Harry Potter:
Lascivia Capessita
by
Jake Crepeau
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the intellectual property of JK Rowling, Warner Brothers Studios, and a host of other entities, none of which are me.
Chapter 1
Harry came through the barrier and stopped dead in his tracks. Just a few feet away, Alastor Moody and a few other members of the Order were in Uncle Vernon's face, reading him the riot act. Quietly, he withdrew back through the barrier.
He knew exactly what would happen if he dared to go back to Privet Drive now. He could hear his uncle snarling in his head. They want us to leave you alone? We'll leave you alone. And he would be locked in his room, lucky to get a bowl of soup once a day through the cat-flap, his only companionship the complaints he would have to endure when nightmares woke him and everyone else in the middle of the night.
He expected those nightmares were really going to ramp up now. Bad enough he was going to be seeing Sirius' death all over again in his sleep, but he was also going to have to deal with Moldyshorts' taunting him through the link the bastard now knew existed. The Dursleys' yelling at him over it was only going to make it worse.
He didn't want to go to the Burrow. The Weasleys were great, but if he had to unload on Molly and Arthur, he knew that Molly's eyes, at least, would be filled with pity, and that was the last thing he wanted. Ron and the twins knew some of it, had seen it for themselves after first year, but at least they just let it lie. The dramatic rescue they'd mounted that summer had let him know, better than anything else, that they were there for him.
He could get himself a room at the Leaky Cauldron, but that was the first place they'd look for him. He even considered just staying right there at the platform all summer; he doubted anyone would expect him to try that. It wouldn't be pleasant or comfortable, but it was better than what he faced at home.
He sat bolt upright on the bench he'd been sitting slouched on. As long as you can call it home, Dumbledore had said in first year when he had pleaded not to be sent back there. Well, he'd put paid to those blood wards right now. "Number 4, Privet Drive is not my home! It has never been my home!"
Back at Hogwarts, a screeeee sound drew the Headmaster from his private quarters into his office, where he stopped dead. One of his little whirlygigs had ceased its activity and was now spewing black smoke, and Dumbledore's heart sank. He didn't know what had happened, but the wards on Privet Drive had just collapsed.
Harry realized, from the echo rebounding around the platform, that he'd spoken much louder than he'd intended to. He looked around, expecting to see the few remaining people staring at him as if he'd gone mental.
There was only one family left, at the far end of the platform, and they vanished in a flash of green flame.
Curious now, he walked to where they had been. Green flame meant a Floo…Sure enough, there were four fireplaces along the wall across from the train.
If there was Floo access directly to the platform, why did the Weasleys always come in through the Muggle side? Was it the few Knuts it would cost to go back through the Floo from this side?
A horrible thought occurred to him. The twins had told him Ginny had fancied him since she'd been little, because of some outlandish books about him her mother had read to her every night, and Ginny had read and re-read for herself once she had learned how. Her attempts to befriend him suddenly took on a disturbing cast, made her look like nothing but a fangirl. And Ron…had he really been Harry's friend? Somehow he doubted it, after the choosing of the champions for the Tournament in fourth year. A real friend wouldn't have made the accusations Ron had. So what was his angle? Was he hoping to have some of Harry's fame rub off on him? He could have it all, as far as Harry was concerned. But then why continue, he wondered, circling back to the original question. They used the Floo to go to Diagon Alley; why not the platform?
Maybe it had all been a plot to start with. Maybe it had all been a way to meet up with the Boy Who Lived. Then, of course, they would have to continue to get to the platform from the Muggle side just to keep up the charade.
Merlin, he was getting to be as paranoid as Moody.
Morosely, he gazed unseeing at the fireplaces. Everybody else had homes to go to. All he'd ever had was Durskaban.
He thought of the piles of money in his Gringotts vault. That was an awful lot of gold, and it hadn't gone down visibly since the first time he'd seen it. It meant his family had been well off. The other families had manors and halls. All he knew about was the cottage in Godric's Hollow, which he'd never seen, except in those pictures Hagrid had given him at the end of first year. From talking to some of the kids at school, he knew the wealthier families had other properties, not just their primary homes. Maybe there was an actual Potter Manor somewhere.
He'd have to get to Gringotts and talk to the Goblins. They ought to know. Or he could just try the Floo. What happened if you tried to go through to an address that didn't exist? Another wave of depression washed over him, and he decided he didn't care. He dropped a couple of Knuts into the coin box, took a handful of Floo powder, and stepped into the fireplace. "Potter Manor!" he called out and threw the powder down.
He was surprised when the green flash surrounded him, and he started spinning. As dizziness began to overwhelm him, he wondered if he would just keep spinning forever, or if the system would eventually just spit him out…somewhere. After all, it had ejected him in Borgin and Burke's in Knockturn Alley when a mouthful of ash had distorted his pronunciation of "Diagon Alley" just before second year.
Apparently the latter, he thought when he slid across a cold, smoothly polished surface in an unfamiliar room. He sat up and looked around. The room was dark; he noticed that was because heavy drapes covered the windows. Looking down, he found a floor covered in pale-colored tiles; in the dimness, he couldn't identify the material.
"Hello. Who are you?" a voice said, and he looked around, trying to find the source.
"Up here!" the voice said, and Harry's gaze followed the direction of the sound until he spotted a portrait above the mantel.
A somewhat elderly couple stared down at him, and the woman gasped. "James?" she asked hesitantly.
"Uh…No. Sorry. I'm his son, Harry."
"We have a grandson?" the man said.
Harry goggled. "There really is a Potter Manor!"
"Well, of course there is. You're here, aren't you? You didn't just step into the Floo and call out an address you didn't even know was real, did you?" he added facetiously.
He flushed bright red and hoped they couldn't see it in the gloom.
"Oh, dear, I think that's exactly what he did," the woman clucked. "Harry, dear, you'd better sit down and tell us exactly what's happened since James and Lily left." That single sentence told him this couple must be Charlus and Dorea, his grandparents, who had only been names on a tapestry before this.
In shock, he collapsed onto a sheet-covered armchair.
He'd begun with what had happened that Hallowe'en night in 1981. He'd told them how he had been left with his aunt and uncle, then his first day in Diagon Alley.
Dorea had stopped him at that point, unwilling to let him gloss over ten years of his life like that. Charlus had initially taken Harry's side, but then, when Harry had said that there wasn't anything worth talking about there, he'd caught something in the boy's voice and then joined his wife in coaxing the tale out of him.
It had come in fits and starts at first, and then something inside him had snapped and the floodgates had opened. Feeling as if some deep, festering wound had been lanced, he'd sat there sobbing his heart out. Somewhere in the deep recesses of forgotten memory, the toddler he had once been reached for his mummy to hold him. Of course that was impossible, and being only a painting, neither could his grandparents, but their soothing words did help.
Now he sat there exhausted.
"I think he's had enough for now," Dorea said.
"Agreed," Charlus replied. "He needs food, and then rest. Tolly!"
"No, dear. Lily and James had to release him when they went into hiding, remember?"
Harry grinned crookedly. "So, no house elf, huh?" He shrugged. "I'm no stranger to cooking and cleaning. I can manage myself for a few days, until I can…" He trailed off. "Wait, I think I can right now. Dobby!"
With a pop, the hyperactive elf appeared in front of him. "Great Harry Potter Sir calls Dobby?"
He grinned sheepishly at the adoring elf's greeting. "Dobby, I need something to eat, and I seriously doubt there's anything edible here."
Looking around cautiously, the elf's ears drooped. "Dobby cannot do anything here, sir," he said sadly, wringing his hands. "Dobby is not of this house."
Harry cast a helpless look at the portrait.
"Who is this elf currently bound to?" Dorea asked kindly.
"Dobby's a free elf," Harry told her.
"How is he still alive?" Charlus wanted to know.
The elf answered that himself. "Dobby is employed at Hogwarts, sir; castle magic sustains Dobby."
Now Harry was even more puzzled. "Dobby, what are you all talking about?"
The hand-wringing became more agitated. "House-elves need magic from wizards, sir…"
"I'll explain it, Dobby," Charlus said. "Harry, do you know what a symbiote is?"
"I remember something about that from my primary-school science classes; it's something like a parasite, only instead of just taking from the host, it also gives something back."
"Right. House elves are symbiotes. They need our magic to survive; in turn, they serve us and also strengthen our magic. We can survive, and thrive, without them, but they can't without us."
Harry's eyes went wide. "So that means, if he wasn't working at Hogwarts with the castle's magic to feed him…"
"Exactly. Normally, they get our magic by bonding to us."
Then it clicked. "And that's why you can't do anything here as a free elf, because it's not your family, right?"
Another nod.
"Dobby, I don't think just hiring you would work. I'd have to bind you to the Potter Family, wouldn't I?"
Again he nodded, but this time his ears were starting to pick up.
Oh, great. Just what he needed. A hero-worshipping fan-elf. But there was nothing for it. "Do you want to be bound to my House?"
This time the nod was so vigorous, his ears flapped, actually creating a slight breeze.
"So how do we do this?"
Dobby took his hand. "Dobby accepts Harry Potter for his master," he said. There was bright flash, and suddenly the little elf seemed to grow just a little. "Potter magic very strong!" he said in awe. "Dobby never felt this much power with his old family."
"Never mind that now. I have three tasks for you. First, I need you to find the kitchen, clean and stock it, and get me something to eat…Uh, how do you go shopping, anyway?"
"Master Harry must give Dobby permission to use his vault. Then Dobby can go shopping for Master Harry."
"Anything special, or can I just say I give my permission?"
"Master's word is enough, but Dobby will need Master's vault key."
Then Harry realized what was wrong. "I don't have it. Last time I saw it, Hagrid had it."
"Who is Hagrid?" Charlus asked.
"He's the groundskeeper at Hogwarts. Professor Dumbledore—he's the headmaster now—sent him to deliver my letter and take me to Diagon Alley."
"And what was he doing with your key?"
"I have no idea. And he didn't give it to me when we were done, either."
"Tell your elf to get it for you. He should be able to find who has it and get it without ever being seen."
"Dobby knows where it is," the elf added when Harry looked at him. "Headmaster has it."
"Well, go get it, then take out however much you need from my vault. Once you've done the shopping, you can make dinner. After that, I'll need a room cleaned so I can get some sleep. After dinner, please see if you can find an elf named…Tolly, was it?" he asked the portrait. At their nods, he continued, "…Tolly. If he's still free, ask him if he wants to return to the Potter Family. If he's attached to another family, if he's happy there, let him stay where he is."
With a bow and a snap of his fingers, Dobby was gone.
Harry spent a restless night, haunted with the expected nightmares about Sirius; at least it wasn't compounded by anything from Voldemort.
He hadn't really had the time or energy to observe much last night; he'd stumbled into the room after eating a meal every bit as satisfying as any Hogwarts feast, stripped to his underpants, and stumbled into the bed, remaining awake only long enough to appreciate, for a few brief moments, the comfort of it.
He awoke to sunlight streaming in through windows whose drapes had been opened sometime while he'd slept, the potential glare filtered to a pleasant softness through the sheer curtains under the drapes. They waved a little in the light morning breeze. The walls were a soft cream color, beautifully highlighting the satin-finished cypress of the window casements and doorframes; the floor, also of cypress, was polished to a high gloss. The furniture was of walnut and included a four-poster bed similar to his bed at Hogwarts, along with a nightstand, wardrobe and dresser, and a desk and chair. A small bookcase stood near the desk; the room was large enough that there was also a loveseat and coffee table in front of a fireplace big enough to heat the room comfortably in the winter.
Dobby had apparently been busy overnight; he found his schoolbooks had been arranged on the bookshelves, and his clothes had been put away. Examination of the desk drawers disclosed his quills, ink, and parchment; an owl perch stood near the windows, with cups containing owl treats and water. He wondered how he could get Hedwig here; he'd sent her to spend the summer at the Burrow, where she wouldn't be confined to a locked cage. A large chest at the foot of his bed proved to hold heavier blankets suitable for the winter months; his uniforms remained neatly folded in his school trunk, which stood against the wall under the windows. A second door led into an ensuite.
He got dressed, noticing that the worn spots in the hand-me-downs had been repaired, as had been the oversized trainers…only they weren't oversized anymore; apparently Dobby had magically shrunk them to fit his feet. Though they no longer needed to be held together with tape, they did still look about ready for the bin. Once he was done, he made his way down to the kitchen to get some breakfast.
Dobby had been very busy overnight, he decided as soon as he'd stepped past his bedroom door. The dust that had hung heavy in the air was gone, and every surface was clean. A large window at the end let sunlight in to illuminate the hallway and stairwell; the long runner that extended down the middle of the hallway's polished wood floor continued down the center of the stairs.
Those stairs brought him back down into the entrance hall he'd been in last night; his grandparents smiled at him as he came down, with cheerful morning salutations for him.
Two elves stood at the bottom of the stairs to greet him, Dobby and an unfamiliar one he presumed was Tolly. That elf bowed. "Thank you for bringing me back home, Master Harry," he said. "I've missed the Potters."
Harry smiled. "It's good to have you back," he said, and, cued by a gesture from Dobby, held a hand out toward the elf, who took it and uttered the statement that would renew the bond. Then it was breakfast in the informal dining room—now that it was clean, there was no reason for Master to have to eat in the kitchen.
The bright, airy atmosphere of the spacious rooms, and the knowledge that he was truly loved here, even if it was just by a portrait, combined to drive away the depressing pall of his nightmares. Finished eating, he thanked Tolly—Dobby was back in the kitchen, cleaning up, he supposed—and asked about a tour of the place.
"That will have to come later, Master Harry," Tolly told him. "Your grandparents wish to speak with you; it's a matter of some urgency."
"Okay. Tolly, how come you don't speak like other elves?"
"I used to," he said. "Mistress Lily insisted I learn to speak properly."
"I like it," he grinned. "I'd like you to teach Dobby, as well."
"It will be done, Master. Now, if you would?" He held out an arm, indicating the way back to the entrance hall.
"You'll be very busy today, Harry," his grandfather said when he'd taken a seat. "First of all, those clothes simply will not do. You have an image to maintain, after all. You'll take Tolly with you to Diagon Alley and get some new clothes. You're not to walk out of the store wearing your old ones; you're Heir Potter, and your appearance reflects on your House."
Harry couldn't help smiling. For all that the tone was clearly commanding, it was still gentle. It felt good.
"Once you're more properly dressed, you'll need to go to Gringotts and speak with Kurluk; he's the Potter accounts manager. From what you told us last night, you still have to hear your parents' will, and your godfather's will, as well. Kurluk will also bring you up to date on the status of our accounts."
"Did you say accounts, plural? I'm only aware of one vault."
Dorea smiled. "That's only your trust vault," she said. "There are others, containing heirlooms as well as liquid assets."
"That's just a trust vault?" Harry blurted in shock. "I don't think I could spend what's in that vault in my whole lifetime!"
"You'd be surprised," Charlus chuckled. "Right now, your needs aren't that great. Once you're of age and come fully into your inheritance, it'll be different. Maintaining the image of a Most Ancient House is expensive.
"When you're done with the will and the accounts, there's another matter you'll need to address with the Goblins: Your scar."
"What about it?" Harry asked, then sudden hope bloomed. "Does this have something to do with the link between me and Voldemort?"
"Yes, but first of all, since you tell us he's back, you need to stop saying his name."
"Why?" he asked, puzzled. "Dumbledore always said that fear of the name makes us more afraid of the man."
"That's true, but…do you know what a Taboo is?"
He could hear the capital letter in there, and thus suspected it wasn't just the kind of cultural prohibition normally indicated by the word. "Uh, no."
"It's a spell put on a word. The man put one on his name, so that if anyone said it, he could immediately tell where that person was. That's why, even while he was gone, people kept referring to him as 'You-Know-Who.' Clearly he hasn't renewed the Taboo yet, but he probably will, so, for your own safety, you need to get out of the habit of saying his name.
"Now, back to your scar. From your description of the diary incident, it sounds like the reason You-Know-Who didn't truly die that night is because of something called a Horcrux." He went on to explain what a Horcrux was. "That link you have with him suggests you may actually be a Horcrux yourself."
"That actually makes sense," Harry said, firmly suppressing the wave of horror that attempted to overtake him. "It explains why my scar hurts when he's using the link, or when I'm near him. But how do I get rid of it?"
"We don't know," Dorea said. "Nothing I've ever read about them mentions anything about a living vessel. But if it is possible to remove it without harm to you, the Goblins will be able to do it. You need to bring that up with Kurluk."
"There's also the matter of Dumbledore himself," Charlus said, and Harry could tell he was reluctant now. "He always was secretive, but it sounds like he may be carrying it a little too far. This is all information he should have given you long ago."
"I know," Harry grumbled, his anger rising once more. "I really wish I'd known about that damned prophecy before Sirius was killed."
"I'll be speaking with Phineas," Dorea said firmly. "He needs to give Dumbledore a good tongue-lashing."
Puzzled for a moment, Harry then realized, that as a Black, Dorea probably had another portrait in one of the Black properties to which she could travel, and from there to one of the portraits of Phineas Nigellus Black—who, he recalled, also had a portrait in the Headmaster's office.
All these years, and he still kept forgetting that the people in portraits could move from one painting to another.
