Crazybubbles1693: yesss you got the reference! Here, have a virtual cookie.
Juxshoa: this website doesn't have the extensive Ao3 tagging system so there was nowhere for me to put 'slow build' as a warning but yeah, there have been some hints but the more obvious Merlin bits will take a hot minute to get to, especially since I write small chapters instead of long ones like I do for my BNHA fic.
Ngl I planned for a whole fluff chapter with accidental magic adventures but then my muse got serious and this happened so you guys get this instead. I might make a little spin-off of scenes that don't make it into the main stories eventually, but that's for future me to worry about.
Anyway, enjoy the longest chapter I've posted in this story!
October 15th, 1988
As much as Michael would have liked to have a quiet week before the day of Harry's bloodline ritual, it was sadly not in the cards for him. The business side had kept him freer than usual, a few of his contracts were passed down to other partners as he attempted to negotiate his exit from the firm with the senior partner, but Treves was holding tight to his metaphorical leash. He wasn't the most valuable partner, but he was aware enough to know he was up there, high enough to be left to his own devices most of the time since he had a habit of delivering exactly what he promised and never promising more than he could deliver. It seemed that the boss didn't want to see him go with or without a non-compete clause, and the raise hinted at during their last meeting only backed up his observations.
If those negotiations weren't time-consuming enough, he spent a good chunk of the week reading the books provided by Chang, when not exchanging e-mails with her about the content of said books, and dedicated some time to corresponding with Healer Dahlia about the ritual. They settled on performing it at his address, where she would be arriving by floo, and on getting Harry's done with before anything else in case a new guardianship opportunity presented itself and did away with the need for Michael to undertake the ritual as well. Chang did suggest performing it either way, but a couple of conversations involving the treatment of squibs in magical society made him wary of figuring out what kind of family would abandon their child at a stranger's door. He doesn't regret being raised by his ma, she had been the best parent he could ask for, but the knowledge that he could finally find out where he came from if he so wished had his stomach in loops every time his thoughts turned in that direction.
He'd also owled one of Chang's recommended potion masters to put in an order for Aspectum drops, the price had been steep but nothing that put too much of a dent in his savings - coming from a rich background already and not having much to spend his above-average salary on other than books and the occasional car repair had left him with a more than decent amount of money - and the potion would arrive in a month since it apparently took a long time to brew, something that probably contributed to the price tag as well.
Harry had, surprisingly, also been a bit of work. The kid simply adored flying and went as far as whining for a visit to the Changs, only deterred by a reminder that he had other friends to play with, Hermione would surely miss him if he spent every evening with Cho, and when had he last written to the Malfoy child? It worked well enough to distract him, but Michael really needed to work up the nerve to tell the boy no to those almost unnaturally bright, wide green eyes when they turned to him with a request, rare as it was, since redirecting his attention might not work the next time.
After such a busy week, the weekend couldn't come fast enough, and Michael almost sags in relief at the sound of the floo activating around the exact time he'd told the healer to come around. He puts aside the half-chopped chocolate bar - Healer Dahlia had told him to have something ready for Harry to wash off the taste after the ritual and hot chocolate seemed like a good option - and walks over to the living room to greet their guest.
"Welcome to my home, Healer Greengrass," he bows in greeting, earning himself an exasperated look.
Dahlia's second letter had been half-filled with a plea to drop the formalities and to 'stop writing as if you're drafting a wizengamot bill', which was fair when he wrote to her in the same vernacular he would have used when writing to Malfoy, and an explanation that while politics may benefit from tricky wording, the healing arts did better with clear and concise communication. She did go on to warn him that Chang had informed her of his 'condition' - he tried not to be offended by that and mostly succeeded - and that she would not look down on him for it, no matter how he worded his letters.
It did take three letters, the first of which was Michael assuring her that he did not have any medical condition she needed to be aware of, the second with an apology - she really did not seem to mean any harm in her wording and conveyed it well enough when given the chance - followed by the third with his reply, until they got back on track to discuss the upcoming ritual and what preparations would be necessary. Harry had a light breakfast and nothing more, he had tidied up the living room and put a couple of pillows on the ground for Harry to kneel on during the process, and hot chocolate was underway for a tasty finale to the morning proceedings.
"It's Dahlia," she corrects, one hand moving to adjust the strap of the brown cross-body bag she carried with her, "did you choose a location?"
"I figured the living room would be fine," he motions at the centre table with a couple of pillows by it, "you didn't say it had to be anywhere specific?" his statement comes out as more of a question.
"It doesn't, it's an entirely internal process so there's no need for a ritual room," Dahlia nods, moving over to the table and setting her bag down beside it before lowering herself onto one of the pillows. She opens her bag and pulls out a deceptively small roll of parchment and a quill, though no inkwell is in sight.
"He's not the best with a quill yet," Michael warns.
"He won't be the one writing," she dismisses easily, and he tries not to misinterpret the phrasing. He'd been repeatedly assured that there was no form of possession going on, no entity would take over Harry's body and use it, only his own magic, which Dahlia assured would never hurt him.
"Right," he clears his throat, "I'll call Harry down then."
He won't overthink this, he doesn't have time for it.
"You do that," he ignores the slight amusement in her tone and climbs up the stairs to Harry's bedroom, knocking on the door.
"Harry? Dahlia's here," the door opens a moment later, his ward looking up at him through the opening, bright green eyes filled with uncertainty, "It will be fine, there's nothing to worry about. Why don't you go talk with her while I finish up the hot chocolate for later?"
Harry nods, still seeming a little tense but apparently choosing to trust him. Michael only hopes the trust is not misplaced, he doesn't know enough about this to offer any concrete guarantees, but his brain reminds him that he doesn't know medicine either and yet doesn't question his doctors when he receives treatment. There's no reason to be more apprehensive of magical healing than he would be of walking into a hospital.
They go down the stairs in silence, though it's quickly broken when they reach the living room and the healer greets his ward with a small smile. Harry quickly returns the greeting and walks over to occupy one of the pillows on the floor, asking something Michael doesn't get to hear as he makes his way back to the kitchen. Finishing the chopping and dropping all ingredients in a pan on low heat doesn't take more than a couple of minutes and he soon walks back to the living room, thankfully finding his ward less tense. Dahlia must be good with children, which explains Chang's choice of her daughter's primary healer.
"Are we ready?" Dahlia asks, and they turn to Harry.
"Mhm," the boy nods, apparently tight-lipped with nervousness but no longer seeming worried.
Harry holds out his left hand to the healer when she asks for it and Michael watches as she pricks his finger with a needle right over a glass cup on the table, twisting it down as blood starts to pool out of it and letting the drops fall into the cup. He loses count of the drops, but they're well over twenty when she shifts Harry's finger away from the cup, cleaning it and tying a strip of fabric over the small wound.
"I'd heal it but it's better to wait for after we're done," she explains, pulling the cup to herself and taking a purple-ish vial from her bag before opening it and pouring the content into the glass. The moment it touches the blood, the potion acquires a golden hue, shiny yellow intertwining with the initial purple as she stirs it but the colours seemingly refuse to fully mix together. She waits a couple of minutes before nodding to herself and sliding the cup back toward Harry, "you need to drink it to the last drop, alright?"
His ward eyes the cup for a moment before nodding and picking it up, nose scrunching at the smell Michael can't scent, and pinches his nose before bringing it to his mouth, drinking it in large gulps as if it couldn't end soon enough. As soon as the last drop of the potion leaves the cup and Harry sets it down with a grimace, letting go of his nose, his ward goes unnaturally still.
Harry didn't think the stinky potion would make him feel warm. The taste in his mouth isn't any better than the smell, but it kind of stops being important when his chest starts warming up, then his arms and legs and head, and it's not a hurting sort of warm but one he only remembers feeling a couple of times before, one time when Aunt Petunia had to leave for a week and he spent all of it locked in his cupboard without food and just the water he brought in the night before and one time when Dudley blamed him for breaking a vase and Aunt Petunia made him sleep outside in the cold.
He doesn't even know when he closed his eyes but when they open again, everything feels a little far away. Mr Wright is looking at him and Ms Dahlia too, but he doesn't look back at them, just reaches for the quill with his right hand - he didn't mean to do that? Or did he? He doesn't know what he's doing with the quill but doesn't want to let go either - and puts it on the top left of the paper - parchment, that's what Ms Dahlia called it - in front of him. He's not really good at writing with a quill and almost says it when a sudden flash of green and red nearly out of his sight distracts him. When he focuses back on the parchment, there's something written on it.
Harry James Potter, Lily Jocelyn Potter née Evans
That's his mom's name, he realizes, and a flash of black and dark brown appears in the corner of his eyes again before his hand moves, writing another name.
James Charlus Potter
That's his dad, he blinks, watching as his hand starts moving much quicker, more colours flashing right at the edge of his vision and warmth running through his body but he can't turn his head to chase them or do anything other than watch the quill scratching names into the parchment.
Magnolia Ann Evans née Reid, Henry Ian Evans, Dorea Nova Potter née Black, Charlus Fleamont Potter, Hazel Tiamat Reid née Bishop, Nicholas Alan Reid, Diana Lucile Evans née Lewis, Stephen Owen Evans, Cygnus Black III, Violetta Agnese Black née Bulstrode…
The names start to blur together after a while, but he keeps writing, not sure how long it's been since he started. It's a little weird how he doesn't really feel like stopping but doesn't think he's the one making his hand write these names, even if it doesn't feel like someone else moving his hand either. He's just warm and kind of sleepy, but not to the point of closing his eyes, just enough to feel the way he feels when he's just waking up but still trying to hang on to a nice dream - those are more frequent since Mr Wright took him in - and his body can't tell if he's sleeping or awake yet.
"Harry?" he blinks at the table, his hand isn't holding a quill anymore and there's a huge pile of parchment on the table in front of him. His hand kind of hurts, probably from all that writing, but it's not bad enough to make him complain. "Back with us?"
"Hm?" Harry looks up at Mr Wright, still feeling a little fuzzy in the head, though the warmth is gone and his mouth tastes like he hasn't brushed his teeth in a week, or maybe a month, "ew."
There's a chuckle, and then something warm is touching his hand- oh, that's a mug.
"Here, that ought to help with the aftertaste," Mr Wright presses the mug to his hand and it takes a couple more blinks for Harry to lift it to his mouth, though the moment the chocolate touches his tongue he feels much more awake.
"Thanks," he mumbles before going back to sipping on his hot chocolate.
"He'll be just fine in a couple of hours," Ms Dahlia says, and Harry wants to tell them he feels better than fine right now but it's too much effort to stop drinking his chocolate to say it.
"What about those?" Mr Wright points to the pile of parchments on the table.
"I'll need a couple of days to detangle it, there's bound to be any number between twenty and thirty generations in them," she says, picking up the papers and looking through them, "they are written in a specific order, but just looking at it won't give us- oh."
"Is that a good 'oh' or a bad one?" Mr Wright leans over to look at the papers.
"I suppose it depends on how you view it," Ms Dahlia shakes her head slightly and pulls the second to last parchment to the front so Mr Wright can see it, "look."
"Sylvye Ashdown née… Slytherin?" Mr Wright reads, brows rising in surprise.
Like the Hogwarts house?
"The seat has been empty for a long time, most figured there were no descendants left once the Gaunts wiped themselves out," she says, and Harry has no idea what she's talking about, but Mr Wright just nods so he figures his guardian understands better than him, "it could be nothing, Lei will probably look through the final list for closer claims, but if anything this might give him some social credit in certain circles eventually."
"We have more immediate issues than future popularity contests," Mr Wright points out, and Ms Dahlia replies with a 'fair enough' before starting to gather everything on the table back into her bag.
"May I heal your finger, Harry?" He hears her ask after a moment and realizes she's all done packing up and holding out her hand. Harry puts down his mug - oh, it's empty now - and holds out his left hand with the fabric tied to his finger. It still stings a bit but not much, and once she points her wand at it, the sting is gone.
He thinks she might have said something, but he's feeling a little heavy and resting his head on top of his arms on the table seems like a good idea, so he does that instead of asking her to repeat herself. People don't like repeating things anyway.
October 22nd 1988
The bloodline tracing was not as helpful as Michael had expected it to be. When Chang suggested testing Harry in case they were related due to their parseltongue abilities - even if he could only understand it and not speak it like his ward - he had hoped for an easy fix, something that would let him keep the child he's been housing for three months and keep any wix from poking their noses into Harry's life, but he should have known it wouldn't be that simple.
There was some good news, such as the confirmation of relation to the Black family both by blood - through Dorea Black - and by being named the heir - thus having access to what he'd learned were some of the Black vaults at Gringotts - to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black… whatever that meant. Andromeda Tonks and Narcissa Malfoy did have the closest claim to guardianship along with the incarcerated Sirius Black, and while a couple more interesting names did show up on the final list - Slytherin and Peverell being some of them according to Chang - there were no other relations that might solve the issue of a magical guardian.
One unfortunate fact was that the tracing apparently only worked in a linear pattern, which meant that even if one of Harry's descendants had a sister or brother, their names would not be written on the parchment and instead it would skip to their mother and father and so on, leaving a lot of room for interpretation. He could see why it was usually done the other way around, but that also means that he had to take it too if there was any hope of finding a connection to Harry through Slytherin. If even one of the names overlapped in their results, Chang assured him that there might be a way for him to keep Harry from being taken away.
That is what brought him to this moment, a week after the day Harry had undertaken the ritual, holding his bleeding finger over a crystal cup.
"That's enough," Dahlia pulls his hand away, repeating the same process he'd watched last time of cleaning it and tying a fabric over the small injury. She proceeds to pour the purple potion into the cup and stir it.
"It's different," Harry points out from his spot leaning against Michael's left side.
He was right, where the potion had acquired swirls of golden yellow for his ward, the contact with his blood almost didn't change colour, the red only lightening slightly and acquiring some shine as it mixed in with the purple.
"Unusual," Dahlia mutters under her breath, though she's close enough for him to catch it.
"Is something wrong?" He can't help but ask, not knowing anything about the potion besides some of the ingredients.
"Well, this has never happened before, but I've also never administered it to a squib," she replies, not looking too worried, "given that squibs can use potions, the floo, and see through muggle-repellant wards just like any wix, I'm inclined to pin the colour change on an inactive magical core, but I'm a healer and not a potions mistress."
"Is it safe to take?" Michael insists, not wanting to risk anything, especially with Harry by his side.
"It should be, there doesn't seem to be any change other than the colour and it's not as if the added ingredient changed, it's still blood with all the properties of it," she places the cup back in front of him, "you did read the ingredients list for any allergies?"
"Yes," he nods, grabbing the cup and wrinkling his nose at the smell. It's not pleasant. "Cheers," he brings it to his mouth, trying his best to swallow it all while holding his breath. He finishes it and puts the cup down, grimacing at the taste - he should have made hot chocolate for himself too - and tapping at the table, "so… when…?"
"Any second now," Dahlia says dismissively, though he can see a small crease starting to show on the centre of her forehead the longer he takes to grab the quill.
"I could just…" he reaches for the quill himself. He'd asked about using at least a fountain pen, but there's apparently a magical component about the quill and parchment used too.
There's a niggling feeling that something should be happening, but all he feels is a bit hot and it shows when he drops the quill to pull up the sleeves of his shirt.
"Nothing?" Harry quips from his side, staring at his hands like they should be doing something else, which isn't entirely wrong.
He shakes his head, fiddling with the quill that's back in his hand. He should really open a window or two, it's way too hot to keep everything closed, he muses as he wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead.
"I'm opening a window," he says after a moment when the heat takes a turn for the unbearable.
"It's not the outside heat," Dahlia quips, and he can only stare as his hand moves to the parchment instead of bracing on the table to help him stand up as he meant for it to do, a slight itch starting to surface under his skin.
"It's too hot," he gasps out, hand trembling with the quill on the centre of the parchment. He tries to make it go still, but it itches and burns and his clothes never felt more uncomfortable against his body, any slight drag making him fight back a flinch.
"Michael, I need you to breathe," she tells him, but he is breathing, it's just that everything is too hot, as if his veins got injected with magma and it's now trying to pour out of his pores and his hand won't stop twitching.
"What's wrong?" Harry sounds distressed, he shouldn't be making his kid worry, his whole objective is to not let Harry worry about anything anymore, and he's failing spectacularly.
"I- I need you to step back, Harry," Dahlia instructs, and he feels some of the heat leave as Harry detaches himself from his side, though it comes back with a vengeance a moment after, making him curl up on himself. Still, his right hand never leaves the parchment, "Michael, I'm going to put something up to your mouth and you have to drink all of it."
Drinking something you gave me caused this in the first place.
He doesn't have the time to verbalize those thoughts before cool glass touches his lips and liquid starts pouring down his throat, blessedly cool against the heat taking over his insides. He swallows reflexively until there's nothing left to swallow and has very little time to think before he's suddenly and forcibly pulled to the side, the quill flying from his hand and clattering to the floor as he moves his arms to keep himself from falling face-first on the floor and tries his best to keep the budding heat on his throat from spilling over.
"Stop holding it in," the healer's voice sounds a little far away but something suddenly tickles the back of his throat and he loses the battle against his gag reflex, letting every single drop of the potions he'd ingested come pouring out of his mouth, along with whatever was left undigested from his breakfast, "good, good."
"Mr Wright!" Harry calls, he wants to turn around and tell his kid that everything is fine but all he can do is finish emptying his stomach and continue dry heaving when that's done.
At least he no longer feels a few seconds away from spontaneous combustion.
"He'll be fine, he just needed to push the potion out," her voice is closer now, but not like she was standing by his side, so he breathes deeply e couple of times before wiping his mouth on his forearm and turning to look behind himself.
Dahlia was crouching on the ground, one arm holding a hyperventilating Harry to her chest so he couldn't move and the other busy with wand-waving, which turns out to be some spell that vanishes his vomit a moment later.
"Let me go, let me go, let me go!" Harry's trashing in her arms but she holds firm, he tries to stand up to go check on him but only makes it as far as using the arm of the sofa to hold himself up before collapsing on the cushions.
There's a sudden bang and a second later he has an armful of crying child, with Harry's arms going around his neck and his head tucked under his chin as he sobbed, small pleas of please don't leave muffled against his skin. One look over his kid's shoulder and he sees the healer starting to stand up with the help of the wall, a few feet away from where he'd seen her last and looking a little frazzled as she brushed herself off.
"That is some strong accidental magic," Dahlia points out, making her way toward her bag.
Did Harry throw her back? Huh.
"I'm fine, I'm not going anywhere," he says, focusing on calming down the crying child in his arms, sagging against the back of the couch with a relieved sigh as he realizes he's saying the truth, "I'm staying, I promise."
"Drink this," she holds out a vial for him with something white inside, but Harry suddenly sits up, turning to glare at her in all his snot-covered glory.
"No," he makes to push her arm away, but Michael grabs his hand before he can.
The full-body flinch from Harry at that makes guilt instantly flood him, especially with the way his kid tucks in his chin and raises his shoulders to his ears as he curls in on himself a moment later as if expecting to be hit.
Christ, I hope his relatives rot in Hell.
"It's not her fault," he says as evenly as he can over the soreness of his throat, "one potion went wrong, but the other one helped, this one probably helps too. We did something she hadn't done before and it didn't work, but we both agreed to it and it's not her fault, alright? There's no need to yell at her."
It takes the boy a moment to normalize his breathing again after holding it in fear but Harry eventually nods in understanding.
"'m sorry" Harry mutters just loud enough for them to hear and Michael offers him a smile, only putting up with the following reluctance for a moment before lightly pulling his kid back toward him.
Harry falls back into the hug, still breathing a little quickly but slowly melting into his chest in a way that makes his chest feel warm, and not the boiling warmth from the potion. He gives it a few seconds before holding out his hand for the white vial.
"Slow sips," Dahlia cautions, handing it to him.
He only obeys, adjusting his hold on Harry so the kid had his head on his shoulder instead of glued to his neck and starts to sip from the vial, immediately feeling his throat be soothed by the liquid as it went down to calm his stomach. He could guess what this potion was for, at least.
"Thank you," he offers after a couple more sips to finish the contents of the vial, handing it back.
Dahlia only sighs, taking it back to the bag before looking him over and pinching the bridge of her nose.
"I'm sorry, that was not supposed to happen," she shakes her head, hand falling back down as she crosses her arms, "It didn't look like an allergic reaction, and I know for a fact that squibs can safely take that potion, but a muggle would be dead, so I have no idea of what could possibly have gone wrong and I apologize for endangering your life."
She bows, and he can tell by her tone which is genuinely apologetic that she means it.
"As I said, we both agreed to it," he waves it off, not acknowledging any sort of debt, "Is there some other version of it?"
"I refuse to take part in experimentation," she warns in the most serious tone he's heard from her yet, "I can see that all other potions worked just fine, but I won't be the one to hand you or recommend any core-related potions, for both your safety and that of my Healer license."
"Alright, I won't insist," he placates, not feeling up for round two either, though he needs a way to keep Harry safe with him, "is there anything else?" he asks as his fingers lightly brush through Harry's messy hair.
"Not at the moment, but I'll be in contact," Dahlia replies before starting to gather her things, her back to them in an illusion of privacy.
"I'm all better now," he whispers to Harry as reassuringly as he can, "think you can look at me?"
There's a few seconds of pause before he feels a nod against his shoulder and Harry moves away from it, readjusting in his lap to sit more comfortably and finally letting those shining green gems his kid has for eyes meet his own.
"Sorry," Harry says, looking away.
"What for?" He taps Harry's chin up, making him raise his head and meet his eyes again, though they're clouded with confusion and fear.
"I did so-someth-thing freaky," Harry stutters out.
"No you didn't," Michael instantly assures, glad to see the confusion overwhelming the fear in his kid's eyes.
"But I pu-pushed Ms Dahlia."
"And it wasn't something freaky, it was accidental magic. That means it was an accident," he clarifies, "no one is mad about it." He looks to the healer for confirmation but only sees the end of a whoosh of green fire that signals that she had already left.
Harry just stares at him for a good minute, maybe looking for some sign that he's lying or just taking the time to process that no, he will not be punished for something he did as an accident, before giving a small jerk of the head that could be called a nod and promptly laying back down on his chest, no longer clinging to him but not making any movement to leave his current spot.
"Please don't do that again," it's almost a whisper with how low and hesitant it sounds, as if Harry isn't sure he can even ask it of him.
"I need to find you a magical guardian or find a way for them not to take you away," he explains with a sigh, not very happy about the situation himself.
"What if-" there's a hitch in his kid's breath before he continues, "what if I don't have to be magic? Can they take me away if we don't tell them?"
"Oh, kid, that wouldn't work," he rests his chin over Harry's head. Maybe that would have been possible before the Malfoy meeting, before he went poking into the magical world and contacted the Tonks and Chang and a healer, but the cat is definitely out of the bag now or will be eventually, no matter how many contracts and vows they throw around. People talk, and he can't exactly stop them. Not that he feels in any way inclined to deny Harry his magical heritage, the thought of depriving the child of magic had never even crossed his mind.
"I don't wanna leave," the whined complaint felt like a confession, and he hated how it made him both happy and sad at the same time.
"That's why we need to find a good magical guardian," he clarifies.
"I don' want anyone else, I don' wanna go," Harry insists, hands tightening around the arm he'd put around him, "please let me stay."
"I don't want you to go either darling," he starts rubbing the child's back in what he hopes is a soothing manner, "you can stay as long as you want, and I'll be trying my best to make sure you get to choose, alright?" he promises. Harry just nods against his chest and Michael places a light kiss over the crown of his head, "you're not going anywhere as long as I have anything to say about it."
He chances a glance at the table, eyes falling on the sole piece of parchment still remaining on the edge of it, with some traces gathered in the middle where his trembling hand had stayed for most of the process. He narrows his eyes at the writing, trying to distinguish any readable words in it, but all it looks like is a repeated letter.
The cluster of shaky 'M's seems to mock him from a distance.
There you have it, folk. Over 5k words, a lot happened and yet very little got done sounds like my life lol except the baby got a scare and wants to stay. heh. we'll see how that goes.
Any thoughts on my bloodline tracing method? Any guesses why it reacted that way to Michael? I'd love to read any theories.