With Fire and Blood
Description: VERY AU! Sirius Orion Black, Heir Primus of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, never imagined himself as a father, much less the father of his dead best friend's abused son who was rescued by squibs of the family. Watch as he finds himself the unwilling paterfamilias of the Black family, deals with the muck that is wizarding politics, and fights with fire and blood, to keep his godson safe from all who wish him harm.
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Two chapters in as many days, I'm spoiling you all. (I will try to update regularly, but no promises. :P) Moving on, from the bottom of my heart, thank you all! I'm amazed at the reception to this story! It warms my heart to know so many of you enjoy and love it, even if I don't think it's all that good. Please remember to review, I love hearing what you all think! Now enough of my babbling, onto the story!
o.o.o.o.o
Chapter 1: Lost and Found
June 26, 1985 – Number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey
The world was harsh, cruel, and brutal.
Freak learned this when Aunt Petunia sent him to his cupboard without food for not winning first place in the annual garden contest. Freak learned this when Uncle Vernon screamed that he was a useless good for nothing Freak day after day, night after night. Freak learned this when Dudley, his fat lard of a cousin, and his "friends" beat on him and he could do nothing.
Freak learned these bitter truths that ruled his world by the time he was four.
Dudley would always have triple chocolate cake for desert. Aunt Marge and her pit bull would always hate him. Aunt Petunia loves to starve him. Uncle Vernon eats like a pig. So does Dudley for that matter. Rocks are hard, grass is green, the sun rises in the east, and he was a Freak.
These were the immutable facts of his life.
Really, it was a simple and unchanging existence.
So honestly, he wasn't too bothered when he was locked in his cupboard with a piece of stale bread and a cup of water for the night as Vernon and Petunia prepared for Vernon's important business guests that night. At least it meant that he wouldn't have to deal with a drunken Vernon again. He was content to lie back and stare at the dusty ceiling as he tried to avoid irritating the painful bruises from his "just in case" beating earlier, and the cuts from last week that hadn't quite healed yet.
He heard the doorbell ring as his uncle leaned close to the door and said, "Not a peep out of you tonight, Freak." In the most angry, vitriolic tone he could manage before Petunia opened the door to greet their guests warmly.
o.o.o.o.o.
June 26, 1985 – Aston Martin, Little Whinging, Surrey
George Matthew Crawley found the exit off the highway and followed the maps to Privet Drive. He let out a long sigh as he pulled up to the house, the pitter patter of rain following him all the way through the silence.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake, George. If you didn't want to come, then why on earth did you accept? We very well did not have to drive four hours from Manchester for a dinner to discuss a business proposal with muggles," chided his wife, Artemesia Magaera Crawley (nee Black).
"Martin thinks Dursley has talent. He recommends we give the account to Grunnings. Merlin knows they'd be better than Acker and Sons, after the last foul up."
Artemesia sniffed haughtily. Though she was a squib, she had inherited the pureblood pride of both her families. Her parents, Magaera Eris Black (nee Flint) and Marius Phineas Black, though squibs themselves, had never forgotten what it meant to be pureblood or lost their condescending attitude towards muggles. They did everything in their power to make sure that that very pride was passed on to Artemisia, their only daughter.
"Then why didn't you send Martin? Let the muggles deal with muggles. We hardly need to trouble ourselves over something this small."
George chuckled. He himself was a muggle, albeit, a very wealthy half-blood muggle who's brother was a renowned founding partner of the magical law firm Crawley, Drummond, and Tonks. He had made his fortune through wise investments and had acquired wealth enough to rival the income of some countries. Much of that money went right back into investments under his own firm, Crawley, Martin, and Thorpe. He had found out when he was sixteen that his eleven year old brother was a wizard. It turned out that it was because his mother was a muggleborn witch who left the wizarding world. Boy was his father surprised, and him too for that matter.
Regardless, through various connections and acquaintances, he and Artemisia had met and against all odds, had fallen in love and married in the spring of 1968 at the age of 28. It wasn't complete marital bliss with sunshine, daisies, and butter mellow, but they managed. Still, his wife would never understand the muggles, nor would she want to.
"Martin is negotiating the Preston Contract right now. And besides, the Dursley's invited us. What would you have me do? Insult my new business partner before we even began to work together?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.
"I can think of several things to do to that audacious muggle of no consequence. None of them pleasant, I assure you." Artesmisia sneered. "To think, that a peasant muggle like him is inviting us, George Matthew Crawley and Artemisia Magaera Crawley of Crawley, Martin and Thorpe, the top investments firm this side of the Atlantic, to dinner. Not to mention the magical side of things. It completely boggles the mind. Does he realize we had tea with the Prime Minister and Lord Chancellor last week? Honestly, the nerve!"
This was too much for George. Turning a hard look at his wife, he replied in an even tone, "Fine. Then shall we visit Blackstone Hall for dinner tomorrow? I'm sure Uncle Arcturus would just love to see the Black squibs again. Or perhaps your cousin at Rockfall Keep?"
Artemisia paled, but quickly gathered her composure before turning to leave the car with one last baleful glare at the supremely muggle neighborhood. George followed behind and offered his arm to her.
She ignored him, adjusted her hat, and marched stiffly towards the front door. George sighed and followed. He hated doing it, but sometimes, Artemisia needed a reminder of what she was in this world. He loved her dearly, but her pride and arrogance was trying at times.
Reaching the door, George extended one perfectly manicured hand and rang the doorbell once. They heard the shuffling of footsteps and faint mutterings before the door opened and the visages of Vernon and Petunia appeared, with Petunia carrying a pudgy child in her arms.
"Mr. and Mrs. Crawley, please, step inside won't you?" invited Petunia warmly as she moved to the side. "Vernon has set some drinks in the living room, if you would like some."
Artemisia returned the greeting before declining the offer of drinks, 'probably tastes like fermented pig's milk,' she thought rather uncharitably. "Perhaps there is somewhere I can leave my hat and rain jacket?" she inquired meaningfully glancing at the cupboard in the entranceway and shrugging off the long outer rain coat to reveal a dress made of what appeared to be molten silver.
Petunia's smile fell and dimmed, as she placed her child ('Dumbley, Drummers, no, Dudley. how plebian.') on the ground. "Ah, yes, I'll take it," she said quite primly. Artemisia handed her the coat and watched as she moved further into the house
Artemisia narrowed her eyes while George inquired as to the state of Grunning's for the last quarter following Vernon and Petunia. 'How interesting…' she thought to herself. As she passed the cupboard in question, she noticed a padlock on it that wasn't previously visible to her. 'This just gets stranger and stranger.'
o.o.o.o.o.
It had been some hours and the two families had just finished dinner ('decent for peasantry, I suppose…') when Petunia suggested she and Artemisia retire to the sitting room while "the men discuss business."
Artemisia rolled her eyes, but agreed after inquiring where she might freshen up. Petunia gave her directions to the bathroom as she continued to bustle around the kitchen preparing tea.
Artemisia nodded in thanks and found herself wandering past the locked cupboard on her way to the bathroom. But this time, this time, she was sure she could hear a quiet whimpering sound. At first, she thought it was her imagination playing tricks on her, but then she heard it again, accompanied by a painful thump, as if something meaty had landed on the floor.
Silence reigned, before she heard more shuffling noises, and a quiet, "oopsies." Possibilities ran through her mind one after the other faster than a speeding hurricane. She didn't like where her mind was leading her, but there was only one conclusion: the Dursley's had locked a child in their cupboard. By now, the loud thump had attracted the attention of the rest of the company who had gathered around her.
"Arty? Are you alright?" asked George, concerned at her paleness. Horrified, she looked up, and in her angriest, most arrogant, authoritative tone stated, "Vernon Dursley, you will open this cupboard now and explain to me exactly why you have locked a child–"
"A child!" exclaimed Gerorge horrified.
"Yes, a child," huffed Artemisia before continuing, "a child in that cupboard!"
Vernon paled for all of two seconds before turning an interesting shade of puce. How dare these guests in his house order him about! How dare they! He wouldn't stand for it. "Now see here-" he began.
"No you see here, you silly, fat, lard of a muggle!" Artemisia all but screamed. "You will do as I say or the Prime Minister will hear of this tomorrow. I've half a mind to call him up now!"
Vernon paled again at the implication of the word 'muggle' and deflated. Petunia spoke up in a quiet voice, "You're one of them, aren't you." She seemed at once frightened and resigned.
Artemisia nodded once; face still tight with suppressed anger. Vernon deflated more at the confirmation, unlocked the padlock, and opened the door. Slowly, the door opened and they were met with the figure of a very small boy.
The first thing that Artemisia and George noticed was his eyes. The downcast emerald green eyes gave off an almost tangible sense of hopelessness and despair as the boy they belonged to sat on an old, broken mattress wrapped in a tatty, moth eaten blanket. They took in the sorry sight of blood matted hair, bruised, blackened, purpled skin, cast-off hand me downs that were many sizes too big and old, and couldn't help but feel pity for this boy, muggle though he was. Even cold-hearted pureblood Artemisia felt her heart clutch at the pathetic sight. Then the boy looked up, flinching slightly.
Their breaths caught in their throats, for there, on his forehead, just above his right eye, was a lightning bolt scar. This wasn't just any boy, this was the wizarding savior. The next Merlin, according to the Daily Prophet, or perhaps even Merlin himself reincarnated. This was Harry Potter, the boy who lived. A myriad of thoughts ran through the minds of George and Artemisia, but first and foremost, they saw a poor, lonely, abused boy who needed to be removed from this vile place.
Harry looked at her. And seemingly from nowhere, with longing and hope and desire in his eyes, he asked innocently in only the way a child can, "Are you an Angel?"
This was all the encouragement Artemisia needed, and she quickly knelt down and hugged the boy, being quickly joined by George, both of whom ignored the involuntary stiffening of the boy. As she did, she looked at him and whispered, "No, my sweet child. I am not."
In their new position, they both noticed a small previously hidden sign, written in the uneven handwriting of a child, backwards letters and all, taped to the far wall which spelled out "Freaks Room."
Incensed to new heights, George quickly stood up, and calmly and in the iciest tone he could, stated "Dursley, I think it safe to say that our negotiations are at an end," before taking the Dursleys to task about the treatment of a child and the wizarding savior, how they should be honored that they were given the opportunity to raise such a child. How they were a disgrace to the name of human and that they were lower than worms. Dudley, frightened by the angry, screaming man, began to cry. George ignored him and continued with his rant.
Feeling the boy tremble in her arms, Artemisia clutched Harry tightly and whispered into his ears all the while. "There now, don't you worry child, we'll take care of everything. You'll be coming with us. You won't see them again. You very special child. Would you like that?"
Harry mutely nodded.
o.o.o.o.o.
June 26, 1985 – Cupboard Under the Stairs, Number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey
Freak heard conversations in the hall. The guests had obviously arrived then, and moved quickly into the dining room. He sat on the mattress and looked up and the dusty ceiling wondering what it would be like to fly. Soon enough, his battered, broken body took its toll and Freak fell asleep to dreams of laughing as he flew on a broomstick and chased a cat, while a large black dog ran behind him seemingly grinning.
Some hours later, he had shifted uneasily in his sleep, having wrapped the tattered and torn blanket around himself. He had managed to irritate one of his wounds on the rough bloodstained mattress and let out a small unconscious whimper of pain. He shifted again, precariously close to the edge of the mattress, and hit his bruised arm against the wall letting out another small whimper. This was all the impetus gravity needed to finally pull him over the edge of the mattress. With a thump, he fell out of the mattress, and onto the ground. He was instantly awakened by the fall, and took a moment to regain his bearings. When he did, he realized his mistake to his horror, and quietly said "oopsies."
Even more horrified now, he quickly slammed his hands on his mouth and struggled to shuffle himself back onto the bed, still tangled in his tattered sheet. He heard Loud Voices in the hallway and ducked his head down. Loud Voices always meant Freak was in trouble and was going to be punished.
It was just his luck that Vernon's business guests were also going to join in. But, he supposed, he deserved it for being a Freak after all. Oh, how he wanted to be normal. How he wished, and hoped, and prayed, but just when it seemed his Freakishness was gone, it flared up again.
The last time, had resulted in him accidentally turning Petunia's hair blue. He hadn't meant to, but she was telling him that people couldn't have blue hair, and he had wanted to prove her wrong so badly, because he knew he saw someone at the park with blue hair. That time, he was punished with extra chores, a beating "for all his Freakish behavior corrupting an upstanding normal family like ours," and no food for the week.
Then, the door opened, and he was faced with the hem of what looked to be a dress that sparkled with the light. He spent a few moments entranced in the flowing silver and the dancing motes of almost tangible light. With a supreme effort of will, he pulled his eyes off of the dress and looked up, flinching as he waited for the inevitable strike.
His breath caught in his throat as he looked at the lady, no, princess, no, Angel in front of him. What else could she be? Perfectly curled midnight tresses elegantly woven into flawless, complicated knot that framed high aristocratic cheekbones with bold, perfectly arched brows, long black lashes, and piercing blue almond shaped eyes softened by concern and incredulity. The slender and tall figure gave off the air of a cultured and refined elegance and grace. However the image was marred slightly by two bright spots of pink on her otherwise pale cheeks, betraying her anger at the situation. Despite that, Freak still thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
With all his hope, desire, and longing, Freak opened his mouth and nervously asked, "Are you an Angel?" He was almost afraid of the answer. He had waited so long for something to take him away from this horrid place. He didn't think he could bear it is this Angel couldn't help him.
Almost as if he flipped a switch, the Angel surged forward and hugged him tightly. Freak couldn't help stiffening up. He was… confused. No one had ever touched him without meaning to hurt him before. What was this bubbling and confusion he was feeling in his stomach? While his young mind was processing these new sensations, he idly felt another pair of arms wrap around him.
Distantly, he heard the Angel murmur, "No, my sweet child. I am not," as the man stood up and began to use Loud Voices on the Dursleys. Feeling all his hopes and dreams crash and burn, Freak fought off the urge to break down into tears.
Almost as if she sensed his impending breakdown, the lady began to whisper soothingly in his ears. "There now, don't you worry child, we'll take care of everything. You'll be coming with us. You won't see them again. You very special child. Would you like that?"
Freak mutely nodded and tried his best to still his trembling and keep his dirty Freakishness from getting onto the Nice Lady Who Wasn't An Angel. The Angry Man eventually stopped using the Loud Voice and turned to the Nice Lady Who Wasn't An Angel.
"Artemisia. Come, we'll be leaving this filth behind now. Bring the child."
Freak's eyes widened. How many times had Vernon called him a dirty, filthy, Freak? Did the Angry Man want to leave him behind as 'filth'? Fearing the worst, Freak broke his silence and begged, "No! Please don't leave me here! I want to go with you! I promise not to be a dirty, filthy Freak!" Freak turned his pleading, broken eyes on the Nice Lady Who Wasn't An Angel and the Angry Man.
Angry Man became even angrier if that was possible, before visibly calming himself and speaking slowly and quietly to the child. "No, child, that is not what I meant at all. You will be coming with us, while these… people will be remaining here." At that, he glared once more at the Dursleys before turning once more to the Nice Lady Who Wasn't An Angel.
"Come, let us leave."
Nice Lady Who Wasn't An Angel nodded, and picked up Freak. Freak felt odd being carried, and buried his head into the Nice Lady Who Wasn't An Angel's dress. He knew he would be Punished for ruining the dress later, but right now, he was so exhausted, he didn't care and all but collapsed in the Nice Lady Who Wasn't An Angel's arms.
o.o.o.o.o.
June 26, 1985 – Entry Corridor, Number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey
George had finally finished screaming abuse at the Dursleys when he turned to his wife and said, "Artemisia. Come, we'll be leaving this filth behind now. Bring the child."
Artemisia saw the boy – Harry, she reminded herself – widen his eyes in fear, before he burst out, "No! Please don't leave me here! I want to go with you! I promise not to be a dirty, filthy Freak!"
He turned his pleading, broken eyes on her and George. Her heart broke at the despair and hopelessness she saw in those emerald pools. In later years, they would fuel her worst nightmares, and she made a silent promise to herself then that she would never again see that expression on that child's face, no matter what it took. George saw the same thing, before becoming angrier. Slowly, he calmed himself and deflated before speaking slowly and calmly.
"No, child, that is not what I meant at all. You will be coming with us, while these… people will be remaining here." He glared once more at the Dursleys, turned to his wife, and repeated, "Come, let us leave."
Artemisia mutely nodded, thoughts still haunted by that broken look of despair, before gathering herself. She picked up Harry, and felt him burrow his head into his dress before collapsing from exhaustion.
George led the way to the car, opened the door for his wife, and settled in the unexpected passenger before securing himself in the driver's side and driving off back to Manchester. He idly noticed that he was gripping the steering wheel much tighter than was strictly necessary, but didn't feel inclined to let up.
Some hours into the drive, Artemisia leaned over and spoke quietly, in deference to the sleeping child. "Oh George, what do we do now?"
"I don't know. I don't know, Arty," came the tired, weary reply, just as quiet. "We'll figure it out. Maybe your family can help?"
Artemisia nodded, and they spent the rest of the drive in silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts.
One thing was for sure, the Dursleys would sorely regret their actions.
o.o.o.o.o.
June 26, 1985 – Thornfield Heights, Macclesfield Road, Alderley Edge, Cheshire
Neither Artemisia nor George had gotten much sleep that night. Upon returning home to Thornfield Heights in Cheshire outside of Manchester, they had Ethel, the squib maid, prepare the largest bedroom for their guest.
After tucking in the child, George hurriedly called his PA Robert Branson and gave him strict instructions to clear his calendar for the next week.
"Sir, may I ask why?"
"My wife's cousin has recently passed away, we just heard, and has left his child to her in his will. We will be taking the next week to meet with the child and get him settled in."
"Of course, Mr. Crawley. Shall I let Tulip know that Mrs. Crawley will also be unavailable? Do you need me to make any arrangements for your travels?"
"No. no, we're all set, Thank you Branson, and yes, please tell Tulip. Artemisia is understandably distraught right now. They were quite close, her and her cousin."
"Of course, Mr. Crawley. Will that be all?"
"Yes, Branson. I'm sorry to have bothered you so late."
"Not at all Mr. Crawley. I'll see you next week." The line went dead.
Meanwhile, Artemisia was writing a letter to her father, mother, Uncle Arcturus, Aunt Melania and her Aunt Cassiopeia detailing the events of the night and all that had transpired, and asked them to bring a pensieve with them if they didn't believe her. She invited her parents, uncle, and aunts over for tea the next day to discuss their options. Cassiopeia would certainly be helpful: her little black book was known the world over and feared by every person who was anybody in Europe. If you had some dirty little secret, then she had it written down in her book.
Preparations made, and letters sent off with the owls, George and Artemisia simply sat on the edge of the bed and watched the child sleep. Slowly, and without realizing it, they both fell into an exhausted sleep, the child snuggling between them.
o.o.o.o.o.
June 27, 1985 – Largest Bedroom, Thornfield Heights, Macclesfield Road, Alderley Edge, Cheshire
Artemisia and George slowly stirred to wakefulness as something trembled between them. Remembering the events of the past day, they instantly shot up to full wakefulness and looked at the all too tiny broken and bruised body of the boy between them.
Freak had woken up some time earlier, knowing that if he didn't get up and make breakfast before his uncle was up, he would be punished. It was to his horror that he woke up in an unfamiliar room, being cradled and held by two vaguely unfamiliar people. Suddenly, the events of the last day hit him, and he remembered.
His emerald eyes widened. Could it be? Was he really away from that place? His four year old mind couldn't believe it, and he decided that it must have been a dream. Any moment now, he would wake up to Petunia's pounding on the door. His entire body shut down at that unbearable thought, and he began violently trembling. It was this that had awoken Artemisia and George that morning.
Artemisia quickly calmed the child, and arranged for a bath to be drawn by the maid. Artemisia had quite the shock and felt her anger returning when she saw the scars on the child's body in the bath. But never mind that now, the Dursleys would get their due in time. What was important, was that she wash away the dirt and filth of that place. Attempting to fill the silence, Artemisia told the boy of magic and the wondrous things it could do. She explained patiently and kindly that she was a many times distant Aunt of his and that her husband, the Angry Man, was his uncle. Seeming to understand, the boy nodded his head, but otherwise remained mute.
While Artemisia was washing Harry, George set about finalizing their plans for that day, and preparing for the imminent arrival of Marius Phineas Black, Magaera Eris Black (nee Flint), Arcturus Sirius Black, Malania Catherine Black (nee MacMillan), and Cassiopeia Violetta Black, all of whom had just sent an owl back with their intention to be there. Arcturus' contained an additional note that he would be bringing a pensieve with him.
George carefully estimated Harry's size before sending the squib maid to Twilfitt and Tattings of Diagon Alley for a Dress Robe and accessories for that afternoon. It would do, until they could take the child shopping for a full wardrobe.
He also arranged an owl to the Healer's Guild for an independent Healer to come take a look at the child later that morning. He required the full non-disclosure agreement and made sure to offer extremely generous terms for the service. Healer Frederick Fawley agreed to the terms and arrived shortly after Artemisia had cleaned Harry up in the bath.
George met the man at the door and waved him in and proceeded to make his way through the labyrinth of halls, corridors, and rooms explaining quickly the circumstances that led to his urgent summons. "We found this child just yesterday being abused in a muggle household during a business dinner where I was planning on negotiating a contract between my investment firm and Grunning's for construction of our London Headquarters. We of course removed the child and brought him home with us, but I'm afraid that without magic, there is very little we can do to heal the child. It's just through here, Healer Fawley, the child his waiting for us in the solar with my wife."
Healer Fawley nodded as he processed this information and continued through the door to the solar, and stopped dead. For there, on the lap of Artemisia Black, seemingly entranced by the story she was reading him, was Harry Potter. Then he looked closer. The boy had obviously been beaten sometime recently, his healer training noted idly, 'coupled with what appear to be infected cuts, and bones that haven't healed quite right, indicates that it has occurred regularly for some time now. At least two years. He's small, for a four year old…' Ever the consummate professional, his thoughts continued in this vein for several minutes as he observed and categorized each would, bruise, and scar that he could see.
Artemisia finished the story and looked up to notice that the healer had arrived. With supreme grace, she rose from her position and placed the child back on the chaise longue before smiling and greeting the healer.
"Thank you for coming, Healer Fawley, and on such short notice too. As you can see, he is in dire need of a Healer."
Healer Fawley nodded slowly before turning to the child, plastering a smile on as he did. "Hey there, I'm Healer Fawley, and I'm here to check you up and fix up those ouchies, alright?"
Hesitantly, the boy looked at Artemisia and George. Both of them nodded slightly and tried to smile for his sake. Harry nervously nodded a little, before shrinking back into the couch.
"Come now child. I won't hurt you. What's your name?" he asked in a friendly tone.
Harry quickly glanced at Artemisia and George again and visibly steeled his resolve. "Freak…" came the reply, almost too soft to hear.
Healer Fawley frowned and thought he misheard. "What was that again? I didn't quite catch it?"
Harry looked carefully around the room again before repeating a little bit louder, "Freak. I'm called Freak." And he visibly wilted into the couch, making himself appear as small as possible.
Artemisia and George froze in shock and outrage. To think that the Dursleys hadn't even had the common decency to call this child by his name! A name that every wizard and witch in Britain knew! The sheer nerve and callousness of those bastard sons of trolls! It was unheard of! Both of them mentally reminded themselves that they would tear the Dursleys apart piece by piece, and made a mental note to drag it out. Oh, would they rue the day they had ever laid eyes on Harry Potter.
Similar thoughts ran through Healer Fawley's mind, having been briefed on the situation during his walk to the room by George. The silence lasted several minutes as the adults overcame their shock and anger at the situation. All throughout this time, the boy shrunk in on himself more, if that was even possible, and stayed perfectly still, closing his eyes while flinching and waiting for the inevitable.
Anger usually meant he had done something wrong and was about to be punished for it. Several minutes went by and nothing happened. Freak opened his eyes and peeked out. The adults were still standing in the room where they last were, shock still present on their faces, though Aunt and Uncle were clearly still angry.
Slowly, Artemisia rushed forwards and engulfed the small boy in another hug. "No, my sweet child. Your name is not Freak. Freak is not a name for a small boy. Would you like to know your name?"
Freak's eyes widened. His name wasn't Freak?! Then what was it? Slowly, as if thinking it was a trick, Freak nodded his head mutely and looked at his Aunt. "I don't know your full name, but among wizards, you are called Harry. Harry Potter."
Freak sounded it out in his head. 'Harry Potter…' he mused. 'I like it!' Freak – no, Harry, he reminded himself – nodded once and spoke again to the Healer, "Harry Potter. I'm Harry." And he beamed the most dazzlingly smile at him. Artemisia, George, and Frederick couldn't help but smile back at the childish expression of delight, and vowed to keep that expression on his face as much as possible. It seemed that Harry was finally accepting that he would not be seeing those horrid people, by only the loosest of definitions, ever again, and that was just fine with him.
Healer Fawley grinned at Harry and spoke in a fatherly tone of voice, "So you are. So you are. Well, why don't you stay still a moment, and I'll heal you best I can, Harry." Harry nodded and the healer went about his business. It was some hours before he was done and took his leave, George once more escorting him to the door.
"Thank you again, Healer Fawley. This was most appreciated."
"Not at all Mr. Crawley. Just make sure he follows that potions regimen and everything will be set right by this time next month. You have my official report if you ever need the official documentation of his injuries from those muggles."
George nodded, and the Healer disapparated with a pop. The squib maid returned with the purchase of a child sized black acromantula silk dress rob trimmed in silver and all its accessories soon after. It was a rather plain dress robe, but it would not do to attract undue attention by asking for the Potter crest to be added. The package also contained a set of long black slacks, and a midnight blue silk shirt
George ushered the maid into the house behind him and sent her to the largest bedroom where Artemisia was keeping the child occupied with silly stories about fairies and princesses and great evil dragons. She eventually started telling him of the Black Family history.
She had just finished one such story when George and the maid entered. Harry's eyes were wide and amazed, and then he spoke with all the wonder and the innocence of children, "Great Grandfather Sirius must have been amazing to have ridden on a dragon! Do you think I'll ever ride on a dragon Auntie?"
Artemisia smiled. "Of course, Harry. You just need to believe. And now, I think your new clothes are here. Thank you Ethel."
New clothes! His new Auntie and Uncle were the best people ever! He hadn't ever gotten new clothes before! It was amazing. Excited, he quickly opened the package, and stared shocked. This couldn't possibly be for him! It was too nice, too new, and too expensive. George saw the expression and laughed.
"Yes, Harry, that's all for you. Ethel and Artemisia will help you into it. I'm afraid I never quite got the hang of getting a dress robe to look just so."
"Come now, your lordship, let's get you dressed and get rid of those awful rags," cajoled Ethel, extending a hand. Numb with disbelief, Harry grasped it as Ethel led him to the bathroom he had bathed in earlier followed by Artemisia with the clothes.
Soon, the motley group returned with a groomed and dressed Harry. George did a double take when he saw them. Was that really the child that the Dursleys abused and dressed in rags? It couldn't be. Dressed in the new finery, highlighting his slender frame and emphasizing his aristocratic looks, he cut an imposing figure. Well… for a four year old. His untamable Potter hair was ruffled somewhat as if he had just gotten out of bed. All in all, he looked the part of a pureblood prince.
Everything was set, all they had to do was wait until tea at two for their guests. Artemisia and George busied themselves in the intervening time by instructing Harry how to act with the various guests that were arriving that day in the large solar.
"Now, remember Harry, Great Uncle Arcturus is the Lord of the House of Black and is very traditional. His wife, Great Aunt Melania, is less so. I suspect it's the Hufflepuff in her, but I digress. You should address them both as Lord and Lady Black, unless told otherwise. Aunt Cassiopeia is also quite traditional in that sense. She may seem rather harsh at first, but I assure you that she will want what is best for you in the end. You should address her as Madam Black. That leave your Uncle Marius and Aunt Magaera. They are much less formal than the rest of the family, and have adopted muggle titles, like ourselves, for simplicity. It's easiest to just call them Mr. and Mrs. Black or Uncle and Aunt. Got that Harry?" Artemisia summarized the very brief, very rushed etiquette lesson.
Harry nodded, even though he was confused. Noticing, George spoke up, "Don't worry if you get it wrong, no one expects you to be perfect at this age. It will come with time."
Just then, the clock struck two o'clock, and an imperious knocking came from the front door. George nodded, and went to open the door. When he came back, he was trailed by several guests. Artemisia rose to greet them all, and introduced Harry to them. Harry tried and thought he got all the titles correct, but wasn't sure.
The adults settled around the solar on the various divans, arm chairs, and settees as Ethel prepared and served the tea. Once everything quieted down, Arcturus spoke. "Artemisia, why did you call us here today?" he asked imperiously, one aristocratic eyebrow raised.
Artemisia and George then launched into the tale of the circumstances that led to Harry entering their care and the family viewed their memories of the events in the pensieve Arcturus brought with him. Silence reigned as all the members of the clandestine meeting pondered the meaning of the revelations, until Cassiopeia snorted.
"Fancy that, now we know Dumbledore is going senile. Was he not the wizard that decided to place him there?"
"Be that as it may, Cassiopeia, but we have bigger fish to fry. Namely, what will we do with the child now that he has found himself under the auspices of House Black?" interjected Marius, with a nod from his wife.
"The poor dear," interjected Melania. "Arcturus, you must do something!" she admonished. Her heart ached for this child that had endured treatment that she would not wish on her worst enemy. She quickly engulfed the boy in a hug, ignored the involuntary stiffening, and proceeded to engage the boy with animated conversation about cackling tree stumps from Tales of Beedle the Bard.
"Peace, Melania. That much is not in question. It is just what we will do about it…" Arcturus trailed off, deep in thought.
"I believe our Heir Primus was named as godfather to this child… With luck, and a little legal double talk, we can have him blood adopted as Sirius' child. That would make him legally ours." Arcturus mused. "The only issue are those muggles. Dumbledore is sure to check up on them sometime."
"You can't be serious, Arcturus! All this effort, for a half-blood that's not even a Black?!" Cassiopeia interjected incredulously.
"You forget yourself, Aunt Cassiopeia. Harry's paternal grandmother was Dorea Ursula Potter (nee Black), your own sister. That makes him practically family. Merlin knows half of us are more distantly related than that!" retorted Artemisia angrily.
"She's right you know. And besides, this half-blood, as you put it, defeated the most powerful Dark Lord in the past three centuries at the tender age of one," reminded Magaera, speaking for the first time that meeting. "I may not have been born a Black, but even I can see his potential. Will you allow your blood prejudice to blind you so?" she asked pointedly.
Cassiopeia's face soured, as she tried and failed to come up with a rebuttal.
"Enough. Something needs to be done about those muggles. Even if that child was not the boy who lived, that behavior towards a wizard is intolerable. As a founding member of the Wizard Council, charged by Merlin Emrys himself in the defense of all magical kin, the House of Black is obligated to help this child and seek a wergild on his behalf," announced Arcturus. "Especially since he is so closely related to us
Silence reigned again before Cassiopeia sighed and wearily exclaimed, "Very well, what would you have us do?"
"Marius, you will bring the child along with your daughter and her husband to your residence in the Black Manchester Townhouse. There, you will floo Sirius Black at the Florence Villa and inform him of what has transpired." Marius nodded as Arcturus continued to speak, giving out orders like the Lord he was.
"Cassiopeia, you will deal with the muggles. You know the Memoriam Dolor curse I presume?" Cassiopeia nodded, a malicious grin making its way onto her face. "Then I expect you to use it on them. Once its run its course, obliviate them and instill a great desire to move elsewhere. And don't forget to cover your tracks. Once that's done, come to the manor, we shall need to plan for the political repercussions. I shall meet you there and start the planning without you." He turned back to Marius. "Once Sirius arrives and is caught up with these events, send him to us. Perhaps he can use that deviant brain of his to come up with something useful for once instead of pranks." Marius nodded again as Arcturus continued. 'In the meantime, we may as well get to know our next Heir Primus a little better." At that, Arcturus snapped his fingers and summoned a house elf.
"Master called Nopsy," came the gravelly response from the bowed form elderly house elf.
"Nopsy, gather some of the other house elves and prepare dinner for us here. We will be staying for a while."
"Nopsy can do that Master." Nopsy popped out, and not five minutes later, sounds were heard from the kitchen. The Black family members each tried to engage the young Potter in conversations and games until dinner was ready. And what a sumptuous feast it was too! Harry had never seen so much food, how were they going to eat it all? The Black family members looked at the boy, and smiled. Even Cassiopeia had found her heart softening in the presence of the innocent, wholly likable, and cherubic child.
Dinner was a long affair, as Harry was once again regaled with stories and histories of the Black family. He listened apt, and amazed at each one, as the family members teased and bickered with each other. Some believe that the Black family was at odds with each other all the time, and while it is true that some branches of the family disliked other branches, this motley crew held no such reservations, brought together, as it were, by Harry, the boy they had all sworn to protect and cherish at some point that day. They laughed and joked and for those few hours, forgot about the rest of the world. Harry would later count this first family experience as the memory that would, to his amazement, unlock his Patronus.
After dinner, and just before leaving, Arcturus spoke once more, "Ladies, Gentlemen, you know the plan. We all have our part to play and, with luck, this will finally allow us to unseat Dumbledore from his golden throne and give us a new family member. I wish you all luck."
One by one, the members of the Black family apparated out as the clandestine family council broke up, leaving George, Artemisia, Marius, Magaera, and Harry alone. They swiftly dressed themselves in appropriate clothing, with Artemisia helping Harry with his cloak, and made for the Rolls-Royce Marius had driven over and the Aston Martin Geroge preferred.
o.o.o.o.o.
June 27, 1985 – Black Manchester Townhouse, Number 24 Brookside Drive, Manchester
It was late by the time they had arrived at the townhouse, and Marius wearily waved them in. They settled what possessions they brought in the guest rooms and reconvened in the main sitting room next to the fireplace. Once everyone was settled, Marius grabbed a handful of floo powder, and called out "Black Villa, Florence!" before kneeling and sticking his head in the green fire.
Startled, Harry made to stop him, until Artemisia explained what floo powder and flooing was along with who Marius was calling. Harry was at once both excited and nervous. Excited because Uncle Sirius knew his father, maybe he could tell him about his father. After all, he knew from Artemisia and George that his parents hadn't died in a car accident, but when pressed for details simply said that it wasn't their place to tell him. Nervous because what if Uncle Sirius didn't like him. He didn't want to go with someone who didn't like him after spending the last day with Auntie Arty and Uncle George.
When he said that, George just laughed and said, "Don't worry, Harry, Sirius will love you or I'll eat my shoes."
Marius finished speaking into the fire and pulled his head out. Harry once again marveled at the genius of wizards, though, he supposed, magic might have had something to do with that. The fire returned to its normal orange color, before flaring green again and revealing a man who stepped out and swept the ashes off his clothes.
The two stared at each other for uncountable minutes as silence reigned around them. Suddenly the man rushed forwards and wrapped Harry tightly in his arms seeming to repeat to himself, "Harry is ok. Prongslet is ok," over and over.
Something stirred in Harry's memory from that sentence. And he looked closer at the man. For some reason he kept getting the image of a large black dog chasing him as he flew laughing on a broom calling out "Pa'foo! Pa'foo!" Seemingly without realizing it, Harry whispered, "Pa'foo?"
Sirius stilled. Did Harry just… Did he remember? Harry came back to himself and spoke more clearly. "Padfoot?" Sirius stilled, and hugged him tighter. Harry remembered! Pronglet remembered him! He tried and failed to contain the sudden jubilation building up inside him and let out a great big bark of laughter. Pronglet remembered him!
He stood up, Harry still in his arms, as he spun in a circle still laughing, with Harry clutching him tighter saying, "Padfoot!" all the while.
Prongslet had found his Padfoot.