The walk to Privet Drive was too short. Bronach was busy calculating and recalculating strategies in her head, conscious that Mrs. Figg was trailing them unsubtly. She was certain the Squib would be reporting everything back to the Headmaster, but found herself unable to care. Even after all this time, the way Dumbledore had treated her this summer made her angry, and she was hoping that he felt unsettled, even if only a little, by the reports Arabella Figg was about to give him.
Pausing, she considered the familiar door of Privet Drive before combing her fingers through her hair and blinking, the physical motions an old habit from when shifting her appearance was difficult. From the tiny, punched out sound that her younger self made, her choice of color was spot on, but Bronach didn't have time to apologize as she was already rapping on the door and stepping inside.
"Hello Tuney," Bronach greeted her aunt as the woman came scurrying out of the lounge only to stop dead in her tracks. "I know how you treated your niece."
"You're, you're dead," Petunia managed to shriek the words without raising her voice above a whisper.
"Hardly," she snorted, before turning to her younger self, who paled further. Oh, Bronach realized, grimacing. She hadn't seen the eyes. "Go; pack anything you wish to take from this house, as you will not return after today unless you choose to."
With a jerky nod, the girl rushed up the stairs. Halbarad followed quietly, which Bronach approved of. There was nothing that could hurt the girl in this house but the people who lived in it, but extra hands and moral support would be welcome.
"Get out of my house before Vernon sees," Petunia hissed, regaining some of her confidence. "And…the girl must stay."
"I doubt she ever wanted to be here," Bronach said coolly, knowing that it was true from her own memories. "You hardly made her welcome." Crossing to the familiar door under the stairs, Bronach tapped her fingers on the handle, relishing in the increasing pallor of Petunia's horsey face.
"Dumbledore-" Petunia began, but her voice trailed off as Bronach grinned at her, more teeth than strictly necessary.
"Dumbledore had no right to decide her custody arrangements." It was something Bronach had discovered while working as an auror. "I will be taking her with me, and you will not see her again unless she wishes it."
Listening to the sounds of movement overhead, Bronach let her words sink in as she tried to gauge how much longer the pair upstairs would take. Deciding that it was about time to wrap things up, she turned back to Petunia. "Sometime soon, the wards will break. Your niece has done you the favor of not mentioning anything about you to those in the Wizarding World, but I would still consider moving. The magic on this house leaves…a trace."
"Those, those redheads know where we live," Petunia spluttered.
"Luckily for you," Bronach said dryly, "they are not inclined to torturing people for the circumstances of their birth."
"They fed my Dudders that horrible thing!"
"The twins are attempting to open a joke shop," Bronach had realized, with the benefits of hindsight, that Fred and George had gone beyond the limits of acceptable behavior by baiting Dudley with the Ton Tongue Toffee. "They did not realize that what may be considered in vogue among children familiar with magic would be frightening to those unused to it. Their mother scolded them quite harshly, and they certainly never forgot the lesson." George, to her surprise, had even expressed quiet regret one night, not long before her departure, after hearing about how someone's muggle cousin had encountered a Snackbox and it had devolved into a major incident.
Her younger self scurried down the stairs, Hedwig's empty cage in her hands. Halbarad was behind her, carrying a familiar trunk.
"Is your owl out delivering letters?" Bronach asked, trying to remember if that had been the case originally.
The girl nodded, and Bronach rested her hand on the trunk, spelling it weightless. Halbarad gave a brief nod of thanks before squeezing past Daervunn, who was leaning in the doorway with a slight air of menace. Really, she thought with a sigh, to complete the picture all he needs is to be cleaning the dirt from under his fingernails with a knife.
"Is there anything you wish to say to them?" Bronach asked the girl quietly, as they hovered in the hall. "You will not have to see them again unless you want to."
Her younger self looked quickly between Bronach and Petunia and shook her head mutely. Bronach shrugged, and turned back to Petunia.
"Consider learning how to be a decent human being," she said with a shrug. "Or do not. I do not particularly care. But if I hear that you are mistreating another human being for the crime of existing, I will ensure that you will never be able to salvage your reputation."
Daervunn stepped aside, allowing her younger self to flee to the dubious safety of the front walk before following. Bronach was about to step out of the door, but a heavy hand on her arm stopped her.
"Uh," Dudley mumbled, looking at his trainers. "Thank you. For that thing you did."
"You might be a bully," Bronach said quietly, aware that Petunia was bristling behind her, "but you can learn to be a better person so long as you are alive to have the chance. Think about the kind of legacy you want to leave behind Dudley Dursley, about the type of man you want to be."
She made to move forward, but he didn't let go. Bronach knew half a dozen ways to free herself, but she didn't use any of them, merely raising an eyebrow at the boy.
"Would you," he cleared his throat awkwardly. "If I wrote to you, would you write back?"
Dudley Dursley. Writing to her. "If you address a letter to Gringotts Bank, care of the Head of House Potter, Diagon Alley, London, it will reach me even if you use the non-magical post." She made no promises about writing back, but she was curious to see what the boy was considering writing to her about. It would be worth the experiment.
He let her go then, and she joined her companions on the sidewalk, spotting Mr. Tibbles easily in the shadow of a large bush down the road. There was no unobtrusive way of leaving; the half-kneazle would just follow them, but thankfully her plans had accounted for their departure being observed.
"Where are we going?" her younger self asked, as Bronach shrunk her trunk with a smart rap, pocketing it when Halbarad held it out to her.
"London," Bronach said. "And quickly."
"Oh no," Daervunn groaned pitifully. "Could we not take the train?"
"I would rather not have our every movement observed," Bronach said, inclining her head to the cat. "And there are too many chances to be intercepted on the train." Before anyone else could argue, she flung out her right hand.
As expected, there was a flash, a bang, and the Knight Bus appeared before them, disturbing the still evening. Ignoring Daervunn's groan of despair, Bronach gently guided her younger self up the stairs before Stan could even finish descending them. "Passage for six to King's Cross please Stan," she said, slipping him six galleons. "The usual service, if you will."
He nodded brightly as the others followed her on. They'd formed a mutually beneficial relationship during the summer: in return for forgetting her as a passenger and conveniently neglecting to make a record of her stops he got to keep the excess fare. She saw his eyes flick to her younger self, and frowned. "If King's Cross is no more than two stops away and you very much forget who travels with me, I will double the fare."
Stan nodded brightly and moved out of the way to let Halbarad and Daervunn pass. Éowyn and Faramir were glancing at the bus with wide eyes, and Bronach settled her younger self into an armchair behind the driver's seat, sticking it in place before tending to her newest companions.
"Sit here," she told them, squishing them into an overlarge chair and sticking it in place. "Fix your eyes on a stable point, keep your mouth closed, and hold on." Daervunn and Halbarad were already braced for their departure, and she perched on the arm of Daervunn's chair just in time for the bus to roar off with a sickening lurch. Her sticking charms held, and none of the chairs they'd chosen shifted. Absently, she stuck the nearest ones in place as well, a buffer against the crashing waves of chairs further back. Thankfully, Stan was as good as his word, and the bus was fairly empty, and they were soon arriving at King's Cross.
With Stan waving cheerfully, the bus left them in a cloud of dust. Bronach summoned a peppermint from her pocket and passed it to Daervunn, who was taking deep, careful breaths. The dunedain had become well-acquainted with the mode of transportation during the summer, having just enough magic in their blood to see and summon it, and she'd had to endure quite a lot of the man's griping about it.
Out of consideration for the color of Faramir's face, she let them take a breather before getting them started on the walk to Grimmauld. Halbarad fell into step with her younger self, seemingly nonchalant, but Bronach could see him watching for any hidden threats. Daervunn had seemingly elected himself as rearguard, chivying Faramir and Éowyn forward. Between them, the dunedain fielded most of the questions the pair had about modern London, and what they couldn't answer, her younger self chimed in quietly.
Stopping in the grimy square outside Grimmauld Place, Bronach saw no sign of any watcher, Order or Death Eater. Good. Potter was looking around quizzically, clearly trying to spot the magical house.
"The Ancient and Most Noble House of Black dwells within Number Twelve Grimmauld Place," Bronach told the group, pitching her voice so that it only carried as far as they needed it to go. "Enter and be welcome, Faramir, Prince of Ithilian, and Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan and Ithilian. The House of Black will be ever open to you." Bronach could see the moment when the pair were able to see the house beyond the wards of generations of paranoid Family Heads. It was a far superior protection than the fidelius, and she had been led to understand that the headmaster was quite put out at the spell's failure to last longer than two days before the house's wards tore it apart, helped by Bronach.
Her younger self frowned, clearly wondering about her own welcome. Bronach did her best to smile at her reassuringly. "The House of Black knows you, Harry Potter," she said quietly, her words for the two of them alone. "It knows you, and it claims you as its own by blood and by magic. You will ever find safety within its wards and rest within its walls. I welcome you to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place Harry Potter, Daughter of the House of Black."
Without waiting for more than a beat, Bronach steered the group up the steps and into the house, remembering to change her hair and eyes a moment before she opened the door. Walburga's curtains snapped open and the portrait prepared to shout before recognizing who they were and falling silent.
"This is Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and his wife Éowyn, the White Lady of Rohan," Bronach said, gesturing to each in turn. "And this is Harry Potter, named daughter of the House of Black."
Walburga looked a bit like she was sucking on a lemon and her curtsy to the girl was stiff and shallow, but Bronach was willing to accept it, begrudging as it clearly was. The curtains slid shut, but Kreacher appeared a moment later.
"Prince Faramir, Lady Éowyn," the house elf said, clearly surprised. "Kreacher is pleased to see you."
"And we are pleased to see you again Kreacher," Éowyn said, kneeling to smile at him.
"Kreacher is having Mistress's favorites for supper," Kreacher said briskly. "Where will Mistress be having supper?"
"I'm not sure," Bronach said. From the reports she'd gotten from Kreacher and Glorfindel, the Order was fighting a losing battle trying to clean the house. The house elf was pleased to report his own victories, and Glorfindel had shared several tales of the mischief that Kreacher had arranged for the Weasleys and anyone they conscripted to join them. Given what Kreacher, and Walburga from time to time, reported, Bronach was convinced that the elflord was spending the days he was confined to Grimmauld moving things when nobody was looking, perpetuating rumors that the house was haunted that Bronach was only too glad to take advantage of, during her brief visits to the house.
She'd kept on the move, not wanting to leave a discernable pattern to where she was based out of as she laid her plans, but now it was time to reveal herself more openly. It would be a shame though, having to put the ghost rumors to rest. Sirius had, reportedly, been so convinced it was Walburga's restless ghost that he'd been researching non-magical exorcisms.
"Kreacher can be arranging in the Head's Suite," the house elf said contemplatively.
"I wouldn't want you to go to much trouble," Bronach told him. "I'm not sure what rooms we can put Faramir and Éowyn in, and Harry will need a room as well."
"Heir's suite is prepared for young miss," Kreacher sniffed. "Mistress has no confidence in Kreacher."
"On the contrary," she countered, "I have the utmost confidence in your abilities. I merely wish to ensure that you're not overburdened."
"Prince Faramir and the White Lady be in the nursery," the house elf said decisively. "Kreacher be opening and cleaning."
Bronach frowned, trying to remember where the nursery was, and then recalling that it was in storage, brought out only when there were young children under the Head's care, since it connected directly to the Head Suite. It would be a suitable place for the couple, once it was cleaned up and retrofitted to accommodate two adults.
"MUM!" she heard, and looked up to see Ginny practically hanging over the railing on the first floor landing. "HARRY'S HERE! WITH A BUNCH OF STRANGERS!"
That brought everyone running, and Bronach reached out to still Éowyn, who had dropped her hand to her sword hilt in surprise. Doors opened above and below, and she felt the entire house converging on the entry.
"You may go to your friends, if you want," Bronach told her younger self, who looked overwhelmed. "I need to speak with whomever is currently in residence, but I will tell you anything you need to know later."
Sirius was the first one up the stairs from the kitchen, wand up and raised, with Molly and Remus right on his heels.
"Who are you?" he demanded. "How did you get in here?"
"This is my house," Bronach said, refusing to be cowed by the trio of wands pointed at her. "You cannot deny me access."
"False," Sirius said. "This is my house." And don't you look as if you hate being able to say that.
"Can you control the wards?" Bronach challenged, raising an eyebrow. "Are you the magically accepted Head of House Black?" At his irritated head twitch, she shrugged. "I am the magically accepted Head of House Black, and as such I am entitled to enter and dwell in the Black Family Seat if I should choose to. However, I and my companions mean none who are currently within these walls harm."
None of the wands moved. Bronach fought the urge to roll her eyes.
"If I was an enemy of the Order of the Phoenix, or an ally of Tom Riddle, I would not have been able to bypass the wards on Privet Drive to bring Miss Potter here." Bronach gestured to the girl, who stepped obligingly out from behind the shelter of Halbarad and Daervunn. "There were dementors in Little Whinging tonight, and I felt it was far past time she be brought to her home."
"Privet Drive is her home," said Remus, and Bronach was surprised to hear the note of tired resignation in his voice, like he'd argued and lost. "With her aunt and uncle."
"She is of the House of Black," Bronach put her hand on her younger self's shoulder, careful not to startle her. "Where it makes its home can be her home. And I make my home here."
"Mrs. Weasley, Sirius, Professor Lupin," the girl spoke up for the first time. "There were dementors in Little Whinging tonight. They saved me."
From the look on the trio's faces, this was not necessarily new news to them. Arabella Figg's work, no doubt. But Bronach was distracted by a voice from above. "What's a dementor?"
Glorfindel leaned on the banister one level above the children, loose hair slithering over his shoulders as he looked down and waved cheerfully. "Hail White Lady! Hail Prince of Ithilien!"
"Hail and well met, Lord of the Golden Flower!" Éowyn called back brightly, Faramir echoing the greeting. "A dementor is akin to the Nazgûl."
Before Bronach could intervene, the elf lord made his rapid descent, vaulting over the banister, slowing his fall by swinging off the one the children scurried back from and landing lightly on his feet like a cat. Ignoring the muffled applause from above, Glorfindel studied Bronach worriedly.
"Wraiths, but not Nazgûl," she corrected softly. "We are unharmed. The light of Elbereth protected us, and Halbarad joins the count of those that have slain a wraith."
"This is my second," Éowyn told Bronach's younger self, who looked confused. It wasn't a language barrier, since Bronach had cast the translation spell for her newest companions on their walk to Privet Drive, but due to the claim.
"Any signs of the Black Breath?" Glorfindel asked Faramir and Daervunn, as if he didn't trust the rest of them to answer truthfully. Bronach would be almost insulted if she wasn't well aware of the gulf between their definitions of fine.
"None at all," Faramir said, wrapping his arm around his wife's waist. "These wraiths are of a lesser evil than Nazgûl. They remain hale and hearty."
"I would have helped," Glorfindel turned on Bronach with a pout. "You never let me have fun."
"We committed arson together in the last month," she pointed out dryly.
He made a dismissive noise before turning to the trio of adults training wands on him. "Hail and well met!" he greeted, bowing politely. "I am Glorfindel, of the House of the Golden Flower, and more lately of Imladris. It is a pleasure to finally introduce myself after we have shared this residence for so long."
"Holy shit," Bronach could hear Ginny whispering above them. "Was he the ghost?"
"You're responsible for all of this…nonsense?" Molly sounded frustrated. Per Kreacher's reports, the witch was getting quite fed up, finding objects she'd discarded returned to their rightful places or finding things returned to their original position after she'd rearranged a room. Bronach felt somewhat sympathetic, but it wasn't Molly's house. As much as she loved the woman, sometimes her opinions were rather overbearing.
"Ah," Glorfindel looked apologetic. "I'm afraid I can't take full credit. Madame Black, her portrait network, and Kreacher have all been my allies in mischief. We were ordered to protect the contents of the house until its master returned to supervise its restoration."
"You intend to keep such dark artifacts in a house with children in it?" the witch turned on Bronach.
"I intend to review them, remove what curses I can, and store the remainder in a Gringotts vault until I have time to hire curse breakers," Bronach said tightly. "Regardless of the insanity of past members of my House, the items within these walls are heirlooms of House Black and I will not discard them so lightly."
She tightened her self-control as she recalled returning to Grimmauld for the first time after the war was over, weary and grieving. There had been nothing left after the Death Eaters ransacked the place, even despite Kreacher attempting to run interference. What they hadn't taken, they had ruined.
All that had been left were the wards and the walls.
And Walburga's portrait, Bronach thought, glancing at the woman, who was clearly peering through her curtains.
She hadn't fully recognized the scope of the loss then, but as she co-parented Teddy with Andromeda, negotiated reparations with the goblins, and generally tried to figure out what life after the war looked like, Bronach had come to learn how little tangible family history she had left. Only items that had been stored in her family vaults remained, and she had been forced to hand over many of the more valuable ones to the goblins before she knew what they would have meant to her Houses. Grimmauld had been sacked, and the Potter Family Seat had been razed during the first war, leaving little behind.
What was left, she had carried with her through the long years in a series of expanded trunks that currently resided in the master suite upstairs. If the main trunk had not been with her, it had been carried by Kreacher, and they'd drawn upon it in their need many times over the years. This time though, she intended to preserve as much as possible, if not for herself than for her younger self, ignorant of the history of both her families.
Sirius scoffed, but Remus spoke first, placing a quelling hand on his friend's shoulder. "That is certainly a much more reassuring explanation than any I had been contemplating. However, I am curious as to whether or not you know what happened to the portrait of Headmaster Black?"
Bronach knew her smile likely had too many teeth. "Manage to find the missing bathroom yet?"
"I knew it," Sirius muttered, throwing his hands up in the air. "I told you there was supposed to be a bathroom there, but did you listen to me?"
"It had a ghoul in it," Bronach continued. "I thought it might keep the good Headmaster entertained. He should have known better than to commission a portrait for this house."
It was, in fact, rather strange for the Blacks to have allowed it. They were notoriously secretive and even more notorious for their paranoia, and it was well understood that portraits connected to the Headmaster's office were compelled to carry tales to the current occupant.
"I am sure you have a vast number of things you wish to question me about," Bronach sighed, wishing she could rub the weariness from her eyes. "However, could we move somewhere that is not the entry? My companions will wish to settle in."
"It is time for me to begin dinner," Molly said, checking her watch. "Children, go upstairs. We'll call you when it's time to eat."
There was a storm of protests from above, and while Molly was busy quelling the brewing rebellion, Bronach turned to her younger self. "If you wish to remain, you may, but I am sure you would rather catch up with your friends." Halbarad and Daervunn had mentioned that they'd made sure the girl understood the lack of substantial letters was due to the Headmaster, not any particular failing of the Weasleys and Hermione.
For a moment, the girl looked torn. "Will you tell me what you talk about?"
"I promise," Bronach said, and the girl darted up the stairs without a second thought. Kreacher would take care of the trunk which Halbarad had set by the door, forgotten in the chaos, and Bronach would show her to the Heir suite later. But for now, she had an interrogation to face.
Remus was the last one to enter the kitchen, his stance deceptively casual.
Bronach couldn't help remembering that Remus had outlived the other Marauders.
Her father's fatal mistake had been leaving his wand behind when he ran to confront Riddle. Sirius hadn't taken Bellatrix seriously. Peter had faltered, and his perceived betrayal had doomed him. For as much as she resented that Teddy had grown up an orphan, Bronach had never been able to blame Remus or Tonks for anything more than choosing to both join the battle that had decided everything. It was not greater skill that would have saved them, but better luck.
Ignoring the pang in her heart, she swept towards the table as if she were at court in all of her silk and brocaded finery. There was a badly muffled snort of amusement that she suspected came Daervunn, who was well-versed in her opinions of court affairs, but she ignored it, seating herself at the head of the table.
Kreacher brought her a cup of tea and patted her hand, steadying her. Bronach sipped at it, surveying the way the battle lines were drawn. Her companions had beaten the Order adults to the table, arraying themselves around her in a clear show of support. Halbarad and Daervunn were leaning against the wall behind her, but Glorfindel sat on her right, while Éowyn and Faramir took the seats to her left. It was a powerful impression, one she approved of, even if it clearly made Molly, Remus, and Sirius uneasy.
Good, she thought viciously, hiding the twist of her mouth behind her teacup. They should be. Some of her inaction this summer, though mostly because she was quietly putting her affairs in order, was a desire to see if Dumbledore would adjust his plans due to the altered course of the Third Task. It had rather ruined her mood to see that he clearly was set on the course that had led her to the forest clearing in ninety-eight, and Bronach was done giving him chances.
Sirius flopped into the chair at the foot of the table. If he was trying for noble indolence, he was failing miserably. She'd seen much better. Remus and Molly took their own seats, Molly glancing towards the stove where Kreacher was clearly busy preparing dinner.
"You stole my house," Sirius announced. Clearly that argument hadn't been as settled as she assumed. "And instead of announcing yourself, you hid."
"You stole my house," Bronach parried. "I claimed it, as was my legal and magical right, the day after I saved Miss Potter in June. It was not yours when you offered it to Albus Dumbledore, and I have been graciously overlooking the trespassing committed by the Order of the Phoenix for want of time and energy to address it."
"We had guards posted on Harry!" Molly burst out, clearly uninterested in the squabbles of the House of Black. "And the blood wards- she was safe at Privet Drive!"
"She was not safe in that house tonight," Bronach pushed down old fury. She had never, ever asked which Order members had stood guard at Privet Drive, let alone what had been reported of her life there. It was an old hurt, an old question, and one she apparently wasn't as over as she'd thought. "In fact," she took a deep breath, "I strongly suspect she was never safe in that house. Not truly."
"Voldemort took her blood in June," Remus said with a frown. "I mentioned that to Albus, but he told me that the wards would not be altered because of that."
It was new information, and she set that aside to mull over when there was time for such things. "Riddle, please," she said, and rolled her eyes at the blank stares. "The so-called Lord Flight From Death was born Tom Marvolo Riddle. It is difficult to say when the Taboo will be raised, so I would rather my allies accustom themselves to calling him something that will not send Snatchers and Death Eaters bouncing off my wards at all hours of the day and night."
Molly's lips thinned. "Yes, that was why we stopped saying it. But Dumbledore says that fear of the name only increases fear of the thing itself."
"I am not asking you to fear him," Bronach sighed. "I am asking you to take reasonable precaution so that whatever miserable cretins alerted by the Taboo are not vaporized by the full strength of the Black wards I raise tomorrow at dawn."
"Nobody can raise the war wards," Sirius scoffed, propping his feet on the table and crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned his chair back.
"The Head of the House of Black can," Bronach fought the urge to rub her temples. "What will it take for you to get it through your thick head that you are not the Head?"
"Perhaps some proof that you are who you say you are?" Remus interceded, shooting Sirius a warning glance as he cut into the conversation. "You must understand, the Black lineage is well documented, and its living members widely known."
Reaching inside the pocket of her jacket, Bronach withdrew the file she'd taken to carrying, full of the false documentation that Gringotts had been happy to create for her. Withdrawing a slim plastic card, she slid it across the table. All three adults leaned in.
"What's this supposed to be?" Molly asked, prodding at it gingerly.
"A license to operate a muggle car," Remus said, picking it up and examining it. "Issued to one Bronach Black."
"You need a license to operate one of those things?" From Molly's tone, Bronach pitied Arthur when he arrived home, but her attention was caught by Sirius.
"Black is a common enough name in the muggle world," the man said, eyes locked on hers. "Lily told me."
Rolling her eyes, Bronach slid a piece of parchment across the table. With the stamp certifying it as an official Gringotts document, it would be downright impossible for them to argue it wasn't authentic.
"A Gringotts-crafted family tree," Remus murmured, pressing his wand to the stamp and watching it flash. "And authentic."
"Aunt Dorea had a child?" Sirius sounded gutted. He looked up, the stubborn light in his eyes fading.
"Wouldn't you have known that?" Remus asked. "She wrote to Euphemia didn't she? And to you, when you were disowned?"
"Vaguely," Sirius muttered, clearly frustrated by the dementor-induced holes in his memory. "They traveled, a lot. And dear old mum disapproved, so they never came here, or wrote much."
"They traveled because certain members of the House of Black were willing to make their unhappiness with Dorea's choice of spouse explicitly clear," Bronach said quietly. "But she returned to Britain in nineteen seventy-seven and ended up killed in a Death Eater attack, along with her husband. Her son was spared only because he was away at school."
"Your father," Molly said, lips pressed tight. "Leo Potter."
"Who, because the school was not aware of Fleamont and Euphemia's existance, since Leo was barely aware of it himself, became a ward of the school." Bronach shrugged, as if these were facts she'd learned by reading it somewhere. Which, according to her trumped-up background, they would have been. "It was apparently quite a reclusive and unconventional school, a fitting place to hide a scion of the House of Black. My father was, however, apparently aware of the danger he faced should he encounter any member of the European Magical community and chose to travel to an even more reclusive and secluded magical community. He fell in love with my mother, and both of them died around my first birthday in a magical accident related to something they were studying. I was raised by one of the families in the community, who gave me my parents belongings when I came of age." She paused, smiling at them. "You will understand that it took me some time to sort through it all and then become comfortable with the idea of coming to Britain to determine if there was still a threat to my life."
"And you found your cousin in the graveyard," Remus's expression was guarded. "How convenient."
"You said it yourself. That is an authentic document," Bronach shrugged. "I will admit to following my family magic, which helped guide me to Little Hangleton, though I did not realize I would find someone in that place exactly."
"It is something a Head of House should be able to do," Sirius admitted, when Molly and Remus looked at him to verify it. "It's supposed to allow Heads of House to ensure that nobody's hiding any bastards, but it only works on underage children."
"Oh?" Bronach tipped her head. Well, that explained why she hadn't been able to sense Narcissa, Andromeda, Bellatrix, Sirius, or Tonks. She'd assumed it was something to do with wards blocking her access, but apparently the book's use of the term child of the House of Black was literal, not just figurative. "Curious."
"So you're not just the Head of the House of Black," Molly frowned. "You're also the Head of the House of Potter."
"Her Black blood is distant, but she was named heir to a child of the House of Black who was magically named as her godfather," Bronach shrugged. "Even if I were not the Head of House Potter, I would have been able to find her."
"This is all very interesting," Sirius said, recovering from the shock. "But what do you intend to do?"
"I intend to finish what my cousin started," Bronach let her shoulder lift in a casual shrug. "Put an end to Riddle, and hopefully also put an end to the threat my grandparents were worried about."