Chapter VI

Castles

THE LETTER SAT open on the table in front of me. I had been writing to grandfather ever since I learned about the upcoming conflict, wanting to prevent any further damage to the family. I still did not know what Bella had done, but I guessed it was something ridiculously foolish and not planned out at all. She was never one for sitting about.

What you have told me about Riddle worries me greatly, and although I do not know where you would come by such knowledge, I trust you to make correct judgements.

After some thorough investigation, I can confirm that it is just as bad as you say. There has been a number of disappearances and attacks on muggles in wizarding settlements since May. Larger scale attacks began in October, seemingly targeting muggles at random. The Ministry is trying to cover up whatever is happening, which is why nothing has appeared in the news so far.

I do not know what Minister Jenkins is playing at. I suspect she is either corrupt or they are holding someone hostage. Rumours say that amongst the disappearances are the ex-Head Auror, the Deputy Head of the Department of Magical Transportation, and even one of the Minister's personal assistants. In all cases, the immediate family seems to have vanished as well.

Rest assured that I will talk to your father about Malfoy, although I cannot promise much past discouraging further agreements at the moment. I have learned that exerting too much control usually forces him to make ill-advised decisions.

In any case, I urge you to proceed with the utmost caution. I know you can take care of yourself, but I suggest you take any precautionary measures you deem necessary. I think you will find the enclosed package most useful in that regard.

Grandmother asks me to tell you that you should write more often. We both love you dearly, and hope you are safe and happy.

Faithfully yours,

Arcturus

I scratched the owl behind its ears as I unwrapped the package that came with the letter. There was a slim, tattered, black book that had no inscription on the outside, and a letter to Headmaster Dumbledore that had the official Black seal, requesting that I be allowed to exit the castle at any time. I had never actually talked with the headmaster, and had no idea how he would take the request. All I knew was that Harry had had a close relationship with the old wizard in the past. Future. Both? I still had not fully wrapped my head around that whole headache-inducing clusterfuck.

I tucked both the letters and the book into my bag and fed a last piece of bird feed to the owl before I sent it off. I decided I would talk to Harry tonight, and then go to the headmaster's office tomorrow.

I managed to leave the Great Hall just as Malfoy entered with his usual entourage, and thank Morgana for small mercies. He had become very determined to spend more time with me in the last month, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to come up with plausible excuses.

I looked at the clock as I ran the numbers in my head. Most of the alcoves would be empty since everyone was still at breakfast or sleeping, so I could squeeze in an hour of quiet reading and skim through the book that grandfather had sent me without going all the way to the seventh floor. I would then have just enough time to get Cara out of bed and go to the Dungeons for potions. And then to Advanced Magical Theory with Vector after lunch.

I found a picturesque nook on the bottom of Ravenclaw tower and took out the book as I sat on a sofa. The leather cover was dry and cracked, and it smelled faintly of metal. Inside, I found a veritable treasure trove of protective wards and curses that ranged from mildly disturbing to toe-curlingly morbid. All of them extremely useful.

Some of them sounded vaguely similar to what grandfather told me about the protections that were placed on Raven Hall, and I wondered just how old the yellowed pages were.

A curse that would blind and paralyse thieves. A lacerating hex that would turn blood to ash to impede healing. A curse that could be used to hide a blade inside a book, to stab upon opening. A blood ward that would use standard shield breakers and ward nullifiers to power itself. A sacrificial ritual that would imbue a rudimentary sentience to an object, binding the magic to the protection of a home; all with very explicit drolleries and extremely vague instructions.

I snorted as I carefully turned page after page. It was the sort of book that the Ministry would confiscate, the headmaster would probably burn, and would unequivocally prove the Black reputation. I appreciated the thought, really, even though it would be a lot of work to find something that I could safely cast around the dormitory.

But it was a good idea, and I would have done it regardless if it would let grandfather sleep better. Even if I did not exactly expect to be attacked in my sleep.

···

Harry muttered a curse as he re-read the letter from grandfather again. "I hadn't realised it would get this bad so soon," he said quietly.

"You could not have known everything, and you know that."

"But I could've suspected. Done more research. Warned some people—" He held up a hand as I tried to speak again. "I'm not blaming myself, Narcissa, just stating facts. And the facts are that I know what's coming and could and should be doing more to stop this before it gets bad."

I hated when people said perfectly, rationally constructed arguments like that. I did not care about what he knew, or how good he was at fighting. I did not want him out there, doing whatever dangerous things he would do. It was wrong on so many levels I would need a staircase to count them all. Because he was just a friend.

Was he? Was I reading too deep into this?

Did I even care?

"But why does it have to be you, Harry? There are aurors and hit-wizards for this sort of thing! Professionals that have trained for years to deal with dangerous individuals."

He gave the sort of humourless chuckle that sounded like a gravel landslide. "Why me? Because nobody else is capable! Because aurors and hit-wizards are trained to detain petty criminals until they can be brought to justice and fined or thrown into Azkaban. They're not skilled enough to fight a guerrilla war against a group of terrorists; terrorists that will kill without a second's hesitation. And even if they catch them, Riddle will just break his Knights out of Azkaban like he did last time."

I scratched my nose as I processed what he had said. He had always talked about war, about how powerful and dangerous Riddle was, but a part of me had always wondered if he was just blinded by what had happened to his parents. But, well… If Riddle could just waltz into Azkaban like that…

"It really is going to be bad, is it not?" I already suspected the answer. He shook his head.

"Tell me, Narcissa, how many girls are in Slytherin this year?"

"Five in my dormitory, and six in the other one. Why?"

"So, eleven girls, just as many boys, and I think your year is one of the smaller ones." I nodded in acquiescence. It was a well-known fact that my generation was the last remnant of Grindelwald's impact on Britain's plummeted birthrates.

"When I went to Hogwarts, Gryffindor had three girls in the year. Slytherin and Hufflepuff had four. Ravenclaw had five. Yes, we were a smaller year because of the war, but not by much. And still, it was a third of the size. I've never seen as many people in the castle as I do this year. Ever."

I sat there, frozen, listening in horror as he spoke. "When you said it'd get bad, I didn't think…"

"Nobody did, until it was too late. Riddle and his band of sycophant Knights murdered their way through the population until there was barely anything left. It never really made sense to me why there were so many shops in Diagon Alley, or Hogsmeade. There never really seemed to be enough demand for them."

I tried to imagine the future he spoke of. Like the continent had been after Grindelwald. The half-empty castle, shops not filled to bursting with people… I could see it haunted him. I realised, then, that it was not just about him and his parents for Harry. It was about everyone else, too. At that moment, he looked so weary. Too old, too tired, too scarred for someone supposedly so young.

"So, what are we going to do about it?" I asked the quiet room. The question hung between us like a lethifold, sucking out the warmth of the fire that crackled in the corner of the room. The early December chills crept inside, unyielding and inevitable like winter itself.

"We? Nothing. I am going to start scouting all the locations I know Riddle frequented: his hideouts, the manors of his most trusted, that sort of thing. And I'm going to go on a little treasure hunt. You, on the other hand, will keep studying here."

I crossed my arms and started straight into his eyes. "No, I do not think so, Harry."

"Huh?"

"If you think you are going to do this alone then you are more stupid than I thought."

His eyes widened, a bit. "Narcissa, you can't—"

"What?" I snapped as I stood and swallowed a pang of fear. "What can't I do, exactly?"

"I—"

"No, Harry. I am an adult and more than capable in a fight, as you well know. What will you do if something happens to you? Will you bleed out on some manor floor while I sit on my ass in class and doodle in the margins of my books?"

My stomach gnawed and twisted something fierce. Images of him, lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood swam through my mind; his arm glinting silver. All his scars were fresh wounds as they drip drip dripped blood in rivers onto white marble.

I felt his hand on my shoulder, but I was already far too gone. I tried to keep my composure, head back and shoulders straight. It did not help. I felt the tears run down my cheeks. "You're not. Going. Alone. You. Dumbass!" I said as I poked him in the chest with each word.

"Narcissa," he said in a whisper. "I can't have you fighting with me. You'll be a target. Riddle will hunt you down and kill you for what I'm planning on doing. I can't—I can't lose any more people I care about."

"Well tough fucking luck, because I care about you too, and you're not getting yourself killed on some self-righteous quest alone, you—you selfish asshole!"

I could feel his arms around me as I shook and shook and cried and cried and cried for what felt like hours; lost in the torrent of fear and guilt and anger.

Eventually, I calmed down enough to open my eyes again. We sat on a small settee where the chair I sat on before used to be. His chest smelled like the forest after rain.

"I'm sorry, Cissa," I heard him say. His voice was thin as morning mist and as hoarse as I suspected mine would be, if I spoke.

Cissa.

A whole new ball of emotions flooded my system, then, as I realised just how close we were. It felt so right, and I felt a stab of guilt at that. I had just shouted at him and cried myself raw, so why the fuck was I feeling this happy? It made no sense. I could feel the feelings blend and fight like muddy watercolour water inside my chest as my ears thrummed to the beat of my racing pulse.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I… I've seen too many people I loved die. Killed because they were close to me, because they fought with me. I can't do that again."

My head snapped to look at him, trying to hear the words left unspoken. I saw his eyes widen before he looked away, his lips a thin line. Was there more to those words, Harry? Was he leaving things unsaid, or was I just a silly little girl deluding myself into thinking he cared more than he did?

I did not really care. I would just have to live with the consequences, but right now, they did not matter.

I grabbed his shirt and kissed him. It was short and desperate and needy and I did not give a fuck.

It was nothing like I imagined. It did not matter.

Something screamed in the back of my mind that it was wrong and that I should stop and what the fuck was I doing. It did not matter.

Cara would not let me hear the end of this for months. It did not matter. Nothing mattered. I had cried and shouted all my worries and cares away, but that was before. Now, it was just me and him. And he mattered.

Still and quiet, like a forest after rain.

I broke the kiss before he could react. It was too long. Too short. I wanted to run away and I wanted to kiss him again and I wanted too many things and my head was spinning and it did not matter.

"That's a dangerous thing to say," I whispered as I forced myself to look at him, terrified of what I would see; terrified I had messed up everything. I slowly released my hold on his shirt, my hands stiff from where they'd squeezed too tightly. He took one hand into his own. I drew strength from the gesture; hope.

"It's… it's too risky, Cissa." And it was. Being together. Going against Riddle. Cara dating Marlene. Everything worth anything was too risky. Wasn't that what made it worthwhile?

I gave him a wobbly smile, small and crooked and too shy of its own amusement. "Sometimes, you need to gambit if you want to win."

You cannot always win without sacrifice, little Narcissa.

"But what if the pieces are too dear?"

I shrugged. "Then we'll make sure not to lose. We'll cheat. I don't really care." The words tumbled over each other. "If you're worried about me being a target, I'll use polyjuice, or weave a glamour. But I'm coming with you."

His smile mirrored my own. "When did you become so clever?"

I felt a rush of fuzzy warmth wash over me. "I always was. You were just too blind to notice."

He looked at me, his eyes as black as ink. Bleeding into me, pulling me in. Reading me like an open book. Looking for… something. I let him, holding his hand in mine, hoping he saw.

Hoping that he saw that he mattered. That I wanted this, wanted him to be safe. That I did not care about what people would say. That I couldn't—

That I wanted him to be mine, a tremulous voice said. As if even thinking about it would scare him.

Then he kissed me.

My carefully crafted excuses burst to flames. They felt so… ridiculous, now. I was Narcissa Melania Black, and I would kiss whoever I wanted and everyone else could go fuck themselves. The fortress of little lies about why I should behave like everyone expected, all the half-truths I told myself crumbled like a castle of sand.

He kissed me softly, at first. But I did not want soft. I wanted to show him, to make him understand. I put my hands around his neck, pulling him closer and kissing him with everything I hoped he felt too.

All the emotions seeped out as we spun through the world. All the sleepless nights I had laid awake and imagined what he would feel like, taste like, smell like, be like. They did not matter. My sandcastle was washed away by the waves and there was nothing left.

"Are you sure?" he asked as he ran a thumb over my cheek. I nodded.

His hair was soft, and it smelled of the forest after rain. I stumbled along, somewhat aware that all my experience comprised of whatever gossip Cara had told me. I hoped he did not mind.

I barely registered that we apparated, some time between a few minutes later and forever. I didn't know where we were. I didn't care.

I stopped thinking. For once in my life, I stopped thinking. I let go of all the what ifs and maybes and doubts and bit his lip, pulling him closer. I felt weightless. Free. Like a summer breeze rolling dandelion fuzz through the grass, painting the world honeysuckle sweet. I was on fire and I burned the castles of sand until they ran in streams of molten glass.

He touched me like the soft caress of moonlight. His fingers teasing, sending shivers down my spine; his lips on mine as soft as silk.

His hands left gentle trails of heat as my robes crumbled into wisps of smoke. I felt goosebumps flood my arms as his hand finally moved down between my legs. His skin was soft and warm and not close enough. We probably shouldn't, but it did not matter.

"Harry," I moaned softly.

I arched into him as he trailed soft kisses up my jaw.

"You're beautiful, Cissa," he said in barely a whisper.

I wrapped my legs around him, running my hands through his hair and pulling his mouth to mine again. The way he kissed me made me feel like it meant something, tasting like the sky after a storm.

The world spun as I twirled us around. Sheets tangled around us like a pool of silver. I ripped his shirt open as I crashed into him, running my hands over his face, over his body, touching him, touching him, needing him. Struggling for something ephemeral like the marble sculptures of antiquity, sheets wrapping us like togas.

"Fuck," one of us said into the night.

I was blurred, awash with colours in the rain. The light cast shadows on his body, painting him like a priceless piece of art and my stomach buzzed from all the butterflies inside. The world became us and we lost ourselves to the bliss. To being alone, alive.

Together.

···

I awoke to soft sunlight tickling my eyes. In linens smoother than mine. I cracked my eyes open, just a squint.

White curtains rippled gently in the breeze, sunlight flitting through. Dark green lace hung haphazardly from a chair nearby.

My lace.

Then the torrent of memories from last night flooded in.

My fingers trailing the stark white scars that criss-crossed his body like shattered glass. The faint, teasing kisses. His lips between my legs. His hands on me as I straddled him; one hot and soft, one cold and unyielding. I squirmed as I felt a jolt of desire run through me.

"Good morning, beautiful," he said softly.

I felt my cheeks heat up. As if all the insecurity and embarrassment of last night finally caught up with me. I turned around to face him, letting my hair tumble across my face, shielding myself from the sun. From his eyes on me. From myself and my doubts. "Morning."

We fell silent, each lost in our own little world, unsure what to say. I stared into his shoulder and listened to the curtains rustle against the window frame.

I was being silly. I looked at him yesterday. Morgana, I had him in me yesterday. And now I couldn't even meet his eyes.

Fuck it.

I propped myself up on an elbow, letting my hair fall to the side as the covers slid lower. "I thought you could not apparate from Hogwarts."

"You can't."

"So, where are we?"

"Carcassonne," A smile stretched lazily onto his face; his tone laced with amusement.

I scrunched my face as I tried to remember what I knew. The largest magical settlement in—

"France?"

"Oui."

I should have been surprised about how casually he circumvented all the nets of magic that prevented unregulated international apparition. But going through Hogwarts wards so softly I barely felt it was miles more impressive.

His eyes were full of laughter as he drew me down and kissed me. I unwound like a spring.

"You know, it'd be awful dull if I took you back to Gryffin Hall. And the office isn't exactly comfy," he said when we broke apart. "So I took you home."

Home.

"Cara would probably go catatonic," I said and found myself grinning. "So would Aunt Dorea."

"What makes you think they won't when they find out?"

"Hmm, and pray tell, who would tell them, Harry?" I said over my shoulder as I rolled out of bed. He looked at me. I let him. It was everything I had ever wanted and more. I wrapped myself in the soft, half-translucent curtain to keep the chill at bay, leaned my head against the window frame, and lost myself in the sight outside.

Rough stone crenellations cut across the sky, leading to a picturesque keep. It was not as big, or as imposing as Hogwarts, but it was just as magical. I watched people hurry down the winding streets below, dodging carts and shopkeepers setting up their stalls in the soft pastel pinks of dawn.

A speck of white drifted lazily across the street before landing on the parapet. The sunlight slowly bled away.

"We should go have breakfast. And talk."

I nodded, watching as more and more snowflakes drifted from the clouds above. I did not want to move from the window and face the rest of the world. Yesterday had been wonderful. I did not want to break the spell; did not want the thread to snap and leave me raw and wounded and heartbroken. I had not cared last night, but I did care now. About what people would think. About what Harry thought.

"You owe me one blouse and brassière, by the way," I said to fill the silence.

I heard him chuckle as he got up from the bed. Wood scraped on wood as he ruffled through drawers for clothes.

"It's quite the sight, isn't it?" he said with a nod at the window. He unwound the curtain and held out a soft robe over my shoulders. I slipped my hands into the sleeves. It was Potters' blue and gold and smelled like the forest after rain. "Hope this's okay for now. Come, I'll cook us something."

The house was small and cosy. It did not quite have the feel of a lived-in home, but there were pictures on the mantelpiece in the living room. I did not recognise the people. Except—

"You're the son of James Potter?" I asked incredulously. Another piece of the puzzle clicked. Of course he was. Who else could it have been? An older James smiled at me, then twirled a woman in his arms and kissed her. She had red hair and her smile shone with happiness.

"James and Lily Potter," he said softly.

"That fifth year he keeps on chasing after?" I rolled my eyes as I recalled Potter's last dramatic attempt from the Samhain feast. Then I realised how messed up it must be for Harry to have to teach his parents. Parents that were fifteen and alive and had no idea who he was.

Oh, Harry…

"The very same."

"It must be awful for you… Seeing them, pretending…"

He shrugged. "I never really knew them. I only had a few pictures and heard stories of who they were. I um—I always carried that picture with me. It made me feel like they were there, watching over me. I guess… I guess what I'm saying is that I no longer need to carry it around. I let go. They're alive and happy and I'm watching over them, now. I'll make sure they stay alive."

He reached out a hand, as if to touch the picture, before pausing. His hand dropped to his side. "They're not really my parents, you know?" I looked at him with a quirked eyebrow. "My parents never had Professor Potter. My parents had to fight a war. These people… I don't want them to be my parents. Being my parents means being dead. Sometimes, it terrifies me what me being here will do. What will it change."

I wrapped an arm around his waist and leaned my head on his shoulder. "No matter what happens, I know that we are fortunate to have you," I said softly.

His laugh was jagged and ugly and totally devoid of humour. "I wish I could believe that, Cissa. And yet… When I had used the time-turner before, the things had already happened. I felt the rocks my future self threw at me. I survived because of the patronus my future self had cast. Why is this any different? I guess a part of me is worried that no matter what I do, I can't change the future. That… That no matter what I do, maybe it doesn't matter."

He was looking at his left hand, the one that was not really a hand, blown off by the shattered time-turner. Looking as if that hand had held all the answers. "By now I'm pretty certain that this is different, somehow. I've… Destroyed certain artefacts crucial to Riddle's downfall that were still there back before. I don't know."

"I still have nightmares about it. About waking up and finding that nothing's changed; watching my parents fight a war, be murdered, even as little Harry Potter gets an ugly scar on his forehead and defeats Lord Voldemort."

I had my arms around him again before he finished speaking. "Maybe… Maybe it was a part of the time-turner's function?" I offered, not wanting him to dwell on dreams. I knew from my own that there was nothing except despair down that road. "Maybe a part of how they worked forced them to close off the loop. And when it was destroyed…"

I took his hands in mine, both cold metal and warm skin, as I looked into his eyes and flinched a little as I saw the ghosts dancing their macabre dance there.

"Harry, I study this—experimental, abstract magic. I have read books upon books. After you told me about this, I even tracked down references on Time Sand. And the only thing everyone agrees on is that weird things happen when magic goes wrong. That's why the median life span of an experimental spell creator is in the forties! I don't… I don't want to give you false hopes, but I do not think it is the same this time around. I don't…"

I don't want you to go. I buried my face into his shoulder as we stood there, for a long, long time. Eventually, his breathing evened out, and he squeezed my hand.

"Who are the other people?" I asked, pointing to the other of the two pictures, wanting to break the silence that had settled into the room. For a moment, I was afraid he had not heard me.

"This one is me, Ron, and Hermione. They were my best friends. My family. We went to hell and back together in the seven years I knew them."

It looked like a wedding picture. I stared at the scrawny boy in the middle; messy black hair, an ugly red scar on his forehead, and impossibly green eyes. I looked for the familiar face, but it was all a bit too… Not Harry.

"What happened to your eyes?"

He clicked his tongue as he looked at the picture. "That's a long story."

"We have time."

He sighed as he kissed me and went to the kitchen. "What do you know of how magic is inherited?"

I sat at one of the stools, grateful for the change of topic. "Nothing, really."

"Me neither, to be honest, but I have this theory. That you don't just inherit… the ability to do magic, I guess. That you have some affinities for branches of magic. I'm good at transfiguration, and everyone said my dad was a prodigy. The Black family has their affinity for curses and the occasional metamorphmagi. Even the Slytherin family and Parseltongue."

He ran his hand through his hair. "I suspect a part of that magic manifests itself physically, for a lack of a better word. Mostly in the eyes, really. I noticed every Black I know has grey eyes. I have a hunch that the Slytherins had green ones, like mine used to be."

I felt my eyebrows rise. "Interesting theory. Is that why you believe you got your Parseltongue ability from your mother? You think she is a Slytherin?"

"Mm-hm, probably some squib line that had been forgotten long ago. Although I have no way of verifying that hypothesis. I was shunned for being a budding Dark Lord in my second year when I accidentally spoke to a snake, and I don't particularly want to subject her to that."

"And you cannot just go up to her and ask," I finished for him.

"Exactly. I only found out by talking to a snake by chance, and I suspect she never knew."

"Okay, great. But how does that explain the black eyes?"

He turned from his cooking and looked at me for a long time. As if he was searching my soul. Searching for… something. "I hope it doesn't need to be said that what I say about my life should remain between the two of us, Cissa."

"Of course, Harry. I would never—" It was not like anyone would believe half the things me told me.

He gave me a grateful smile. "I know. Thank you. Tell me, have you heard the Tale of the Three Brothers?"

"Beedle the Bard?" I asked with a laugh, startled by yet another sudden change of conversation.

"The very one," he said with a grin as he wiggled his fingers at me. The black stone in his ring glinted, light refracting from some speck of impurity in the smooth surface. "If the colour is somehow dependent on magic, what do you think happens if someone's magic—someone's self—changes?"

And thus Death gave the eldest the Wand, so he may defeat any in combat; the middle the Stone, so he may speak to the departed; and the youngest his Cloak, so he may hide from the gaze of Death itself.

I stared at him, as if seeing him for the first time. Really seeing him. Connecting the dots. Fitting the impossibly jagged puzzle pieces. His second wand. The stone in the ring he always wore. The silvery cloak he wrapped around us yesterday. The way he spoke of the dementors as Reapers with such certainty. There was no way. Was there? "Harry? Are you saying…"

He winked and went back to cooking breakfast.

How? What? But—

Every time I tried to think of something to say, a dozen other thoughts shattered the words. I stared at the enigma that was Harry Potter as he went about flipping bacon. The one wizard who had collected the Hallows. Myths so magical that most dismissed them as fairy tales. The same Hallows that men had spent lifetimes searching for.

"You have all three, don't you?"

"I do."

"How?"

"Dumb luck, really. The Cloak has been in the family for centuries, after Iolanthe Peverell married into the Potters. Dumbledore won the wand from Grindelwald in forty-five, and took the stone from Voldemort in early ninety-six. He left them both to me when he died."

I tried to piece all the facts together, treating the discussion as purely academic for the sake of my sanity. Morgana's knickers, why could nothing ever be simple with him? "So you think the Hallows overrode whatever was there before?" I tried hard not to think about the implications.

He shrugged as he loaded breakfast onto the plates. "Probably, although your guess is as good as mine. It happened the same night I was blasted twenty five years into the past, and the first time I used the Stone."

"How—How are you so blasé about this, Harry? I can't even—I don't even know where to start with you!" I groaned as I dropped my head into my hands.

"It just sort of… happened? Trust me, that's not even the worst of it all. I just take it in stride, or I would've gone insane a long time ago."

A part of me was starting to believe that sanity was not a commodity kept in large quantities where Harry was concerned. My poor worldview had been so thoroughly abused in the last few months, I did not know how much more it could take. "If you're going to be doing any more revelations like that, please give me a calming draught first, okay?"

I felt like a little rook and someone had just done castles. I was in another country, talking about magic that people did not believe in with someone who should have not existed at all.

I relaxed slightly as Harry kissed my temple and sat down for breakfast. It was just another Friday morning for Harry Potter.