THE GRIM OF NIGHT
July 31, 11 years after Godric's Hollow
Culver Down, Isle of Wight
A 13-year-old boy sorcerer gazed upon a chalk cliff from a rocky shore of a South East England island. Bathed in the rays of July's final sunset, Harold scanned the rock face for the cave known for centuries as the Hermit's Hole.
"You shall not find the entrance to my hollow with mundane sight," his master informed. "The opening closed to the muggle world decades agone. You must search for the enchantment I cast over my portal and prove worthy of admittance."
"Master, will your chamber open for me? Or do I need to dematerialize to enter?" Harold inquired.
The dark lord laughed.
"Your zeal is commendable. But even if you proved capable of such a feat now, only the greatest masters of transfiguration can transport a companion likeso," the infernal sorcerer stated. "And you will find that muggle boy most useful in the hollow."
Harold spared a glance at the terror-stricken Piers Polkiss. The day's visit to Little Whinging, Surrey revealed that while Dumbledore spirited the Dursleys away from the town, the meddlesome wizard neglected the muggles' friends. The boy sorcerer spent his birthday morning repaying Diddykins' former pack for every injury they foisted upon him. Every taunt. Every strike. Every stone.
Once the lesser three suffered their retribution, Harold disposed of their remains in dumpsters – just as their cur of a leader once intended to do to him. But Polkiss, the most vicious creature of them all, earned special treatment. The boy sorcerer selected it as the tribute he would offer to his master's hollow.
"What say you, filth?" Harold snarled at his onetime bully. "Did you hear the Dark Lord? You'll be useful for the first time in your magic-forsaken existence."
The pallid muggle only shook its head as it sobbed soundlessly.
"Do lift the silencing enchantment when you have that thing drink from my Well of Woe," Vastator Mortis advised. "You will find its wails most amusing, I think."
Harold grinned maliciously as he sat himself on his besom. Commanding his captive, the boy sorcerer forced the cur to sit behind him on the hovering broom without the capacity to act on a single treacherous thought.
"I will devour its tears as my master's guardians feast on its flesh," Harold anticipated.
The Destroyer of Death nodded in assent as his apprentice soared toward the cliff face.
Despite his intimate connection to his master's sorcery, Harold took a quarter-hour to locate the precise entrance. He projected his dark aura into the special section of chalk wall and proclaimed his loyalties in the serpent tongue. On a whim, he flicked his wand at his tribute and extracted blood to press against the entryway.
A two-meter circle of rock transfigured into ethereal mist, allowing Harold to glide into a Stygian cavern. Basking in the howls of long-dead spirits and the roars of the raging whirlpool that dominated the chamber, the boy sorcerer followed his clairvoyance to a crystal formation standing tall in the eye of the vortex. Parking upon it, he disembarked and allowed his tribute to make sounds once more.
"Please, please, please!" the whelp begged. "I-I'm so so sorry. W-won't do an-any-anything. Pleaaase."
"Hear how it begs," Harold commented to the ten-foot king cobra within his mantle. "What do you think, friend? Does this former tormentor of mine deserve mercy?"
Halogi hissed violently with the timbre of a canine growl, making the wretch before them shriek in terror.
"Halogi says that you shall reap what you sowed," Harold translated.
"I'll do anything!" the whelp wailed as restless spirits whipped around them.
"Then drink," Harold commanded, pointing to the basin at the center of the crystal rise.
The whelp wept, before shrieking and urinating upon receiving a three-second Cruciatus.
"Drink," Harold repeated after anesthetizing the muggle's pain.
Looking into the eyes of the pitiful creature before him, Harold saw it consider leaping into the inky maelstrom. However, frightened by the lethal waters and the hellish battalion that lay within, the whelp clammered to the pinnacle of the structure and began its task.
"No!" it squawked, flailing and slipping toward the unforgiving waters. With a sigh, Harold waved his wand and forced the impudent muggle back to the basin.
"Drink," Harold ordered again.
The creature began bawling, but a vicious hiss from Halogi convinced it to drink again. And again. And again.
"C–can't. Pleaaase. S-s-o sowwy. N-no. Aaah!" the whelp then mewled to the tune of a choir of disembodied cackles.
"Now, now, Polkiss. Where was all this emotional depth when you and your leader treated me like your personal pinata?" Harold chided.
"D-Dud-Duds made me!" the creature claimed.
Harold's laughter echoed above the din of the Dark Lord's Hollow.
"You are a muggle of the filthiest kind," the boy sorcerer sneered as he flayed one of its legs. So deep was his disgust at the creature before him that he didn't mind the spray of its dirty veins, even if some of the detestable liquid landed on his person. "Even the mud of my mother's blood never denied their transgressions against me. Mind you, I'll torture Petunia and her son till they beg for death. But you—you don't just beg. You throw everything at your leader's feet, when you were the most vicious of the pack! When you would hold me down while your fellow mongrels beat me till I thought I would choke on my own blood. When you once held me under so long the doctors didn't believe I would survive."
"And," Harold grinned maliciously as he twirled his wand. "When you learned of the myth of Ouranos, and wanted to try castrating me, the demon freak. Why, that's one of the only times I remember your precious Diddykins defending me. Care to comment?"
The whelp whimpered.
"Unfortunately for you, I count your intent as worthy of punishment as action," Harold whispered menacingly. "Penis incendo."
Although this malediction inflicted considerably less pain than a Cruciatus, the creature howled more dramatically than ever before.
"Now, drink," Harold ordered. "Or I will increase your suffering a dozenfold."
While he could simply Imperio his subject into compliance, the boy sorcerer found it so much more fun to break the whelp until it drank from the Well of Woe until completion. And the best part? Each time it took a break, the well began to refill!
Hours later, the nearly-dead eunuch completed its Tartarean task, revealing a golden, octagon-shaped locket adorned with an emerald, S-patterned serpent on its center. Harold stretched out his senses to admire the talisman from afar, knowing that physically displacing it would incur the wrath of his master's guardians. At least, he did so until he determined something to be amiss.
"Cling tightly to me, Halogi. I may be making a very fast exit," Harold warned his friend. "And you, boy that is no longer a boy. Bring the locket to me."
The boy sorcerer then seized his besom with his left hand, knowing he would have no time to review the locket in the cave. But though he chanced incurring the wrath of the dark lord, his intuition told him that something was wrong with the object of power his master commanded him to observe.
Upon receiving the locket, Harold flew as fast as he ever had for the cave entrance, not even bothering to watch as dozens of inferi leapt from the whirlpool to tear the muggle defiler asunder. The boy sorcerer sped under the midnight sky to the shore where his master awaited, leaping from his besom upon arrival without bringing the broom to a full stop.
"I sense distress, apprentice," Vastator Mortis remarked as Harold hurriedly knelt before him.
"Master…I believe something is wrong with your locket," Harold stated while presenting it to his master.
The dark lord reached out an ashen hand to collect his ancestral talisman. As soon as he touched it, the surrounding air turned frigid and a howling whirlwind assailed the beach.
Bowing his head to the ground in fear, Harold shivered as he heard his master hiss at the Slytherin necklace. When the talisman did not respond, the boy sorcerer felt the most bitter of chills descend upon the shore. Waves of dark energy poured from the Destroyer of Death, heralding the most terrible sound Harold had ever heard.
"Regulus!" an eight-voiced cry bellowed from both within and without Harold.
A maelstrom of power erupted from the dark lord and flung Harold two-dozen feet away. Landing roughly on his back, the boy sorcerer gasped as he saw a mass of tenebrous clouds transform into the mark of the Dark Lord Voldemort. But instead of releasing a 49-fold death scream into the air, it roared with the eight-voiced rage.
The wrathful dark lord vanished from the beach seconds later, but a winded Harold spent the next several minutes quivering in fright before his familiar helped him to his feet.
August 3
Manerium Mortis
Both Harold and Nagini sensed their master's return to the manor and rushed to the throne room to prostrate themselves before the incensed dark lord.
"Betrayal!" Vastator Mortis raged. "Walburga's son betrayed me!"
The two subjects shivered in silence as the Lord of Mortis hissed the diabolic torments he would have inflicted upon the deceased Death Eater.
"You, apprentice!" Vastator Mortis directed at Harold. "Heir to the House of Black! You must find my locket, the true locket of Salazar Slytherin. This I command!"
"M–master?" Harold stammered in confusion.
"Did I stutter?" the dark lord sneered as he hovered above his apprentice's prostrate form. "As godson of Sirius Black, you are set to inherit all possessions and properties of his house. You shall search everything, leave no stone unturned, until you find your brother horcrux!"
Harold nodded frantically in spite of his befuddlement.
"You understand not what I am saying," Vastator Mortis growled, stormy-blue eyes flashing. "Heed my words, for I shall explain this once. In the event of my physical expiration, you are my most valuable anchor to this realm. But I invested portions of my soul in six other receptacles before you. One, the locket of Salazar Slytherin, the most sacred relic of my ancestors for a millennium, has been stolen! Stolen by Regulus Arcturus Black!"
"My favor for his mother blinded me," the dark lord lamented. "Walburga was the most exceptional of my early disciples, but the duties she assumed as Black matriarch limited her participation in my revolution. In her stead, she promised her sons to my full service. The elder fled into the arms of Dumbledore, but I believed she succeeded in raising her younger. Alas! He robbed me of my locket and attempted to destroy it!"
Harold gasped.
"My horcrux yet exists on this plane. I have sensed it, and so have you," Vastator Mortis stated. "But its whereabouts elude me. Regulus must have secreted it to a Black property accessible only to the senior line of the family."
"This leads me to my mission for you," he addressed Harold. "The once dominant House of Black hovers a wizard away from name extinction, at which point proprietary rights can be seized by the wizard with the strongest ties to the final house head. You, godson of Sirius Black — as well as second cousin if I recall your family tree correctly, will hold both the strongest claim and the support of the chief warlock."
"Dumbledore would give me ownership of House Black?" Harold asked.
"Unless he is more senile than I remember, he'll choose you over Lucius' son," Vastator Mortis asserted. "But to avoid entanglement with Dumbledore, I advise you get Sirius Black to formally name you as heir before the Wizengamot."
"Master, is he not damned to life in Azkaban for relieving the world of a dozen muggles?" Harold inquired.
"Apparently, he grew weary of his accommodations," the dark lord remarked. "And his most grievous alleged sin was serving as my spy in Dumbledore's militia, which he most certainly did not. Find and exonerate him, and I am sure the Wizengamot will pardon him for the muggles caught in the crossfire of his battle with my true spy: Peter Pettigrew."
"But what of Pettigrew, master?" Harold wondered. "He is one of yours…"
"One who failed to search for his lord, despite the many signals I gave to my followers this side of Azkaban," Vastator Mortis snarled. "Pettigrew's life is a trifle next to proprietorship of the House of Black. Furthermore, play your part correctly, and you may convince Black to join my ranks. I would be most appreciative of his service."
"I will do everything in my power, my master," Harold promised.
"See that you do," his master demanded. "When I draw my wayward Death Eaters back into the fold, Lucius will seek to re-establish himself as my lieutenant. Bellatrix will vie for that position once I free her from Azkaban. And for all their rivalry, they would rather defer to each other than the half-blood ward of Albus Dumbledore. To subordinate them, you must perform feats unquestionably beyond their capabilities."
Harold nodded solemnly, inwardly cursing the stain Dumbledore would foist upon him.
"Take heart," Vastator Mortis dictated. "Contemptible as the reputation of 'Harry Potter' is, it shall mask your true nature. In my Hogwarts years, I accomplished far more for the wizard cause as a no-name half-blood than I would have bearing my mother's name."
"Dumbledore will know my true nature," Harold griped before remembering himself.
"And he suspected mine after I killed that moaning mudblood," the dark lord returned. "Yet he did not stop Dippet from naming me head boy. And he went on to grant Lucius the rank himself. I suspect, creature of habit that he is, Dumbledore will keep his knowledge close to his chest. Recall, Quirrell believed that the geezer raised and trained you personally."
Harold curled his lip when he remembered the months of harassment he endured from the professor's astral. Suffice to say, he could thank the Muggle Studies professor for his proficiency at handling ornery spirits.
"But we must leave this aside for now," Vastator Mortis declared. "Less than a month remains before you depart for Hogwarts, and we have not a second to waste."
August 30
London
Harold strode through streets of London with the gait of a prince returning to his homeland after a great conquest. Though his superior clothing and modelesque face garnered many a gaze, the boy sorcerer exuded authority far beyond his five-foot-three stature. Thus, the muggles made way for their better, as was only right.
Naturally, none realized that within his shadow moved the greatest sorcerer of the past millennium. However, this allowed Harold a bittersweet farewell walk with his beloved master.
What shall your first destination be when you cross the threshold? the dark lord questioned telepathically.
Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley, Harold dutifully replied. I am to seek out Borgin and secure his services as an informant. Particularly regarding the whereabouts of Sirius Black.
And how will he contact you while you are all the way up at Hogwarts? the Lord of Mortis followed.
Through my familiar, Harold answered with a tinge of sorrow. He did not question his master's wisdom, but it hurt to abandon his sole friend before embarking on his trip to Hogwarts.
Despair not for your serpent, apprentice, the Heir of Slytherin instructed. He shall be far safer in a domain of dark wizards than in a castle run by enemies of Slytherin.
Harold grimaced at the hell he would soon be resigned to. He hoped Malfoy, Parkinson, Crabbe, Goyle and Nott, faithless though their parents were, would make his prison somewhat bearable.
The torment of repression will be one of your greatest allies, the dark lord advised. It is the fire through which I forged pampered pureblood heirs and heiresses into elite soldiers.
But the ones with Death Eater parents will have a measure of training, right? Harold asked.
I am uncertain, the dark lord confessed. My wayward vassals bowed to a muggle-serving ministry, so would they raise their children as warriors for wizardkind? Or have they taught their children to bear the yoke of Albus Dumbledore, chafe though they may?
How will I train them if they are deficient? Harold inquired. And others like the Oliver Quirrell boy? Dumbledore will be watching me closely.
At the base of the Defense Against the Dark Arts Tower lies a wall with three analog clocks, his master entrusted. Set each to 6 o'clock, and you will find an undercroft warded by Salazar Slytherin himself. Within it, I shared with my Hogwarts coven knowledge Dumbledore hoarded from us.
Hoarded? Harold wondered at the word choice.
Never fall for his grandfatherly facade. Do you understand, apprentice? Vastator Mortis commanded. He is a fool in many ways, but his command over magic is second only to mine. And though he chooses to cater to the weak rather than rally the strong, he possesses an intellect more formidable than yours may ever be.
Harold briefly deflated at the assertion, before resolving to surpass Dumbledore in all aspects — whether it would take a century or a millennium.
Your determination does you credit, the Destroyer of Death complimented. All the same, I forbid you from making any attempts on his life. It will be many years before you can hold your own against a wizard of his caliber, much less have a hope of victory.
Who may I kill at Hogwarts then, my master? Harold requested.
Delightful as your thirst for blood is, you will find Hogwarts to be one of the most challenging locations in which to conduct a murder. Much less get away with it, the Heir of Slytherin warned. If you succeed, I doubt you will do so more than once. Thus, I recommend the son of Frank and Alice Longbottom.
How dangerous will he be? Harold inquired.
The Longbottoms were two of my fiercest opponents during the revolution, and their son was one of the two children Dumbledore believed could one day destroy me, Vastator Mortis explained. When I liberated you from his grasp, he doubtlessly began training the spare in earnest.
Harold licked his lips in anticipation of dueling Dumbledore's prize student. Hopefully, the old fool cherished Longbottom; the killing would be more delicious than unicorn blood.
We approach the last pocket of London that wizards retain. For now anyhow, Vastator Mortis announced as Harold approached a dingy corner shop.
This is the entrance to the wizard borough? Harold sneered at the worn painting and the dilapidated sign of the "Leaky Cauldron."
Disgraceful, is it not? Vastator Mortis shared in sentiment. Regardless, you remember how to get into Diagon Alley?
In this…establishment…there is a door at the back right which leads to a small brick-walled room. At its back wall are several indented segments. I choose one and tap a wand around it in the pattern of a five-point star. It will then open to reveal Diagon Alley, Harold recited from the memory his master had granted him.
Good, Vastator Mortis approved. My Harold shall not bumble about like a common mudblood.
Harold however came to a standstill in front of the tavern entrance.
This, this is where I leave you, Harold thought morosely.
We are joined by soul and blood, my apprentice and heir, Vastator Mortis reminded him. I am with you wherever you go and in whatever you do.
I…I don't want to go, Harold bemoaned as the weight of his imminent separation from his master bore down upon him.
Albus Dumbledore forced this upon us, the dark lord replied. One day, he shall pay with everything he holds dear. But for now, I am afraid we must indulge his game. I know not what he will curse you with should you renege on your vow.
Harold hung his head.
Head high, Vastator Mortis charged. You are scion of the Masters of Death and the blessed apprentice of the Destroyer of Death. Few could hope to be your equal even as you are now, and your power shall multiply in the coming years.
Harold gathered his wits, straightened his trench coat, firmly clutched his suitcase, assumed a royal posture, intook a deep breath, released it, and crossed the threshold into wizard society.
The Heir of Mortis entered Wizard London with a scowl. The bartender all but asked if he was a mudblood just because he "hadn't been 'round these parts before." It took inordinate self control to hold back a sharp Cruciatus.
Fortunately, the bumbling hordes of Diagon Alley parted for him as he strode through the streets. Even the children seemed to sense his princely presence, and his chilly aura and haunting pallor dissuaded his many onlookers from imposing upon his person.
"It is worse than I feared," Harold hissed at the friend hidden within his trenchcoat. "They don't realize how completely they've surrendered to the filth."
Halogi voiced his disgust in a growl-like hiss that made more than one passerby gasp like a gossiping muggle.
"I wonder if the traitors and mudbloods have made it a crime to speak in the sacred tongue," Harold wondered. "How will they react when they learn it to be their precious Harry Potter's native language?"
Halogi hissed his contempt for the cancers that crippled wizard society. The equally displeased Harold quickened his pace until he found the domain of wizard society's rejects. Though some of the first Knockturn Alley characters he passed by leered, the boy sorcerer dispelled any presumptions by opening his trenchcoat to reveal an open-fanged king cobra.
Not very deep into the backstreet, Harold found his destination. The most legendary antique shop in the British Isles, Borgin and Burkes once stood proudly at the center of Diagon Alley before feckless warlocks on the Wizengamot forced it from its place of honor. Yet in Harold's view, the somber surroundings gave the store more credit – and sorted out unworthy clients. Approaching the threshold, the boy sorcerer nodded at the black wolfdog on patrol before venturing inside.
"It has been some time since I have had a customer so young," an aged voice welcomed him.
"I reckon Hogwarts teaches them to be as superstitious as muggles," Harold answered as he admired the resplendent collection.
"True wizarding blood counts for less and less these days," the store owner deplored.
"Not with my house, Mr. Borgin," Harold affirmed while allowing his familiar to crawl out. "Never with my houssse," he sibilated in sync with a hiss from Halogi.
"By Fay herself!" Borgin gasped. "Could it be? I feared your bloodline was lost, friend."
"The legacy of Slytherin lives on," Harold proclaimed. "And the Ministry shall rue the day they attempted to crush true wizards under heel. But I have a favor to ask, friend. I have lost track of an esteemed relative. Have you seen this wizard around these parts?" he inquired as he handed over a photograph.
"Admittedly, he may not look so dashing after a decade in Azkaban," the boy sorcerer amended.
"Ah, Sirius Black," Borgin murmured. "Not many dare say his name, especially after he killed that Beauxbatons half-breed."
Harold chuckled. "In a proper civilization, he would receive an award."
"I must say, you are a breath of fresh air," Borgin chortled. "I cannot say I have seen Black in this neighborhood, but I will let you know if I spot him, Mister…?"
"Mortis. Harold Mortis," the boy sorcerer answered. "Unfortunately, I will have to go by a different name at Hogwarts. But my serpent's ears are my own, if you would have him. I imbued him with the power to understand English, and I dare say he can guard you as well as your dog."
"Dog?" Borgin questioned. "No matter. I will be glad to buy him for fifteen galleons."
"I am loaning him," Harold clarified. "But only for the price of updates on the whereabouts of Black and keeping any purchases I make today off the books."
"Well, who am I to argue with that," Borgin accepted. "Going to Hogwarts, you said?"
"Under protest," Harold sighed. "Dumbledore fancies himself too noble to kill a boy, but he wants to keep his eyes on me. He resents that I stood my ground against violent muggles."
"First, they made us surrender to the filth without retribution for the hunts," Borgin griped. "Now, the traitors that run the Ministry have passed a Muggle Protection Act to strip us of the right to self defense. Before we know it, they'll turn us into the muggles' house elves!"
"Who wrote that bill?" Harold snarled.
"Weasley," Borgin informed.
"His wand should be snapped!" Harold growled. "We'll see how much he loves his muggles when he lives among them without his powers. He…wait, Weasley is the one with that whole gaggle of children at Hogwarts, right?"
"Unfortunately," Borgin confirmed.
"Not so unfortunate," Harold considered as he walked toward an enthralling opal necklace. "Does he have a daughter at that school?"
"Why, yes, I do believe so," Borgin answered.
"Well, I know what I'm buying," Harold determined.
"That beauty has claimed the lives of nineteen false witches," Borgin cackled.
"It will claim another soon enough," Harold laughed. "I think I'll also take the Hand of Glory. It reminds me of home."
"Quite the exquisite taste, I see," Borgin praised. "Rather pricey items, but in honor of our exceptional conversation, I will round the total price down to 150 galleons."
Harold smiled and reached into his suitcase to produce the payment. For any illicit purchases he would need, he received one thousand alchemically-created galleons from his master. The death of a Weaslette alone would be worth a fifteenth of the supply, nevermind bundled with an extra tool for terrifying insolent roommates.
Packing his new possessions, the boy sorcerer lifted his ten-and-a-half foot king cobra to the counter.
"Farewell, my dear friend," Harold told his familiar. "I will return for you come summer, but remember we are always connected. Treat this wizard well and defend him against enemies, but do not hesitate to strike if he affronts you. May the Heir of Slytherin be with you."
With a final nod to Borgin, Harold exited the store. Before forlorn musings could overtake him, however, he met an amusing sight.
"St–stay back, you stupid mutt!" a cloaked-and-hooded boy yelped at the guard dog. "I'm warning you. My father will turn you into a rug if you do not back away this instant!"
The dog released a series of noises that sounded like laughter, making its target drop the chest he was carrying.
"Y-you!" the boy called out to Harold. "Kill this thing, and everything in that chest is yours!"
"Do I look pressed for galleons?" Harold asked with an upturned eyebrow.
"Just help me, and I'll make it worth your while!" the boy pleaded.
Harold nearly left this boy to his fate, especially since he didn't seem to belong in the domain of decent sorcerers. In fact, he briefly considered driving the dog into bloodlust. However, the boy sorcerer could admit not all wizard children had the experience with dogs that he did. This gave him just enough sympathy to help the other boy this once.
"Your fear provokes it," Harold sighed. "It's been trained to sniff out filth and drive it from the alley. If you are a true wizard, the dog will let you pass into the store once you act at your station."
"I'm no mudblood or blood traitor!" the boy exclaimed, posture straightening instantly. "I am Draco Phoebus Malfoy."
Harold almost didn't believe him. The son of Lucius Malfoy, the grandson of Cygnus Black and Druella Rosier, cowering in front of a mere dog? To verify the boy's identity, Harold grabbed him by the arm and stared into his pale-blue eyes – only for the boy to jerk away.
"You! You just tried to read my mind!" Malfoy yelled.
"I had to be sure you were who you claimed to be," Harold placated. "Stand down boy," he ordered the dog.
With a final snarl at Malfoy, the wolfdog drew back and sat on its hind legs.
"It's rude to attempt to read a fellow wizard's mind!" Malfoy ranted.
"Key word is attempt," Harold huffed. "Your father has instructed you well in the basics of occluding your mind. Not that I couldn't penetrate your defenses, mind you."
Malfoy snorted.
"Now you act like a wizard of worth," Harold complimented.
"Says the one dressed in muggle clothes," Malfoy retorted.
"There's a feather's difference between this and Hogwarts attire," Harold rejoined.
"What would you know of Hogwarts?" Malfoy challenged.
"Enough to never attend willingly," Harold scoffed. "I hear you have a half-breed professor?"
"Two," Malfoy muttered.
"What!" Harold exclaimed.
"That beast Hagrid made faculty this year," Malfoy bemoaned. "He's always filling his gullet with half the liquor store at the Leaky Cauldron, and now he teaches!"
"This Hagrid," Harold wondered as an awful realization struck him. "Is this Dumbledore's half-giant stooge?"
"The very one," Malfoy confirmed. "Mind you, my father will run him out of the school by December, mark my words."
"Run this one out, and another will take its place," Harold stated. "We need to make an example out of the beast. One that will haunt half-breeds for the next 300 years."
"We?" Malfoy questioned.
"We will talk again soon," Harold promised Malfoy before walking back toward Diagon Alley. The blond called after him, realizing he hadn't gotten so much as a name, but Harold planned to use this "oversight" to ensnare the boy into conversation on the magic-forsaken train they would ride Sunday.
"Is there a reason you are following me?" Harold questioned Borgin's dog after turning into a dark, empty corner.
The dog woofed and wagged its tail when the boy sorcerer turned to face it.
"Aren't you supposed to be guarding Borgin and Burkes?" Harold inquired, at which the dog barked a seeming no.
"Are you…do you want me to be your owner?" Harold asked in disbelief. The dog gave two short barks that seemed to indicate yes.
"I haven't had a dog before, and I don't have a good history with your kind," Harold warned.
The dog appeared undeterred by this.
"That said, the warlock of mudbloods, traitors, and filth would never have allowed me to bring my serpent to Hogwarts," Harold considered. "And I could use a tracker, guardian and companion. Are you good at these things."
The dog panted and wagged its tail enthusiastically.
"Very well, consider this your trial run," Harold declared. "Mind you, I'm only doing this because I will soon be surrounded by enemies I cannot dispose of at my leisure. If you cross me, well, I doubt there are any rules about killing treacherous pets."
Harold's new dog gave a loud bark of indignation.
"I am fair," the boy sorcerer assured, realizing how harsh he must have sounded. "Treat me well, and I shall treat you well. Deal?"
The dog walked up to its new owner and nuzzled his legs, offering its head in a manner that suggested it wanted a petting. Sighing, Harold indulged his new dog.
"We should come up with a name for you," Harold declared as he rubbed his hand along the black fur. "You're mighty, dark, clever, and I reckon you can fight as fiercely as a wolf. The muggles would probably call you a hellhound."
The dog barked sharply, not liking this designation.
"Of course I was not going to call you that," Harold laughed. "You deserve something better. What about Grim?"
The dog barked further displeasure. It also vetoed Skriker, Barghest, and Cù-Sìth.
"Gwyllgi?" Harold offered, only for the dog to seem more annoyed than ever.
"Fine, you don't want a fearsome name?" Harold huffed. "You want a soft-and-cuddly name? Let's see just how much you like Padfoot!"
For some reason, the dog seemed ecstatic to be called this. Its mismatched iron-gray and royal-blue eyes almost glowed as it danced with delight.
"Well, well," Harold chuckled despite himself. "Come along then, Padfoot. Let's see what this Friday has in store for us."