o─-o─-o─-─-─-─ WITHOUT THORN THE ROSE ─-─-─-─o-─o-─o
Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling.
o─-─-─-─-─ 2. THE LOST STAR ─-─-─-─-─o
Harry had long been placed in his own reading and writing group at day school because of his superior skills.
"Loads better'n some 'o've done with 'ogwarts," the Assistant Matron said.
The Head Matron disagreed. "I reckon he's a sight better than some at the Ministry," she said. "But just because you can turn a clever phrase and use a dictionary doesn't mean you've got any more sense than a flobberworm, boy."
As he failed at pretty much everything else in life, Harry took an overlarge amount of pride in his school work, and was at pains to show the Matrons that their faith wasn't misplaced. And, because did have more sense than a flobberworm, after all, he soon realized that the old saying—knowledge is power—was quite true.
For example, knowing that there was a shortcut through the woods from his school to his house let him avoid walking home with the others. (James, when asked, had said that growing boys needed to put on a bit of muscle instead of relying on floos and apparition.) If he'd known a bit more, however, he might have realized that the pile of stones that marked the entrance to the Potter wards made an excellent place for children to lie in wait.
Harry was blithely hissing with his new familiar, who now insisted that he refer to her as 'My Lady', when Tony, Ernie, and Ron jumped out from behind the crazily balanced pile of stones and pelted Harry with dirt and gravel.
Lady hastily ducked back into Harry's shirt, angrily muttering under her breath, "Nasssty baby-humans, you should freeze them all, hatchling, and feed them to dogs!"
"What's that you've got?" Ron demanded as Harry marched stoically past them, eyes firmly on the front door of the Potter cottage. "Is that a snake?"
Harry kept his eyes forward and walked quickly. He had learned over the years that anything he did—defending himself, taking the offense, trying to talk sense—only encouraged them.
Tony danced into Harry's path. Harry swerved around him and entered the wards, smiling grimly at the feel of the magic washing over him. Then he turned and looked at them all. He spied Ginny, still crouching behind the cairn.
"It is a snake," she called. "I see its tail hanging out the bottom of his shirt."
Ron lunged forward and swiped at said tail, and was thrown out of the wards with a crack and a flash of light. He landed spread-eagled in the middle of the dirt road, groaning.
"Go home," Harry told them, sneering, and turned to go into the house.
James was standing on the front porch. Harry paled and darted around him into the cottage, making for his room before he could get an earful.
"I thought you liked the Weasleys," he said, following Harry and blocking the door Harry slammed. It bounced off his fist.
"They don't like me," Harry answered, glaring. "They've never liked me. Is this really the first you've noticed?"
"You always seemed to get on well in the summers. Swimming at Remus' place."
Harry sighed sharply and threw his bag of books into a corner. "You see what you want to see."
"Who were the other two?"
"Ernie Macmillan and Tony Goldstein."
"Hm. I went to school with their parents. I could give them a firecall…"
"No!" Harry shouted. "I don't need you to fight my battles. Besides, I don't care about them. They can hate me if they like."
"Harry…couldn't you just try being a little friendlier?"
"What does it matter? I don't need friends like that."
"If you didn't carry that bloody snake around all the time…"
"I'm allowed to!" Harry snapped back defensively. "Even kids have a right to their familiars! It says so in Magical Decree 13, section 1, paragraph 3."
James clenched his teeth. Harry had hidden Lady for a week before he'd found out that James wasn't allowed to take her away. He wouldn't have put it past his father to dash her brains out with a rock.
"Besides, they threw the rocks before they saw her. I'm the one they hate."
"Can't you even just pretend to be normal?"
"Why is it always my fault?" Harry shouted. A burst of accidental magic shoved James from the room and slammed the door behind him. Harry flung himself onto his bed and buried his head in a pillow. He didn't notice that the room had become frosty until his familiar spoke up.
"It'sss too cold," Lady complained.
"Oh ssshut up."
"Ssshut up, my Lady," she corrected him in a smug hiss.
"Keep that up and I'll chuck you back in the woodsss," Harry hissed back.
"Pleassse do. Anything to be rid of your whinging."
"Blasted snake never letting me have the last word," he muttered in English.
"I can underssstand that, you know."
"And you sssay you're a regular old adder," Harry snorted. "Pleassse."
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Although Harry had shouted at his father, when the next fall came around and it was time for a new school year to start, he took the man's words to heart, and made an effort to act more like the others. He didn't disavow his familiar, but he left it at home. During recess, instead of reading his book, he talked stiltedly to the few children who didn't utterly loathe him. He even went so far as to take Neville aside and ask him to stop spreading lies about him.
"I know you saved me, Harry," Neville said, eyes wide and innocent. "I'm sorry I never said thank you. But I haven't been spreading gossip. I never told anyone anything except that a dog tried to attack me and you stopped it with some accidental magic. I dunno what Ron's said but he didn't get it from me."
Neville scowled. "He's a right git sometimes." He paused, seeming to work up his courage. "It scares me, what you can do." He shivered. "When you made it go cold like that, I remembered…horrible things… I saw my mum and dad…" He ran away suddenly, looking like he was going to vomit again, and never saw the pale and stricken look on Harry's face.
After two months of coming home without any bruises or dirt on his clothes, James sprang a surprise on Harry.
"I'm throwing you a birthday party," James declared over dinner (hamburgers and mashed potatoes from a box). He had been a bit more attentive than usual since he had witnessed Harry being bullied.
Harry eyed him sceptically. "Can't we just have Remus over like always?"
"You need friends that aren't adults. Besides, it's the full moon then."
Harry sighed and squirmed a bit on his chair.
"You only turn ten once," James teased.
Harry scowled. "Ten's not special, it's not even prime!"
James grinned. "It'll be fun…we'll bob for apples and dress up like muggles!"
"And what about Samhain¹?"
James rolled his eyes. "Why you are so obsessed with those dusty old holidays I'll never understand."
"It's the sacred feast of the dead!" Harry answered, petulantly. "We can pray to Mum."
"Fine, fine, we'll set a place for Lily and light some fires."
Harry grunted and stirred his mashed potatoes. "All right, then," he relented.
James beamed sunnily. "Good, because I've already invited your whole class."
"Dad!" Harry shouted, jumping to his feet and shoving his chair back.
James winked impishly, and the Marauder-ish gesture caused Harry to feel a pang of guilt for not being the son the man had wanted.
"No one's going to come," he grumbled, sitting back down, but inwardly he thought of two or three who might. Perhaps Neville would.
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¹ Samhain was a Gaelic festival marking the end of the harvest season and the beginning of winter or the "darker half" of the year. Most commonly it is held on 31 Oct-1 Nov (halfway between the autumn equinox and the winter solstice). Bonfires were lit and there were rituals involving them. It was seen as a time when the "door" to the Otherworld opened enough for the souls of the dead, and other beings, to come into our world. Feasts were held, at which the souls of dead kin were beckoned to attend and a place set at the table for them. People also took steps to protect themselves from harmful spirits, which is thought to have led to the custom of wearing costumes. Divination was also done at Samhain.
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At seven o'clock on October 31st, James and Harry sat in blue jeans and t-shirts on the couch in the front room, surrounded by bowls and platters of party food and not a single guest. They had been sitting there for an hour. James was, inexplicably, wearing an eye-patch and a hook on one hand. When the clock over the fireplace rang out seven notes, Harry said,
"We may as well clean up."
A light rapping came at the door and James looked up excitedly. Against his better wishes, Harry's heart also leapt into his mouth. He hadn't realized that he still had any hope.
"I'll get it," James said, hurrying to the door. But when he opened it, no one was there. Only a box, and an owl winging away.
"Well, at least someone sent a present," he said, returning to the couch. The box was unwrapped, but the lid read To Hairy From Your Friends At School. "Not a very good speller."
Harry had an ominous feeling just before James opened the lid, and he wasn't wrong. Inside the box was the headless body of a snake. For an awful, shocked moment, he thought it was Lady, but he quickly realized that it wasn't even an adder, but rather a common grass snake.
Harry bit his lip and looked away, at the platters of untouched food, the banner proclaiming 'Happy Birthday Harry!' in ever-changing colours, the festive balls of lights James had charmed all over the ceiling. His heart felt like a scrap of meat someone had just thrown to the hogs. He'd figured most people wouldn't come, but hadn't there even been one or two? Never mind presents, but not even a card? The Matrons had sent something, and Remus of course, but that wasn't the same.
"Let's…let's clean up," Harry said in a quavering voice, and picked up a platter of cheese on crackers. He started to carry it into the kitchen, but James jerked it from his hands and threw it against the wall.
Harry stared at his father, shocked and frightened. He'd never seen his father's face so filled with rage and hatred before. It twisted his normally quite handsome features into an ugly mask.
"You're not going back there anymore!" James spat.
"Oh…'kay," Harry agreed, rather pleased by this statement, all things considered.
"You can learn at home. From books." James declared, face rigid with determination. Harry nodded.
Then, without warning, James seized Harry and dragged him into his lap. Harry stiffened, alarmed at the prospect of a spanking, but James only held Harry to his chest, arms fiercely tight, as if he expected someone to try to snatch Harry away. His hand stroked Harry's limp black hair over and over, the hair that helped give the lie to their relationship, and Harry felt himself begin to come unglued. He held the tears in at first, but then James murmured, "Just let it out, son," and Harry found himself bawling like a three-year-old in his father's arms.
"I'm sorry," James whispered, "I'm so sorry. I know I'm a horrible father. Please forgive me, Lily. Please help me be better."
And so, after all, they spent Samhain praying to the dead.
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Harry never went back to the day school after that, and James never complained about his snake or his lack of friends again. True to his word, James enrolled Harry in a correspondence school called Aeropoli Academy in Diagon Alley, and he even let Harry pick his own courses. The courses were designed as a supplement for Hogwarts students, so they were advanced for Harry's age, but he was excited to be working ahead. He'd been laughably under-challenged at the day school.
Harry chose four courses: An Introduction to Academic Writing & Research, which showed students how to use a library to its greatest effect and write essays more easily; The Proper Preparation for Potions, which introduced all the basic techniques of preparing potions ingredients and taught students how to mix, stir, heat, and cool potions so that they wouldn't explode; Middle English 1, which Harry wanted to learn so that he could read books from the medieval period; and, finally, Rituals Throughout the Ages, in which Harry hoped he might have access to some of the knowledge he'd been denied access to through Flourish & Blotts.
Harry fully intended, someday, to scour Knockturn Alley for books on souls and death, but unfortunately, as owls are a Ministry-regulated means of communication and James never let him explore on his own, that route was not yet open to him. He knew, however, that Hogwarts had many books of ancient and forbidden magic, so perhaps research of such was permitted in an educational context.
Each course had a professor who set and graded the assignments, and Harry made it his first order of business to establish good communications with each of them. Unfortunately, the Ancient Greek professor, Melani Kardia, ignored everything except assignments, and these she looked over only cursorily. Harry suspected the woman of actually being nothing more than a cleverly charmed quill.
The Potions professor, one Arsenius Jigger, on the other hand, seemed to be an imbecile who only knew how to chop, dice, crush, and powder and probably couldn't have passed his own tests. That he had actually written textbooks was an alarming and disturbing fact, especially given that the one Harry had bought read 'A Hogwarts Staple for 17 Decades'. Could the man really be that old? If so, senility might explain a thing or two.
Harry just kept reminding himself that it was infinitely better he learn potions now than at the hands of that enemy to Potters everywhere, Severus Snape. Harry had heard stories from Bill and Charlie Weasley that the man gnashed his teeth every time someone mentioned Potters, be it James, Harry, or even a field.
The woman who taught Writing & Research, Gertrude Richtig, was quite helpful, and quick to respond, but she always sent back Harry's letters covered in red ink along with her replies, even if he was just asking her how the weather was in London. He hoped he never met her in person, as he wouldn't put it past her to brain him with an inkpot if he accidentally split an infinitive in her presence.
The rituals class, taught by a woman who went simply by Narcissa, was a bit of a disappointment, as the only rituals they studied in detail were Ministry approved ones, but Harry was able to obtain several restricted tomes on the pretence of an extra credit project. Unfortunately, they were charmed to prevent being copied, even by hand, but at least Harry could read them.
For every question answered by the restricted books, however, two new questions sprang up in its place. Harry learned that wizards had once believed that all souls were reincarnated, but no basis was given for the belief. All the texts he found seemed adamant that animals didn't have souls, yet he had seen evidence to the contrary. Souls could only be made visible by certain dark magics, yet Harry could see them all the time, even with his eyes shut. At least the descriptions matched what Harry saw. Rituals existed that were supposed to split, suck out, or even destroy the soul, but the names of these rituals weren't mentioned, and they were supposed to be diabolical in the extreme.
All in all, Harry was deeply unsatisfied with what he learned, and to top it off, he had to produce a truly spectacular extra credit essay to justify having had the books for so long. For his thesis, he chose 'the lack of documented experimentation and evidence of the effects of rituals has left the wizarding world to stagnate in a mire of baseless superstition and prejudice.' He felt a certain glee when he rolled up his thirty-six inches of parchment and watching them winged off towards London.
A week later, when the parchment returned, he was shocked to find that written at the top in Narcissa's dark green ink and exquisite penmanship was the following note:
This would be an outstanding paper at any age, Mr Potter. You are a true prodigy. I happen to agree with your views. I hope you will rectify this matter one day, but I doubt I'll live long enough to see the Ministry that will allow it. —Your cousin, Narcissa Black Malfoy
"Dad," Harry asked at dinner. "Are you related to the Malfoys?"
James dropped his fork on the floor and retrieved it hastily, muttering, "Scourgify." Then he looked askance at Harry. "Not to my knowledge, though I suppose all purebloods are distantly related. Why on earth would you think that?"
"Someone told me Narcissa Malfoy was my cousin."
James raised an eyebrow. "Who?"
Harry shrugged. "One of my professors."
"Which professor?" James asked darkly, his brows drawn down.
"Er…Narcissa Malfoy?" Harry offered hesitantly.
James slammed his cutlery down. "What! That—that Death Eater is your teacher? Why didn't you tell me this? What else has she told you?"
"So, is it true?" Harry asked.
James waved his hand irritably. "Her father, Cygnus, was my first cousin. That makes her your…"—he screwed up his face in thought for a moment—"…second cousin." He paused, and his face darkened. "Well, it would make her that, if you were mine."
"Have you got other Death Eaters in the family?" Harry asked blandly.
James glared balefully at Harry. "Eat your bloody dinner. You're withdrawing from that course tomorrow."
Harry shrugged. "'Kay." He'd already gotten what he wanted out of it. "So are there? Other Death Eaters in the family?"
"I'm half Black," James muttered over his forkful of green beans. "What do you think?"
"What about Sirius Black? Are you related to him?" The man who'd blown up an entire floor of the ministry was second in notoriety only to the Dark Lord himself.
James threw his fork across the room. It stuck, quivering, in the wall behind Harry's head. "Don't mention that name in front of me, you morbid little snake!" he roared.
Harry fled.
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April 4th, 1990
Potter Cottage, Ottery St. Catchpole
Dear Cousin,
I regret to report that my father has demanded my withdrawal from your excellent course. I am, of course, heartbroken, but I confess that my purpose in taking the course was satisfied when I got to read the wonderful books you sent. I only hope that Hogwarts has such informative tomes, or else I may have to campaign for a more northerly clime.
It seems that our branch of the family is on poor terms with yours, and I hope that this can also be one of the matters which I rectify in future. Alas, it may be that I will not have the power to do so for some time.
There is one family matter about which I am curious, and I hope that you might grace me with your wisdom. It seems my father is not fond of hearing the name of one of his more noted cousins. I wasn't aware of any acquaintance between them.
I hope, dear lady, that we may meet again someday and have occasion to spend time together.
Yours truly,
Harry Azrael Potter
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6 April, 1581 A.E.¹
Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire
Dear Harry Azrael,
Congratulations on figuring out how to remove the charm on this letter, my dear.
I'm sorry to hear that your father doesn't approve of me as a professor. Indeed, that was why I had kept my last name from you. Still, I'm glad you got what you wanted out of the course. In my experience, the books at Hogwarts are on par with the books I sent you. Other books, such as those in our library at Malfoy Manor, do have more information, but aren't necessarily complete or correct. It can be very dangerous to try things written in such books. Complex and advanced spells and techniques are often a closely guarded secret in the wizarding world and sometimes misinformation is used as a weapon.
According to some acquaintances of my husband, there are more informative books at Durmstrang as well; however, I fear that your reputation might precede you to such a place. As a half-blood, you would also be held to certain higher standards, though I'm sure that would not be a problem for you. I wish you the best of luck on whatever you decide.
As to the matter of our famous cousin, I'm not surprised you don't know anything about it. I knew both your father and Sirius growing up and at Hogwarts, and they were always the best of friends and closer even than most brothers. Their former relationship is common knowledge in the wizarding world, so I don't think I'm revealing any secrets by telling you so, although I am sure James would rather you not know. As I understand it, Sirius eventually joined the Dark Lord to fight for his lover, while James joined the Light's cause for the same reason. In the end, each lost his love. More than that is not my story to tell.
I hope that we may stay in touch in future, dear cousin. I have a son your age, Draco, who will be in your year at Hogwarts and would like to meet his cousin. Perhaps someday the bitterness of the past will fade and our great family can be reunited.
With Pride and Love,
Narcissa Black Malfoy
Postscript – I am curious about something, Harry. I had been given to understand that it was a Potter tradition to give the first born son his middle name after his father. What was the inspiration for yours? I have never heard it before, so was it perhaps chosen by your mother after a muggle relative? Do let me know, as I am rather taken with it.
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¹ A.E. = Arthurian Era
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"Uncle Remus," Harry asked hesitantly, stirring a melting sugar cube into his steaming cup of tea. "Do you know where my middle name comes from?"
Remus set his pen down (he had been doing the Prophet's Sunday crossword) and frowned. "You know, I'm not sure. When Lily first started looking for names, she only wanted a first name, because she said she was going to follow the Potter tradition and use your father's name for your middle name. But I suppose she changed her mind at some point. I do know Harry is after her little brother, who died as a child."
Harry bit his lip. "Uncle Remus…I…I…"
Remus, ever sensitive to the needs of those around him, scooted closer and put his hand on Harry's shoulder. "What is it, Harry?"
"Dad…h-he's not…"
"Not?"
"Not my real father."
Remus gasped. Harry darted a quick look through his shaggy fringe at the man's face.
"Who told you that, Harry?"
"I asked Dad and he said it was true. He said I wasn't his blood."
"I never knew that, Harry."
"We got into a big argument."
"Is that when this happened?" Remus asked, brushing the purple and yellow bruise around Harry's left eye.
"No. I told you, that was an accident."
Remus nodded solemnly, looking nevertheless doubtful. An 'accident' had also trashed the kitchen. Harry had been sweeping up flour and shards of plates when Remus had arrived, while James had been passed out on the dining room table.
"I don't want to talk about that," Harry mumbled. Remus nodded and stroked Harry's fine black hair, which was just long enough to brush his shoulders. Lady poked her head out from the collar of Harry's shirt, and Remus stroked her head as well. She made fangs at him, and Remus hastily withdrew his hand.
"Don't, Lady," Harry admonished her. "He's my uncle."
"He'sss not your blood," the snake dismissed.
"How do you know?"
"The tongue of a ssserpent knows many things."
"Well," Remus said hesitantly, "I had wondered where you got the parseltongue from, but sometimes muggleborns are actually descendants of squibs who've forgotten their heritage."
Harry half-smiled. "I wondered too. I was surprised, but I quite like it. It's nice to be able to talk to someone."
Remus looked sad for a moment. "I'm sorry I can't tell you anything more, Harry. I don't know why she chose that name."
"You don't think maybe it was after my father, after all?"
Remus considered. "Perhaps. I've never heard of anyone named that. I think it must be a muggle name. It sounds a little familiar, like something I read once. Perhaps it's from the Bible."
"What's that?"
"A muggle holy book. My mother was a muggleborn, and she used to read it aloud to me. Lots of muggles name their children from it. I can owl you a copy." He paused. "Harry…how has James been?"
Harry shrugged, staring morosely into his teacup. "I think he's having some trouble at work."
Remus sighed. "If you ever need anything, I'm only a firecall away. You know that, right?"
Harry nodded, stirring his spoon idly.
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May 20, 1990
Dear Harry,
I checked some records at the Ministry of Magic, but apparently there's no record of any English witch or wizard named Azrael in the last century. So I asked a muggleborn friend (Ted Tonks) to investigate, and apparently he was able to find several dozen muggles with that name by searching genealogical records on the Internet (muggle interactive communication thingy). He also said the name's not from the Bible but it is a name for the Jewish and Muslim (those are muggle religions) Angel of Death. I don't remember your mum being religious, but I suppose there was a lot I didn't know about her.
Your mum had a sister, Petunia Dursley, who lives in Surrey now. In fact I think you've got a cousin as well. Perhaps she would know? I've included her address if you want to write.
Love,
Remus
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May 25, 1990
Potter Cottage, Ottery St. Catchpole
Dear Mrs Petunia Dursley,
You don't know me, but I'm your nephew, Harry Potter. Your sister was my mum. I'm writing because I only just found out that you existed, and I wanted to get to know you and my cousin and also a bit about the family, like who my grandparents are and if they're still alive. Is it possible for us to meet? My Uncle said he'd be willing to apparate me to Surrey if you're amenable. I would really love that.
Looking forward to meeting you,
Harry Azrael Potter
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Potter. Stop writing us. Stop sending owls. We're a normal family and we don't want YOUR SORT about. If you come here I will call the police. My husband is prepared to shoot the next owl you send so STOP IT!
My so-called sister getting herself blown up was the best thing she ever did. You don't need to know anything about my family because she was adopted. (As if we would share your disgusting blood!) My parents found her on the doorstep of the church when she was a baby and passed her off as theirs. They had kinder hearts than she deserved and she repaid them horribly by turning out to be a freak.
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June 29, 1990
St. Mary the Virgin, Whinging Parish Church
Dear Mr Potter,
I was very moved by your letter, as I well remember who I believe is your grandmother. She came to services many times during a month-long period in 1961. I remember her because she made a deep impression on me during our many chats together. She was a very beautiful young lady, with long, wavy black hair, quite young—perhaps 18 or so. And she was very pregnant. She seemed troubled, and I took some of what she said to mean that she'd escaped some kind of cult. She wore strange clothing in the beginning and often used odd words I'd never heard. She confessed to me that she was hiding from her family and from the baby's father, who was a violent sort.
She seemed to need someone to guide her and give her some hope, and I did the best I could although I was very young and inexperienced then—not yet a vicar. I hope I did her some good. She even asked me to run away with her, and I admit I was tempted, but in the end my duty was to the church. She had the baby at the church as she was afraid of hospitals, and the little girl was delivered by one of our nuns. A few days later, she and the baby disappeared, and I never heard anything about it ever again—until now. I do remember that the Evans family stopped attending our church right around that time, but I never knew why.
I don't know what her real name was, but she called herself Electra Mavros¹. She was considering the name Maia² for her daughter the last time we spoke. I've included a photograph of her and the baby that was taken just after the child was born.
I hope this is helpful to you, Mr Potter. I've waited a long time to find out what happened to that little girl. It seems you don't know if Electra is still alive, but if you do ever find out, please be sure to tell her that I still think of her and pray that she's safe.
Sincerely,
Robert Caldwell
Vicar of Whinging
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¹ Electra is the name of a star in the constellation Taurus and one of the Pleiades (Seven Sisters). Mavros means black/dark in Greek. Although Electra is also a figure with a dysfunctional family in the Oresteia trilogy, I was referring to the Pleiad. Wikipedia says: "… one of the seven daughters of Atlas and Pleione. … She was raped by Zeus and gave birth to Dardanus, who became the founder of Troy…. According to one legend, she was the lost Pleiad, disappearing in grief after the destruction of Troy.'" Very appropriate, no?
² Star in the Pleiades cluster. Wikipedia: "In Greek mythology, Maia is one of the Pleiades and the mother of Hermes."
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Harry flipped frantically through his copy of Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy until he reached the end of the Blacks. He had bought the book to answer his questions about his father's relatives, seeing as he'd been attacked with cutlery the last time he asked his father. There, on one of the last pages, was a photo of Electra Black, the daughter of Alphard Black with his cousin Lucretia.
According to the book, Electra had been conceived when her parents were both at Hogwarts. Alphard had raised her alone after Lucretia had washed her hands of the affair. As a consequence, he had dropped out of Hogwarts and never sat his O.W.L.s. Electra had supposedly disappeared when she was sixteen, and most believed she had been murdered by Rogerick¹ Lestrange, who she was having an affair with at the time. He had disappeared shortly afterward and was presumed dead.
Harry compared the photo of the grim and scowling girl in the book with the sweaty, messy-haired, smiling woman in the vicar's photo. They were the same person, he decided. Harry tucked the photo into the edge of his dresser mirror and smiled sadly. It seemed his grandmother's story was every bit as tragic as his mother's and his own. Harry felt certain Electra would have kept Lily if she could have. She had gone to such great lengths to bring her to safety. Surely that proved Lily was loved.
Harry wondered if his mother had known she was adopted. James had always been adamant that she was muggleborn. It was why he had fought for the Light. Would he have chosen differently if he'd known his wife was as pureblooded as himself?
Harry picked up the framed photograph he kept next to his bed, of his mother at eighteen, playing in a pile of fallen leaves and flirting with the camera, or the man behind it. He touched her face with one finger, and she seemed to reach her hand out to him.
"What would my life be like, if you'd been Maia Black instead of Lily Evans?" he whispered.
"Worssse," Lady hissed from her perch on his shoulder.
"Do you know sssomething, Lady?" Harry asked, startled.
"No," Lady answered. "But you can't live your life wissshing the past away."
"No," Harry agreed. "But it still makes me sssad."
"Then be sssad, hatchling, but don't regret anything. You're alive, and well enough. We ssshould all be so lucky."
Harry smiled wistfully, and put the genealogy book back on the shelf with his grandmother's photo closed inside.
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¹ German: famous spear, famous warrior.
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"Who do you write to all the time, boy?" James asked, slurring his words. "Hmm?"
"You do remember I take classes by mail, don't you?" Harry asked, eyeing his father warily. He loved his father, but—not when he was drunk. When he was drunk, James was a different person. He was no father, then.
"Pffff," James dismissed, and belched. "Classes are done for the year. You're writing to that Malfoy bitch, aren't you?"
"I only wrote to her once, to drop the class," Harry replied as calmly as he could. "I've been researching mum's family. Did you know she wasn't really a muggleborn? She was adopted."
James looked poleaxed for a moment, then sneered. "Don't feed me that tripe, boy. You think she wouldn't have known? If a ten-year-old could find out…"
Harry shrugged and speared a green bean while fingering the rabbit's foot in his pocket. It was a portkey Remus had made for him that would activate if he said the words 'escape pod', or if he was knocked unconscious. James hadn't been doing well for a number of months.
"You're too curious for your own good, that's what," James sneered. "And bloody morbid. You and that snake. Prob'ly be a Slytherin and disgrace your own father. Not that I'm really your father."
Harry's throat tightened. "I'm hoping to be in Ravenclaw, actually," he offered in a small voice, but James didn't seem to hear him.
"Fuck this slop," James said, shoving away the plate of food that Harry had prepared. "I'm going out."
"Dad, no," Harry called, rising and hurrying to his father's side. James went into the vestibule and fought the coat rack for his cloak, managing to rip a hole in it before he got it on. "Remember what happened last time?"
'Last time', James had started a fight in the Hog's Head Inn in Hogsmeade that had destroyed a thousand galleons worth of property and made the front page of the Prophet. Auror Arrested After Drunken Brawl, the headline had proclaimed, and James had been suspended for a month. They'd been counting knuts ever since. They'd even had the floo service cut off when there was no money for the bill.
"Don't tell me what to do, goddamn it! I'm your father!" James roared. Whether or not he was Harry's father at any given moment seemed to depend on his mood and what was most convenient for him. Harry clutched his father's cloak determinedly and tried to reel him back from the doorway.
"Dad, please! I-I'll tell Uncle Remus! I'll call the Aurors!"
"You little snake," James hissed, rounding on Harry and clutching him by the shirtfront. "How dare you! I put food over your head and a roof on your table." He looked confused for a second, then shook it off. "I didn't have to take you in—another man's child!"
Harry let go and jerked out of James' grasp. "Go, then," he muttered, looking down sullenly. "Go get yourself blown up like mum, too, for all I care."
A loud crack sounded, and Harry found himself falling into the coat rack. James had slapped him across the face.
"Don't talk about Lily like that!" James growled, and then he was gone, slamming the door behind him.
Harry sat for a while under a heap of coats, crying and holding his cheek, which was hot and tender. Then he got up, and slowly began to clear away dinner. He couldn't seem to remember how things had gotten so bad. James had always been a heavy drinker, with a foul mouth and a bitter outlook, but he'd never been so hateful before. Harry couldn't understand it. Nothing had changed—nothing important.
As he was cleaning up, Harry tried once again to reconcile the man who had held him and stroked his hair while Harry cried with the man who gave him black eyes and called him a snake. It would be easier if Harry could simply hate James, but every time the man sobered up and Harry saw his pale face, his shaky hands, his guilt-stricken eyes, he couldn't bring himself to hate his father.
Harry was the only one James had. James needed him.