Acknowledgment—The following is a work of fanfiction, written and posted solely for the enjoyment of readers. The author thanks Ms. JK Rowling for allowing writers to set work among the population and locations found in the Harry Potter series of books. Everything belongs to Ms. Rowling and the author of this story neither seeks nor receives remuneration.
Two Daughters
Chapter Five
A Harry and Daphne Fanfic
By
Bfd1235813
"Kreacher, can you pull Auntie Walburga's drape?" asked Delphi.
Kreacher most certainly could, interactions with his late, pureblood mistress being one of the things that gave the elf a bit of pleasure in life.
"Madame, young Miss Delphi has asked for a moment of your time…" murmured the ancient elf as he stood on his stool.
Potter, hearing the exchange, watched from a shadowy spot around a corner, puzzling as always over why Kreacher climbed onto a stool when he had the ability to snap his fingers and remove the curtain. That silent question was displaced by another—what did Delphi want from Walburga?
"Oh, the shame, the Black Lord a half-blood…" Walburga began.
"Auntie, I need to ask you a question!" demanded Delphi.
She stood in front of Walburga's portrait, waiting for her late, great-aunt to re-orient her attention from insults long past.
"Ah, young Delphini," said Walburga. "A little Black witch and daughter of Bellatrix, come to disturb my rest."
"You can rest when your portrait goes dormant," Delphini explained. "And you left out Harry."
This caused some momentary curiosity to take over Walburga's ancient and two-dimensional mind while she considered the question of where Delphini Black had heard of enchanted portraits going dormant.
Potter had convened a family meeting, including Kreacher and Walburga's portrait, after they had been to Gringotts for their inheritance tests. By some mystery, best attributed to the magical means that brought about Voldemort's physical resurrection, Harry Potter possessed the potency to be the biological father of Delphini Black. There was no question, since Magical Britain held that Gringotts' examinations were always authoritative on such questions.
"Ohh…the half-blood…" Walburga began.
"Enough, please, Auntie," Delphi asked politely.
"What is it, little girl?"
Walburga did have a soft spot for the young witches, which they exploited, regularly and shamelessly. Potter thought that indicated the witches had the potential to bring about a restoration of serious Black family magic to #12 Grimmauld Place.
"You could be nicer to Harry," said Delphi. "He is Lord Black, you know."
"A fluke," said Walburga. "If only my traitorous son…"
"Please stop, Auntie," said Delphi. "He is my father. Harry told Ane and me we have a lot of work to do to bring back the Blacks. He could use a little help. That's all."
Walburga looked down her nose, raising one painted eyebrow.
"Your mother would have taught you to respect a senior witch…" Walburga began, only to be interrupted.
"My mother gave me to Mrs. Rowle…"
That was as far as she got before the tears started. Ane heard her crying and showed up to see what she could do.
"Sister," said Ane as she wrapped Delphi in a hug.
Delphi hugged, clung, to Ane as she was suddenly overcome with sobs. Five years of grudging tolerance had left a predictable mark.
"Black witches," called a voice from down the corridor.
Potter stepped out, knelt and gathered them in.
"Down to the kitchen for cider or hot chocolate. Tell Kreacher. I'll be right there," he said.
The two dashed away leaving Potter alone with Walburga.
"You don't have to like me," he began.
"How gracious, my lord," snarled Walburga.
"I grew to love Bella, as she did me," he said. "Yes, we declared our love. How's that for powerful magic, not to mention irony? It might have been simple attraction, at first. Forbidden fruit. Ordinary physical craving. And yet, we are the parents of those two. That's right, your incredibly powerful, pureblood niece and I, with some help from magic, made both of those witches. I will leave it to you to find a way to deal with it. Do your best not to upset them, ever again."
With that he waved a hand and closed the drape over Walburga's portrait.
"Potter," said Walburga.
"Yes?" he asked.
"What did she do to you to turn your half-blood self to her purposes?"
Potter uncovered half the portrait so he could look the painted Walburga in the eye.
"She made me a wizard," he said as he let the drape fall back.
Weeks, then months, passed as Potter kept his family to the plan he had mapped out. The Black sisters exercised, listened to stories, completed assignments from the magical home-study curriculum. Delphi learned her letters, then some simple words, then began reading. It was a bit, at first, as she built vocabulary. Ane was very envious as she wanted to start reading as well.
Potter found an alchemist and an expert in mind arts and signed up with both as a private student. He found both subjects very compelling. He wondered how far along he would be if he'd begun studying while sailing with Bella.
Thinking about Bella made him very sad. Potter really missed his lover. He doubted he would ever again be as happy as he was when the two of them were crossing from the Caribbean to Bermuda then back to the Georgia barrier islands. He remembered the strings of days of fair weather when they could wait for sundown, strip and make uninhibited love before lying back on the deck together, side by side, talking and looking up at countless stars.
"Da-da?" asked Ane.
The three were sitting at a table outside Fortescue's in Diagon Alley, enjoying cups of lemon vanilla ice cream while they watched witches and wizards coming and going.
"Oh—sorry, what?" Potter answered.
"Why are you staring at those people?" Ane asked.
Potter was listening to the hum of significant numbers of human brains at work. It was all part of his daily practice for improving his mind arts skills. Potter's teacher assigned different tasks each week. The idea was to build competence across the mind arts spectrum. A secondary effect could be the emergence, eventually, of one or more areas in which Potter possessed exceptional skill or talent.
"Oh, studying people," said Potter, "It's a good use of our time. We can learn to tell if they are relaxed, happy or nervous about something, just by the way they hold their bodies, especially their heads, how they move, or don't, whether they move fast or take their time. Put it all together and it tells a story."
He didn't mention he was trying to pick up their thoughts and emotions because that could lead to a conversation he didn't want to have in public. Besides, the two Blacks ought to be a few years older before getting involved in mind arts.
Potter, the private student, unlike his schoolboy self, attacked the subject matter assigned by his tutors. In some reflective moment, he thought over the changes in himself and the conditions of his life, in the years since he faced Voldemort at the Last Battle. He was more mature than he was at Hogwarts, so he approached formal study differently. He had the responsibility for nurturing and protecting his daughters until they were old enough and skilled enough to defend themselves. Lastly, there was the continuing influence of Bellatrix Lestrange. Once the presence of the Dark Lord was gone from her life, Bella began to transform from the fanatical torturer into a beautiful, middle-aged woman. She was still a bit rough but capable of giving and receiving love.
Their starlit conversations on the deck of the boat touched on all kinds of topics. Potter remembered Bella saying, "You really have to do at least some reading-up on mind arts, Harry!"
"Snape…" he began before she interrupted his reply.
"Piss on Severus Snape!" countered Bella. "Snape is dead. Get yourself free of him. Are you going to let one bad experience with someone who hated you because you reminded him of your father keep you out of an entire field of magic? Severus and James are both dead, Harry. Take charge of this world they left you. Make your life and your world something more than the toxic mess our generation left behind."
Potter was silent for several minutes. They sailed, not talking, listening to the sound of the swells washing along the sides.
"I guess that is kind of stupid," allowed Potter. "That is just making an excuse, isn't it?"
"I won't call you a stupid excuse-maker, Harry, but allowing Severus Snape to shape your choices or restrict your possibilities going forward might touch on both of those, a little," said a smiling Bella.
Potter admitted Bella was right. Besides that, she was sweet and knew exactly how to talk to him. Just remembering her gentle lecture made him smile. When he commenced instruction with his tutors he imagined Bella as a disembodied spirit, perched on his shoulder, giving encouragement only he could hear.
Potter arranged for his tutors to come to #12 Grimmauld Place. That way he didn't have to organize childcare. An additional benefit was the assistance provided by Kreacher. The elf brought pitchers of water, clean glasses and had an after-lesson snack ready when class ended. Morale among Potter's tutors was quite high.
Another benefit was Potter's adoption of a systematic meditation discipline. Mind arts required clarity so each tutorial began with five minutes of quiet. Potter took to the regimen immediately. Within a month he was getting Ane and Delphi down for the night and going straight to his alchemy lab where he turned a corner into his meditation space.
Potter would have concentrated on Black witches, alchemy and mind arts had the world left him alone. That wasn't going to happen as long as he held some titles that conferred upon him Wizengamot seats—seats that gave him votes in the body that governed magical British life. Attending a session of the Wizengamot, usually called simply Session by the members, meant blocking out a few hours in the afternoon. The Wizengamot left the members to manage their own private lives so it had never yielded to periodic requests for establishing a childcare function. Potter was lucky in that he had Andromeda Tonks nearby to take care of the Black witches. He took Ane and Delphi to Andromeda's place and they played with Teddy Tonks until Potter returned.
Potter's habit on Session days was to arrive ten or fifteen minutes early. He passed the time before the chamber was called to order by making himself available in the Library, the members' lounge equipped with books and a well-stocked bar. The Library was one of Potter's favorite spaces. It was congenial, comfortable and just the place for a little politicking, should any of his Wizengamot colleagues feel a need to engage.
Potter's Session routine started with donning his robe in the Members' Cloakroom. The robe was black acromantula silk, the thread finished to give the robe a flat black appearance. There was a facsimile of the Order of Merlin medal embroidered on the upper left side of the robe, sewn with polished silk thread, also in black. Potter's treatment was acknowledged to be modest and discreet, while also quite dashing.
Properly attired in his robe, Potter left the Cloakroom via a door that led to the Library. He usually signaled the steward, which constituted putting in an order for a very weak whiskey and water that the steward would bring to Potter's chair. After ordering, Potter would look around the room to see who was present. Spotting Neville Longbottom at a grouping of chairs, Potter walked over.
"Neville," Potter began.
"Harry," Longbottom replied.
Potter looked at their year-mate from Hogwarts, who was in a chair next to Longbottom.
"Counselor," Potter began. "Presentation today?"
Potter was puzzled. The puzzlement stemmed from the presence of the lawyer Daphne Greengrass in the Library, a space traditionally reserved for members of the Wizengamot. Unless Greengrass had inherited the headship of her family, Potter was unaware of any other circumstance that would confer membership.
"Cyrus is in Canada, Harry," said Longbottom.
"Ah…" said Potter, remembering that the holders of hereditary membership could nominate a family member to cover their absences. The Library was an ancillary benefit, then, or so Potter hypothesized.
Daphne Greengrass lifted her chin and looked down her long, aristocratic, perfectly-sculpted nose at Potter, who felt a sudden need to fill the deafening silence.
"Delighted," he said as he extended his right hand.
Greengrass didn't say anything in reply. She laid her right hand on Potter's and made a nearly subsonic sound like, "…mmm…"
"May I?" asked Potter as he gestured at an empty chair.
"Of course," said Longbottom.
Greengrass tilted her head, maintaining her expressionless face.
"Anything earthshaking today?" asked Potter as he sat.
"There is an open remarks period on the agenda," said Longbottom. "Twenty minutes."
"Great," sighed Potter.
Members were free to go if they left before the open remarks commenced. If they stayed they were to remain until the final gavel. Most of the open remarks were mind-numbing tributes to some magical couple who were observing their hundredth wedding anniversary or a gentleman farmer of the magical sort whose prize sow delivered an exceptional number of piglets.
"How are the young witches, Lord Potter-Black?"
Potter was startled. His title wasn't something he heard referenced by a Hogwarts year-mate. Moreover, he had no idea Greengrass gave Delphi and Ane a thought, although she knew about them via Scorpius, who was her nephew. She'd also seen them, briefly, in the Leaky Cauldron when she was there for lunch with the Malfoys.
Potter grasped for a response.
"Coming along," Potter assured her. "We're working on the same prep courses that Scorpius is doing."
"Ah…" Greengrass commented as she glanced away.
The Herald of the Wizengamot entered the Library, standing at attention and announcing the Session would commence in five minutes. Further, all members were therefore summoned and required to present themselves in the chamber.
Potter and Longbottom walked side-by-side into the Wizengamot chamber.
"What the hell, Neville? Twenty minutes? Who has twenty minutes worth of remarks?" asked Potter.
"Oh, could be twenty members' remarks at one minute each," said Longbottom.
"Any idea what needs twenty minutes of free-form commentary?" Potter inquired.
"Sure to be earth-shaking," Longbottom observed as they settled on the bench.
The main business of that day's Session, after calling the roll and confirming there was a quorum present, was all budgetary detail. It was necessary for government entities that used tax money to project necessary spending in advance then document how the funds were actually spent. The Wizengamot had responsibility for oversight of spending, reviewing proposed budgets, approving disbursements from the Treasury and accepting the annual reports. The Ministry suffered under a medieval budgetary system even less efficient and logical than that of the Muggles' government. Potter was quite pleased with himself when he realized the number-talk was concluding and he had not fallen asleep, even once.
There was a short pause in the proceedings. Some members left, as well as the civil servants who were no longer required. It was time for open remarks. There were a number of three-digit wedding anniversaries to honor along with some prize farm animals. As usual.
Potter began to plot his after-Session itinerary—floo to Andromeda's, a short sit-down together with Teddy and the witches, floo to Grimmauld Place, dinner at Chez Kreacher. He began to feel pulled back to the Wizengamot chamber and the turgid material under discussion.
Something about the drone had changed. The current speaker delivered their remarks with some passion, alluding to 'historical error' and 'correcting past mistakes.' It was all a bit vague, causing Potter to listen more closely.
Potter sensed the words held part of the speaker's meaning, but only a part. He thought of tuning, as one did with a wizard's wireless, a smidge this way, a slight return back, trying to get the point that the words danced around. The idea, in short, was to revisit some decisions. Did the Ministry overreach, in the speaker's view, its haste in the post-war return to normalcy letting legitimate grievances go unaddressed? Potter hoped the venting would be sufficient to salvage pride or honor or occasion the payment of a reasonable settlement. Potter happened to look at Daphne Greengrass, whose face might have been chiseled from icebergs he'd dodged in the North Atlantic. He began to grow a bit numb. Thankfully, the drone ended. They were free to go.
Potter and Longbottom, without consciously intending to, had established an informal custom of having a butterbeer together after attending Session. Press of other business could always displace the butterbeer but Potter was already looking forward to asking Longbottom what he thought of that last speech. Thus it was a disappointment when his friend hung his robe in the Cloakroom and begged off.
"Daphne asked if I'd come by chambers," he said. "I think it is some kind of family administration."
Potter did recall hearing Neville was a distant cousin of the Greengrass.' Knowing the old wizarding families clung to relationships, up to 'umpteen-times-removed,' Potter bowed to force majeure and offered his friend a make-up session.
"Oh, sure, Neville. Why don't I call you tomorrow?"
"That'd be great," said Longbottom. "Floo me."
"Will do," Potter replied as he headed for the Ministry Atrium.
The Black witches were thrilled to see Potter when he arrived at Andromeda Tonks' farm. When they finished greeting him they lobbied for a little longer stay. Teddy looked on, helplessly, no doubt thinking he was facing dinner with the Black witches then more hours of mind-belaboring contact while Harry and Andromeda caught up.
Teddy needn't have worried. Not only did Potter have a plan for dinner, he caught the look on Teddy's face and resolved to keep his stopover short.
"Can you give me a minute with your Gran, Teddy?" he asked.
Teddy and the witches went off and Andromeda sent Potter a questioning look.
"Okay," he said. "Session was routine financial stuff. Reports for approval. Of course every knut was accounted for and the community got more than its moneys-worth."
"Absolutely," said Andromeda. "The civil service didn't miss a beat."
"As always," said Potter. "No, what got my attention was, during remarks, this rather obscure wizard who does not generally do anything except occupy a seat and say, "Aye," every now and then, blathered on about correcting past mistakes and historical error. It was hard to pin down but I think he was lodging a complaint about the Ministry's various settlement problems in the post-war period. Like some of the people who were penalized were mistreated. I wondered if you had heard anything?"
"No, although it wouldn't surprise me," said Andromeda. "Some of the Voldemort crowd were from old, seriously rich families and they paid huge fines. Hogwarts' reconstruction was financed from fine money so you can imagine what that cost. If you want to know what's behind it, get the speaker's full name and find out who the associates are."
"Follow the money," noted Potter.
Andromeda sent a little smirk.
"You're learning, Lord Harry," she said as she inclined her head.
It was just a short time later that Potter gathered up the Black witches, thereby liberating Teddy from their overwhelming attention and chatter. The trio went back to Grimmauld Place and a delicious dinner prepared by Kreacher.
Later, when he was sure the witches were asleep, Potter went down to his meditation space and began his routine. First came some exercises, mild stuff involving twisting, arm movements and a kind of lunge/stretch. It all served to get any kinks out that would interrupt concentration if left unattended. Then he sat. Potter's eyelids drifted until they were about three-quarters closed. His breaths became unnaturally regular. All the usual sensations dropped away until the only thing of which Potter was conscious was the hiss that never disappeared. Some people claimed that was the sound of molecules in the air bumping about, others said that was myth.
Potter held his position, breathing, counting, waiting until it was time for him to be done. Tonight went on and on. So Potter believed. Then he sat up straight. Meditation was over. Potter did not know how he knew. He stood and bowed to the little shrine on the shelf.
"Thank-you," he said.
The next day in the Potter household began with a healthy and filling breakfast. The family healer was a firm believer in keeping one's iron level up so Potter had a bottle labeled, 'Liver Tonic' at hand on a kitchen counter.
"Ready?" asked Potter, picking up the bottle.
"Da-a-a-ad!" complained the Black witches, in unison.
Potter contemplated a household mystery as he unscrewed the cap on the bottle. Ane still called him Da-da and Delphi used Harry. Only when delivering a joint complaint did the witches switch to Da-a-a-ad!
"Back of your tongue, you don't even taste it, then a sip of tea with honey," said Potter. "Then you're healthy all day. According to the healer."
"Ugh-h-h-h!" groaned Delphi.
Once the witches were settled with their day's lessons, Potter got their permission to make a floo call.
"Neville?" he called into the grate.
"Harry! What can I help you with?" answered his friend.
"I'm just following up from yesterday," said Potter. "What did that last speaker's remarks mean? I didn't know there were complaints of unfair treatment still hanging around."
"That was Derrick Armstrong, got a little rump holding up in the borderlands somewhere. He was done with school a bit before we started," said Neville. "I think he picks up a few galleons by fronting for people who don't have seats of their own or who do, but don't want to be associated in the public mind with some issue. They bring him their proposal and he makes a speech during remarks. Gets it into the public sphere that way."
"Where do you get all of that?" asked Potter.
"Came home and asked Gran," replied Longbottom.
"Of course," sighed Potter. "Now, another thing—that Armstrong speech reminded me I should probably have a lawyer on retainer. If something hits I don't want to be scrambling. What do you think of Greengrass' firm?"
"Full disclosure, Harry. You know she's a cousin of mine, of some degree? Not sure exactly which," asked Longbottom.
"Vaguely," said Potter.
"Okay, Daphne's pretty smart," Longbottom began. "There are two firms that outshine all the others and she is with one of them. No doubt in my mind she'll be very senior in some phase of the law by the time she's forty. Of course, she's a hopeless snob."
"Not prejudiced against half-bloods, is she? Because that probably wouldn't work. For one's lawyer, I mean," said Potter.
"Not as far as I know," answered Longbottom. "She was in Slytherin, of course, at school. Take from that whatever you think is legitimate."
"Yes, that, too," said Potter. "Bella and I never married, of course. The Black witches don't need anyone treating them as second-class citizens, just because necessity dictated we'd need to lead a slightly Bohemian lifestyle that is no fault of the witches."
Longbottom didn't respond right away, pausing to consider his friend.
"Harry?"
"Yeah?"
"You know I'd never judge you, right?" asked Longbottom.
"Of course," Potter replied.
"I also asked you, if you got the chance, to convey the Longbottoms' offer of forgiveness, if Bella felt a need," said Longbottom.
"Which I did," Potter mumbled.
"Yes. So hearing your euphemism of a 'slightly Bohemian lifestyle' for sailing the seas with a married woman twice your age, fornicating and making baby witches…"
That got to Potter, before jumping back to Longbottom.
When he could, Potter picked up the thread.
"Okay, it wasn't slightly Bohemian," he said.
"Neither slight, nor Bohemian," agreed Longbottom. "Daphne Greengrass—strong sense of propriety while strongly supportive of magicals, particularly our special privileges, you know?"
"Are you saying she's a rule-obeyer but will cut me some slack?" asked Potter.
"She might work out for what you're looking for in a lawyer, at least to start," said Longbottom. "Book a consultation. Half an hour, let's say. Tell her what you've got in mind. She's ethical enough, if she doesn't want the work, I'm sure she'll beg off and recommend someone who is a better fit."
Potter was both disappointed and impressed by the response from Lawyer Greengrass' admin assistant. He was thanked for considering their office and offered three different times and dates for their initial meeting. The soonest Potter could get in was four days hence.
When he arrived for his appointment, Potter was ushered into a comfortable lounge room. An elf brought tea. The cup and saucer had a look sufficient to jar memories of names such as Wedgewood and Limoges, although Potter didn't think it was from either of those companies. There were two little brown biscuits on the saucer.
Potter thanked the elf, lifted the cup and took a sip. One-half cup of tea and one biscuit later, the elf returned and invited Potter to return to the reception desk, where the witch in charge took over and led him to Daphne Greengrass' private office.
Greengrass stood up behind her desk, came around and extended her hand. Potter thought she might have given him one short, absolute-minimum smile, although he couldn't be sure.
"Welcome," she said. "How can I be of assistance today?"
Greengrass let a languid hand direct Potter to a side chair. He took the hand's advice in stride.
"Thank-you," Potter began as he sat. "Thank-you for getting me in, as well. I understand all the good lawyers are very busy these days."
Greengrass shrugged.
"I'm starting to support myself, which is a relief to my father, I'm sure," she said.
"Okay, I'll just get to it," said Potter. "Here's my situation…"
He started with his dual inheritances, both monetary and the real estate, especially Grimmauld Place. He mentioned his sailboat, which led to Anemone Black and how she came to be, leading on to Delphini.
"Stop, please," said Greengrass. "Formality. This really must be covered by privilege. Do you have a hundred galleons on you?"
Potter didn't give anything away, although he did feel like he was choking.
"That much?" he asked.
"How about ten galleons?" Greengrass tried.
"Yeah, I've got..," said Potter as he reached inside his robe.
"Give me ten," demanded Greengrass, holding out her hand.
Potter counted out ten galleons and slid them across the desk.
"Excellent," said Greengrass as she assessed the galleon pile. "I charge a hundred a year just to be your attorney. If you get popped for a D-and-D and I have to show up in front of the magistrate, the first hundred is covered. You just bought a month, so go ahead."
"You're my lawyer?" asked Potter.
"For thirty days," confirmed Greengrass.
"A hundred a year or ten a month? So twelve months…"
She couldn't resist although she knew she should as that was more professional.
"You did the math! Impressive, year-mate," said Greengrass. "Time is passing. You had some actual business and were just getting around to telling me what it is."
"Oh, yeah, my daughters' status is a bit irregular, to begin with, and that comment from Armstrong got my attention. Neville said he's a kind of free-lance public affairs shop who can get issues in front of the Wizengamot. What was that business about the Ministry deciding things in haste and treating some people unfairly?"
"Okay, let's stop there," said Greengrass. "The Black witches—you're their father or step-father?"
"Father," said Potter.
"Good," said Greengrass. "What documentation do you have?"
Potter was glad he'd brought all the paperwork relating to the witches.
"Ane is my daughter, with Bella Black of the Jamaica Blacks," he said as he handed over Ane's Trinidadian birth certificate.
"Anemone—lovely name, by the way—was born in Trinidad? While you and her mother were in port?" asked Greengrass.
"Yes, we were on a sailing tour of the Caribbean," said Potter.
"Uh-huh," said Greengrass. "And Delphini—I don't see a birth certificate—was born here?"
"Right," said Potter. "This won't go outside this office?"
"Anything you tell me is untouchable unless by keeping silent it incriminates me," said Greengrass.
Potter wasn't sure whether he was in the clear or not but figured in for a penny, in for a pound.
"Bellatrix Lestrange, at the request of the Dark Lord, bore him a child. She collaborated with him and, I think, also with her husband, Rodolphus Lestrange. When she sensed her own time was getting short, she asked me to look up her daughter, if she was still alive, and check on her welfare."
"Go on," said Greengrass.
"I did what she asked," said Potter. "Found Delphi, who was being fostered by a witch named Euphemia Rowle. I assessed her situation and accepted her transfer from Mrs. Rowle to me."
"Ahh-hhh," Greengrass said, articulating her exhalation instead of going to the trouble of forming words.
"Let me think," said Greengrass, pausing for what felt like minutes.
"So you were asked by the very, very bad witch Bellatrix Lestrange to look in on a child?"
"Yes," said Potter.
"The witch told you she had a baby with the Dark Lord?" asked Greengrass.
"Yes, although that did not turn out to be true," said Potter.
"Explain," said Greengrass.
"The baby is mine," said Potter.
"Oh, for Morgana's sake, how is that possible?" asked Greengrass.
Potter related a true, edited version of the story of the resurrection ritual he'd been put through in the cemetery in Little Hangleton and the truncated state of the Dark Lord's anatomy.
"There wasn't anyone else there who could describe his…umm…"
"Bits? No," said Potter. "When he stood up, there was Vol…the Dark Lord, sorry. Peter Pettigrew and me. They had already killed Cedric Diggory. The Dark Lord summoned his followers but by the time they got there, Riddle had put on a robe. So I'm the only one still alive who has seen his crotch. Bella didn't tell me how they did it so my working assumption is a turkey baster."
Greengrass actually laughed at that.
"And you're the father how, exactly?" she went on.
Potter spotted the goblins' inheritance test parchment.
"My blood was used in the ritual," he said. "It was taken from me by force. I had been immobilized but was fully conscious. I saw Pettigrew cut my arm, collect my blood on the knife blade and drop blood in the cauldron, all before he put the worm-thing—Oh! Sorry—the thing that Riddle had become, into the cauldron. There was a bone from Tom Senior, my blood and Pettigrew's hand."
"And the thing," added Greengrass as she looked at the goblins' parchment.
Potter nodded 'Yes.' No one said anything for quite a while. Lawyer Greengrass broke the silence.
"As far as Bellatrix Lestrange knew, she'd borne Riddle's baby?" asked Greengrass.
"That's correct," said Potter.
"Then you, at the behest of Bella…"
"Black, of the Jamaica Blacks," Potter offered.
"Per Ms. Black, you checked on Delphini?"
"As I'd promised, I called on Mrs. Rowle, to make sure the young witch was okay and being treated properly," said Potter.
"Not the recognized expert," said Greengrass, "But I feel safe in saying there is no precedent for this."
"Doubt it," said Potter. "Uther Pendragon notwithstanding."
"Funny you'd mention that," said Greengrass. "My family law tutor loved setting what he called thought problems. That was a favorite starting-point."
"So how did your blood migrate to Riddle's reproductive…"
Greengrass let her tongue outrun her thinking and caught herself up, face reddening as she ran her words back.
"If Riddle didn't have the right stuff, Bella could have intervened manually and transferred whatever he produced into herself. That is not a technical challenge, anatomically speaking. I'm thinking, out of Riddle, Senior, Pettigrew, the Dark Lord and myself, I turned out to be the one with sufficient vigor. I was not quite fifteen at the time. The others—Riddle Senior dead, Pettigrew more rat than man, the Dark Lord, resurrected wraith and vaguely human-looking."
He looked at Greengrass, who slowly raised one eyebrow while her eyes did a quick scan of Potter.
"Sorry," she muttered, her cheeks flushing a bit.
"S'okay," said Potter. "Always suspected witches did that."
"Right," said Greengrass. "Just keep it to yourself, if you would. Ethics and all, you know?"
Potter mimed locking his lips.
"I see we've gone over," said Potter, checking his watch. "You probably have clients. Why don't I go…"
Greengrass looked disappointed but resigned.
"Probably best," she said. "Depending on other demands on my time, I should be able to get you something useful within the next seven days. I've never encountered anything exactly like this…this…complex situation."
She looked chagrined, as if she knew a professional such as herself ought to be able to come up with a valedictory more profound than that.
Potter leaned over the desk, extending his hand, which Greengrass just touched with her own.
"Next time," he said.
"Next time," Greengrass replied.
Early the following day Potter tidied up some administration. He sent a note by owl post to his banker, the goblin Anvil, asking him to forward one hundred galleons to the chambers of the lawyer Daphne Greengrass as a retainer. Lawyer Greengrass, in turn, looked in an index of law journal articles seeking anything that might help her understand Potter's situation in regard to his parental rights and Delphini, who at various times might have been Delphini Riddle, Delphini Lestrange and/or Delphini Potter-Black. Her great fear was that no exact parallel situation had ever been adjudicated. Were that to be the case, the legal brains would start pulling down scrolls with dates starting before 1066, seeking precedent in the travails of Druid inheritance disputes. That was something to be avoided if at all possible.
