SUPPERS, SECRETS, SQUIRES, SHACKS

September 15

Harry I. Evans' Quarters

"How many points would Prof McGonagall grant if I vanish Loony and Goldilocks?" Harry asked Darren and Conlaed as the fashionably-dressed five shared a fifth of Firewhiskey.

"Two hundred each?" Conlaed suggested with wide, hopeful eyes.

"Dippet should add in a Special Award for Services to the School!" Darren claimed.

"At least an Evans killing an Avery or a Lestrange would be special," Goldwin returned.

Darren flushed, which Randolph exacerbated by conjuring roses to pelt "Rosy's" head.

"That's it! None of you are invited to my funeral!" Darren fumed.

"Who's going to mourn you then?" Harry teased.

"At least my bones won't be looted, unlike yours," Darren fired back.

"Herr Evans' tomb will be plundered long before his flesh rots," Randolph anticipated.

"What wonderful friends I have," Harry bemoaned. "Already plotting the desecration of my remains and relics."

"You may have not learned to share in the Drittes Reich, Herr Evans, but your magic is too strong to let waste away," Goldwin pontificated. "The potions I could brew from you…"

"Once again, the Österreich I spent my early childhood in was not part of the Third Reich. Hilter's War ended thirteen years before I was born," Harry huffed.

"Careful, Herr Evans, your German's showing," Randolph ragged while giving a Nazi salute.

Harry groaned dramatically to the tune of a triune laughter.

"I-I still can't believe you were raised by Grindelwald!" Conlaed exclaimed when he recovered his wits.

"I can't believe you're a Quidditch beater, but here we are," Darren taunted the second year.

"Don't think we've forgotten how you were in on Evans' secret, Rosy," Randolph warned.

"He was charting a one way course to Azkaban his first year. I had no choice but to tell him," Harry half-defended Darren.

"So you delayed Rosy's dementor appointment by what? Ten years?" Goldwin laughed.

"At best," Harry snickered.

Predictably, Darren hurled a curse at him — an intestine liquifier this time. Harry yawned obnoxiously while dissipating the offending energy with a simple swish of his wand.

"Hey, someone summon the whiskey from Conny!" Harry exclaimed when he saw the five-foot blond taking a hearty swig.

"Norse blood runs through his veins," Randolph shrugged.

Goldwin used Harry's distraction to pants and nail him in the rear with a firecracker hex.

"Yow!" Harry yelped as he hopped up and down.

"That's how you hex the brat blunder, Rosy," Randolph lectured.

But a knock on the door later, it was as if Harry had not been touched at all. A flourish of his midnight-purple wand admitted Orion, who strutted in with the pomp of a prince.

"Shall we depart for Slughorn's, gentlewizards?" Orion inquired, raising a contemptuous eyebrow at Randolph's chugging of the remaining whiskey.

Horace Slughorn's Suite

"Harry, my boy," Horace greeted affectionately as he stood from a table set for seven.

"Horace," Harry returned before hugging his godfather. "Thank you for having us."

"I am always glad to dine with my godson and his friends," Horace said amiably. "Well, the ones that I won't see at the prefects' dinner in a week. I assume Tom will attend that one?"

"Yes," Harry answered. "He sends his regrets about not being able to make it tonight."

Too busy sulking at the fact we'll have to get our robes dirty to find his Chamber of Secrets, Harry mused.

"Ever spellbound by research, that one," Horace sighed fondly. "I assume you'll join him after supper? Give him my regards. And I hope someday you two will share your findings."

"Yes, Evans, do share," Randolph repeated.

Harry initiated a wand tap with his friend to diffuse the tension. In spite of—or perhaps because of—their strong bond, Randolph took offense when Harry hid information on Tom's behalf. On top of that, Harry knew that Randolph, and Goldwin for that matter, felt hurt that Harry had not told them about his three years in Nurmengard.

"Now, Lestrange, as the raven is your family mascot, I must ask what the corvid forecast for tonight is," Horace asked conspiratorially. "They seem to have recently evolved a tendency to leave droppings on my godson's head."

"It would help if Evans' hair didn't look like a bird's nest," Randolph ribbed. "But to the best of my knowledge, no corvids will appear in this room."

Harry pouted at the lack of assurance beyond that, sparking a round of snickers from his friends.

"Oh lads, sit down you," Horace invited as he returned to the head of the table.

With Tom absent in body and spirit, the lads arranged themselves by their bonds with one another. Harry took the middle of the three seats on Horace's right. He was flanked by Goldwin and Randolph, the latter keeping his usual position at Harry's right even at expense of the traditional seat of honor. Darren, although the eldest on the other side of the table, positioned himself across from Harry. Conlaed took the seat across from Randolph, leaving Orion unopposed in his quest for the seat at Horace's left hand.

If the Black heir felt surprised at who acquired the "seat of honor" opposite him, he could take comfort in the fact Goldwin was the eldest guest.

"If memory serves, your birthday is fast approaching, isn't it Avery?" Horace asked.

"The 23rd," Goldwin confirmed.

"Ah, the standard equinox date," Horace remarked. "But fortunately, as it will fall on the 22nd this year, my fall equinox dinner guests will make your party."

Harry groaned at the pun, leading the lads to laugh.

"Where will you be hosting, if you may sate an old man's curiosity?" Horace inquired.

"I don't know," Goldwin shrugged. "This stripling right here's making the arrangements."

"Oh, don't start," Harry grumbled.

"Not my fault you're somehow closer to Rosy in age than me," Goldwin taunted.

Harry and Darren blushed at the reminder they were rather young among their classmates.

"It's a surprise," Harry answered his godfather's question. "But there won't be any prefects near besides the ones on the invite list, so you won't have to cover for us."

"No prefects are giving you any trouble this year, are they my boy?" Horace asked.

"Terra Crabbe was the last to, and she graduated in May," Harry assured.

"Good riddance," Randolph sneered.

Horace nodded solemnly. He knew that over the past three years, several Slytherin prefects harassed Harry and Tom for their parentage and mocked the pair's friends. Fortunately, a spot of misfortune humbled those prefects sometime or other.

"Am I going to be a prefect one day?" Conlaed asked sweetly, disregarding Darren's eye roll.

"Maybe, young Greengrass. You certainly have distinguished yourself among your cohort," Horace complimented.

"Oo, oo, am I going to be a prefect?" Darren asked in a deliberately obnoxious voice.

"If I can find no one else," Horace answered with good humor.

"Better chance than you lot," Darren fired at the snickering Goldwin, Harry and Randolph.

"As your Quidditch captain, I get all the perks of being a prefect with none of the grueling responsibilities," Harry prided himself.

"Shut up," Darren returned.

"Shall we begin?" Horace proposed as he snapped his fingers to signal his personal elf to serve the appetizer. Segnites, an energetic elf despite the translation of his Latin name, brought forth raw oysters and Malfoy-produced sparkling wine.

"Conny, if you overindulge, I'm not helping you," Harry warned.

"What about Darren? He's only seven months older than me," Conlaed delivered with a scrunched nose.

"I look seven years older than you," Darren bantered.

"One day, you will look seventy years older than me, and I will laugh as you beg for my countenance," Conlaed predicted.

"He has you there, Rosy," Randolph pronounced.

"I seem to recall the Lestranges are the most closely related family to the Rosiers," Orion remarked.

Randolph humphed.

"On the topic of the family, any details about your upcoming ball that you could whet our appetites with?" Horace asked.

"That is the domain of my aunt. Perhaps my cousin knows more?" Randolph avoided answering.

"Somehow, I can't imagine Eleanor doing ball planning in the future," Harry commented.

"It's a good thing we'll have you then, won't we?" Randolph smiled. "Speaking of, professor, would you mind loaning Evans here for the duration of Yuletide?"

Six surprised sets of eyes converged on Randolph.

"Has your father agreed to this?" Horace asked.

"He wrote, 'a wizard who freely bears the cross of a Lestrange has honor worthy of the family, and will be treated so'," Randolph relayed.

"It was just a detention," Harry shrugged off. "Besides, you only got in trouble because of me. How could I just leave you hanging from the broom?"

Randolph gave him a you just proved my point look.

"Well, who could turn such an offer down? Of course Harry is free," Horace said.

"What about Tom?" Harry asked Randolph.

"I'm sure I can convince my father to open the manor doors to him," the other boy said after a half-second's hesitation.

Harry clapped Randolph on the shoulder, both in gratitude and as a signal to the others that we'll pretend Heir Slytherin wasn't temporarily forgotten.

Orion gave a contemplative look, but agreed to the message along with the others.

"Master Black," Horace addressed. "How are you enjoying Hogwarts so far?"

"I find it adequate," Orion answered. "Classes are well taught for the most part, although the ghost that teaches history leaves something to be desired. The magic within the castle remains as fine as my father described it to be, so Headmaster Dippet has maintained the school in this fashion at least. And I have found worthy company in the Slytherin House."

To the disgruntlement of the others, the Black heir looked at Harry alone as he made his last comment — though he implied Tom also ranked among the "worthy company."

"If I may ask, what is your favorite class?" Horace ventured. "Do not fear offending me. Harry, Tom, and Lestrange each favor Defense over my own subject."

"Only slightly," Harry and Randolph answered in unison, sparking some chuckles.

"I have enjoyed both Potions and Defense so far," Orion began once the table fell silent once more. "But I must say that I am most partial to Charms."

This surprised several of the lads.

"Those that live by the wand oft die by it. And though potion recipes last generations, anyone competent brewer can claim your work as their own with but a few modifications," Orion explained. "However, enchantments endure, and they cannot be misattributed. This is the closest path to immortality save through blood."

Harry nodded at Orion's reasoning. Although Tom had studied how to repossess and reanimate his body upon physical death, Harry balked at clinging on to an undead corpse, potentially devolving into a vampire or — worse yet — a body-hopping parasite.

"Rather atypical for a Black to favor charms," Randolph said in a neutral tone, but with a condescending implication.

"Not as atypical as you may think," Harry countered, remembering a conversation years ago with another Black who loved Merrythought's class most of all.

"Interesting," Horace concluded.

"My favorite subject is Potions," Goldwin felt the need to reiterate.

"Mine too!" Conlaed added as a smile broke out on Horace's face.

"Toadies," Darren taunted.

"Go pet a dragon, Rosy," Conlaed retorted before dodging an oyster shell to the face.

"No love for Transfiguration at this table?" Horace asked as he signaled for the empty plates to be replaced with soups.

"Isn't it one of your best subjects, Herr?" Conlaed asked Harry.

"Et tu, Conny?" Harry huffed to the amusement of the table save for a slightly-confused Horace. "But yes, my antlers have been coming along."

"Antlers?" Orion asked aloud.

"Indeed," Horace said excitedly. "As you know, Minerva—Professor McGonagall to you— is the youngest animagus on record. Legend is she transformed into a cat at her Transfiguration N.E.W.T., earning her an Outstanding on the spot. Well, Harry here might just do the same at his O.W.L. If you could demonstrate your partial transfiguration?"

Harry stood and walked back a few paces, before his modelesque face transformed into the stout-necked head of a golden-coated elk. From each side of the top of this head sprouted a massive silver antler that made for a combined span of nearly nine feet.

"The upside is he can't talk in that form," Randolph claimed.

"I can project my human voice, thank you very much," Harry rebuked a stunned Randolph.

Orion was awestruck.

"Aren't these a little small for an Irish elk?" Goldwin teased as he grabbed one of Harry's antlers. "I read that these horns were supposed to have an eleven-foot span."

"I haven't fully matured, obviously," Harry retorted. "And eleven-foot antlers were for the largest of the species. As always, the simplest concepts fly over your head, Goldilocks."

"Pipe down, Horny Harry," Goldwin quipped.

"You…" Harry fumed as the lads laughed at him. "You are very annoying, I hope you know that," he ranted as he resumed his human face. "And they aren't horns!"

This caused everyone, including Horace, to laugh more.

Harry felt his cheeks warm, but couldn't help snort with laughter himself. Aggravating though his friends could be at times, they kept his head from exploding with ego. With them around, Harry knew he'd never start referring to himself in the third person — unlike someone he knew.

"You may also know that at age thirteen, Harry became the youngest wizard on record to master the Patronus Charm, a positive force that repels dark energies," Horace boasted.

"At least that version is full-bodied," Darren derided.

"Audience of adamant," Orion sympathized.

"Always," Randolph promised.

Orion shifted in discomfort as he realized that if he joined the lads, he would be laughed at whenever he tried to define his worth on the basis of Black heritage. But he also saw the lads had friendships far stronger than one would typically expect from Slytherins, especially heirs to some of the wizard world's most notable families.

Harry could feel the wheels turning in the young Black's mind as the group of seven enjoyed the rest of their seven-course meal. He was interested to see the choice Orion would make.

September 16

Harry I. Evans' Quarters

The clock struck midnight, and the Heir of Slytherin arrived to chase any remaining attendees of Harry's post-dinner gathering.

"Sober yourself," Voldemort commanded as his true aura overtook the room.

Harry sighed and did as told, purging his blood and organs of all alcohol effects.

"Do you foresee the young Black joining your merry band?" Voldemort inquired.

"He seems to be leaning toward it," Harry admitted, unsurprised by his cousin's faint grimace. "But, I've said many times, you're the leader of every one of us. Especially me."

"As is my birthright," Voldemort declared.

"Speaking of, have you considered what I suggested over summer?" Harry asked.

Voldemort bared his perfect teeth as if they were fangs.

"If my ancestral chamber lies beneath bathroom piping, it might be long lost to mudblood sewage," Voldemort snarled.

"Or, there could be a false pipe system," Harry suggested. "Slytherin loved the idea of false walls, we saw that with his study—"

"Scriptorium," Voldemort insisted.

"Okay, scriptorium," Harry acquiesced. "We also know that Corvinus Gaunt, descendent of Salazar Slytherin and your very own ancestor, was a student when Hogwarts' plumbing system was installed."

"And you believe he concealed the entrance to the chamber in a toilet?" Voldemort derided.

"Probably anywhere in a bathroom but a toilet," Harry defended.

"There is one major flaw in your theory," Voldemort contended. "How could Corvinus Gaunt, son of Slytherin, know where our chamber lay, but fail to unleash 'the creature' that would 'rid the school of those unworthy of Hogwarts,' per our ancestor's own words?"

"Two possibilities," Harry answered. "One is, by the time Corvinus found the chamber, the creature was dead."

Voldemort growl-hissed and turned the room black.

"The other," Harry continued. "The other possibility is that Corvinus was not, as Slytherin put in his journal, 'a descendant willing'."

"How can that be?" Voldemort asked. "The Noble and Most Ancient House of Gaunt was the purest of the pure. How could the heir to such a house watch our school fall into the claws of mudbloods, possess the means to cleanse our castle, and do nothing?"

"Voldemort," Harry said softly. "You're my cousin, and I love you. But there is hate in your heart, hate very deep and very personal. I've interacted with purebloods all my life, and the only wizard I know of whose hate rivals yours is Salazar Slytherin himself."

"That is why your numbers are dwindling to oblivion!" Voldemort accused. "When mudbloods and traitors delivered the world to the beasts of the earth, witches with the courage to stand against them were few and far between. And yet again, when Herr Grindelwald rose to save magic from muggle ruin, too many descendents of magic stood aside as the mudbloods and traitors fought on behalf of the enemy."

"My mother was one of those 'traitors'," Harry pointed out.

"Your mother, and she alone, can be forgiven due to Grindelwald's use of her ancestral symbol," Voldemort excused. "Her decision to oppose him, while regrettable, can be understood. But you, Ignotus? I require you to see reason."

"Are you ready to search the bathrooms?" Harry asked.

"If a drain pipe leads to what remains of my chamber, you go in first," Voldemort demanded.

"Deal," Harry accepted.

Undercroft, Defense Against the Dark Arts Tower

"File in," Harry ordered his 10 founding squires upon opening a secret door at the base of the Defense tower.

Most seemed unprepared for the 6 a.m. preliminary meeting, even with forewarning. This once, Harry dispelled any grogginess or residual intoxication, but he strongly advised them to learn such blessings in the future.

"Preliminary matters," Harry announced as his friends admired the vast, torch-lit crypt. "Although you all swore an oath to Tom when entering this coven, I'll need you to sign an extra parchment — especially since this is what non-coven members who join the Order of Walpurgis will sign. Sign with this blood quill, and you pledge to never volunteer anything said or done in this room to those not in the know — at least, not without my consent."

"What hex will this levy against oathbreakers?" Walburga asked.

"TRAITOR will be permanently etched into your hand in your own handwriting, unless you convince myself, Tom, or Professor Albus to remove it," Harry answered. "And trust me, if you involve Professor Albus, that marking will be the least of your worries."

"You know I'd just hex you until you remove it, right?" Randolph challenged.

"Lucky for me that you're one of the least likely to break the oath," Harry remarked.

Randolph didn't even try to hide his pride at the compliment, and he led the line to sign the parchment. Once the other blood-red signatures — Walburga Black, Darren Rosier, Kenward Mulciber, Goldwin Avery, Eleanor Lestrange, Druella Rosier, Conlaed Greengrass, Orion Black, Palomydes Nott — sank into the parchment, Harry touched his wand to it and uttered a brief Old Norse chant.

"Now that is out of the way, time to practice curses," Harry introduced. "Professor Albus is a master of his craft, one who strives to minimize conflict and almost always succeeds in this. However, he is the most powerful wizard in the world, and quite possibly the most powerful in modern times. He enjoys the luxury of always being able to hold back. You will not."

"Real duels, not the performative shows I partake in, usually last a few seconds," Harry imparted. "Will, accuracy, knowledge, direction, and speed — WANDS for short — are your life. For even if you are more powerful than your opponent, or scored higher on your Defense N.E.W.T., if she or he is more prepared in the attributes I mentioned, you will die."

"See this mannequin behind me?" Harry introduced the first task. "You'll each cast your favorite lethal spell at it. But be warned, I have empowered it to cast a disarming jinx at you the moment you step into its line of sight. Beat it to the draw, or stand wandless before an armed opponent. So, who's first?"

Darren stepped forward.

"Ready?" Harry asked the third year, who nodded.

Harry stepped out of the way as Darren flourished his wand to cast a focused, precise, unorthodox, nonverbal curse. But before he could fire, Darren found himself wandless.

"Aww, sorry Rosy, did you expect it to say Expelliarmus?" Harry taunted. "No serious caster of the disarming jinx says the incantation. The only folks we'd beat to the draw are those casting Avada Kedavra."

"I'll Avada Kedavra you," Darren retorted as he bent over to pick up his wand, only for Harry to send it rolling away.

"Another thing. In the event you're still alive a second or two after being disarmed, learn to summon your wand back," Harry instructed.

"How are we to keep ourselves alive in time to retrieve our wands?" Orion asked.

"One way is to cast a wandless shield over yourself," Harry suggested. "Since you like enchantments, you could etch wards into your robes — even focus them with runes — to give yourself a margin for error."

"A second method is to prepare a wandless attack," Harry offered. "This can be a curse you can cast like so, an illusion, an animagus shift, a rhetorical argument, an alternative weapon, or even a muggle charge at your opponent. In fact, you'd be surprised how many witches and wizards that last on will work against."

"It worked against Heir Slytherin?" Conlaed asked.

Clearly, it was early in the morning, and some had forgotten their filter.

"It's a one time trick, so I recommend using it against someone you intend to kill," Harry shared. "And never, ever use it against a vengeful Parselmouth."

Darren, Randolph, and Goldwin snickered at the implication.

"The third method, and most difficult, is to dematerialize on the spot," Harry provided.

"Can you?" Walburga asked.

"No," Harry admitted. "It is perhaps the most advanced form of transfiguration. But one day I will, and maybe some of you will be able to as well. Both my mother and Vinda Rosier could, so it's not just a power for the very most powerful."

"Just the almost-most-powerful," Palomydes huffed.

"I won't have defeatism here," Harry chided. "For that, you're next against the mannequin."

September 23

Whomping Willow Shack

"Mud," Tom complained in Old English after Harry served drinks from his makeshift bar to a pair of muggleborn witches.

"Keep speaking like that, and they will not need to be fluent in our languages to understand you," Harry returned in his mutually-intelligible Old Norse.

"I hate this party," Tom said. "I hate this place. And I hate to see you, Ignotus Secundus, son of magic seven-millennia strong, serving drinks like a fallen squib."

"Avery was the first to join us after Lestrange," Harry reminded Tom. "It is only right we are there for him today. And it makes it far easier for you that I'm here bartending, so my loving cousin can keep me company instead of mingling with others."

"Lord Voldemort is not meant to attend birthday parties," Tom fumed.

"Ah, but only I even know your name," Harry said as he poured his cousin some of the secret supply of Malfoy wine. "We all make sacrifices here and there."

"Mud," Tom complained again as his eyes focused on the dance floor, particularly on Goldwin and a girl he was dancing intimately with.

"You know why they're here," Harry sighed. "The more muggle the blood, the more easy to bed."

Goldwin was hardly the only one getting close to a muggleborn. Randolph, Kenward, Bulstrode, Algie, and Hufflepuffs Kirk Diggory and Damascus Smith were all partaking in similar behavior.

"You will never again dirty yourself in such a manner," Tom commanded.

"On pain of being castrated, never," Harry huffed.

"Better to castrate you than allow you to conjoin with beast spawn," Tom said shamelessly.

Harry sighed. Although his friends agreed muggle blood was inferior to magic blood, a position Godric Gryffindor himself held most his life according to Slytherin's journal, only Palomydes equated muggleborns to animals the way Tom did. For this reason, among others, Harry questioned if his cousin's terrorist ambitions could truly come to fruition.

Harry was shaken out of his musings when Olive Hornby came by and engaged in flirtatious conversation as he poured her another drink. But just as she seemed ready to suggest a post-party rendezvous, she suddenly received a very strong urge to rush outside and vomit.

"Really?" Harry asked his cousin.

"I tire of your dalliance with that disgrace of a witch," Tom sneered.

"Her ancestors were here before the Norman barons," Harry said with a pointed look.

Tom glared.

"I forbid you from copulating with her again," he declared.

"First, she is still a virgin," Harry defended her honor. "Second, not all of us have blood so saturated with black magic that we can't—"

Harry lost his nerve in the face of his cousin's expression.

"I assure you, I am a fully functional individual," Tom rebuked. "That theory of yours is little better than mudblood concepts of gender roles."

"Okay," Harry swallowed.

Both were so engrossed in their exchange that they only sensed the new arrivals just before they entered the door.

"Interesting," Tom commented as the lesser Black and his best friend Selwyn walked in.

"Play nice," Harry muttered, much more to himself than to his cousin.

As Black and Selwyn walked up to get some drinks, Harry greeted his Quidditch subordinates with a smile.

"What can I serve you?" Harry asked.

Selwyn, intimidated by Tom's presence even with Black at his side, quickly requested a glass of Hog's Tea: a popular cocktail roughly 22% alcohol by volume.

"And you, Black?" Harry directed at his rival.

"I'll have what he's having," Black pointed to Tom's drink.

Harry, ever a good bartender, poured Black a glass of Malfoy wine.

"I must admit, when your invitation told us to approach the Whomping Willow, I wondered if you were finally trying to kill me," Black quipped.

"Oh Black, I'd never share that pleasure with anyone or anything but my own two hands," Harry smiled.

"Great to know we are on the same scroll," Black returned.

"It's been a while since we've attended the same party," Harry observed.

"You always seem to be absent from our Quidditch celebrations, Captain," Black noted.

"Let it not be said I don't value your skills on a broom. That goes for both of you," Harry included the blond to Black's right. "But since you've quit our hex sessions, I doubt we will see much of each other outside class and practice."

"Tell me one thing. Did you even read the letter before burning it?" Black asked.

"Care to speak plainly?" Harry prompted.

"The letter from your father, Charlus Fleamont Potter?" Black explicated.

"I have never, nor will I ever receive a letter from that wizard," Harry snorted.

"You—wait no, you're actually being serious," Black whispered.

"Do I ever lie to you, Black?" Harry pointed out.

"Haven't you wondered why I've been…acting the way I have?" Black inquired. "Why Slughorn paired us together in Potions?"

"Why?" Harry asked.

"Potter now knows you are his only hope for preserving his family name," Tom answered. "Unless, of course, you die in time for him to legitimize another bastard."

"You took the letter, Riddle?" Black demanded.

"I disposed of Charlus Potter's letter before Harry could read it, yes," Tom admitted. "I did so because my cousin deserves love and appreciation on his birthday, not the burdens of a wizard who offered not so much as a spoken word until it suited his selfish whims."

As Tom spoke, he enchanted his words to carry throughout the house. Yet he neither raised his voice nor colored it with incivility beyond what one would expect from a loving defense of his dear cousin.

"Who died and named you Harry's guardian?" Black inquired sharply, oblivious that his words now carried through the house as well.

"Harry now, is it? Forgive me, but you have been calling him Evans for years, always with a touch of condescension if I may say," Tom responded smoothly.

"Must you always speak in riddles?" Black returned evenly.

"Allow me to speak plainly then," Tom said. "We remember the Daily Prophet article that revealed a member of your family cast mud on Harry at the ball of the year. But what the article failed to mention is that Charlus Potter, who you claim now wants to make contact with my cousin, stood and watched in silence while you had your fun."

"We all make mistakes. I admit it, and he admits it," Black conceded.

"Yes, we know well what Potter thinks his mistake was," Tom pounced coolly.

"Don't twist my words—" Black defended hotly.

"You have said enough, Alphard," Tom said firmly, but not impudently. "We know where you, your aunt, and your uncle stand."

"Does Harry?" Black asked.

"If we suppose Charlus Potter will bestow his name on his son on the condition of Harry's blood adoption by your aunt, would we be wrong?" Tom asked.

Black looked at Harry worriedly.

"You want a blood adoption? You want me to renounce my mother, the source of my life, the source of my magic, for your aunt's wounded pride?" Harry voiced deep pain and anger, applying an enchantment on his words similar to Tom's.

"That's not what—" Black attempted.

"So it is all about Potter, then? First, Charlus casts aside his love to marry into gold. And now, he wants to erase her most enduring legacy?" Tom charged.

"That's not—" Black tried.

"Unlike the Potters, I don't betray my own," Harry said, intentionally layering his words with double meaning. "Lily Evans, my mother now and forever, was among the purest of witches. And the bond I share with Tom is as deep as the most ancient magic."

Black flinched at the most ancient reference, as it was well known in pureblood circles that House Black seized the title most recently.

"But if it means so much to Potter, let him know he can expect a response from us in the very near future," Tom declared, raising his left hand and making his signet ring glow.

He then departed the party floor with Harry, ensuring they had both the last word and absorbed any sympathy Black might have stolen should he have fled the scene first.

"A fine contest of words, if I do say so myself," Tom reverted to Old English. His voice no longer carried, but any of the party attendees paying close attention would now hear the cousins speaking in "most ancient" dialects.

"Now, we see what support we garner from the traditionalist and reformist circles at Hogwarts," Harry answered.

"But we must not be idle. We shall, indeed, send Charlus a letter," Tom declared.

"Are you sure you want this to be your very first letter?" Harry asked as the two descended into the Whomping Willow.

"What better reintroduction for the seal of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Gaunt, than in the defense of family?" Tom smiled as he flexed his left little finger.