Part 9

A/N

First, I had a commenter say that English must not be my first language because I use the word "postulate" a lot. Apparently. So, I'm gonna fess up. English is not my first language. Nerd is. Second comes bad slang that I poorly acquire from my scholars.

No cap.

Given this, and my bird brain, I could probably really use a beta. But I don't have one. As if you couldn't tell. Please pardon my rambles, as this one is a bit long. This chapter is a long one, too, as a reward for the long, long wait. School is over for the year. Time to get writing again.

A lot of you are questioning why Dumbledore is sticking his schnoz into where Harry will reside. In a prior chapter, WCS rep Steppenage told Dumbledore to keep his distance from Harry, that Dumbledore would no longer have say in where Harry stays. But if Sirius places Harry, it's because of the Potter will, which still has Dumbledore as a yea or nay vote on the placement. WCS could override, but that would take Harry from Sirius – and maybe put him with the wrong people who could… errr… buy the process. So, they're letting Dumbledore have his "say", which makes sense. War wards, which take generations and blood magic to raise in this AU, are on only one available property. 12 Grimmauld. And that's where we (and Sirius) are returning to…

~~ Engage engines, full thrusters ~~

Sirius had to fully engage his own occlumency to address the torture chamber that was Number 12, Grimmauld Place. Shortly after the new year, and with the OK from his healers, Sirius started cleaning up the townhome. It would be a stretch, even with his daily efforts, to have it ready before June.

Opening the front door, he could hear his mother harangue him in his memory even though he had already removed the horrid portrait from the foyer. His father's sneer was firmly entrenched in his mind. But he had taken command of the wards and started assessing what needed to be done, in order of priority. Heading to the library, the room that he was starting that day, he opened one of several lead-lined trunks. As he began to load in the cursed and dark objects into separate containers, he realized that, unlike what he'd found so far (really, who would have a cursed fucking troll leg umbrella stand? His parents were full-fledged nutters.), the items in the library were more heirloom quality, and he thought they should be assessed for value before being sold or destroyed.

Until that day, Sirius had worked one room at a time, starting with the entry-way, foyer, and other main floor rooms. The objects there were easily classified, categorized, and taken care of. The crazy elf, Dobby, had started working with him early on and took great pleasure in destroying objects with no monetary value. The goblins were happy to accept cursed objects of moderate value. Nothing, so far, had been terribly dark or terribly valuable.

The more familiar and sadistic elf, Kreacher, complained with every step of progress that Sirius made. He griped, whined, growled, and wept. But Sirius wouldn't let his memory of that elf harm his progress. When he left the property at night, he confined Kreature to the kitchens, where the elf's nest was. Sirius began to see that Kreature and even Dobby were victims of the Black family, and he wouldn't let himself fall to the level of his parents: causing harm to those who relied on him. Though it took every ounce of the Marauder's hard-won patience (and Padfoot would challenge anyone to come out of a decade stint in prison impatient), he treated Kreacher with more than a modicum of respect.

When he entered the library, Sirius sighed at the sheer volume of dark objects made of precious metals and encrusted with jewels.

He was utterly stunned at the treasure trove of horrors: A family crest, antique and made of mithril, that rendered the wearer sterile. A pill box, made of silver charmed to be tarnish-proof and laden with rubies and black diamonds that turned all medicines in it to untraceable poison. A hair-comb, dainty and delicate with a floral cloisonné pattern on gold, that would cause alopecia in the user. The objects ranged from petty to implacably dark.

One object, however, registered as not dark, but black. Black magic was forbidden, even – ironically – in the house of Black. Sirius turned toward the locket, casting diagnostic charms.

It was a fucking horcrux.

He began to do a small ritual to isolate the miasma around it when Kreacher burst into the room. "Bad dog not touch Master Regulus's necklace."

"Kreacher," Sirius stated firmly, but without anger or heat, "there is no way that Regulus would have tolerated this abhorrent thing. It needs to be destroyed."

Kreacher's eyes narrowed, looking at the new Black Lord. "Bad Dog will destroy? Master Regulus wanted to destroy but…"

"My grandfather died before he could teach Regulus all of the heir rituals. I know how to destroy the wretched thing. Did this thing get Reg killed?" Horcrux were dreadfully intelligent pieces of black magic, being pieces of soul. They could – and did – kill in self-defense.

Kreacher's eyes filled with tears. "Kreacher could not save. Bad Kreacher!" The elf wailed and started beating his head against the wall.

"Kreacher, I command you to stand still!" The elf stopped, breathing heavily. "This object is too strong for a spell or incantation. It takes a ritual circle under a full moon… and you will help me do it. Is that understood? Then you will be required to help me make a memorial for Regulus. You must be healthy to do these things. Do you understand? You must answer."

The elf was conflicted. He had been told for many years to despise the disappointment. But the disappointment had just saved Kreacher pain (no matter how many times Kreacher had been ordered to inflict, and joyfully delivered, pain upon the disappointment.)

"Kreacher understands and will obey."

"Good. Now. We need to get the ritual room fully purified before the full moon. The ritual I will perform will link and destroy all horcrux that this wizard made. It was You-Know, yeah?"

"Master Regulus be furious at that bad wizard," Kreacher confirmed.

"Reg changed sides," Sirius whispered. He had mourned his brother as he cleaned their former home. No matter that they had fallen onto opposite sides of the conflict; Reg was still Sirius's brother. Memories and nightmares had pushed at Sirius from all sides. Now he had a way to make it right, or at least get some partial payment for the evils done. He had just a few weeks until the full moon, and then he could finally close the chapter on that part of his life.

But for now, he had a ton of work to do.

Harry worked on muggle history, building a timeline of the crazy successions within the time of the Stuart kings, when he heard Hermione arguing with her text book. He noticed she was still reading divination.

"If it bugs you so much, maybe you should give it a pass?"

"I know you said it wasn't useful it if I don't have the talent, but the idea of divination is so fascinating. Even if the professor is a bit unprofessional." She bit her lip in indecision.

"But is it worth the extra work?" Harry pushed a bit, wanting to help his friend but not be too bossy. At the same time, it kind of bugged him… "How are you taking that and muggle studies too? Don't they meet at the same time?"

Hermione sighed then bit her lip, looking around. No matter that they had a privacy spell and silencing ward around their table, she still worried as she whispered, "They do. I can't tell. I would if I could."

Harry studied her - really looked at his friend. He saw that she was pale and a bit overwrought. "It's okay, Hermione. If you can't tell, you can't. I don't like that you're stressing yourself studying courses that don't really help you, though. It takes away time from the important stuff. How do you have time to prep for GCSEs?"

"I don't. You know we can't take normal tests." It was a bone of contention with her parents. She'd had to leave her dreams of advanced degrees behind.

Harry's brow furrowed. "Sure, we can. I got the paperwork from the other magical school."

"Other magical school?"

Harry proceeded to tell her about St. George's.

"Mum and Dad never would let me go to a technical school, but the idea of taking the GCSE's, to cover my bases… you've given me a lot to think about."

"Well, don't think too hard. That big brain of yours is going to explode with all the thinking you do. I swear."

"Oh, Harry," she laughed.

"Did I hear you say something about exploding brains? Did the ministry outsource some of its aquavirius maggot testing?" Luna sat suddenly at the table with Harry and Hermione, her eyes wide with some emotion – fear or humor, Harry couldn't tell. He also wanted to know how she could hear them through the privacy spells.

Luna was such a mystery.

"Not that I'm aware," Hermione said with patience. Harry seemed to like this Luna and she was harmless, if a complete nutter.

"Well, I hope the Minister keeps them under lock and key. Dad says that the experiments they get up to in the department of mysteries would make your stomach churn like you had a flibber parasite."

"Indeed," Hermione answered with finality.

"You know, growing up muggle, neither Hermione nor I really know about fantastical beasts or where to find them."

"Ha! Clever play on Scamander's tome. Do you have a copy of the Beastiary of Britain? Or any of the others? It should give you an idea of what magical creatures are out there. Or have been out there in the past. We humans, magical or not, are pretty good at wiping out biodiversity."

Hermione sighed and closed the book. She wasn't going to get any more studying done. "That is true. I've wondered if magicals would be less likely to poison the environment, as magic runs through ley lines and those can be corrupted with pollution."

Luna shrugged. "We tend to try to keep magical sources clean, but anything that we can use… just look at dragons! Once the masters of air, land, and sea, they now are confined to human-run preserves. Or most of them, anyhow. I think Hagrid has plans to introduce a willow wyvern pair to the whomping willow, now that it's mature."

Hermione rolled her eyes. Harry didn't know if it was because Hagrid would introduce such a venomous creature next to the school (which he'd already done at least twice – three times if you counted the Cerberus, which, while not venomous, was most certainly deadly), or if she thought the wyvern was a figment of Luna's fertile imagination.

"My wand has willow wyvern venom in it. Ollivander added it this summer, since my magic changed."

"Those draws on your magic were terminated; it certainly changed the colors of your aura." Luna breezily let out another of Harry's guarded secrets.

"You could see them?" It had taken Dr. Dan a deep diagnostic to see the draws. Harry still wondered what they had been.

"Hmm," Luna nodded in agreement, using her mage sight to study Harry's aura. "Your wrackspurts are dying off. That's quite keen."

"Umm… thanks?" Harry had no idea if that was supposed to be good or not. He vaguely recalled that wrackspurts were what Luna blamed her housemates being gits on. So, he reckoned it was good.

Luna turned to Hermione. "If you are going to continue with divination, you should work with Neville. He's got clairvoyants in his mother's family, and every once in a great while, the Longbottoms will throw a psychometrist. There are no prognosticators, like in the Professor's family, but still, he'll have good sources for you to improve your knowledge."

And that was why Hermione didn't mind Luna hanging out so much. When she actually had her eyes focused, she had fantastic ideas.

"Thanks for that! It's a great idea!"

At the end of a particularly trying day, Sirius realized he had pushed himself too far in one session. His body, mind, and magic were all still recovering from Azkaban. Andi would have his head if he showed up at her place stinking of dark miasma.

There was nothing for it. He needed to see a healer. Luckily for him, he knew of a clinic that would see him, keep his visit confidential, and get him what he needed. As he headed to HC, he thought about how horrified his Black relatives would be that he went to the muddy clinic.

Never mind that the care there was at least as good as Mungo's.

He checked in at reception. Filling in the paperwork, he sat in a chair, waiting for the next open treatment room. Abby Butz, journeyman healer, came into the waiting room and greeted him.

"Lord Black?" She smiled.

"Please, call me Sirius." His smile was all charm, and Abby felt her stomach tighten in acknowledgment of the attraction of a charming, handsome man. If she weren't married…

"I'm Healer Butz. Please come with me, we'll take a look at what ails you." She led him to treatment room two, which just happened to be the same one that Harry had been treated in that summer, though Sirius didn't know that.

"I'm going to run a diagnostic, if that's okay?" At his nod, she ran the auto-diagnostic charm and began looking through the questionnaire as it recorded its findings. Abby sighed. The signs of Azkaban were slowly fading from the man, but he would never be whole.

It was a sin and made her want to spit nails.

"You did over-extend your magic today. I'm going to run a cleansing charm then give you a purifying potion. It should clean up the toxins. You should be careful; you're a bit more sensitive to exposure right now."

Sirius sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "I would if I could, Healer Butz. I have a job that needs to be done to keep my godson safe."

Abby pursed her lips. Harry. This was for little Harry. "In that case, I'll order a few more takeaway potions. You can take up to two in a twenty-four-hour period, though I'd keep it at one."

Sirius nodded. "Will do, thanks."

Abby performed the cleansing charm, and Sirius had to stop a giggle at the tickle to his magics.

When he was in reception once again, settling his bill, Dr. Dan Zhou approached him. "Lord Black? I'm Daniel Zhou."

Sirius turned and bowed a bit, smiling. "Dr. Dan, I presume?"

Daniel's eyes twinkled with the moniker. "That would be me. Do you have time to speak?"

Sirius inhaled a little through his nose and blew a puff out through his mouth. He had wanted to meet Master Healer Zhou for weeks, to thank him personally, but both men had been extraordinarily busy. "Yes. Your Healer Butz has me fixed up, but I could use a cuppa. Is there a shop round here?"

"There is. Marco," Daniel turned to the man at reception, "I'll be back in a bit."

The two men made their way to The Blend – a coffee shop that was only a block down from HC. Sirius held the door for the doctor, and the two ordered before sitting down at a table in a quiet corner.

Sirius covered his privacy charm with a move to put his wallet back in his jacket and Daniel nodded approvingly. Daniel never believed the Lord Black would be so versatile in the muggle world, but there it was.

It alleviated some of the worry Daniel had for Harry, who had lived most of his life in the muggle world.

"You want to talk about Harry?" Sirius asked, sipping his cappuccino.

"I thought perhaps you would have questions. I know you were given all of the reports and have been thoroughly updated by Asa Steppenage and Amanda Hook, but…"

Sirius nodded and closed his eyes. "I will never forgive myself for what happened to him."

Daniel remained quiet for a moment. "I am fully read into the situation, Lord Black."

"Sirius, please."

"And I am Daniel. As I was saying, I know much of the background that led to what happened to our boy." Though the privacy charm was so strong, it was practically visible, Daniel didn't say Harry's name. "You were railroaded and had very little say in what happened. Had you not gone after Pettigrew, I don't believe that Dumbledore would have let you raise our boy. He had plans. I've kept an eye on the situation, making sure that old codger doesn't get his claws back into my patient."

"He still has final say over where Harry lives," Sirius muttered with no small amount of resentment. "It's why I'm cleaning out the Black townhouse. It is unplottable, under a fidelius, and has war wards. But it is utterly full of dark magic, currently."

"You'll have it clean by summer hols?" Daniel asked with some concern as he took a sip of his coffee.

Sirius nodded, taking another sip. "I will. Once I get the dark artifacts locked down, I'll bring in my cousin and her kid, who's an auror. I don't want them exposed to Black artifacts, though, just in case."

Daniel put down his cup and smiled lightly at the man across from him, changing the subject. "How is Harry doing with Fiona?"

The marauder grinned. "The only way I could get him to her office was to dangle lessons with your potions master. Harry's oddly conservative like his father in that way. But I think Dr. Crenshaw found just the right balance for him. I know he's been trying the meditation exercises, because he asked me about them."

"His physical healing should be complete by the end of the school year. He can, and probably should, take simple vitamin boosters for the next year as we make sure he stays on course. But his mental and emotional healing will be a much longer road."

"Believe me, I know." His voice was gruff as memories of his own torments clouded Sirius's gaze.

Dan saw it then, that little boy in the current Lord Black that had somehow survived his own horrific youth. He reached out and touched the man's hand. "He is blessed to have someone who understands and can help."

Sirius looked at the hand on his and turned his own over, gripping in return. "His blessings started when that crazy elf brought him to you. I can never, ever thank you and your team…" he couldn't speak more as his eyes filled.

Daniel smiled poignantly. "That boy has touched the heart of every one of my staff. He's the 'boy who lived' to us for a completely different reason. He didn't have to come back all summer; he wanted to. Every week he comes to work with Crispin, he reinforces to all of us that we do a job that helps people. When the Wizengamot looks to shut us down, when we all wonder why we fight so hard… he's a living, breathing reason."

"Well," Sirius reluctantly pulled his hand away from the warmth of the doctor's, but his grey eyes locked onto warm brown ones, "you have another champion in that group now. The title of Lord Black comes with something a little more than a lodestone around my neck."

Daniel quirked a brow. "Really? Will you work toward policy change?"

"I'll be doing all I can to protect St. George's, your clinic, and any other non-traditional segment of society. Magical Britain is stagnant. We need to allow growth and change, but at the same time, we need to make sure we protect traditions that honor magic. I could use another brain and set of eyes to help me see what I should be voting for and against."

"Are you asking for mine?"

Sirius felt a stirring he hadn't felt in a long, long time. But business first. "If you have time to spare, with all you do, I would be honored if you'd spend some of it with me."

Daniel's smile was warm and genuine, and he knew he would make the time to do just that.

Sirius didn't tell Harry about what he'd found in the Black Townhouse of Horrors, but he did talk to Harry every night on the communication mirrors, just to say hi. Harry was growing to see his godfather's stress, and how it lightened as he talked to Harry. It made Harry feel useful, that he could help Sirius, no matter what the problem was.

He also been working, alongside Neville, on the mind arts his healer had recommended. They didn't get far, but Harry recognized the importance, as he told Dr. Crenshaw in their next meeting.

"I have been practicing meditation." Harry took a sip of tea before continuing. "It's boring. But you're right. I was spell casting with my friends and accidentally blew up a training dummy when I heard Dumbledore's voice. He just makes me…" Harry took a deep breath. "So, yeah. I understand that I need to control that. I suppose I should do all that occlumency stuff. I've been reading into it; the first stages look okay, but the later stuff looks intense."

Fiona shook her head. "I don't want you to go too far with occlumency. It's not healthy to have more than an emotional pause. You don't want to suppress your emotions."

"What happens when you suppress your emotions?" He'd like to get rid of the constant burn of the anger in his gut.

"A person with fully suppressed emotions can no longer feel emotions naturally. It's terribly tragic. You know of two people who have done this."

"Who?" Harry asked with a sinking feeling.

"Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape."

Harry thought for a moment, and his eyes widened. "The over-the-top?"

Fiona nodded, glad he had been able to put it together so fast. "Yes, they have to fake emotions because they don't actually feel anymore. Dumbledore does not know how to be happy, so he embraces silliness – twinkling eyes, ridiculous robes, nonsense speeches – in the hopes of appearing happy. Master Snape does the opposite. He embraces anger."

Though he had been less likely to pour his vitriol on Harry since the truth of Harry's home life had come out, Snape was still bitter, angry, and cold to all of the students. Dumbledore still tried to pretend nothing was wrong and the fucking world was sunshine and lollipops and he was king of the sweets.

They were still two people Harry had zero respect for, and he'd no inclination to be like them. No, he'd not be mastering occlumency.

When he was done working with Fezziwig that day, as they were eating a late lunch, Harry spoke with Sirius about occlumency and learned that was how Sirius was coping with cleaning the house he called his own Number 4 Privet Drive.

Harry understood. Thinking about facing his own ghosts, Harry put down a shudder. "I don't know how you can go back there." And Harry was just a bit bitter that his godfather had to go back to his own torture chamber at all.

"It's got the most massive, killer wards. Nothing can get to us there. And by the time I'm done cleaning it, it will be mine. Every room will have my stamp – and yours if you want. I will be happy there, and that will be complete retribution." The wicked if tired grin slipped onto Sirius's face.

Harry cocked his own head, shaking it a bit. "I don't understand."

Sirius gave a little smirk, ushering Harry in front of him toward Gryffindor's staircase. "I've heard it said: the best revenge is living well. My parents, evil gits that they were, would be completely horrified that I am now Lord Black, that I am living and living well in the house they tried to kill me – or at least my spirit – in. In the famous words of some muggle singer: I will survive. More: you and I will thrive. And by living well, we'll have our revenge!"

"I like that kind of revenge," Harry decided. "Gred and Forge wanted to run some things by you. Do you have time to come up?"

Sirius reached down (but not by a huge amount) and mussed Harry's hair. "Sure. Let's go find them."

"Some people find journaling to be very helpful in processing trauma."

Harry was sitting in his mind-healing session, listing to Dr. Crenshaw while munching on a wonderful pear biscuit and drinking spiced chai. He swallowed and nodded.

"I've got my parents' and grandparents' journals. They're really interesting to read. I've got to know my family through them."

"Mmm. Do you have a journal for yourself, so your grandkids can read it?"

Harry shrugged. "Mr. Steppenage gave me one. I'm afraid to write in it. I wouldn't want anyone to read about what happened to me. Especially my kids or grandkids." Over the weeks, Harry had begun to trust Fiona and open up to her. His naturally open personality would never be quite as trusting as he had been in the past (which was probably a good thing, given his status in the wizarding world), but the weeks with the myalurgist had allowed a small bond to form.

He was coming to the conclusion that, like kids, adults could be both good and bad, and it was the consistency of their decisions that tipped it for him. McGonagall tipped slightly good; Snape tipped seriously bad.

He wouldn't think about the old git while he was eating such a marvelous scone and drinking such a tasty brew.

"You don't have to write down only the bad things," Dr. Crenshaw continued, touting the idea of journaling. "In fact, it might be helpful to find the memories from that time that are good."

Harry wanted to deny that there had been any good times in the Dursley gulag, but there had been: When the librarian had awarded him for reading. When he'd finished the math paper before anyone. When Dudley had slipped in the mud puddle and pulled Piers in with him.

When Miss Poder had snuck him that chocolate bar – the first chocolate he'd ever had.

Yes. He had good memories. Even some of his dreams had been good.

He'd had that dream – now he thought it must have been a memory – of flying in a motorcycle. He'd drawn the picture…

His face turned to stone. His breathing quickened.

"It's okay, Harry. Everything's okay." He came back to the room to find Dr. Crenshaw squatting in front of him, rubbing his hand. He'd spaced out on that awful memory. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Did he want to? No. But he thought maybe he needed to.

"I remembered one time when I drew a picture of a good memory." Despite the fact he said it was a good memory, Harry's voice was weak, shaking, and raspy. "It was flying with Hagrid, I think. And Vernon saw me drawing. I was on the floor. He…" Harry stopped speaking but reflexively flexed his left hand.

Fiona knew what must have happened.

"Were you left-handed when you were little?"

"Only wicked people are left-handed," He answered in a flat voice, as if programmed to do so.

"Do you really believe that?" Fiona asked with some chagrin. Harry's eyes met hers, and she held his gaze.

"He stomped my hand so it wouldn't work anymore." The poison erupted from his memory, like a boil being lanced.

"But it works now. Dr. Dan fixed it for you. Isn't that right?" He flexed his hand again. Magic could fix the bones, the tendons, the muscles. But magic couldn't fix the memories. The compulsions. The feelings.

She leaned forward. "You learned how to use your right hand because you had to, and now you can use your left hand again."

He looked at his hand again. He'd trained himself to use his right hand out of necessity. Could he?

Should he?

The best revenge is to live well. That's what Sirius said his new motto was. Harry understood that.

He nodded slowly. He'd use his left hand and his right hand. He'd write and he'd draw and he'd catch the snitch, breathing in the magical air of freedom. All while Vernon could waste away in his normal prison.

Ron walked into the common room, looking for a challenger for gobstones. Harry was in the corner, sitting at a work table, writing in fits and starts in a light-beige, blank book and thinking so hard, Ron was surprised the book didn't catch fire. Time for a distraction. "Whatcha doin?"

Harry rolled his eyes before smirking and shaking his head. "Recording my very deep thoughts. What do you think?"

"Looks like a journal. Gred and Forge have our uncles – Gideon and Fabian's – journals. It's a great way to keep family history alive when…" Ron's voice trailed off as he bit his lip. He'd stepped in it again.

"Yeah, I have my Dad's and my grandparents'," Harry volunteered, not wanting to think about why everyone of his generation seemed to need journals to learn about their families.

"Well, I suppose you have a lot to write about. I've not got a lot to pass on."

"What? You had a friend who set fire to a professor. You fought a troll. You got bit by a dragon. You foiled a plot of Riddle… all in your first year of school!"

Ron turned red. "Nah, mate you did all the important stuff."

"Nah, mate," Harry mimicked, "We did. You, Hermione, Nev, and me. We.

"Yeah," Ron smiled, "We did, didn't we?"

Just then, a whoop came from the entrance as Dean and Seamus came in with a fourth-year muggleborn, one who was clearly taking the piss out of Dean. "Take it back! I do not follow Manchester United."

"You said you did!" John said with a tease in his voice apparent to anyone else listening.

"I simply stated," Dean said with faux-patience, "that they had a better defense than Liverpool. I'm West Ham, all the way."

John shook his head and sighed in pity. "Might as well be a Man U fan, then."

"Are they yammerin' about that football shite again?" Ron wondered aloud.

"They are, and they're all full of it, since Chelsea is the club to follow." With that, several heads turned to Harry simultaneously, looks of apex predator abounding. He grinned, lifting his hands in mock-surrender, "I'm only taking the piss, gents. I don't follow football."

"Well, you should," Simon, a sixth year began his inveigling, "as an avid sportsman yourself, you should know that Arsenal has the best midfield…"

Harry closed his journal and sighed, turning to his fellow Gryffs, prepared to spend an afternoon being proselytized to. He'd brought it on himself.

Work on Grimmauld was slow but steady. Now that the worst of the heirlooms and artifacts were corralled behind lead shields, Andromeda and Nymphadora (don't call me that) had started giving some time as their Black magic helped the process. Tonks's humor helped massively in the endeavor, as she always found something to laugh at in the craziness of the Black townhome. Her laughter was contagious, and Sirius felt the oppression lighten with every visit.

On the eighth of March, a Monday, the small family and two elves gathered in the newly-cleansed ritual room in the basement of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. While the Worm Moon reflected sunlight down onto the earth, brightening the darkest of winter nights, Sirius performed a ritual to pull in other pieces of the soul into the locket horcrux. One of the downfalls of horcrux was that, as much as they were a failsafe to life, they were a key to imprisonment. Bottled "djinn" were nothing more than horcrux that had fallen into enemy hands who knew the ritual to restore and confine a broken soul.

It took everything Sirius and his little family had, but by the end of the rite, all of the pieces of Tom Riddle were melded back into one black soul and captured in the locket heirloom of the family Riddle wished to claim. As the last piece – the untethered soul base that had been nursing its metaphysical wounds since being ejected from Quirrell – was pulled into the locket, it screamed. The locket glowed a green-black ichor then fell, clattering onto the floor of the room. Sirius looked at the thing, cloaked in a miasma of evil, and spat one last spell.

"Fyendfire," he growled, watching the intelligent flame feast upon the soul of the one who would have doomed them all to death or slavery. When the flames died under Sirius's will, he choked out a small sob. Turning to Andi, he pulled in a shaking breath, seeing her tears fighting to come out of her hard expression. "It's over. They're avenged."

"They're avenged," she agreed. With her daughter, they performed cleansing and renewal spells on the room. As the three of them left, Kreacher turned back, studying the remains of the locket one last time. Then, he spit on the ashes.

Master Regulus was avenged.

The casting took all Sirius had, but he felt justification as he could hear the soul howl before being destroyed. He had closure. However, like many of Sirius's plans that were not fully investigated or thought out, there were repercussions.

Unbeknownst to Sirius, each dark mark had the imprint of Voldemort's magic. Sirius has just hit Voldemort's soul and magic with cursed fire: his hope was that the fiend would burn, even in the after. But Riddle's magical signature on this plane was cursed, also. Had Harry not died temporarily, losing the horcrux he had unwillingly hosted, he would have suffered greatly.

As it was, the curse caused the dark mark to burn on all marked followers of Voldemort. It burned constantly. The death eaters could not cover the mark, couldn't douse the fire. Until the source of magic was gone, their arms and their very magic would be in constant, torturous pain. Until every death eater was dead, they would all be punished.

Some tried to amputate their arms, only to find that the mark would move to somewhere else on the body; somewhere that was not so easily amputated. Somewhere that was even more painful when it burned.

The suicides started in Azkaban, but the loss of those followers did nothing to decrease the pain in those who lived. Several dark witches and wizards could not bear the constant, insidious torture, and sought relief any way they could. Even put into medical stasis, they still felt the incessant fire. Sadly, this led to more suicides.

Percy was reading the Prophet at the breakfast table.

"Holy Shemp!" George dropped his spoon, splashing porridge on his nearest neighbor.

"Oi, Forge, don't be marring my superior looks with your brekky projectiles." Fred dabbed at the splatter with his napkin and sniffed superciliously (channeling his Aunt Muriel). But George simply shook his head in wonder.

"Look. The LeStranges are finally deaders!" He pointed to the article that Percy was reading.

"What?" Neville gasped.

Percy sighed. Neville's family was mentioned as the last victims of the LeStrange trio. Percy liked the kid; Neville didn't need any more trauma than he'd lived through. "It seems that the Burning – the affliction that seems to be hitting all of the reformed Death Eaters," Percy ignored the snorts of derision from around the Gryffindor table, "has also infested the real Death Eaters in Azkaban. Since they're given no medicine, and the dementors destroy any mental protections they might have, they're taking the full brunt of the pain. Apparently Dolohov, Rookwood, and the LeStrange brothers strangled each other. Then Dolohov, having killed Rookwood but not dying himself, fashioned a noose of his robes."

"What about that bint, Bellatrix?" Ginny asked.

"She… well," The topic was sensitive enough. If so many of these kids hadn't been affected by the actions of the men in Azkaban, Percy would never have told them the truth of the matter. But Bellatrix's fate was too grisly for him to mention.

"Merlin's pants," Fred breathed, having finished reading the article over Percy's shoulder. "She bashed her own brains against her cell wall."

Neville let out a breath of shock, his jaw falling open.

They were dead. They were all dead.

And unless someone found a way to treat the burning, more would die. Neville tried to find it in himself to feel bad. The other tables were silent, reading the same article, many knowing they had relatives that were suffering from the Burning. Those with occlumency, like Malfoy's father, were able to somewhat suppress the pain. But even that was a stop-gap. Snape's full occlumency (and that revelation from Harry sure did explain a lot about the potions' master) wasn't enough of a panacea to allow the man to maintain the necessary concentration to monitor a room full of students brewing dangerous potions.

When the students of Hogwarts were able to put together that Snape was actually a death eater – oh there had been rumors, and there had been a trial where Dumbledore stood for the man, but the Burning was, to the mind of the students, incontrovertible proof of the man's guilt – they (and their parents) were furious. To have been taught by a Death Eater of all things.

Dumbledore was forced to find another teacher, though he allowed Snape to stay in the castle. Horace Slughorn was willing to substitute for the remainder of the year, and he worked with Snape on research for a better pain-suppression potion.

With the change in faculty, Harry realized his mother's fear: that her former best friend Severus had become a death eater – was true. Harry realized that Snape's hate issues were so bad that he joined the magical equivalent of the Nazis. Though he and Neville were both practicing meditation in the morning before breakfast and in the evening, just before bed, Harry decided to really try journaling, not just think about doing it, to try to process what happened to himself better.

He used the beautiful instruments in his writing case, and he only used his left hand (which, after years of not being used, gave handwriting that was as good as his well-practiced right hand. Perhaps his handwriting was just always going to be chicken scratch?)

He started each journal entry with a quote from his muggle quotations book – like Marcus Aurelius "the best revenge is to be unlike him who performed the injury" or Seneca "the wish for healing has always been half of health" and would spin his memories from there. It was hard work. It terrified him and it angered him, but he knew that trying to bury it wasn't helping him at all.

And he also made a point to begin drawing. Whenever he felt happiness – whether from a memory or a song or a sight, he sketched it in his journal. At first, he couldn't draw very well with his left hand. It had been asleep a long time. But the little doodles became more intricate and his left hand became more inured to channeling his thoughts and visions, Harry decided he wanted to see if he really had talent for sketching.

One week, when they were going to the HC, Harry asked Sirius to take him to a muggle bookstore and gets some art technique books. Later that week, Sirius visited an art store (after he saw the books Harry studied and carefully purchased.) Sirius picked up sketch pads, pencils, and charcoals and sent to Harry at school that week. And though Harry's free time was practically nil, he still found a few minutes each day to sketch or read about art techniques.

"So, I drew this today. It's from a memory. I had to chase it down with meditation."

Harry turned the mirror to a page in the sketchbook Sirius had sent him. He had drawn Padfoot playing with Prongs. He had very few semi-memories of his toddlerhood. But this one featured in his dreams since summer, when he'd spied Padfoot in the alley.

"Prongs," Sirius whispered. "You've captured him faithfully. You have talent, Harry."

Harry smiled, looking into the mirror again. "Thanks! I like sketching. Thank you for sending the supplies."

"Glad you can use them. But don't neglect quidditch. Or your studies." Harry rolled his eyes. Leave it to Padfoot to put sport before academics. He knew his godfather was just kidding and wanted to make sure Harry enjoyed his life with play as much as work.

Speaking of too much working… "So a thing happened."

"A thing…" Sirius gave Harry room to think out what he wanted to say.

"Hermione. She's been under a lot of stress this term. She's taking all the electives, and since I told her about St. George's, she's been trying to catch up on that side, too. And she's burning out. Tonight, she just snapped at Ron. Said some really mean things."

"Did he deserve them?" Sirius asked gruffly. Harry had told Sirius about the sandwich and fruit incident, and Sirius, though he praised Harry for the boy's magnanimous attitude, was not quite so forgiving himself.

"Nah. Ron's tried to be a good friend this year. He's still a goof, and sometimes he steps in it, but mostly he's a mate. Anyway, he was just talking about quidditch with some of the guys in the common room and she went off about how he could never just be quiet because some of us are trying to study and… it was crazy. Everyone looked at her like she was mad, ya know? And she looked quite mad. Her hair was all…" Harry waggled his hands about his head, "wild and her eyes were just furious and she looked so tired. I'm worried."

"You're worried she'll burn out?"

"Has burned out, yeah," Harry nodded. "I try to be supportive. I study with her a lot. But, like, she's taking divination – divination for pity's sake. That quack couldn't divine if there was fresh pastie under her nose."

"Mmm, hot, fresh pasties."

"Stop thinking about your stomach, Padfoot. I'm serious, here."

"No, I'm Sirius, here. And there's nothing more serious than a good pasty. But as for your friend. Your mum did the same."

"Yeah, I read that she took all the electives and burned out. And that her friends tried to talk her out of it. She did eventually drop divination and muggle studies. I mean why would they take that terrible class?"

"Sounds like Hermione is a lot like Lils: smart and stubborn. Something to be said for that. If she's in your corner, you won't lose. But when she picks the wrong side, and once in a while she will, she'll have to find out on her own and acknowledge it to herself. All you can do is support her."

Harry sighed, wishing he could do more. "I couldn't do anything else."

The next morning, Harry commiserated with Crookshanks – who was obviously worried about his mistress – while waiting for Hermione to get her books. When she started reading at the breakfast table, he fixed her tea, made her eat.

"Mum says that they're pulling all the Boy Who Lived books off the shelves at Fluorish and Blotts. She reckons our copies will be collectors' items, since we have them all."

Neville's jaw dropped as he heard the comment from a second year only three seats down from Harry. Harry rolled his eyes. It was as if they didn't think he'd hear them.

"What's this, then?" Ron asked. "What'll we get for Gin Gin for her birthday, then? She's always gotten a new Boy Who Lived adventure book." Ron said it with more than a bit of sarcasm in his tone, eyeing the other students with distaste, and the original speaker turned a bit red at hearing the inherent reprimand.

"Better she have a book than an actual adventure," Harry snarked. "Those usually hurt."

Hermione snorted at that. "Amen," she snarked, then turned a page in the biology text she was reading.

"I do wonder why they're being pulled, though," Lavender questioned loudly, not looking directly at Harry, but hoping the boy would weigh in, nonetheless.

Neville saw the little smirk on Harry's face. "You know something," he muttered as he buttered toast.

"I know a lot of things. Not here," he added, scooping up a bit of egg. As they finished breakfast, the four friends headed to transfiguration. Harry put up a privacy spell. "It seems like a couple of people at the ministry made the Boy Who Lived crap without my family's permission, and not only has it been shut down, but they have to pay a bunch to my vaults. Since Sirius rigged it with the Goblin Nation to take 10% finders' fee, Gringotts is going after everyone right at the source: the perpetrators' vaults."

"Brilliant," Neville praised, while Ron chuckled a bit, muttering the word "wicked," under his breath.

"You know, between Lord Black's lawsuits and this, I'll bet a good number of people in the ministry – and maybe even Minister Fudge himself – are in financial trouble. I hope this doesn't come back to haunt you." Hermione bit her lip in worry. Her friend had enough people out for his blood; he didn't need corrupt politicians after him, too.

Harry shrugged. "I can't worry about that. Can't do anything about it either way. But I will enjoy, third hand, the well-deserved setbacks those blokes have been given."