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Chapter 49: The Happiest of Birthdays

The pain behind his eyes began receding. No longer did each step send throbs through his skull. It was grating, having to concede after all these years that Snape had not been torturing him without purpose during their occlumency lessons. Cassiopeia was every bit as ruthless and somewhat more cruel than the treacherous bat had been. It was her belief that being forced to show off embarrassing memories or relive painful days would provide a student motivation.

It was just a relief to feel his headache dissipating. It had only worsened upon apparating to Paris. The heat pressed in close around him, baking the sidewalk and beading sweat along his brow. It was stifling in a way that made all of his discomforts vivid, which was the last thing he needed.

A portly man sat behind a spindly table setup along the road. If his shorts and t-shirt did not mark him as a muggle, the contraband he was displaying did the job. Amulets, bracelets, charms, and rings looked finer than they ought to in the morning sun, catching beads of light that turned their common metals into grander fares.

"Et toi, monsieur?" the man asked, gesturing at Harry.

He paused, caught off guard by the sudden question. Given what he guessed this man was selling combined with the thin black robe he himself was wearing, Harry had not expected to be singled out. "Uh... désolé. Je ne parle pas bien français."

The man's plump lips dropped into a contemplative frown as he eyed Harry, along with his own trinkets. "Bad times," the man said after a moment's pause, plucking up a glass beacon filled with clear liquid that glistened in the golden light. "How do you say in English?" The salesmen mimed waving a wand. "This help." Thick fingers angled the beacon so it better caught the rays of sun.

"Oh." Harry had wondered whether his initial judgement had been incorrect, sure this salesman would not try and sell someone wearing wizard's garb such fraudulent protections against their own ilk. This man must have been truly desperate, or a true fool. "No, thank you."

A backward glance over his shoulder while he walked away revealed none of the passers by were paying the station any mind. That was at least a good sign. Before the magicians had marched toward the Eiffel Tower, men like the one he left behind had been turning tidy profits.

The next turn took him onto a narrow road lined in low-roofed buildings, bustling with more people than he had seen out in Paris since the night he'd duelled Riddle.

Another good sign.

If only it lessened the leaden feeling evoked by reminiscing upon recent history.

A middle-aged couple wearing outdated robes with flaring hems and silken trim were standing at the counter and conversing with Narcissa, who wore a sleeveless dress the colour of her eyes, when he entered L'Artificier. Harry almost tripped over his own feet. Had he ever seen her in anything but robes before?

Three minutes ticked into five before the couple turned their backs and headed for the door. When they'd left, he pushed off the wall and crossed the lobby, strolling between stacks of instruments piled high on mismatched desks and tables. "Morning."

"Oh, it's morning." Narcissa stared past him, out the wide front window with a slight wrinkle of her nose. "Not that you'd know it, judging by that awful heat."

"Given into it, have you?" He nodded to her sleeveless dress.

The muscles around her jaw coiled. "I do not give into anything. I simply decided that this outfit might help me better handle this forsaken city."

"I take it you didn't write me asking if I could come here because the wand's been puzzled out?" Had that been the case, Narcissa's spirits would have been far higher.

"No," she said, sighing out the bulk of her wound up tension. "Truthfully, I wanted company after spending the best part of a weekend shut up with the wand."

"I wish I could be more helpful," Harry told her. "I've never really had the mind for that kind of magic."

"I'll manage." If there was a trace of stiffness in her voice, Harry forgave it. "Come on. I ordered food a while back and have had it under stasis."

It was always such a sharp contrast, stepping from the cluttered lobby to the room Narcissa's business occupied. There was ample parchment on the sanded desk, but it was piled neatly into stacks and arranged efficiently to maximize the open space. Dust and disorder had been driven off with the thorough fervour of a zealot, and a faint, floral scent was in the air.

"I hope I picked well for you," Narcissa said. "I had to guess a bit."

Two scrambled eggs, four slices of bacon, two broad sausages, and a helping of hashbrowns were on one plate, while a second set beside it held a bulging crepe. Between him and Narcissa was a bowl of fruit and a basket of fresh bread, generously buttered.

"I'm just glad I didn't eat before coming here," Harry said, taking a seat and setting to his meal with an iron will.

"I hope the vagueness of my letter didn't startle you," Narcissa said, peering at him over her soup and omelette. "You look less troubled than the last time you were here."

Harry took a long time chewing his next bite. "Yes, and no. The shock's worn off, more than anything. I'm less indignant now. More… I don't know. Disappointed, I guess."

Narcissa sipped water from a crystal cup. "Have you had any contact from the empire since you're falling out?"

"Not officially. I did have a chat with Alastor Moody, though. He's the High Martial of the squadron I was working with."

Narcissa arched an eyebrow. "And?"

"And nothing, really. We talked and he tried convincing me what Krum did wasn't worth my resignation. He didn't try and justify it — I'll give him that — but his speech about cogs and wheels wasn't very compelling."

"I'm not surprised," Narcissa said. "Moody is an imperial devout and has been all of his adult life."

"I'd guessed so." Bacon grease coated his tongue and he paused to savour the taste before going on. "It takes years to become a venator, from what I've been told. I can't imagine how long to become High Martial."

"Shorter for him than most," Narcissa said. "Part of that's the man's own skill, part of it his ties to Dumbledore."

"Ties?" Harry asked. "How do you mean?"

Narcissa daintily bit off a bit of bread and spooned soup into her mouth. "Moody doesn't do much travelling," she said after swallowing. "His squad has always stayed pretty low key unless strictly necessary. A lot of training lesser teams, readying recruits, or aiding important missions from afar."

"You wouldn't know it," Harry muttered. "They run like a well-oiled machine."

"Moody cherry-picks his men," Narcissa said. "His prestige gives him first choice more oft than not when new recruits are brought on. It also helps that the missions his squadron does handle tend to be of the more important variety. Most often though, he's either doing all the things I said, or he's aiding Dumbledore."

"What do you mean when you say aiding Dumbledore?" Harry asked, imagining the covert work the Order of the Phoenix had been so entrenched in.

"Officially?" Narcissa popped a strawberry into her mouth. "Moody often guards Dumbledore during outings, and his squadron usually accompanies them. Unofficially? Merlin only knows what the two of them get up to."

They ate in silence for at least half a minute. "Do you think Moody's loyal to Dumbledore, or to the empire?"

Narcissa looked at him as if he had made a grammatical error that muddied the meaning of his words. "I don't see the distinction you're trying to make."

"There's the empire's ideologies, like what we talked about last time I was here, and then there's Dumbledore's. You've mentioned he's expressed regret for a lot of things the Order did during the Conquest."

Narcissa shook her head. "They're one in the same."

Harry frowned. "Not really."

"Regret does not mean condemnation," Narcissa pointed out. "Dumbledore has equal say in the running of the world as Grindelwald does. Just because their approaches differ when left to their own means doesn't mean their ideologies oppose each other, or that they're separate entities. They're about as far from separate as you can get, really. It would be like asking a British muggle a few centuries ago whether they were loyal to their queen or country. If they were loyal to one, they served the other. It's the same here. Loyalty to Dumbledore is loyalty to the empire, and the same is true for those who work more closely under Grindelwald."

Harry felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. Quite why, he could not say. There was no dawning revelation in his mind, no dreadful clarity that warranted the sick blow to his gut. "So are you saying he was ordered to come talk to me, or that I shouldn't trust him? Moody, I mean."

"Not necessarily," Narcissa said. "That seems like a convoluted way of doing things, for one. If the emperors wanted messages conveyed, I imagine they would do so more clearly. As for trust…" She shrugged. "You know him better than I do. What I've heard is mostly based on reputation."

"He did say he'd talk to Krum for me," Harry mused aloud.

"To Krum?" Narcissa tilted her chin. "After our talk about what happened in Romania, I'm surprised you want a dialogue with him."

"I don't," Harry admitted. "It's just that the one thing Moody said that I took a bit to heart is that I can't do much from the outside. It doesn't just make hunting Riddle harder, it also…" he trailed off, having been about to say it made changing things impossible before realizing how absurd that sounded. What could he change about an order that ruled over the entire world? "But I standby what I said," he pressed on before Narcissa could scoff at him as he was certain she must crave to do. "I won't work with men like him, and I want to know what he was thinking, and why it was wrong."

His companion's fine lips twitched. "You want Vadim Krum to apologize?"

It sounded so childish, when put that way. "Not really," he said, more defensive than he'd have liked. "It's just that if I'm going to work with the empire, I want to make it better." There, he'd said it. However idealistic that desire was, it had been let into the open. "Krum saying he won't do it again wouldn't be good enough. It would just be a ruse to get me back. I want him to understand the danger he put everyone in. Not just that it was fucked up to burn a bunch of men alive, but that it could have backfired on us all, and that it still might."

Narcissa watched him for a long time as they returned to their respective plates. Almost all of Harry's meat had vanished by the time she spoke again. "You have got to be the oddest man I've ever met."

"I know it sounds childish," Harry said. "It might be a bit idealistic, but…"

"I never said it was a bad thing." Narcissa's eyes had softened. "It's just… rare to find someone with substance in their head who acts the way you do." Was it his imagination, or did a wistful smile briefly touch her lips. "I had honestly thought it was impossible until not long ago."

Unsure how to respond, Harry matched her regal bearing to the best of his abilities, adopting an aristocratic drawl. "I aim to impress."

"As do I." Narcissa slid open one of her desk drawers and extracted two rectangular objects, both pristinely wrapped. "Happy Birthday."

Harry's jaw fell half open as his eyes went wide. "How did you…" Those were all the words he could get out. So many surreal events had taken place since his arrival in the past, yet he was unsure any topped receiving birthday gifts from Narcissa Black.

"Great-Aunt Dorea, if you were going to ask how I knew today was your birthday." his companion replied flippantly, looking from him to the wrapped presents. "Go on, then."

Shaking from his stupor, he reached out and unwrapped the first. It was an old book, its cover unadorned but for a title written in a flowing hand that prodded an entangled memory he could not quite untie and nudge loose..

The Cost of Conquest

"I thought it was topical, given what we talked about last time you were here," Narcissa said. "Not the happiest of readings, but I thought it might be… informative." That was all she said.

Harry thumbed open the book's front cover, eyebrows lifting at the contents of its first page. "Where did you get this? Something tells me the empire doesn't allow copies of it to be readily available."

"I acquired it from Alden," Narcissa answered. "It's a rare book, one I've only heard mentioned a small handful of times by my grandfather. When I saw there was a copy here…" She spread her hands.

"Who's the author?" Harry asked, turning the book over. It was in pristine condition, yet there was no mention of its writer's name.

"Nicholas Flamel," Narcissa told him. "It was his last piece before disappearing."

"Disappearing?"

Narcissa's mouth twitched. "No one quite knows where he went. Most believe he was considered too great a threat and… taken care of soon after the empire gained control of France."

"Those timelines don't quite mesh," Harry pointed out. "The first page references Russia being destroyed. That didn't happen until a few years after France had fallen."

Narcissa quirked a small smile, absent of true humour. "I said most believe, not that those in the know do, or that it was true."

"Touche." Harry placed the book onto the desk. "What do you think happened to Flamel, then?"

"Grandfather believes he went into hiding before France fell and wrote this book years later."

Harry twitched. "So Arcturus thinks Flamel is still alive?"

"I believe so, though he's never said it quite that plainly."

"And you disagree?" Harry prompted more than asked.

"I think the shape of that story's right," Narcissa admitted. "I just don't think the details fit so neatly together." Harry waited. "Well, I don't think Flamel fled, for one thing. There were pieces of resistance during the conquest some have attributed to him, though he was never present for them. I also don't see the merit in it. If he was worried, he could have bribed the empire with a never-ending flow of resources via his Philosopher's Stone."

"Point," Harry conceded. "Though if he were bribing them, I doubt that would be public knowledge. It would be in their best interests to make it seem like he had disappeared."

"Except that this book exists," Narcissa argued. "Flamel clearly disapproved of the empire, and historically he was not one for kneeling to anyone whose morality he disagreed with. I think that if he were still alive, he would be running opposition — and I think the empire knew that."

A cold gust blew through Harry's blood. "Dumbledore did know him, years ago and before the order. They studied alchemy together." Narcissa's response was a single nod. "Merlin," he muttered, running a hand over the aged yet well-kept book. "This must have cost a fortune."

"Not as much as you'd expect," Narcissa told him. "Alden was quite generous when naming his price. That"— She indicated the second package —"cost significantly more."

Harry knew it was a second book before the wrapping paper had been torn away. His face hardened when he glimpsed the front cover. It too was blank but for a title. This time the author's name was there, written on material he did not think was parchment.

Malice Manafest

By Merwyn Malaces

"What is this?" Harry kept his tone neutral to the best of his abilities, not wanting to sound in any way ungrateful. "It looks like it's written on…" he could not say the words.

"Human skin," Narcissa finished for him. "I know. It's not the most tasteful of texts I could have bought for you, but I thought it might be useful."

"I don't recognize the author," Harry murmured, gently brushing the cover with his fingertips, as if slow exposure might ease the crawling of his skin.

"He's better known as Merwyn the Malicious," Narcissa said. "One of the forefathers of the Dark Arts as we know them today."

"Ah, I see." It was meant to be an aid against Riddle and his black magic. Harry had yearned for such a thing countless times when facing Voldemort.

So why did it fill him with such dread, sitting there and staring down at a tool whose value might be beyond measure?

Steeling his nerve, he flipped to the front page. The things we do in war…

"You might have wasted a fair heap of gold," he said a minute or so later. "I can't make heads or tails of this."

Narcissa held out a hand. "May I?" She accepted the book reverently, touching it as though it was some sacred treasure. "Ah. It's written in Old English."

Harry sat up straighter. "You can read that?"

"Far from perfectly," Narcissa admitted. "Enough to get by, though, and I could polish up and fill in the gaps."

"I can hardly make out a word," Harry confessed. "Just the ones that don't look too different to modern language."

"I could teach you, if you'd like," Narcissa offered. "Maybe we go through the book together and tackle two birds with a single stone?"

Once again he was struck by the absurdity of his situation — stranded in a strange world and being offered linguistic tutoring by Draco Malfoy's mother.

"I reckon that it's worth a shot," he said nonetheless. It would be an invaluable tool against Riddle, reading explanations of the magic he so favoured written by one of the men who had helped forge the branch itself.

"Excellent." Narcissa paused halfway through returning the book into his hands. "Would you like to take it with you, or should I keep it here and read a bit ahead, that way things go more smoothly when we set to it?"

"Keep it here." Harry had not thought of that. "It's a good idea, and I honestly don't have a great place to store books right now."

Narcissa's lips tugged into a frown. "Would you like me to hold onto the other one as well, until that changes?"

"I can find room for it," Harry said. "Just no use doing that with the second one when it makes sense for you to do as you suggested." His fingers drummed along the edge of Narcissa's desk. The difficult part would not be finding space, but ensuring the damp, dank environment his possessions dwelt in did not damage such a priceless text. "Say, I have an enchanting question for you…"

Hours slipped past with surprising speed. Before they knew it, morning had bled into afternoon and Harry was forced to plead a prior engagement and retreat from Narcissa's presence.

Only when back outside and underneath the fierce Parisian sun did he realize how relaxed he felt. When was the last time he had been so at his ease? When flying with James? That had been… four months ago? A little more, in truth.

Removing the embossed disk from its place underneath his collar, he portkeyed back to Black Manor and found the nearest fireplace with the help of a hunched house elf, as he had been instructed. Feet away from that grey stone hearth he paused. His heart was beating far too hard.

"Young Master? Is you well?"

"Yes," Harry murmured, taking a pinch of powder from the floating tray the elf had been offering to him. "Yes, I'm well." The effect was instantaneous when the powder was thrown into the fireplace. Where before the hearth had been empty but for heaps of ash, now green flames had roared to life, rearing up almost as high as the height of most grown men.

Harry hardened his heart the best he could, resolute his reactions would not betray his cover as he stepped into the inferno. "Potter Manor."

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"

Those words, the first he heard upon arrival, came close to puncturing his promise.

Eight faces glowed like the embers underneath his feet, their lips lit by broad grins the way a torch is lit by fire.

James was standing ahead of all the rest, practically vibrating with his eagerness despite all that had befallen him. Behind stood Sirius, Remus, Mary, and Marlene.

And Pettigrew — the rat was there as well. The fact did not fill Harry with disgust the way it ought to have. The traitor's presence was a small price to pay, he told himself.

Even the Lord Governor and his First Lady were present. Charlus looked for all the world as though it was his own son's celebration. Neither the deep bags underneath his eyes nor the staff he leant on detracted from the bright… emotion emanating from him. If Harry had not known better, he might have guessed that it was pride, but pride from a man whom he had met less than a handful of times would have been nonsensical.

Dorea was the first to move, sweeping forward on her smooth feet and gathering Harry into an embrace that shocked him so profoundly, he almost forgot to return the gesture. "Happy Birthday, dear," the First Lady whispered up into his ear.

That was the closest he came all day to tears, though not his only brush against treacherous emotion. After running all around the grounds with James, Sirius, and Remus, throwing jinxes back and forth in some magician's twist on tag, there had been a moment where the four of them clung to one another, laughing so hard each one required steadying.

There were other times, as well; watching Mary and Marlene laugh together for the first time since Lily's disappearance, flying swift circles around the home in which Harry ought to have been raised, joining in the banter while Sirius and Remus shot snide remarks at one another, each one taking subtle jabs at the other's inhuman transformation.

A shroud of bliss held back all his troubles by the time Harry took his seat among family and friends for dinner. Not only was their fillet mignon and beef wellington, so too was present treacle tart and butter beer — all his favourites on one table, all without prompt or questions.

After feasting for a second time that day came more gifts. Mary's handmade bracelet began the haul of presents on a moving note.

"I made one of these for Lils a couple years ago, then for Marlene and I last summer." Mary looked down at her hands. Her bottom lip just barely trembled. "I thought it was only right that you got one too."

Marlene's small pile of gifts significantly expanded his limited wardrobe. It would be nice, he reflected, wearing more than plain black robes and cloaks.

"It's not much," Remus apologized soon after, offering Harry a small box wrapped neatly in a layer of tissue paper. "I'd like to have done better, but… well…"

Harry let out a long breath when the paper had been torn off and the box's lid removed. "Remus…" Inside was a drawing of exquisite skill, showing Harry and Lily sitting side by side underneath the large oak tree whose long branches hung over the Black Lake's bank. "This is brilliant!" The werewolf — for he must be a werewolf - responded with a sheepish smile.

"Peter and I went in on ours together," Sirius said, sliding an unwrapped box across the table.

Harry ran his hand along the ridges of its flat lid, trying to guess at what might be inside. It was clearly a case of some kind, somewhat like a jewellery box, except far larger — almost four feet long and made from rich, dark wood. Eventually he shook his head and smiled. "I haven't got a clue."

Small vials resting inside cushioned pouches greeted him when he peeled back the lid. All of them were full, each one brimming with a different liquid and inscribed with a distinct label.

"Potions," Harry murmured, inspecting the styled labels more intently. Most were draughts intended to aid healing of one kind or another, though there were…

Harry held his hand over a trio of more dubious concoctions, unsure how Charlus or Dorea would react to seeing them. "Bloody useful, these," he told Sirius and Pettigrew. "Thanks, you two."

"Sirius was the one who paid for all of the ingredients," Pettigrew admitted. "And the fancy casing, and all that."

"Don't give us any of that," James scolded. "You brewed them, didn't you?" The rat's nod surprised Harry; some of the potions inside that case were far from simple brewing.

"Thought they might be useful," Sirius told him. "Given… well, you know."

"Enough of that," Dorea tutted before the mood could be dragged down. "Ours next."

What he thought to be the final present was jointly from the three Potters. Long and narrow, it was wrapped in scarlet paper with the words Happy Birthday done along the side in gold.

Harry actually gasped when the box was opened.

"Thank fuck!" Sirius exclaimed, throwing up his hands in an exaggerated outpour of relief. "Now I won't have to worry about you crashing mine every time James wants to take you out for a fly."

It was a broomstick, all sleek mahogany that had been polished to a mirror sheen. Golden letters much like those that had adorned the wrapping paper spelled out Nimbus One Thousand across the handle.

"New breakthrough company," James raved. "I haven't ridden one before, but all the reviews and studies say it's the best model ever made."

Next to arriving in the ancestral home he ought to have grown up in, nothing moved Harry closer to tears than thanking the Potters profusely for their gift.

"There's still one more," Remus pointed out when the jubilation had died down.

"Just a letter, it looks like," Sirius noted, plucking up the envelope and passing it to Harry.

There was just a single sheet of parchment stored inside, containing words written with such pinpoint precision, they hardly looked handwritten.

Kalloway,

I am sorry to have interrupted any celebrations you may be partaking in, but I fear there is one last surprise I must press upon you on this most personal of days. With that in mind, I would appreciate your presence this evening on what were recently our mutual foe's extensive holdings.

I hope you've had the happiest of birthdays.

Truly,

Emperor Gellert Grindelwald

A special thank you to my high-tier patron, Cup, for her generous and unwavering support.

PS: The next chapter will be out in two weeks. Remember that chapters can be read early on Discord and P*T*E*N! All those links are on my profile, and if any give you trouble, use my website's homepage. That site can be found via a generic Google search of my pen name.