A/N:
Welcome Back to Promise of Potter, Blood of Black!
I hope you enjoy this new chapter.
Thank you Reynair and the others on my discord for working with me on this chapter!
Have fun! (Longer A/N at the end)
The familiar spinning in the fire, the slight warmth of the floo travel, all dissolved into a small bump pushing him out of his fireplace. Dumbledore frowned, straightening his ash-covered robes. He tried the floo connection again, but was met with the same disappointing lack of travel and rude expulsion back into his tidy office. It could only mean one thing: He had been removed from the access-list of clients that were allowed to use this special entrance into the Goblin's bank.
High-value customers such as himself usually bypassed the bustling crowds of Diagon Alley, appearing directly in the luxurious, private halls after a quick floo trip. It appeared he was no longer considered as such by Gringotts. He would have to enter the establishment through the usual entrance of the busy shopping road.
Dumbledore sighed, the weight of recent events pressing down on him. He had received word from Minerva just an hour ago. Young Harry was gone. Vanished. The blood wards he himself had so carefully placed had been too late. A shiver ran down his spine, sending a chill through his old bones. This was not good for him. Not at all.
He adjusted his half-moon spectacles and stepped out of his office, his mind already racing. There was only one place that could provide answers without too many questions and casting the spotlight on the actions he had taken to gain guardianship of the Potter boy: Gringotts. As Harry's magical guardian, he had the right to let the Goblin's track the baby and bring it to him, obviously for a generous sum out of the Potter vaults for their silence and quick work. And if his suspicions were correct, then time was of essence. Lord Voldemort wasn't as vanquished as people believed and the loss of "The Boy Who Lived" before the prophecy was fulfilled could mean the doom for the magical world.
The thought of exactly this prophecy, the one he had glimpsed from one of his current teachers, sent a wave of dread through him. He had hoped, prayed even, that he had been wrong. That the Potters hadn't been the target, that Voldemort wouldn't find them. But it seemed that fate had their future already carved in stone, their violent death and the painful future Harry Potter was condemned to endure.
He made his way down the familiar corridors of Hogwarts, his sparkling emerald robes billowing behind him. Each portrait he passed greeted him with customary cheer, oblivious to the turmoil brewing within his mind. He offered them a curt nod, his thoughts already far, far away, piecing together the puzzle of Harry's disappearance.
Diagon Alley buzzed with activity. Witches and wizards haggled over cauldrons, children pointed at enchanted toys with glee, and the air hummed with a thousand conversations. The scents of freshly brewed potions and exotic spices mingled in the air, creating a sensory overload that Dumbledore extremely enjoyed. He had almost forgotten the vibrancy of the wizarding world, which seemed to bloom once again after the hovering threat of war against Voldemort had been seemingly cut down. Nothing was seen anymore of the doom and gloom over the public spots all over Britain, replaced by happy faces, cheering and open congratulations all over the famous wizarding shopping district.
He navigated the bustling crowds that seemed to part in awe in front of him. Faces, both shocked and grateful stared upon him, the silent gratitude clear in their expressions. A chant broke out merely seconds after he left the leaky cauldron and entered through the magical brick wall that connected the wizarding and muggle side of London."
"Dum-ble-dore, Dum-ble-dore," the crowd shouted, praising his name through the streets. Dozens of the windows above the cobblestone street opened and showed intrigued faces, desperate to catch a glimpse of one of their heroes. One of the people that had saved them from a fate worse than death, a life in Voldemort's merciless icy grasp. They hadn't expected to see Albus Dumbledore of all people in the open on the street. The ancient Grand Sorcerer hadn't been spotted in public for a long time, avoiding the masses and mostly keeping to himself these days.
"When are you going to run for minister, Dumbledore?" A pudgy old woman in one of the front rows shouted above the loud chants.
Albus made a grimace as if he had bitten into an extremely sour lemon. "Never, I'm rather happy leading my school and preparing the new generations of witches and wizards," was his annoyed answer. All of this reminded him way too much of the period after he had defeated one of his best friends. No, forget that. His lover.
It had been one of the most bitter days of his life, having just brought the love of his life into a cruel prison built by the man himself, to let him rot in it until his life's end. He had been able to provide Grindelwald with enough books and other materials to entertain the old man for the rest of his rather short life, but a life in captivity was still a life in captivity.
From that day on he had hated the crowds, the shouts, the praising. And finally what he loathed the most was their demand to take an office he wasn't willing to have. Week after week people rudely expected him to become their Minister, something Dumbledore had no interest in at all. He didn't want to take such an important role, his past having shown that he was corruptible to the power that came with it. He didn't trust himself to stay just. He would ultimately destroy the balance that needed to be in any government. If he took the role of Minister, another civil war would be coming and Albus Dumbledore had enough of all the fighting, enough of the people he cared for dying.
He pushed through the assembled crowd with much more force now, not willing to respond to any other questions. He just wanted to reach the huge double doors of the wizarding bank and find Harry Potter. This, once more, had shown him how much he needed the babe, it was his one chance to prevent a second war against Voldemort, a chance to destroy the Dark Lord before it would come to that once again. Yes, the child would have to die as well for his plan to succeed, but one life was a fair deal to achieve peace in the wizarding world. It was for the Greater Good after all.
Cyrus Greengrass ran a hand over his neatly trimmed beard, the weight of the Black family crest still heavily resting in his pocket. He had reread the formal missive a dozen more times over the last hours, still not sure what the purpose of the ominous meeting was going to be. His thoughts ran through possible scenarios, why the Lord Black would call for him. Their relationship was almost non-existent since Arcturus virtual disappearance, which made the missive even more strange.
It was a simple, stark message, much like Arcturus had always been like, an invitation, or more of a summons from Arcturus to meet before nightfall. No pleasantries, no mention of tea or even the weather. Just a clear request with the heavy seal of the Blacks bringing even more weight to the message.
The grandfather clock chimed in, jolting Cyrus back to the present. Dinner with his family. He smoothed the wrinkles from his velvet waistcoat, a nervous gesture he'd developed in his youth. Arcturus' unusual request, shrouded in utmost secrecy, stirred a maelstrom of anxieties within his thoughts.
The Greengrass family dining room, bathed in warm candlelight, exuded an air of understated elegance but coupled with the intimacy of their small, budding family.
"Darling, come sit, dinner is already served." Mélodie's voice, laced with a subtle enchanting lilt, drew him from his thoughts. He watched her glide across the room, her hip-length silver-blonde hair shimmering under the enchanted ceiling mimicking the twilight sky.
"Coming, love," Cyrus replied, his gaze lingering on his wife. Even after all these years, her beauty still held that certain allure, an otherworldly grace that captivated him. He joined her at the table, their baby daughter Daphne already giggling in her highchair, a cascade of golden curls framing her cherubic face. Her tiny hand gripped his finger with surprising strength as he knelt down beside her. He'd been blessed late in life with their daughter, a fact that Mélodie never tired of teasing him about. "A man of your age," she'd chirp, "should be more concerned with his legacy, not changing nappies." He chuckled at the memory, glancing over at his wife. She caught his eye and raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile playing on her lips.
Cyrus took his customary place at the head of the table, his wife on his left side and their future heir on his right. It was the small things of the pureblood culture that grounded the family against the change they and many other families had kickstarted throughout the wizarding world, a small reminder of their pasts and the power of a family, however small it seemed to be.
"Penny for your thoughts, Cyrus?" Mélodie asked, her grey eyes, sharp as a hawk's, studying his face. "You haven't even touched your dinner."
She gestured to his plate, the roast practically untouched. It was unlike him to ignore a good meal. His mind, however, was still preoccupied trying to find the reason for the summons from his old friend.
"A letter," Cyrus said, tapping the Black family crest. "From Arcturus."
Daphne chose that moment to bang her spoon on the table, her joyful shrieks cutting through the tense silence that followed. Mélodie's composure remained unruffled, but Cyrus could sense the hectic images that flashed in front of his wife's eyes. With a flick of her wand, she summoned a stream of mashed carrots from the table onto her daughter's spoon, effectively silencing the infant.
"Arcturus?" She echoed, her tone carefully neutral. "That's … unexpected. He didn't leave Grimmauld place for …"
"Years," Cyrus finished, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know. It's sudden. He barely acknowledged the last three letters I sent him. The meeting is to be held at the Manor."
Mélodie's carefully constructed composure finally faltered. The Black family manor held a dark reputation, whispered to be riddled with ancient magic, its location shrouded in secrecy. She knew the Blacks hadn't been living in the gigantic estate for centuries, preferring the more intimate and convenient housing of Grimmauld place.
"I knew it. There is a storm brewing, I can feel it in my bones." Her blue eyes, usually sharp and clear, seemed to shimmer for a moment, like the waves of the great oceans of her motherland. "And something tells me, we are about to be caught in its wake. Be careful, my husband."
Silence fell over the table, the weight of the unspoken questions hanging heavy in the air. Daphne, oblivious to the tension, gurgled happily, tugging at Cyrus' sleeve. He met his wife's gaze, his brow furrowed in thought.
"What could he possibly want?" Mélodie finally asked, echoing Cyrus' own thoughts. "It's been years since he involved himself in anything, let alone reached out to you."
He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "I haven't the faintest idea. The message was… curt. No explanation, just a summons."
Cyrus pushed his roasted potatoes around his plate, appetite waning. The uncertainty gnawed at him. Arcturus was not one for social calls, especially not after … everything. His wife was usually right with her predictions and he was confident she would be this time as well. Something was going on and it seemed that Arcturus Black wanted to involve him in some way.
"Perhaps," Mélodie mused, her voice barely a whisper, "it has something to do with the fall of… Voldemort."
Cyrus stiffened, his gaze darting around the room as if the very walls had ears. "Mélodie! Don't say that name, especially not now."
She held his gaze, her expression serious. "Cyrus, it's been months. The war is over, he's gone. Everyone knows it."
"Whispering his name won't change anything," Cyrus said, his voice tense. "He's still a dark stain on our world, on our history."
Mélodie reached across the table, her hand resting lightly on his arm. "I know, love. But things are different now. Maybe… maybe this is Arcturus' way of rejoining the world. Of moving on."
Cyrus wanted to believe her, he truly did. However the idea that Arcturus Black, a man who practically personified tradition and stoicism, would seek him out after years of silence, was unfathomable.
"But whatever it is, he has something planned," Mélodie said, voicing his thoughts. "Arcturus is many things, but cryptic is not usually one of them."
"I know what you mean," Cyrus sighed, running a hand through his short blonde hair. "I haven't seen him this agitated since that whole debacle with the werewolves and the Ministry."
He paused, remembering the fire in Arcturus' eyes then, the steely glint that brokered no argument. He saw a flicker of that same determination in the elegant script of the letter.
"I must go, Mélodie," Cyrus stated, pushing back his chair. "Whatever it is, Arcturus wouldn't reach out unless it was of grave importance."
He met her gaze, his own reflection of hers - steel in the face of uncertainty. While his wife was one of the warmest people he knew, in situations like these she could always rival his composure. But he could see a small flicker of fear as well, of the fear of losing their young family, the husband she loved more than anything in the world and her first-born daughter.
"Then go," Mélodie said, her voice soft yet firm. "And be forgiving to your old friend, Cyrus. Some wounds, even time cannot heal. He went through a lot."
He leaned down, placing a kiss on Daphne's head, inhaling her sweet, baby scent. Then, straightening his robes, he turned towards the fireplace, a sense of foreboding settling in his stomach like a lead weight. As he threw the floo powder into the flames, the Black family crest seemed to sneer back at him from the letter he clutched in his hand.
He reached the imposing marble steps of Gringotts, the morning sun glinting off its polished surface. The goblin guards flanking the bronze doors stood stoic and watchful, their ever-present air of suspicion magnified today. With a deep breath, he ascended the steps, the weight of his purpose pressing upon him.
He strode through the grand entrance hall, his presence commanding attention. Witches and wizards parted in front of him, their hushed whispers much different to the crowd in Diagon Alley. They could sense the power radiating of the old Grand Sorcerer and nobody had the desire to stand in the way of the agitated wizard.
"Good morning. I wish to speak with my account manager, please."
The goblin behind the counter didn't look up from his ledger. "Name?"
"Albus Dumbledore."
The goblin's quill paused, its tip hovering above the parchment. He finally raised his head, eyes narrowed. "This is not a place for jests, wizard."
"I assure you, I am quite serious." Dumbledore met the goblin's gaze, a flicker of unease stirring within him. "Is there an issue?"
The goblin let out a harsh laugh, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged hall. "Issue? You call it an issue? You, Albus Dumbledore, have no account here anymore. You were removed from our registry and we sent you a notice today."
Dumbledore's eyebrows shot up. "Removed? That's preposterous! On whose authority?"
"Authority is not something you hold over us goblins, wizard. The clients don't dictate our actions and we decide who we work with. And it seems your actions have spoken louder than your name and broken the limit of what we would accept." The goblin slammed his ledger shut, a decisive finality to the action. "Next!"
Albus Dumbledore was flabbergasted at the audacity of the goblin clerk. Anger flickered within him, a sensation he kept tightly controlled. This was an outrage. He was Albus Dumbledore, the vanquisher of Grindelwald, saviour of the wizarding world! How dare they treat him with such disrespect? "I demand to speak with the account manager for the Potter family," he boomed, his voice echoing through the hall.
The goblin remained unmoved. "The Potter account is none of your concern, old man."
Dumbledore drew himself up, his voice cold. "I am Albus Dumbledore, magical guardian of Harry James Potter, heir of the Potter family magic and fortune. I will not be trifled with."
A flicker of disgust crossed the goblin's face, quickly masked. He leaned back in his chair, a considering look in his black eyes. "Very well," he finally conceded. "Follow me."
The goblin led him through a maze of corridors, deeper into the heart of Gringotts. The air grew colder, heavier, the scent of aged parchment and old magic clinging to the stone walls. They finally arrived at a heavy iron door, guarded by two more goblins, their faces grim and scarred.
"Wait here," the goblin commanded, rapping sharply on the door before slipping inside.
Dumbledore waited, his patience wearing thin. What could possibly be taking so long. Did they not understand the urgency of the situation? He paced back and forth, his mind racing. What if Voldemort's followers had already found Harry? He had been a fool to believe those blood wards would hold.
He cursed the wretched goblins for taking so long. Why did they disrespect him so much today? Being removed from the high-value client list had been the first bad sign, but he would've never thought that Gringotts would cancel his accounts and cut all other relations. What had happened to make the Goblins this upset? What had he done wrong?
The door opened, and the goblin gestured him inside. The office was sparsely furnished, a stark contrast to the opulence of the entrance hall. On each side of the large mahogany desk stood a grim goblin in full battle attire, their faces battle-hardened and devoid of any emotion. On the prominent, throne-like chair sat a goblin with piercing black eyes and a mane of white hair. There was no chair on his side of the desk, making it clear he wanted him to stand.
He recognized the inhabitant of the office instantly: Magnok, the Potter accountant and close friend to the late Charlus Potter.
"Dumbledore," Magnok greeted, his features carefully schooled. "A pleasure, as always." The ancient goblin almost spat the word pleasure, as if it was a bad taste in his mouth.
"Magnok," Dumbledore returned the greeting, masterfully ignoring the animosity of the old goblin. "I trust you have an explanation for this … inconvenience."
"Inconvenience?" Magnok's lips curled into a humourless smile. "I believe you have mistaken the situation, Dumbledore. We don't owe you any reasons for cutting our relations."
Dumbledore drew a calming breath, keeping his temper in check. He needed the goblins' help, however infuriating he found their behaviour. "Very well," he conceded, his voice carefully neutral. "Perhaps we can dispense with the pleasantries. I am here about Harry Potter. I require your assistance in locating him."
Magnok's expression remained unchanged, but the two goblin guards flanking him shifted slightly, their hands hovering near the axes strapped to their belts. The air crackled with an unspoken threat.
"The boy," Dumbledore continued, choosing his words carefully, "appears to be missing. As his magical guardian —"
"A title you no longer hold, nor ever legally did, Dumbledore," Magnok interrupted, his voice sharp as shattered glass.
Dumbledore blinked, momentarily stunned. "I beg your pardon?"
"You are no longer Harry Potter's magical guardian, Dumbledore," Magnok repeated, his voice laced with icy finality. "That dubious honour now rests with someone more suited to the task, someone who understands the weight of the Potter legacy and will see it protected, not exploited."
Dumbledore's control finally snapped and no amount of occlumency in the world could prevent that now. "Exploited? How dare you insinuate such a thing! I have dedicated my life to protecting Harry, to ensuring his safety and well-being! I —"
"Silence!" Magnok's voice, though quiet, reverberated through the room with the force of a thunderclap. The temperature plummeted, frost creeping along the edges of the mahogany desk. The goblin guards stepped forward, their faces grim masks of barely contained disgust. The wards of the bank were in full effect now, an overwhelming blanket of magic suffocating Albus Dumbledore.
The headmaster straightened, his own anger a cold fire in his belly. He would not be cowed, not by these creatures. It was all for the greater good, how could they not see that? "I am Albus Dumbledore," he stated, his voice echoing with power. "And I demand your cooperation in this matter. Find Harry Potter, and I will see you richly rewarded. Refuse, and you will face the consequences." His fingers twitched towards his wand.
Magnok only threw back his head and laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Consequences? You threaten us, old man? You, who are nothing more than a faded memory, a relic of a bygone era?" He leaned forward, his black eyes boring into Dumbledore's. "You have no power here, Dumbledore. Be gone, before we decide to relieve you of your wand as well. Don't go looking for Harry Potter, he is much safer where he is now compared to the muggles you brought him to."
"You misunderstand," Dumbledore said, his voice dangerously quiet. "I am not asking. I am telling you. Find Harry Potter."
Magnok's eyes narrowed to slits. He slammed his fist on the desk, the sound echoing like a cannon shot. In a blink, the two goblin guards were upon him, their movements a blur of muscle and steel. Dumbledore barely had time to raise his hands in defence before they seized him, their grip like iron vices.
"You dare threaten the Potter Account Manager on territory of the goblin nation," one of the guards snarled, his hot breath stinging Dumbledore's ear. "You will pay for this transgression, old fool."
They dragged him out of the office, ignoring his protests and struggles. The powerful wards of the goblin bank prevented the old wizard from moving even a finger. He caught a glimpse of Magnok's cold, triumphant smile as they hauled him through the corridors of Gringotts, past the startled gazes of goblins and wizards alike. They finally reached the exit of the grand entrance hall, where they unceremoniously threw him out onto the cobblestone street, the afternoon sun momentarily blinding.
"And stay out!" one of the guards roared, his voice echoing through Diagon Alley. "You are no longer welcome in Gringotts, Albus Dumbledore."
Under the shocked watch of all the shopping magicals, Albus Dumbledore quickened his pace towards the leaky cauldron, the embarrassment of the goblins' public action clearly visible on his angry face.
At least Harry Potter seems to be safe, the goblins wouldn't want him killed after all.
Arcturus Black paced the ancient Black study, the weight of centuries bearing down on the ancient wooden floorboards. Outside, a storm gathered, mirroring the tempest in his own mind. He straightened a silver hand mirror, catching his reflection - a hawk among doves, his eyes glinting once again with a sharp, predatory intelligence. It was something Arcturus had missed over the last years, too deep was the depression he had sunken into. But there was a purpose now, a reason to live again.
He ran a hand over the worn spine of a massive tome resting on his desk, its pages filled with intricate diagrams and spidery script. The Potter Family Grimoire. It called to him, whispering of ancient power, of a legacy he swore to protect. The prophecy echoed in his mind, a chilling premonition of the boy's future. The babe that was laying right in the room under the study, in the nursery of the old Black manor, tended to by his trusty house elf Kreacher.
"The time will come." He had become used to the choir of voices in his mind, giving him hints and pointers to passages that would be of interest to him.
His ancestral home was still one of the most intimidating estates he had ever seen, a place he would usually never inhabit. But the superior wards and unknown location would be a big boon in the protection of Harry Potter, from both Albus Dumbledore as well as the remaining Death Eaters and their Dark Lord. So he had heeded the call and moved his home back to the well protected, imposing mansion.
A low chime resonated from the grandfather clock in the corner, its melancholic melody announcing the hour. Cyrus was late. Arcturus ground his teeth. He hated waiting, hated the uncertainty that gnawed at the edges of his carefully constructed plans.
He moved to the window, gazing out at the storm-tossed ground of Manor Black. The wards he'd reinforced over the last day shimmered under the onslaught of the wind, an invisible fortress protecting him and his own. And now, Harry.
A crackle of Apparition broke the silence. Cyrus Greengrass materialised in the centre of the room, his face etched with concern. He looked older than Arcturus remembered, his blonde hair more silver than gold, but his eyes still held the same sharp intelligence that had compelled him to take the young Lord on as an apprentice.
"Arcturus," Cyrus breathed, glancing around the study, "This is the first time I've set foot in this house in … how long has it been?"
"Time long enough for you to forget your already lacklustre manners, it seems," Arcturus said, his voice clipped and precise. "Have a seat, Cyrus."
Cyrus stiffened slightly at the rebuke but sat down in a plush armchair, his gaze sweeping over the shelves lined with forbidden texts and shimmering potion vials. "I apologise for being late, my old friend," he said, his voice low. "Your protections have been quite thorough and I've got held a bit at Grimmauld Place before I could apparate here."
"I apologise for that, old friend," Arcturus said, sincerely. "But these security measures were necessary as the meeting is highly important. I couldn't risk a portkey getting into the wrong hands and this place is not connected to the floo, even if it would work."
Cyrus' face scrunched up in surprise. Almost every magical home had been connected to the floo centuries ago, to achieve seamless travel between residences and meetings. To have such an old building to never be a part of the network was a novelty and explained why Black manor was such a mystery. Only a handful of people could've ever been here, with protections like this.
"So what is the important thing that you called me here for? We haven't seen each other in a long time and I was rather surprised by the summons" Cyrus questioned his old friend, his voice low. "The wards around the Manor are almost as strong as Gringotts. You're preparing for a siege, Arcturus?"
The Lord Black poured two glasses of firewhiskey, the amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. He handed one to Cyrus. "A siege? No. I'm preparing for war."
Cyrus' eyebrows shot up. "Explain yourself, Arcturus. Your cryptic message told me nothing. What in Merlin's saggy balls is going on?"
Arcturus took a swig of his firewhiskey, letting the burning liquid settle in his stomach, showing no sign of haste to answer his friend's question. "Do you remember why my family allied itself with many others all those generations ago, Cyrus?"
The Greengrass Lord took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes narrowed in thought. "To protect your own. To safeguard your legacies." He paused. "You fear for your family?"
Arcturus slammed his glass on the table, the crystal ringing under the force. "There isn't a single protection that could save the Black family as it is right now, Cyrus. We cannot continue as we did previously, time for that has already passed. There are … matters at hand. Matters that concern the very fate of our world and our families."
Cyrus leaned forward his gaze intent. "Go on."
"It concerns one Harry Potter," Arcturus stated, watching Cyrus' reaction closely.
His old friend frowned. "The Potter boy? What about him?"
"He is here, Cyrus. In this house. Under my protection."
Silence descended upon the study, heavy and thick with unspoken questions. Cyrus stared at Arcturus, his face a mask of disbelief. "Here? But how? And why?"
He studied Cyrus' face, gauging his reaction, searching for any flicker of dissent or even the thought of betrayal. He didn't believe his friend to be a Death Eater in the slightest considering his family's heritage, but better to be safe than sorry, especially in this case. His old friend, his apprentice, was many things, but a fool was not one of them. He would understand the gravity of the situation, the weight of the burden they would be sharing in a few seconds.
"Cyrus, there is a prophecy … It's the reason the Potters are gone, the reason the Dark Lord vanished, and it all revolves around that boy." His voice was low, heavy with foreboding. Voldemort is not gone, not truly. It's only a minor setback for him. He will be back, and when he does he will come for Harry, a member of my family, probably even the most important one over the last centuries."
He saw the understanding dawn in Cyrus' eyes, the way his jaw clenched, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the arms of the chair. "And you believe the boy … Harry … will he be able to defeat him? This prophecy …"
"The prophecy is clear, Cyrus. Harry is the only one who can stand against him and have the chance to emerge victorious." He poured himself another glass of firewhiskey, offering one to Cyrus with a tilt of the decanter. "He needs training, guidance, more than what the old fool Dumbledore could ever provide. Dumbledore wants to raise him like a sheep for slaughter, to be just strong enough when the time comes to sacrifice himself to that monster. I won't let that happen."
"But what can we do?" Cyrus asked, his voice laced with uncertainty. "The prophecy … It's a dangerous path to tread, Arcturus. Interfering with fate …"
"Fate be damned!" Arcturus slammed his glass down, the firewhiskey sloshing over the rim. "We make our own fate. Harry Potter is a part of my family, and the family protects its own."
He leaned forward, his gaze unwavering. "I will train him and I need you to help me, Cyrus. You and I. We will teach him everything we know, hone his magic, prepare him for the battle to come. I already started researching the Potter magic, but Harry needs more than just me, he needs friends, allies.
"The risk for my family will be too great," Cyrus said, his voice sorrowful, sorry for having to reject his old friend. He had to put his family first and joining a fight, however correct it was, put his life and his family in grave danger. "I won't have a male heir, it makes us vulnerable to be absorbed into a different family, should I die before my heir is ready to take over the reins."
Arcturus had expected the objection. He completely understood his old friend, he would've reacted exactly the same if in the same situations. "That's why I will offer to teach your daughter, that you mentioned in your letters, through the same regiment as we do Harry. That doesn't include the family magic, as it cannot be learned by outsiders of the Blacks or Potters, but everything else will be Daphne's. She will be a power to be reckoned with, the heir of a family with powerful allies."
He could see Cyrus was thinking about the possibility. The offer Arcturus prepared was something his old apprentice would be inclined to accept. A family without a male heir was bound to be weak without the right allies and friends. Arcturus had just offered exactly that, the whole force of House Black and Potter together with House Greengrass, a triangle of power that would be able to change their world.
"I will have to talk about it with Mélodie, Arcturus," he finally said, after multiple minutes of being deep in thought and three sips of firewhiskey, emptying his glass. "But I believe we would have a deal. I want Daphne and Harry to be able to decide if they want to stick to this alliance though. I will not force children to fight our wars and stick to an alliance they never agreed to."
Arcturus full-heartily agreed. He had seen the damage that could be made by forced friendships and even marriages, his own granddaughters had ultimately fallen victim to it and were either rotting in Azkaban, in a loveless marriage or ran from the family. "I accept that, Cyrus. They will decide for themselves. But if they decide to work together, they will train together, learn from each other, and face whatever the future holds side by side. It's important for both of them to have somebody they can trust completely, someone that will always be there for them, no matter what."
"To future great alliances," Cyrus toasted, "To our families futures."
Thank you for reading this story and the great support from everybody.
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