A/N: It seems I say this every chapter...but sorry for the delay (I moved house). Enjoy!

X. Blood Of My Blood

"Glory is fleeting, but obscurity is forever."

– Napoleon Bonaparte

Albion Potter reached out and placed a hand around his glass. His fingers shook slightly as he brought the glass to his lips, and slowly tipped the remainder of his drink down his throat, savouring the taste of a scotch only a few years younger than himself.

He placed several Galleons on the bar, and checked his watch.

Not much longer now.

He stood and adjusted his greatcloak, pulling it tighter across his shoulders. It was summer, but there was a chill in the air.

He did not acknowledge the barman's thanks as he left, leaving the door swinging in his wake.

It wouldn't be much longer now.

He cut an inconspicuous figure as he made his way along the cobbled street. Two lefts, straight along for a bit, and then a right down a side alley. He'd memorised the address, etched it into his mind.

The last vestiges of sun were disappearing on the horizon as the streetlights flickered into life. The occasional car ambled by. Muggle machines had always fascinated him, and he suddenly recalled a time, as a much younger man, when he and his brother Nathaniel had devoured books about internal combustion engines and gearboxes, with the intention of charming an Aston Martin sports car to go impossibly fast. Their project had come to a screeching halt when their mother had flatly informed them she would not permit such an exercise anywhere near the premises of the manor house.

His nephew, James, was arriving in London on the Hogwarts Express from Scotland today. The train would be pulling into the station at Kings Cross any minute now, if it had made good time.

Albion had always liked his nephew. He was, in many ways, the son he never had.

Albion rounded the corner to the side-street, and all thoughts of cars and family were pushed from his mind. The alley was deserted, but he took another glance backwards to make sure. Then, he slowly took his right hand from the pocket of his cloak, and snapped his fingers. In quick succession, the lights flickered out.

Soon, now.

He placed his left hand on his wand, holstered at his hip, and let out a slow exhale. Making his way down the alley, he turned and approached the second-to-last door.

Knock knock.

No answer. Albion lifted his closed fist to the door and gave it another sharp rap.

A moment later, the door crept ajar.

"Sorry, we're not interested. Don't need no newspaper or nothin'," a thin, reedy voice said, eyeing Albion up suspiciously.

"I'm not selling anything. I'm buying."

"We've got nothin' for sale neither. Best you be off."

"I was told Master Bortles resided at this address."

"Who's asking?" Albion made a show of jingling his coin pouch.

"A paying customer. I have Galleons burning a hole in my pocket."

The man peered at him a moment longer, and then, seemingly satisfied, opened the door wider.

"Come in."

"Thank you."

Albion followed the man down the hallway. The house was wretched. Paint was peeling from the walls, and a series of spidery cracks ran across the ceiling. A mottled rug lay over blackened floorboards.

The man gestured to a room to his left. In contrast to the hallway, it was warmly furnished. A seemingly new carpet covered the floor, and a long bookcase lined the far wall. A table and chairs sat in the middle of the room. A crystal decanter sat on the table, accompanied by several silver goblets.

"Mister Bortles will see you in 'ere shortly. But he don't like no wands."

"That's highly irregular."

"He's a careful man. You keep your wand, no sale. Gimme your wand, and he'll talk business."

Albion sat at the table, and handed over his wand.

"Then let's talk."

"I'll fetch 'im. Wait 'ere."

Albion exhaled softly.

Soon.

Bortles arrived a couple of minutes later, with three burly looking wizards in tow. As soon as he laid eyes on Albion, he drew his wand and pointed it at him.

"I don't fucking believe it," he exclaimed with a short, surprised laugh. "Albion Potter, as I live and breathe!"

Bortles was a thin, lanky man with sallow eyes and a face seemingly fixed in a mocking grin. His tone was light, but carried a dangerous edge to it.

"Tell me, Albion, how's your wife doing?"

Albion looked at him impassively, but didn't answer.

Bortles smirked.

"Bring him downstairs," he instructed, and one of the other wizards drew his wand.

"Stupefy!"


"You're an utter fool, Potter."

The room swam into focus. Albion regained consciousness to find he was highly bound to a chair, in another room. He glanced around quickly. It looked like a basement. Although dimly lit, he could make out a number of faces - faces he'd studied intensely, memorising their expressions, their eyes, freckles and scars.

They were all here.

A quiet surge of resolve flooded through him.

"What did you think you were going to accomplish by walking in here, unarmed?" Bortles said. His tone was mocking, and the smirk on his face was positively sadistic.

"Think you were going to avenge your kids?" Bortles asked, to jeering and catcalls from the group.

Crack.

Albion let out a yell of pain as Bortles shattered his kneecap with a sharp flick of his wand. The group gathered in the basement gave a collective murmur of appreciation.

"The losses we have suffered at your hands…" Bortles said, with a blazing fanaticism in his eyes.

Crack.

Second kneecap, gone.

"First, I'm going to make you pay for what your mates in the Auror Office have done to us."

Bortles tapped his clenched fist with his wand, and slammed it into Albion's gut. It felt like a sledgehammer. Albion gasped for air, as crushing pain blossomed across his chest.

"And then you're going to die."

Bortles drew back his fist, then delivered a sickening hook to Albion's face.

Albion Potter lifted his head, tasting the thickness of blood in his mouth.

Soon, so very soon.

An unspeakable loss danced behind his eyes, dark and still defiant. He spat, and then replied quietly.

"I decided to die two weeks ago."

Bortles frowned, taken back.

"What the fuck are you–"

The confusion on Bortles' face gave way to sudden comprehension as Albion let out a guttural roar…

…and ignited his soul.


The Auror Commander was not having a good day. He exhaled slowly, massaging his forehead with the tips of his fingers, and looked at the group of senior Aurors assembled in his office.

"27 people are dead. What a fucking clusterfuck!"

"My brother is one of those dead," Nathaniel Potter said solemnly.

"I'm sorry, Potter. I really am. But I have to ask. Did you have any idea, any knowledge whatsoever that he would do this?"

"Not a clue," Nathaniel replied, his expression grim.

"How did he access those files?"

"He's - he was a Wiengamot member," another Auror volunteered. "He had clearance."

"There's a difference between having clearance and knowing where to find things we don't want found," another pointed out.

"Excuse me sir."

A nervous-looking Executive Officer interrupted the group of senior Aurors.

"Sorry Commander, the Minister wants to see you. He's demanding to know why we didn't see this coming. Word from his office is that it's going to be a PR disaster."

The Commander slammed his fist down on the table.

"Fucking hell!"


Horace Horton, editor-at-large at the Daily Prophet, was not the sort of man accustomed to being interrupted in the middle of his afternoon nap. New journalists at the newspaper quickly learned that any business requiring Horton's attention after lunch could damn well wait until 2:30pm, when, like clockwork, Horton would wake up to prepare the Evening edition.

"Sir."

Horton woke with a startle and immediately checked his watch. 2:08pm.

He narrowed his eyes at the nervous staffer sent in to wake him up, his moustache bristling.

"This had better be–"

"Albion Potter is dead."

That would do it.

"How?" Horton barked.

"He gained access to some Magical Law Enforcement files on Voldemort's people. He found out where some of them were living, walked in the front door, and then blew the house up with himself in it."

"Blew it up?"

"Explosion. The Muggles have been told it was a gas leak."

"Fuck…" Horton trailed off.

"He wasn't right after they got his family," the staffer opined.

"Clearly," Horton replied. "When did this happen?"

"Er, last night sir."

"And I'm only just hearing about it now?" Horton's moustache bristled dangerously.

"Sorry sir, our sources inside the MLE only just found out about it themselves. The Aurors were playing this one close to the chest."

"Right," Horton replied, his brow furrowed in thought. "Put our best people on it. I want it on the front page within the hour. Full inside spread in the evening edition. Chop chop!"


They had all come, despite the rain.

From beneath the rim of his umbrella, James looked around at the group assembled in the London cemetery.

A fleet of black cars had deposited what looked like half the Auror Office amongst the gravestones dotted in orderly rows on the well-kept lawn.

By the Aurors, in somber black, were a huddle of senior Wizengamot figures – those who had been closest to his uncle. The Minister for Magic's Chief of Staff stood a few feet away, surrounded by a retinue of undersecretaries.

And then, in twos and threes, representatives from most – if not all – the great pureblood houses of Wizarding Britain. The Potters were not members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

But they didn't need to be.

Money opened every door that status usually held closed.

And after all, it was good to be in business with the Potters.

"Prongs."

"Padfoot."

Adorned in black motorcycle leathers, Sirius stood out from the rest, his helmet held casually at his hip.

"Shite day for it."

"Yeah."

There was a pause as Sirius fidgeted with the visor of his helmet, and James continued his study of the crowd.

"Has Moony said anything?" Sirius asked suddenly.

"No."

"It's been three months."

"You hurt him pretty badly, Padfoot."

Sirius nodded.

"Suppose I'll – I don't fucking believe it!" he exclaimed. "Lucius fucking Malfoy."

"Guess he's come to pay his respects," James said bitterly, watching the silver-haired wizard pause to speak to a colleague in the Wizengamot.

"And Macnair too," Sirius said. "The fucking nerve. Wonder why they showed?"

Alastor Moody shuffled past them with a slight limp and a thunderous expression on his features.

"Clearly you're not the only one who'd like to know," James said quietly.


She couldn't quite place it, but there was a tension in the air, Lily decided, as she made her way down Diagon Alley on a sunny August afternoon. Around her, expressions were pinched and drawn, their glances were more furtive, and the steady bustle of people shopping was more hurried.

They were afraid.

To the Muggle-born witch, it was discomforting. Magic had always bestowed a certain feeling of safety - that wounds could be healed or dangers expelled with the simple wave of a wand.

But magic could not fix broken hearts or broken minds, she had surmised, after reading about a gas leak in the local newspaper two weeks ago - and then reading a very different story in another.

She had considered writing to Potter afterwards, but had thought better of it.

What could she say to him that he wouldn't already hear? What inane sympathies and platitudes could she express any better than anyone else? It wouldn't change things one bit, she had decided, with her quill poised above a piece of parchment.

And besides, they weren't that close.

Sure, a couple of late-night conversations, a chance run-in at Hogsmeade, and the business with Remus and Severus had meant she'd spoken to him more in the last couple of months than she had in the same number of years.

But they weren't close.

Speak of the devil.

There, sitting at a table in the sun, holding a Fortescue's Famous Fudge ice cream dangerously close to melting completely, was Potter, looking like he didn't have a care in the world.

She hesitated, suddenly unsure if he would want company. He seemed to be alone - and perhaps after the business with his uncle, he'd prefer it that way.

"Evans!" James turned and raised his sunglasses, waving her over.

Clearly, he didn't mind company.

"We keep meeting," she remarked by way of greeting.

"It's uncanny, really," he replied, before kicking out a seat with his foot. "Here."

"Are you sure you're not stalking me?" she said, sitting down.

"Why would I when I have connections in the Auror office that can do that for me."

Florean Fortescue bustled over, and Lily ordered a raspberry sundae – "a fine choice, Miss Evans."

"Potter, I heard about your uncle. I'm so sorry."

James shifted uncomfortably.

"Thank you. It's okay. A part of me – I don't know – expected it, perhaps. Not that any of us had any idea what he was going to do, but…things weren't right with him after…well. You know."

"Yeah."

Fortescue returned with Lily's sundae and she handed him a couple of coins.

"Have you spoken to Remus? Or Sirius?"

"Yeah, both of them. Honestly I'm tempted to lock them in a room together and let them fight it out."

"That sounds healthy."

"Can't be the worst idea," James said, taking a bite of his ice cream cone.

"Suppose not," Lily agreed, then let out a laugh. "You've got ice cream all over your face."

"Don't critique my ice cream eating, Evans."

"What, aim the cone somewhere in the vicinity of your face and hope that some of it ends in your mouth?"

"You're taking all the fun out of this."

"I didn't realise I was eating ice cream with a six year old."

He shot her a flat look, and then took another bite.

"How're your hols?" he said, reaching for a napkin.

"Er, good," she replied. "A bit boring really."

"How's your sister?" James asked. "Whatsername. With the face."

"Petunia."

"My next guess."

"She's revolting."

"As in, she's been reading Karl Marx or she's disgusting?" James queried.

"She's met this bloke called Vernon."

"Ghastly name," James interjected.

"And she's been fawning all over him all summer. It's Vernon this, Vernon that," Lily said, making a face. "Vernon can barely fit through the front door."

"He sounds charming."

"He's just gotten a promotion at the place he works for, and Petunia is telling anybody within earshot it means he'll propose to her soon."

"How long has she known him?"

"Six months," Lily replied. "They started walking out together soon after."

"Merlin."

"She's desperate to get married – I really don't understand why," Lily added.

"You don't understand why she wants to get married, or why she wants to get married to him?"

"Well, both," said Lily. "I mean, I can see what she sees in him. Vernon has money and likes to spend it on her. Which is fine by Petunia. But it's not what I'd want."

"What do you want?" asked James, meeting her gaze, his eyes intent.

"I don't know."

"You don't know what you want?"

"No one's ever asked me."

"I just did," James replied, wiping his face with a napkin and scrunching it up.

"Well, after Hogwarts, I'd like to travel. I've never been further than France really."

James nodded.

"And then?"

"No idea. Maybe a Ministry job. Slughorn mentioned I'd be a good Healer. You?"

"See which Ministry Department will offer the highest starting salary for my services."

"Prick."

He smirked.

"I always assumed I'd join the Aurors."

"Not Quidditch?"

"Perhaps. I've talked to a couple of scouts but Association rules mean teams can't approach me formally until the end of the Hogwarts season. But I don't know if I'd enjoy it the same if it was my job."

"So Magical Law Enforcement then."

"Yeah," James replied, and cocked his head to the side. "Y'know, Sluggy might be onto something. Top of the year, Head Girl…St Mungos would be lucky to have you "

"You think I'll get Head Girl?"

"Sure. It's no contest," James replied easily. "And even if it was, Dumbledore would still choose you."

"I don't know," Lily said.

"You've thought about it though," James said, and Lily couldn't help but feel he was testing her somehow. "Every Prefect does."

"I guess it'd be nice," she admitted.

"Every Head of House likes you," James said, ticking off on his fingers. "You're best in the year at Charms, so that's Flitwick. Slughorn goes without saying. Professor Sprout likes everyone. And McGonagall would never admit to favourites, but it's definitely you."

"I would've said you were."

"Nah, can't be me. I cause her too much trouble," James replied. "The the only reason why Minerva hasn't kicked me out yet is because I keep the Quidditch Cup in her office."

"Who do you think will get Head Boy?"

"I obviously want it to be Remus, but seeing as you're a lock for Head Girl, it rules him out. Dumbledore never goes for two Heads from the same House," James replied. "Other than that, I don't really care."

"I guess we'll know soon enough."

They sat in awkward silence for a moment, ice creams long finished.

"I didn't ask how your holidays are going," Lily said, eager to fill the sudden pause in conversation.

"I've got a ball this weekend," James said distastefully.

"You can dance?"

"I'm a pureblood, Evans. I could waltz before I could fly."

"Where is it?"

A pained look crossed his features.

"We're hosting."

"You're joking."

"If only."

"It's a marvel you can talk so much with the silver spoon rattling around inside your mouth like that."

James smirked.

"I imagine the guest list is very exclusive," Lily added.

"The Minister had to fight for an invitation," James said dryly.

"What's the ball for?"

"It's a charity event," he replied. "Raising money for some social initiative."

"Typical pureblood," she said. "Throw money at the problem and hope it goes away."

"Being pureblood isn't everything it's cut out to be, Evans," James said. "You're no better at magic. You have to deal with the scrutiny of society. And the expectations that people have of you are immense."

"The pressure must be unbelievable," Lily replied, suddenly annoyed at him. "How you cope, I can't imagine."

"Evans, I don't–"

"It's much worse being a Muggleborn," Lily interrupted.

"I'm not saying it isn't," James conceded. "I'm just saying that being different wouldn't necessarily help."

"Can you name one Muggleborn witch or wizard on the guest list?" Lily asked pointedly.

"No," James admitted quietly.

Lily stood and hooked her bag over her shoulder.

"I've got to go, Potter."

He nodded. "Sure."

"I'll see you at Kings Cross. Have fun at your ball."

She didn't wave or look back at him as she walked away.

After all, they weren't that close.


A/N: Let me know what you think! I always look forward to hearing your thoughts.