III - Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary
After spending eight more days at St. Mungo's, Harry was finally free to go home. Well, sort of, since by "home," Golding meant the Blacks' residence—which didn't thrill Harry at all. Sure, he was happy to say goodbye to the white walls of his hospital room, but he had no desire to set foot in the Black household. If he had followed the story correctly, that meant they would soon be heading to 12 Grimmauld Place. The idea didn't excite him at all, of course. Harry had too many bad memories tied to that house. Whether it was the general atmosphere or the fact that it inevitably reminded him of Sirius, it depressed him. He had no desire to go near it, not even a little. Plus, he couldn't imagine the number of trinkets or dark magic artifacts the Blacks must have kept during their lifetime. It had been a real treasure hunt (an evil treasure, mind you) when Sirius was the last living member. So, with his ancestors alive and well, Harry definitely wasn't eager to go there. In short.
Yet, on the morning of the eighth day (and eight weeks after the infamous accident that landed him in the hospital), Melania—the boy's mother—appeared in his room. Harry remembered staring at her for a long time.
The eight days that had passed had been incredibly awkward. He was supposed to be their son and therefore probably show some affection towards her. On the other hand, Sirius had always described his family as a bunch of crazies, and sometimes, Harry had to admit that prejudices died hard. He felt a bit guilty at times when he caught Melania's gaze tinged with infinite sadness. He could see that she was trying not to upset the child he was—because physically, at least, he was just a kid. A kid who was supposed to not remember his life before the accident.
In short, it was complicated, and Harry hated complications.
So there were long moments of awkwardness during which Melania Black acted like a worried mother (she had tried to hug him, and Harry had jumped and pulled away with a hint of panic in his eyes) and moments where he and his new parents looked at each other without knowing what to say or do.
So, when he was given the green light to leave the hospital, Harry almost jumped for joy. Only, he was an adult nearing thirty, so instead, he let out a particularly long sigh of relief.
Are you ready? Do you have all your belongings? Antares's mother asked, waving her wand.
Harry raised an eyebrow because, really? He didn't have any belongings, to be exact. He had nothing, actually. No wand, no luggage, and the clothes he was wearing were of a particularly... unusual taste. Even Ron's dress robes from his fourth year didn't have as many frills as the shirt he was currently wearing. So this was the life of pureblood children? Wearing strange shirts and lots of lace? Imagining Malfoy dressed in such an outfit managed to cheer him up a bit, and he promised himself to send him a sample for posterity.
I am ready, he wrote on his notepad.
Melania Black nodded before extending her hand as a mother would naturally do to accompany her child from point A to point B. It was Harry's turn to stare at her for a long time. It was awkward. On one hand, because he was a grown man for crying out loud, and on the other, because he could see that his reaction continued to hurt the Black matriarch. With a pang in his heart and judging that no parent deserved to suffer such pain, Harry took the witch's hand as she was about to turn away, aborting her gesture in the process.
For a moment, Harry thought the woman was going to cry with joy. Her eyes were moist, and her expression was tormented. But because she was a Black, she gave him a nod, maintained her composure, and together, hand in hand, they left the horrid white room.
The journey didn't take particularly long. Mr. Black had apparently already taken care of the paperwork for his discharge, so they headed straight to the entrance hall of St. Mungo's. To his great surprise, they made no stop at the hospital's Floo Network.
Instead, they departed via Portkey, and honestly? If given a choice, Harry wondered if he wouldn't have preferred the Floo Network. Only, Melania had apparently thought about his little problem that went hand in hand with his unresolved deafness. Unable to hear himself pronounce any words, there was too much room for error for the child to give the wrong address and end up in who-knows-what-remote-location. Harry had also wondered about this, but since he was supposed to have forgotten a lot of things, he had thought it wiser to wait and see.
In the worst case, he would have bolted the moment he arrived in the aforementioned remote location and put as much distance as possible between himself and his deceased godfather's family. It was cruel, certainly, but sometimes you had to make do with what you had.
The journey via Portkey went exactly as Harry had feared: with lots of nausea, an unpleasant sensation, and a disastrous landing. Harry fell on his backside under the surprised look of Melania Black and the frown of Arcturus. Harry thought the man didn't do much besides frowning.
The magical letters he was beginning to seriously loathe appeared in the air.
Are you alright?
Red with embarrassment, Harry nodded.
In his time, he had eventually mastered arrivals, whether by Floo Powder or Portkey. It had been years since he had landed miserably. The child's body he possessed today... Harry wasn't used to it yet. It was strange. The center of gravity wasn't the same, and his movements were sometimes clumsy. He sometimes seemed not to know what to do with his limbs—or like he had a broomstick shoved somewhere—which, of course, didn't please the Black couple. Harry couldn't help it, and it wasn't even bad faith. Just a matter of habit.
Seeing his evident distress, Antares's mother knelt to be at eye level with the child. She adjusted the folds of her long robe, and for a moment, she seemed to search for her words before realizing it was quite useless.
I understand that all this feels strange to you, Antares, she said, the words appearing slowly. I can't assure you that everything will be fine, but your father and I are doing our utmost. I know it's frightening and in your state, you must be very confused about what's happening, but we'll go through this step by step
Harry blinked stupidly. Well, alright. He hadn't expected such delicacy from the witch. The visits to St. Mungo's hadn't been as numerous as one might expect from a parent seeing their child hospitalized, and Harry hadn't quite known what to think of it at the time.
He had too much on his mind to dwell on the lack of visits from Antares Black's parents or even worry about it.
Surely it was simpler for them to act like humans in the safety of their home. He didn't really see any other explanation. It was safe to say he had spent more time getting to know Barnaby Golding—the healer who had followed him throughout his recovery—than the boy's own parents.
Harry mouthed a silent "I know." He didn't have ink or a quill on hand, so he didn't bother writing anything or trying to form long sentences that required extra effort from everyone.
Melania offered him a small smile.
I'll show you your room now.
The room in question wasn't exactly what Harry had expected. To be completely honest, he had never seen a wizard child's room straight from the 1940s, let alone in the magical world. So he didn't really know what to expect. He had imagined a dark and damp dungeon with stone walls, cobwebs, and maybe one or two sacrificial circles. What could he say? He had a hidden cynical side and a lot of preconceived notions about this family, and that was already a fact.
In terms of references, Harry was used to his cupboard under the stairs, then to Dudley's second bedroom, which wasn't exactly a benchmark for comfort. He vaguely remembered the mess in his cousin's main room—for the little he had set foot in it—modern furniture, a television, and a video game console. Dudley had acquired a computer at some point and a stereo system. Suffice to say, he had come to terms with not finding any of that in a pureblood family's child's room like the Blacks.
As for Ron's room, the financial means weren't the same, and the comparison was difficult to make. Harry remembered, however, that it had seemed warm despite being small and cramped. The furniture had been simple, the bed covered with a patchwork quilt. He remembered the Quidditch figurines and posters of the same theme. The mess was about the same, and Harry had preferred it a thousand times over his room at the Dursleys'—which was entirely normal, after all.
Antares Black's room was… different. The room was large and bright. There was a big window with colored stained glass depicting magical creatures, with a view of the garden. The walls were covered with green and cream wallpaper with rather classic patterns of the time. The furniture was made of dark wood and of fine craftsmanship—luxurious. Harry counted several storage units and bookshelves full of books. There was also a large central chandelier with unlit candles and toys arranged on some shelves and on the floor. It felt like the room's occupant had been playing a few hours earlier before leaving without tidying up, distracted by a new activity.
But what mortified him the most was the child's bed, located at the back of the room against the wall. It was a canopy child's bed—with silky white curtains—which contrasted with the dark wood. There was certainly a majestic and costly aspect to it. But there were also bars halfway up that must have allowed the occupant to get out at will without necessarily falling during sleep.
Harry pursed his lips. The room was very pretty and far from what he had expected. But there was a crib, and that annoyed him because he was a bloody adult and having bars at his age was shameful.
What do you think? the witch asked.
She stood in the doorway with a faint smile on her lips. The emotion was visible on her face, and Harry thought back to the scattered toys in the room. Apparently, the boy's parents hadn't had the heart to clean up. Eight weeks in a coma was long. Harry had understood that there had been no guarantee that Antares would ever wake up. He could understand that they had left the room as it was, waiting for better news or out of fear of tempting fate.
He felt a pang of guilt. The kid was gone, and he was there, having taken away something precious from them. This little being who seemed deeply loved—at least, by the witch. Arcturus Black was still a great mystery that Harry wasn't sure he wanted to unravel.
He nodded. It seemed to have become a sort of universal language, as if to say that he appreciated what he saw, and that seemed to slightly ease Melania.
I'll let you settle in, she said. Rest a bit. I have some matters to attend to, after which I'll meet you for lunch. Is that alright?
The Chosen One nodded again. He hadn't been up for long, but he felt exhausted.
The matriarch's departure gave him time to organize his thoughts. He had spent the last few days thinking and thinking and thinking about a way to get home. Only, in this form, things were going to be very complicated. For one, he remembered having a conversation with Ron about pureblood children who were rarely introduced to society before their entrance to Hogwarts. "They are heirs, so it's customary to keep them safe. There haven't necessarily been many births in the major families. So most of the big families don't take the risk of dragging their kids everywhere." Harry had been surprised. He had asked Ron a whole bunch of questions. How did they go to primary school if they didn't leave their homes—or at least, not without a parent? Ron had looked at him without seeming to know what he was talking about.
Apparently, young wizards from wizarding families were educated at home.
Harry had frowned. He didn't take his case as a general rule because he had understood over the years that his education had been a complete failure, but generally, Muggle parents tried to teach socialization principles to their offspring. Plus, there were all sorts of important things to know, like reading and writing, for example.
Ron had shrugged. Those who had the means hired private tutors. Most were educated by parents or close family.
Harry had found it odd. Then he remembered Molly Weasley. Molly was a stay-at-home mother and had wonderfully educated her children. This led him to wonder if Malfoy had been raised by trolls because Narcissa seemed saner than Lucius, and he couldn't see how that brat had turned out that way.
Of course, this memory hadn't helped him. If what Ron had said was true, things were probably even more complicated in 1940. He remembered his history classes and knew that the war was at the Muggle world's doorstep. Not to mention Grindelwald. Wizards of that time probably feared an attack—like those of the Death Eaters before he temporarily killed Voldemort when he was just a baby—and therefore limited family outings.
In short, Harry wasn't sure he would have the opportunity to set foot outside the Black residence, let alone unaccompanied by the couple.
So, he had done some quick calculations.
Antares, being born on November 1, 1929, meant that next September, he would start his first year at Hogwarts.
There was also the boy's older brother, Orion (who was incidentally Sirius's father), who had started the previous year, and an older sister, apparently, who was supposed to be in her fifth year.
He could potentially wait patiently for the boy's start of school to sneak into the library, but Harry Potter was not someone known for his patience, even if that had improved with age.
He had woken up on January 10, 1940, and had spent eight more days within the walls of St. Mungo's. Today was January 18, which annoyed him deeply. That meant he had to wait 7 months and 13 days.
By Merlin, thought Harry. I'll never make it.
The mere idea of receiving a home education and being confined to a room full of toys and, generally, the Black residence was enough to dampen his spirits.
Eventually, the only thing he could do at the moment was to snoop around the library located on the ground floor. He wasn't entirely sure he was allowed in, but Harry, on the other hand, had never really cared about rules.
He sighed before rubbing his eyes. Antares's body was neither practical nor enduring. It was a frail kid with no muscles. Not to mention that he had spent two months lying in a bed... Suffice to say, he felt like he had been run over by the Hogwarts Express. It was miles away from his body, that of a well-trained Auror with nearly a decade of training under his belt.
His muscles sore—after all, he had been standing still for almost half an hour in the entrance of the room where Melania had left him—Harry finally decided to move. He had nothing better to do, so he snooped around the child's room for a while. There were all kinds of books and toys intended for a young audience and nothing particularly useful or interesting to the seasoned Auror that he was.
Finally, worn out and with his muscles crying for mercy, Harry finally lay down in the damn bed with the damn bars. The staring contest hadn't worked as expected, and the bed hadn't burned by the force of his gaze—which was really a shame. He fell asleep, not without promising himself to ask Melania for a more suitable bed... somehow.