangely subdued man: 'I never betrayed them.' He had whispered, his sad silver eyes looked straight into Dumbledore's clear blue.
And what if? What if what Sirius told him that night had been the truth? What if he had never betrayed the Potter? Could he be suffering through Azkaban for nothing?
Dumbledore sat at his desk, taking out his quill, he had some letter to send. Some trials to organize. If everything went well, by the end of August, Sirius would be tried and Dumbledore doubt alleviated.
It had been seven years since he got to Grand Mother Walburga, and he could say he had gotten quite easily used to the lifestyle of wizard.
Of course, it had taken a while for him to get used to certain things like the fact that magic existed or that the walking/speaking Gargoyle was not a human cursed into looking like an ugly monster but in fact a house elf called Kreacher –but he still preferred to call him Gargoyle.
Smaller things had not be a problem like his new name –it had been quite like getting used to be called Harry instead of freak or boy when he entered kindergarten–, the lights getting on and off by themselves and the speaking moving portraits –that was not so far from the telly.
At first, Harry had been quite put out by the change of name: he liked being called Harry. But after making some research he discovered the meaning of his name: Antarès was the biggest and brightest star of the Scorpio constellation and was called so because its red color rivaled the one of Mars, the Roman named of Arès the Greek God of War. He also learned that his second name Aymeric was a meridional form of Harry. Harry had smiled at that, he could still call himself Harry after all!
In the first four years with Walburga, Harry had learned quite a few things about being a proper wizard –because Harry was a wizard, could you believe it?
He had learned proper English written and spoken, Latin written and spoken too, Ancient Greek written –because Harry wanted to read more about the Greek Gods and Goddesses and Grand Mother Walburga insisted that translation spells could not be trusted–, French Written and Spoken –as it was the family tradition. He also had lesson on table manner –Grand Mother Walburga would often scold him: 'Don't quid like a horse!'–, Rules of Good Wizard Society –he learned how to dance without stepping on Gargoyle's feet and to Kiss ladies hands and bow to young maidens–, Fending –which was the sport of gentleman if one believed Grand Mother Walburga– and Astronomy.
Three years ago, he had begun to study Potion –he was not very good at Potion, why would freshly cut nettles reacted so badly to bat wings while, if it had been macerated for at least a week, the two could worked together?–, Herbology, Transfiguration –why would he want to change a needles into a match stick when there was the incendio?–, Charms –he would love to be able to make objects float with a Levitating charm–, Dark Creatures –did you know that there was more than one race of vampire and that one had two set of teeth, one of which would appear when they needed to 'eat'– and Dark Art –Grand Mother Walburga loved to demonstrate them on Gargoyle and Harry was not sure if he liked them even though some of them were terrific!
He still did not have a wand and could not practice any of the spells, hexes, curses, jinx he had learned about.
But today, Grand Mother Walburga had promised they would go buy one. And that made Harry really happy, because it would be the first time he would set a foot outside the house –the backyard did not count because one could not really set a foot in it with all the wild vegetation there were there: apparently Gargoyle did not like gardening and Grand Mother Walburga would not come to the backyard so the little elf did not bother.
Harry shook his head, now was not the time to think about that. He needed to get ready or Grand Mother Walburga might change her mind. It would not be the first time. After all, it was the sixteenth time Grand Mother Walburga had promised they would go for his wand. But each time, the trip would be cancel over the weather which was not good enough, the clothes Harry had put on which were inappropriate or a failure to complete his 'homework' on time.
So this time, Harry had made sure nothing could go wrong. He had carefully chosen his clothes with the help of The Guide of Wizard Clothes for All Occasion choosing the 'shopping trip in mid-summer for young male heir of pure-blood' and he had made sure he had everything right done to the underwear. He had completed all his homework and had even done an extra three feet long essay on the use of a Silver mixing spoon over the use of a Bronze or Gold spoon in the Draught of Living Death.
And in the middle of August, there were little chance for the weather to turn bad.
Harry smiled to himself as he climbed down the stairs to the drawing room where Grand Mother Walburga was surely dozing off in front of a cup of tea.
Sirius' dog ears twitched at the sound of boots clicking on the uneven stone floor of the Dark High-security level of the wizard prison.
'A guard?' He quickly wondered how long it had been since he had seen a living being down there.
There were few guards in the prison but none of them were choir boys. Sirius vaguely remembered that he had once though that those who chose to become guardians in Azkaban, were sissies that had not been able to complete the Auror program.
But he had been all wrong on that –and on many other things too he had come to realize. They were no sissies, they were powerful seasoned wizards capable of casting a corporal Patronus with ease and efficient in the art of interrogation and torture.
Sirius shuddered as he remembered the first few months in the jail and the interrogation sessions he had been forced to partake alone or with his 'cellmates'.
Surviving Azkaban was no easy matter, most prisoners committed suicide in the first two years. The guards had made it their duty to inform other prisoners of each suicide detailing the event from the slow asphyxia of Fionnlagh Seaver who had been one of the most respected and quite powerful Death-Eater of He-who-must-not-be-named, over a hasty hanging to Linwood Iver digging his eyes out before biting down his own tongue drowning in his blood.
His ears perked again as the clicking sound was getting nearer and nearer
He quickly changed back to his human form, laying on his coot faking sleep. Unfortunately faking sleep would not make the dementors go away –but it could make one guardian slip maybe?– and as soon as the last of Padfoot black hairs disappeared, one of the creature hurried to his cell to fest on his distress.
"Expecto Patronus." Sirius heard the guard drawled casually. "Stupid creature."
Sirius whimpered slightly at the light produced by the Patronus.
"Sirius Black. Up! You don't fool me faking sleep. Do you know how many of your colleague already tried that trick?" The guard informed.
Sirius kept his eyes closed just in case the guard was bluffing.
"Anyway, today is your lucky day Black." The guard explained opening the heavy door of Sirius's cell. "You get a free ticket for a few weeks in one of the 'luxurious' Ministry holding cell."
"What?" Sirius blurted out forgetting completely about faking sleep.
"You get yourself a trial, Lord Black." The man explained spitting out the title and name of the prisoner.
Sirius blinked owlishly.
A trial? What for? And why now?
"But don't worry you'll be back here more quickly than you can say quiddich. Maybe, this time, our friends will have their meal." The man laughed as he dragged the undernourished Sirius out of his cell.
Petunia jumped in fright as the heavy doors of the prison closed behind her. After seven years in this Hell, she was finally free.
She had been condemned to ten years in jail for accessory child abuse and child abandon while her husband had taken fifteen years for attempted murder on the person of a child under the age of eleven, five had been added for Arson, another five for child abuse and he garnered another three years after a brawl with one of the guardian at his prison.
Contrarily to her husband, Petunia had understood quickly that good behavior would be more helpful.
She had had a good beating when she had arrived in HM Prison Holloway (1). The women had heard of her from the guardians and they had prepared a little welcoming comity for her: she had lost two of her teeth that day, broken her left arm and had to stay into the infirmary for three weeks over a broken rib which had punctured her spleen.
After that Petunia had made herself scarce. Never complaining, she had suffered every insults, every kicks in silence and crawled like a lowly bitch trying her best not to garner any attention.
Her good behavior had gained her access to the library where she tried to study for the secretary diploma but her dream to be a secretary was definitely shattered: who would take an ex-convicted like her as a secretary?
After she realized that, she decided to try herself to writing. She had decided to write letters snippets like The Marquise De Sévigné. She wrote long letters to her Dudley that she would not, could not send as she had been forbidden by court order to contact her son. She wrote about how much she loved him, how much she regretted not to be there for him and how she would like to take it all back so they could be together.
The librarian had loved them so much that she had sent them to a publishing company. Petunia had been shocked to receive a letter from a publisher promising to release the letters. Petunia had agreed –maybe there was a small chance it would reach her son. She had taken the pen-name of Lilly Galbraith.
Unexpectedly, the small book had been a success and the editor asked for more. Petunia wrote about a lonely girl trying to protect her youngest sister who was trying to befriend with the wild little Prince hiding in the playground castle.
A third book had been requested. In this one, Petunia explained how the oldest sister drifted away from her youngest sister after the latter was sent to a boarding school for the gifted with the little Prince. She explained how the jealousy and rancor slowly insinuated itself in the little girl's heart as she saw her parents dotting over their youngest child being less and less attentive to their eldest child. How each little attention from her sister had made her angrier and angrier. How she had distanced herself from her family cursing them for abandoning her when she was the one who abandoned them.
The book would be published in a couple of weeks but Petunia felt no pride at her success. She just felt the bitter bite of regrets piercing her heart.
The books had earned her some money: some of which she had put in two accounts: one for her Dudley and one for her nephew wherever he was. Giving him money, that was all she could do for him now as there was no taking back on those years of abuse she had made him suffered through.
Her new money-making career, her good behavior and her sincere regrets had granted her an earlier release. But Petunia barely felt any joy as she stood lost in front of the prison.
She felt like a wraith and she surely looked like one: her hair hung limp down her shoulders, her sunken eyes had lost their shine and were now staring dully at the world. Her frame had gone near skeletal and the old faded dress she had wore the day of her jailing, now hung loosely on her formless body.
"Petunia!" A voiced cried and she felt someone engulfed her in a hug.
She shivering in fear and in relief, letting the tears fell down her face.
"Oh, Petunia dearest."
The person hugged her tighter.
She had not thought there would be someone waiting for her on the other side, the side where people were.
Not normal people, just people.
She did not believed in normal anymore.
Normal had just been a fantasy of hers: something to set her apart from her sister. She had never been able to compete on equal ground with her sister on anything. And she had found that 'Normal' was the only thing she was and her sister could not be.
And she had clung to it like a leach. It had become her obsession.
From the moment, that headmaster had rejected her at the age of twelve, she never did anything that was not 'normal':
She went to average all girl middle school and High school and made two friends as was the norm. When she graduated at the normal age of 18, she decided on a feminine career of secretary –which, at the time, was in the norm.
She married at the very normal age of twenty-one, with a man she had been dating for two years and who was twenty-three –once again the average.
She had abandoned her study to become a housewife as it was normal for a wife to do.
They had bought a normal little house in a normal neighborhood according to their average middle-class statue.
And within a year into her marriage, she had conceived a son and he had looked like his father as was the norm.
None of her choices had been motivate by real feelings. All her life had been about normalcy.
Not even her marriage had been about love.
She had not married Vernon to mock her parents or in an act of rebellion like Lilly seemed to believe.
She had married him in an optic of normalcy.
It was normal to be married before you were 25 and it was normal to answer yes when you were proposed. Petunia had barely thought about her feelings for Vernon at the time, or her parents' disapproval: she had just done what was expected of her as normal.
Oh, she had been happy with Vernon!
During the few years they had lived together, he had treated her nicely. In the first year, he would always come back from work with a bouquet of flowers. Then in the course of the second year, the flowers had been only for special occasion until she did not get any anymore. But Petunia did not mind because it had been the norm.
Their marriage had ended up being more a shaky friendship than a love story. But once again that was the norm.
When Vernon had taken out his frustration on her nephew, she turned a blind eye, as was the norm. And also because she hated what the little boy represented. She had not though that this violence would ever be directed at her. After all, Vernon had just tried to ease her nephew out of magic like a bad habit that needed to be shaken off before it was even formed.
She had been wrong. Oh so wrong...
That day she had written that letter to Dumbledore, Vernon had come home drunk and angry.
Petunia had watched with sick fascination as parts of her skin turned a gradient of blue and yellow: Hand-prints, fist-prints, fingers and shoe-soil patterns were decorating her skin in a sick patchwork. And that night, she had cried over her mistakes. Over her hatred and her need for normalcy which had led her where she was now, laying underneath her over-weight husband, broken like a defective doll.
But she had stayed with him unable to break free from her addiction to normalcy: It was not normal for a woman to divorce her husband.
And the beating continued: once every other day in the beginning, but, when they were summoned to the court, it had become a nightmare. She could not do anything right and Vernon would yell at her at every turn, lulling his whiskey bottle.
The first day of the trial, Petunia had put on her blue flower pattern dress and her blue heel-less shoes as the barrister had recommended. She had clumsily tried to cover her bruises, but she could not do much. To her surprise, her Barrister had requested separate trials –which he had obtained– and had assigned her husband his assistant.
"The case is already lost for him." The man had explained. "But with those bruises, I may be able to cut yours down a couple of years."
Petunia had pleaded guilty of all charge while her husband had denied. She had refused to take the stand, fearing that what she might said could be used against Vernon. She had stood silent during the all trial, sitting in the deck, her eyes looking down at her hands folded on her knees, her bruises clear for the world to see. She knew she must have looked pitiful but she could not get herself to care.
"Petunia..."
She was shook roughly out of her memories.
"Philomena." Petunia answered, looking at her old friend.
She was one of the woman she had befriended with in Private drive. One of the few who had stood by her side during the trial. She had even raised found for Petunia's defense and stood as a witness for Petunia.
"Come with me, you can't stay here." Philomena said as stirred Petunia away. "Brenna and Leta are waiting for us in the car."
Petunia bent down to take her briefcase. Seven year of her life were contained in this small luggage.
Philomena led her by the arm to the car.
A new life would begin for Petunia Evans.
Walburga had promised her Antarès a trip to Diagon Alley to get him a wand. She had tried to delay it as much as possible, fearing that Antarès would be recognized and snatched away from her.
After the ritual, he had not changed as much as she had expected: his shoulders had widened along with his hands, his waist had narrowed a bit, his jaw had strengthen. His hair also had taken a wavy side it did not have before and had thicken making them less of a bird nest. Walburga had made him grown it to make it easier to hide the scar.
The only thing of Harry's mother that remained was the bright green eyes. Apparently none of his family had had the gene in their blood and it had not been possible to remove. Walburga had tried to change the color using the most complex charms she could find in the Most Ancient Black library but to no avail, the eyes remained a bright shade of green.
And those eyes were so distinctive that she feared that anyone who had known his accursed mother would recognize him.
She had managed to put off the trip for a few days now. But she could not anymore, she had already accepted to get him a wand and he sorely needed one.
There was no-way that Walburga would defile her ancestors' memory like so many family did, training their youngster using dead family members' wand!
It was positively disgusting!
She snorted in disgust remembering the rumor saying that Augusta Longbottom had given her grand-son, Neville, her son's wand.
Not even dead, and he was desecrated!
How vile!
How low had fallen the once proud family of Longbottom!
A simple mistake in the choosing of the bride...
Augusta had not seemed to be such a bad choice: she was from a minor pure-blooded family, she would not have gained the Longbottom any political power but the much needed new blood was far more precious.
But now, the Longbottom would not even afford a new wand for their heir!
How the mighty had fallen!
She would never make the same mistake as the Longbottom!
For her Antarès, Walburga had already arranged a contract with a French family: if the bride had any of what she had listed as dismissing flaws, the contract would be voided as would be any marriage resulting from it. Of course, if any child was born out of the unfortunate union, Antarès would be the one to keep them: the most Ancient and Noble House of Black could easily correct any flaws from the mother's side.
Walburga closed her eyes, smiling a little.
The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black would continue on despite the traitor!
Walburga was shaken out of her thought by Antarès' soft childish voice.
"The Leaky Cauldron." He over-articulated and in a whoosh of green flame he was gone.
She took a handful of powder herself and throwing the powder into the fire, she stepped inside the human-side hearth.
"The Leaky Cauldron." She said.
She stepped into the disgustingly dusty pub. It was dirty and dark and greasy in a word disgusting.
She had petitioned once when politic was still one of her interest about having a proper floo station inside the proper Alley. But that lobbyist in charge of that infernal dark-age flea-infested pub/inn, had managed to convince the Winzengamot that it would be unnecessary. Of course he would, after all, the MoM did pay him a rent for the use of his floo and often people using the floo would stop by drinking an Ale.
"Come with me, Antarès." She sneered as she sized her Antarès' arm. "There is no need for us to stay more than necessary in this establishment."
"Yes, Grand Mother Walburga."
She led him quickly to the back door into the backyard sneering in disgust at the dingy little space and tapped a selection of bricks and the bricks glided open into Diagon Alley.
As she entered the alley, she scrutinized her surrounding for any person she would like to avoid. The Malfoy, for example: Her niece Narcissa, and her husband were often after news of her –more likely they were trying to be on her good side waiting for her death–; or Emilia Redbulder: she had that horrible tendency to babble about her family always showing off to Walburga and reminded Walburga of her 'short-coming' –as Emilia called them– with her sons; or that horrible woman: Rita Skeeter: that 'journalist' had no sense of property, really!
Walburga shook her head, none of them were there apparently. She scanned the alley again, scolding when she caught the sight of a cluster of red-hair marching down the alley, none of them wearing robes.
"How undignified!" Walburga muttered. "Weasley!"
Walburga tugged at her Grandson's arm.
"Be attentive, Antarès!" She scolded.
"Yes, Grand Mother." Antarès answered respectfully.
"We shall first go to the goblins." She explained. "Then we will go to the menagerie for a pet. A reward for your good work."
His face was blank of any emotion to Walburga's great satisfaction.
"Thank you, Grand Mother." He respectfully replied.
The trip to the bank was a short one as Walburga had already informed the goblins about what she wanted. She had made sure that Antarès was written as next in line after Sirius in the succession order.
Of course, she was pretty sure that traitor would die soon: Surviving twelve years in Azkaban was a feat but she was pretty sure he would not see a thirteenth. In this case, she had to insured the continuity of the Black through her Antarès.
Gods forbade that the snotty, ill-raised boy of Narcissa became the next Lord Black. She had yet to meet him but any boy raised by Narcissa Malfoy could not fit her standards.
After all, Narcissa did marry in impure blood knowingly!
It was not a well-known fact, but a few hundred years ago, the Malfoy family had crossed bred with a Veela. Now-a-day, all that persisted was that horrible shade of white blond hair.
When Cygnus had informed her husband and her that he wanted a betrothing contract between the Malfoy and the Black for Narcissa, both she and her husband had been dead set against it.
How her brother –who held blood purity in higher regard than even she did– could think of marrying a Black with that stained line, had astonished her and she had made her disapproval clear to her brother menacing to excommunicate him and his daughters from the family!
That was until she dug out the reason.
Some brides had done the trick!
Narcissa really failed the standards of the Black having such easily corrupted 'friends'.
Apparently, Narcissa had not been able to keep her knickers on until marriage.
Walburga had never thought she would regret not forcing her brother to put a chastity bell on his daughters when he had asked her councils on the subject. She had not been subjected to it herself –her mother had strongly believed that her education would prevent Walburga from stooping so low as to let her carnal desire get the better of her:
She was a Black after all.
Walburga thought that the same would apply for Cygnus' daughters. But apparently, Druella Rosier had been lacking in this department and such a flaw had permitted the staining of the Black family not once but twice!
Unfortunately, Walburga had not been able to convince her husband of the need to disown Narcissa. The Malfoy, regardless of their impurity, were a powerful family and it was wise not to mess up with them. But Walburga would make sure that nothing more than the dowry would come from the Black to the Malfoy.
"We just need a bit of his blood to insure that he is indeed a Black by blood." Surtr (2), the goblin in charge of the Black fortune, explained.
"Of course." Walburga agreed urging her Antarès in front of the desk where was lying the official family tree parchment: No name could be added without blood as no name would be taken away from it without the proof of the removal of any Black blood.
The tree on the forest green parchment was quite similar to the one on the tapestry in the Black London household: small portraits accompanied with the corresponding name carefully etched, in blue letters for the living and Black letters for the departed, under which were embroidered the year of birth and the year of death. The name of the current head of the house was etched in crimson red: Sirius Orion Black III. Her own name was lined in Red to informed of her regency over the Black as the current head of the Black was unavailable. Walburga let her eyes wandered to the face of her dear husband embroidered next to her own a thin veil now covering the face of the departed.
She was startled out of her thoughts by her Antarès blood falling on the parchment, the delicate crimson pearl was slowly absorbed by the paper and ever so slowly a small vine sprouted out from the traitor name becoming wider and wider a face began to etched itself over the end of the Branch and a name:
'Antarès Aymeric Potter-Black' etched in pure white standing out against the dark forest green of the parchment, signaling Antarès as the heir.
And a date:
'1980'
There was no name for the mother, it would be easily explained as the traitor had not been married at the time of the conception. As for the name Potter, it could be easily explained as the traitor sharing his heir with his stealing lying Gryffindor friend like five years old make blood pack to unite their family.
"Everything is in order." Surtr assured as he looked over the parchment one last time.
"Since everything is in order, I will take my leave Sir Surtr. May Gold always shine on your path." Walburga bade her goodbye to the goblin.
Walburga trotted out of the bank by the same concealed door she had entered. No need to give herself away waltzing through the main doors. The Affair of Black should stay private and there was no need to show off as a Malfoy would.
Black were above that.
Walburga quickly made her way to the menagerie. The shop would be closed to any other client for the next two hours as she had requested total privacy when she had reserved the White-Billed Crow she wanted to gift her Antarès with. It was a small bird pretty rare in Britain but the color of its iris reminded Walburga sharply of her children and thus she had chosen it.
Of course, it had to be a crow. Every heir of the Black had been bestowed their own crow at the age of twelve. It would be their official bird messenger. Neither the head of the house of Black nor the Black heir should have to lower themselves using vulgar owls for official businesses.
Of course the traitor was never treated to such an honor after he had himself sorted in that accursed house -every-one knew that the old hat was easily influenced and Walburga suspected that the headmaster had had his hands in the matter.
No Black could naturally be sorted in Gryffindor! Black were, of course, Slytherin!
Ravenclaw maybe, Hufflepuff was extreme but still a possibility slim as it was.
But Gryffindor? That was definitely not in the Black genes!
Walburga shook her head, now was not the time to think of the traitor. No, today was about her Antarès, the true heir of the Black.
"Lady Black, Young Mr. Black." The petite owner of the menagerie called discretely, bowing her head slightly in acknowledgment. "I've your crow ready as you've asked; I've taken the liberty to send to your town house, all the things that would be needed to keep the bird. Now if you would follow me a second in the back for the bounding..."
Walburga guided her Antarès quickly through the alley full of exotic animals waiting to be picked up.
"Am I getting a crow, Grand Mother?" Her Antarès asked softly.
"Of course, you are. You are the heir of the Black." Walburga smiled proudly at her grandson.
"I'll need a bit of your blood, young mister Black." The woman asked.
Her Antarès took the needle presented to him and pierced the tip of his left pointer finger. A drop that was all that was needed and that was all the shop-keeper would have.
"Do you have a name?" The woman asked.
"Is it male or female?" Her Antarès answered back.
"Male." The woman answered.
"Krähe(3), then. He shall be called Krähe." Her Antarès decided.
The bounded ceremony took a few minutes after which the beautiful white-billed crow perched himself on her Antarès' shoulder rearranging his feathers.
"A pleasure to make business with you." The woman said as she counted down the galleon Walburga had paid her.
"The pleasure is shared." Walburga answered as she quickly exited the shop.
Now to Ollivander, she disliked the seemingly all-knowing shop-keeper but the quality of his work was indisputable and Black only went to the best.
"Ah, mister Potter-Black." The old man said with an all-knowing smile as he came out of his reserve. "I was waiting for you."
Walburga gritted her teeth: she really hated people who knew more than they should about the Blacks.
"We do not have the all day, Mr. Ollivander." Walburga interrupted rudely.
Walburga was happy to see the man's face closed off, returning to a more professional attitude, he proceeded to take her Antarès' data.
"For the wood maybe Elder or... born in July... Holly would surely be a better choice... definitely more than ten inches... hmmm..." Ollivander muttered under his breath.
Walburga watched with an eagle eye as the old man took several cases out of the high shelves.
"Try this one, young master." Ollivander told her Antarès presenting reverently the first wand. "Holly, ten inches and one fourth, Unicorn tail-hair."
Antarès tried to take the wand but like two magnet of the same charge, the wand literally flew away from his touch.
"Definitely not unicorn then." Ollivander muttered. "Holly, ten inches and a half, Dragon heart-string."
Antarès tried to take the wand in his hand but the simplest contact burnt him.
"No dragon either." Ollivander lamented. "Holly, ten inches and three quarter, Veela hair."
When Antarès tried to touch it, the wand began to hop in its box erratically making a high pitch sound like a screech.
"Not Veela either." Ollivander bit down his finger nail.
Walburga smirked appreciatively, of course the most common wand cores would not fit her Antarès, her Antarès was special, the hope of the Black.
"Maybe..." Ollivander muttered to himself going in the back of his shop. "Holly, Eleven inches, Phoenix feather."
Walburga frowned as she caught a curious gleam in the shop-keeper eyes. Her eyes turned back to her grandson, who carefully brushed the wood with his fingertips and immediately the wand answered sending multicolored sparkles around the room.
"Holly, eleven inches, phoenix feather, it is then." Ollivander confirmed. "Nice and supple..."
Walburga was sure the old shop-keeper had something to add but he wisely chose to keep his mouth shot when she glared at him.
"I expect the utmost privacy about this transaction, Mr Ollivander." Walburga demanded as she paid the fee for the wand.
"I assure you, Madam, that I have always respected the privacy of my clients." Ollivander answered clearly offended.
"Well! Keep it this way then." Walburga spat as she exited the store her Antarès respectfully following her two paces behind.
End of the chapter
(1) HM Prison Holloway: is not mine but the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland's as the name suggests.
(2) Surtr: Old Norse "black" or "the black one"
(3) Krähe: crow in German
Thanks for reading. Now Review Please!