Chapter 7 – Sorcerer Subterfuge
The following days, filled with silent anticipation as they are, drag on far too slowly. Whether Harry fills the hours with teaching his zealous apprentice or attempts to have civil conversation with Sirius in which they both avoid speaking of dark magic or the grim future, he remains restless. Even playing with lives in the cellars for purpose of research does not make the clock tick faster.
As feared, the Daily Prophet reveals nothing of importance, neither grand announcements on the front page nor the kind of sneaky slander that the newspaper had pulled the very first time Harry and Dumbledore had insisted that the Dark Lord had returned from the dead. Severus, who returned to Grimmauld place and is in contact regularly with his partner via floo, also has not been privy to the Headmaster's exact message to Fudge, only made aware that a letter has been sent out. It is frustrating more than it comes as a surprise. Dumbledore has always been tight-lipped, and Harry knows well how strongly Fudge feels about stamping out fires before they can spread. Perhaps even more in this world, for the Minister for Magic has shown a far shinier spine when visiting Hogwarts last school year than Harry recalls from his old world. That Fudge had clung onto the hem of Dumbledore's robes for years until panic about voter confidence made the Minister bury his head in the sand.
"The invitations have arrived."
Abruptly, Harry lowers the Prophet he's been reading to see Lord Voldemort approach down the garden path. His Intended fits in well with the lush bushes that flank it, ivory skin and today's choice of dark green robes complimenting the white roses. On second thought, it is the fragrant flowers that compliment him, framing the Dark Lord as if they've grown here to bloom in exactly the moment their owner has need of being highlighted. Harry wouldn't put it past his fiancé to have planted them for this purpose. Voldemort does love surrounding himself with that which makes him stand out, be it people or trinkets.
For a moment Harry reconsiders letting his soul mate meet Lockhart, for they're sure to be insufferable when trying to one-up each other with their protagonist syndrome. His Gryffindor need for chaos wins out, for while it might lead to disaster, it'll also be really funny to watch from the sidelines. "Thank you," he replies when taking the offered cards, careful not to bring the amusing scenario that plays in his mind onto his face. "I hope Hedwig did not give you any trouble?"
Once again, the mention of Harry's owl makes a grimace flit over the man's face. There's a tension in bony shoulders that hadn't been there before. "Moved onto bothering Black as soon as the letters were dropped,'' Voldemort merely says, then nods at the newspaper. ''No news, I assume?''
Unsure what about Hedwig would upset his Intended so, Harry ignores the question to inquire: ''This is your second odd reaction to me mentioning my owl. What's the matter?''
''It's nothing,'' the other denies in an extremely clipped tone. ''So, news? I'm not fond of you going in blind."
With this quick jump to the next topic, it's clear this part of their conversation is over, despite Harry being left with many questions. He considers prodding, but Voldemort does not appear to be in a very forgiving mood, so he rather drops it for now, answering: "Not entirely. Sure, we've no idea what information Dumbledore has passed onto the Ministry, but I'm familiar with several figures of importance who'll be there and have influenced them enough to be certain they'll second-guess negative claims about me. Even the Headmaster is still confused enough about my act to give Severus a chance of convincing me not to join you. Having heard about his reaction, I suppose it's a good thing that Dumbledore did not let me explain my memories... as he convinced himself I'm a possible Seer misled by visions that are open to interpretation, he'll make the mistake of seeing me as less of a threat than he perceives you to be. By the time he realises that error, there'll be plenty of opportunities for damage control on our side. This-" Harry holds up the glossy invitations, "- is only the start. Although I may not be happy about having to attend social events, growing up as the heir to the Black family and fortune has given me plenty of experience that I lacked in my last dealings with the Ministry of Magic."
Voldemort smiles wryly and takes the free spot on the garden bench. "Yes, judging by your stories, you were quite the disaster in handling three consecutive administrations. What a feat."
"Four," Harry grimaces. "Kingsley may have let me get away with much due to our shared history in the Order and my short-lived hero status, but he received plenty of complaints about me. He felt pressured to accept Ron and I into the Auror program despite never having finished our N.E.W.T.s and got quite some flak about it once the initial relief about the end of the war died down. Apart from Kingsley himself, we didn't have much support from higher-ups, be it within the Wizengamot or the Auror department. Then, once the whole problems with Muggles started... well, let's say that my relationship with the Ministry remained strained at best, leading me to quit as an Auror and revive the Order against Kingsley's wishes. Still beat my relationship with Voldemort's administration of course. I still remember the wanted posters of 'Undesirable Number One..."
"It is always strange to hear you talk about the other version of me in this manner."
"Should I give him a nickname? Evil twin? Voldemort one? I'm open to suggestions," Harry jokes to lighten the mood.
"The inferior one would be a sobriquet for him that I can live with."
"That is hardly shorter than 'alternative version of you'."
"Call him 'Tom', then. I'm certain he would hate being referred to by that name most of all – I would -, and he hurt you enough to be disgraced post-mortem. "
Somehow, the suggestion feels wrong. Following his old mentor's example, Harry had had no problem referring to the other Voldemort by his birth name before the man's downfall, in hopes of inspiring the return of some of the humanity the Dark Lord had tried to cast away. Yet in spite of all the suffering this foe had wrought, Voldemort had gained Harry's respect in death once it became painstakingly clear how wrong the light faction had been in their pro-Muggle views. The feelings he harbours towards the Dark Lord from his old life are complicated, a mixture of guilt and anger, lacking any hatred. There's nothing to warrant disrespect. Had Harry's original plan of time-travel worked, it might have been that Voldemort whom he would be planning genocide with today.
Besides, his Intended is closer to this 'inferior' version than he likes to entertain the notion of. Had Harry not spoken up about the eighth Horcrux, had Voldemort not had the opportunity to rethink the resurrection ritual... There's still the undeniable fact that the latest Wizarding War was just as devastating as the one he'd been told about by the second Order of the Phoenix... Certainly, a few different experiences in their compared pasts have been enlightening for his soul mate regarding the acceptance of emotions, including love, but their policies and ruthlessness to see their visions unfurl hardly differed before Harry came along to put firmer boundaries in place.
"I will not disgrace him any more than I ever would you," Harry decides, subtly leaning against his fiancé. "As a genuine threat to his life, regime and overall support, I can't even blame him for wanting to get rid of me so badly. When activating the ritual to travel back, I was ready to put all grudges aside. You should be glad for that: up till around your resurrection, I wasn't convinced you differed much at all."
"Why, then?"
Harry silently lifts a hand to his own cheek, where the deformed, clawed hand of his soul mate had touched it that Halloween night in a gesture of comfort, right after he'd practically confessed to being the cause for Voldemort's final demise. "I revealed my past misdeeds against you – well, him, a fact you weren't aware of at the time. Instead of resentment, you showed forgiveness. That is when I knew for certain."
"It was me you were destined for," his Intended proudly states, wrapping an arm around Harry's shoulders.
"Destiny... Knowing now that Fate is an actual, existing being, I can't even deny that statement, as much as it irks me that our lives are manipulated by forces we cannot control. With these entities splitting dimensions to experiment and playing games amongst themselves, can we truly trust their judgement?"
"Is that doubt the reason for why you haven't called upon Death again? If it were my servant-"
"-you'd have bound it in chains and forced it to spit out every secret of the universe," Harry chuckles. "I know. You probably could too, but I... Both times I spoke to Death face to face, I didn't feel like I mastered anything. It always had the upper hand, threatening me into going along with it. It scarred me physically the first time and mentally the second. For my next conversation - and there has to be a next one soon – I wish to be well-prepared to not be shaken up again. That's why I prefer to tackle the mortal issue of my reputation in the Ministry first. It is weighing heavily on my mind and might give it ammunition to turn the conversation around again."
"On the other hand, your amorphous servant may have information we currently lack. Is death not everywhere?"
"Maybe, maybe not, we don't know yet how it works, so that is a gamble I'm not willing to take. Besides, I thought you were everywhere, too. Already during the Christmas Holidays, Knockturn was full of shady figures suddenly receiving covert missions. Whispers of your return occupied every dark corner of the Wizarding World. You yourself spoke of avenues in the underworld. So, how come none of your inside men managed to spit out what news Fudge received?"
Voldemort's scowl at being caught not achieving something to perfection is quite cute in the bright summer sun. Reluctantly, the man admits: "As flattered as I am by your faith in my followers, they're hardly on par with a divine being, darling. Most of my Death Eaters who'd worked their way up to prominent positions in the Ministry were discovered after the war. Though yes, some of them are on the Ministry's payroll still, the only one close enough to Fudge to have possibly received word on this delicate subject would be Lucius Malfoy. I've neglected to call him to my side so far, for reasons that ought to be obvious to you: your warning of possible betrayal, as well as the dislike harboured against him by those in our current circle. Barty greatly resents the man for choosing family over loyalty to myself, and I have it on good authority that both of your godfathers have their separate troubles with the Malfoys.
Re-recruiting Lucius will happen in time - he's far too valuable a resource not to use - yet enough time needs to have passed to make my priorities abundantly clear to all parties involved. The anniversary of my rebirth will be soon enough. I had hoped he or other advisors of Fudge wouldn't be able to keep quiet around some of their illegitimate business contacts about such a juicy morsel of gossip, but alas, not a whisper. If anyone else has been initiated in this matter, they may have been sworn to silence. Now come, dear. We cannot chat the evening away like this when there is work to be done. I wish to show off the brand-new suite section of the manor, as per your request to treat future captives with more hospitality before putting their neck in a noose."
Having enjoyed the sultry air a great deal, Harry isn't inclined to head inside just yet. "Walk with me for a bit," he offers, grabbing Voldemort's hand. It's difficult to hide a smile when the fearsome Dark Lord visibly folds to the request. In quiescent agreement, they walk the manor grounds side by side, around the pond that has recently been inhabited by water spirits and through the grove of gnarled wand wood trees Voldemort imported, until they finally circle back to the rose garden. A critical lack of ageing potions – rediscovered libido being to blame for the remaining stash dwindling fast - makes the walk less romantic than Harry would have liked, as he's unable to end it by kissing alabaster lips. As a second-best option, he melts into the crushing embrace his Intended wraps him in.
"I love you," he mutters into the man's robes, inhaling the fragrant air and Voldemort's head-spinning spice.
Skeletal fingers lightly scratch his scalp to make Harry relax further. "I love you too, angel. I'll spend the rest of my life proving how much."
With a buzzing happiness, Harry is led back into the manor to inspect the repurposed rooms, which are hidden from the rest with an impressive blood ward that only those keyed into it can pass through, eliminating the possibility of Harry's family wandering in. The smile on his face refuses to fade, and Harry is rather uncaring about his mood being far too light for the grim scene of their prey wandering about blind - the unsuspecting prisoners already having been moved into their new lodgings with modified memories.
Even when one throws a funny look at Voldemort and cracks a joke about whether there's a costume party going on, dying prematurely as a result, Harry can't bring himself to shake the joy.
The whirlwind that has been Sirius' life since opening the door to a disguised Dark Lord who'd demanded access to Harry, is still running its destructive course. It's barely been a week and a half, each new day bringing a forcefully opened box of Pandora containing new wretched facts about his son. The time travel and news of a looming devastating war had been tame in comparison to what was revealed after. Dark magic, planned mass murder on a global scale, executions happening underneath his feet – Crouch hadn't been quiet about the 'housekeeping' duties – and having to betray people he'd considered friends for years: Dumbledore, the Weasleys, his colleagues...
The worst of it is that not a single one of those doubts is enough. He can sit here and stew in it, but in the end Sirius' mind has been made up: family above everything. He will stand at the sidelines, silently enabling the destruction wrought by Harry, whether his conscience will be shredded or not. It most likely will come down to that. His son has made abundantly clear nothing can prevent 'what must be done to survive', and after having had to get used to seeing Harry's mangled body near-daily, Sirius knows that pitching peaceful truces is futile.
It's hard to be faced with the body Harry shifts into so often nowadays. Not necessarily because of the scars or even that deeply pained, haunted look, but because how his son speaks finally fits the skin he wears. Has Sirius ever truly paid attention? How had this been overlooked? No amount of brushing off the kid's mature mannerisms as 'bright for his age' and 'old soul' really excuses having been so blind. Any achievement he'd accomplished as a parent is in question now he's been made aware of never having raised an actual child...
He doesn't resent the manipulation. It's obvious why Harry had been afraid to reveal his true nature and intentions. Sirius can barely imagine being stuck in the body of his five-year-old self, let alone a babe, reliant on the goodwill of legal adults. Only after Harry bought a wand and established contact with his soul mate had there been a back-up plan in case of rejection. A plan with good chances of failure, as Sirius has gathered throughout their recent talks of Harry's past. There'd been no guarantee for Voldemort's cooperation. There was and is no guarantee for anything, including being able to avert the tragedy his son has faced in the past – their possible future.
The tales made it seem like Harry had led such a lonely life... James' and Lily's tragic deaths landing the boy in an abusive family, Harry's Intended out for his blood, and Sirius unable to help from the confines of Azkaban. He shivers at the thought of the grim prison and its faceless jailers. He hadn't dared ask more about personal details from the life Harry remembered, not when his son had looked so small when speaking of having had far too little time together after Sirius had apparently escaped Azkaban. The fanatic insistence to save those he lost too early speaks volumes.
Had events not been altered, how many years of Sirius' life would be remaining? How long until the killer would cross his path? He's too young and healthy to have bitten the dust in any other way than amidst battle. Had it been during the second Wizarding war Harry had spoken of, or had he lived long enough to fight off Muggles?
"I really shouldn't be this preoccupied during my last day off," he miserably mutters, spreading both arms to catch more sun as he lies topless on the lush grass to tan. The pleasant beams of light that stream down should really do a better job in clearing away the gloom. How in the world can he return to the office tomorrow, pretending nothing is wrong? Merlin, what if Dumbledore shows up at the Ministry to demand an explanation for not coming home with the kids for a week, supposedly without notifying a worried Severus?
Hopefully this evening's party will manage to drag him out of this slump. As patriarch of a prominent family, Sirius is no stranger to these kinds of gatherings and though he isn't usually a fan, the Sunday Sorcerer Soiree does have a reputation of being one of the more lively parties. It helps that invitations are based on merit, not blood, meaning the guest list does not consist of the same dozen dusty old faces each time. Last times, the refreshments had also been brilliant.
When sauntering to the agreed upon meeting spot in the entrance hall (for some reason, the ominous banners displaying the Dark Mark have been removed. A huge improvement that can likely be chalked up to Harry's loud complaints about them), he appears to be the only one looking forward to getting out of the house. His son's tense expression makes it seem as if Harry is gearing up for war instead of a party, right hand flexing every few seconds to get used to the concealment charm that once again hides the bright red soul mark from view. Hermione, for her part, is standing on her tip-toes, desperately reaching for a book that Voldemort is keeping from her.
"Miss Granger-Black, I gave you permission to use my library, not plunder it. Nor should you walk into a gathering of influential light-leaning mages with your nose in a tome about vengeance curses. While I applaud your dedication to becoming a first-class dark witch and would be the last to discourage this sort of reading, the purpose of this meeting is to combat allegations about Harry being involved with anything darker than a Melofors Jinx, not sow new ones. If my fiancé can leave his engagement ring behind, so can you survive an evening without a book."
With a pout, Hermione gives up on the endeavour of snatching it back, though evidently hasn't had the last word to say about it: "Stop using my last name, Zach! Besides, I was only a chapter away from finishing it! We can just spell the cover to look different! Right?"
"Until someone peeks over your shoulder at the contents," the Dark Lord argues, seeming to actually get annoyed now. "You're being needlessly stubborn, Hermione. Were all the praises about your intelligence an exaggeration?"
"Don't insult my kid," Sirius steps in, throwing an obliterating glare at Voldemort. Who would have thought he'd ever get the opportunity to stand up to the Dark Lord in this manner... Not that Voldemort looks intimidated in the slightest, the bastard. Before more damage can be done, Sirius kneels down and places his hands on the girl's shoulders. "Hermione, we're attending this event to help your brother out, okay? We need to focus, be vigilant. It isn't possible for you to give your all when you're engrossed in reading. I promise that no matter at what time we return, you can read that last chapter before going to bed, how about that?" Not that he approves of her choice to pick such dangerous books, but by this point there's nothing that will stop her short from ripping each page containing dark magic out of her hands. With every other occupant of this blasted house encouraging her, that isn't a feasible solution. Sirius knows well how to pick battles.
"Fine," she huffs, brown eyes searching out her brother. "For Harry."
Her loyalty is astounding, and Sirius has the nagging feeling that had Harry interfered instead of being caught up in personal troubles, she'd have dropped that book like a hot coal. For two children, it would have been cute to be this dependent. Bringing Harry's true age and level of power into the equation skews that view quite a bit. Relying so much on a little girl, to the point of – as far as Sirius gathered - informing Hermione of all the world's atrocities in great detail, cannot be healthy. Deliberately pushing her off the cliff into the abyss that is the Dark Arts even less so. Sirius hopes with all his might that he can do some damage control. It will be good for her to return to Hogwarts alone, able to find herself without carrying the weight of Harry's constant influence.
"Hold onto your invitations, less than a minute until Portkey activation," Voldemort speaks, checking a traditional magical pocket watch. An heirloom? Spoils of war? Somehow, Sirius has difficulty imagining this man to have come from a loving family that proudly presented their heir with this gift upon his seventeenth birthday.
Sirius' last thought before being pulled through space goes out to trying to conjure up an image of a younger version of the Dark Lord and utterly failing to. Then, noise and lights pull his attention away from that grotesque picture, and the smell of roasted meat and sweet pastries wafting into his nostrils has Sirius dragging his kids away from the arrival spot.
Today's choice of mystery location for the soiree is sensational: a tapestry of greenery and colourful flowers giving the illusion of having landed in the tropics at first, until one's gaze is pulled upwards towards slanted metal beams and panes of clear glass that form a dome above the head of all guests, trapping the pleasantly warm air without obscuring the view of the evening sky. Sirius isn't aware of any magical greenhouses of this size in Britain, so they've either been transported overseas or some poor Muggles have been obliviated.
Better obliviated than exterminated, like your son would have done, his mind unhelpfully provides. Will do, still.
"Would you look at that!" he loudly exclaims, pointing at a raised platform to the side. "It looks like some duelling experts are attending today. I wonder if anyone can join, would be nice to let off some steam."
He needs a good duel just as badly as a drink.
"I hope that wasn't Lockhart's idea," Harry snorts, then quietly adds: "He tried to revive the duelling club at Hogwarts. I didn't attend this time, but heard there was no second meeting. Someone got hurt and instead of sending them to the Hospital wing or successfully healing the sprain, all bones were accidentally removed."
"Ouch," Sirius grimaces. "Good that you weren't there."
"Let's just say I had a premonition about such a thing happening. I don't wish Skele-gro on anyone, least of all myself again. Hmm, I wonder if he's already here..."
It's difficult to tell with all that's going on and the sheer size of today's location. The dense shrubbery and trees concealing more than the start of winding pathways don't help. Neither do the added pergola tents with closable drapes that have been set up to one side of the greenhouse for those wishing to have private conversations. The Sorcerer Soiree is the place to discuss business collaborations, patents, and sponsorships before those are ready for public announcement. It is rare for leaks to happen from within these parties, although not unheard of as press is still invited to report the happenings on the central floor, if only to push the noses of the uninvited rabble on how much of a deal the Soiree is. That naturally brings the risk of overzealous reporters finding their way around the slew of privacy spells on the tents that hide the truly juicy stories.
Said reporters spot them soon, too, excitedly flocking towards his little family. Towards Harry, to be exact. "No pictures," Sirius sternly demands, which won't prevent any pictures from being taken, but will give them some breathing room as the reporters will sneak shots from a distance rather than shoving the camera into their faces for the duration of the evening.
"Your first public appearance since the terrifying events at Hogwarts, isn't it, Harry? What are your feelings on the matter now?" a woman with horn-rimmed glasses and blonde curls speaks in an overly childish voice. Her poison-green quill already starts writing onto a scroll of parchment before Harry has said a word. Skeeter... The reporter whom Harry had mentioned to have destroyed his reputation at some point. Sirius considers firing off an Incendio at the parchment right then and there, then decides to stall the destruction of her sensationalist piece until minutes before the party ends.
The grim anxiety has entirely melted away from Harry's face. With a scarily convincing hesitant smile, the boy replies: "Still a bit shaken, although being with my family has done wonders. We just returned from another trip abroad. My godfather noticed my mood declining as soon as we returned to Britain, so whisked us away to a gorgeous mountain resort as an early birthday surprise. It's such a shame that Severus was needed at Hogwarts... but at least he joined for our first summer trip."
Seeing how quickly all of them are wrapped around Harry's little finger with this subtle sob story, Sirius all of a sudden feels a whole lot better about not having seen through the charade. However had the Sorting Hat not considered placing Harry in Slytherin? The key phrases of family trips and birthday gifts earn a choir's worth of sympathetic ooh's and aah's from all reporters who'd cornered them. One asks about further birthday plans – it only being two weeks away - while Skeeter tries to grill Harry further about the emotions being in Britain evoke and puts words in the boy's mouth about 'how traumatic the end of the school year must have been'.
"I could thankfully rely on my Defence Professor's competence and the Minister for Magic taking matters so seriously," Harry pleasantly answers. "Can't deny it wasn't how I thought my first year at Hogwarts would go of course... errr, I'm not sure yet about how it'll feel to go back." A highly convincing pitiful look thrown his way passes the conversational Quaffle to Sirius.
"We're still looking into options," he vaguely states. "With the Headmaster of Hogwarts and the Minister for Magic agreeing that Harry may have been a specific target for the yet uncaught perpetrator, a school transfer or personal tutors might be more beneficial for Harry's further educational track. I will not force my children into a situation in which they feel unsafe."
His mention of plural children does not seem to make the reporters any more aware of Hermione's presence than before. Maybe because the adoption of a Muggle-born into the Black family is old news by now, or maybe it is to blame on how badly they want to milk every second in which Sirius allows this rare interview with the Boy-Who-Lived to continue. He slings a protective arm around his daughter's shoulders so she won't feel left out. Voldemort should have just let her have the damned book if no-one is going to pay attention to her anyway...
"Excuse me, we have a busy evening ahead of us," Sirius loudly proclaims, free hand demonstratively adjusting the Auror badge fastened to his belt. Even Skeeter is wise enough not to protest, stopping the barrage of questions to move onto her next victim. Her grating voice can still be heard asking: "Cassandra, now your new Bestseller 'Unfogging the future' is out, will it replace the old Hogwarts textbooks for Divination?" before Sirius can steer their little group far enough away to be out of earshot.
"Doesn't look like the guests of honour have arrived yet," he notes. "Mr and Mrs Fudge would surely be in full view instead of sequestering themselves away. For now, it'll be best to mingle, stick to known acquaintances and politely yet vaguely answer any questions directed at us," he advises. "Might be a good chance to introduce Hermione to any distant relatives who may attend."
The first such relatives they run into are unfortunately the Malfoys, one of the exceptions to the 'old faces' as their closeness to anyone of note sees them invited to such social events on a regular basis. Narcissa is as coolly unhostile as usual – the kind of impersonal friendliness that is the minimum expectancy between family members who don't outright hate each other's guts - whereas her husband's haughty sneer is insulting enough for two. Is it any wonder that the number of attempts to introduce Harry to this branch of the family had remained at three?
"So, you come from... Muggles, girl?" Narcissa asks, hiding her horror at Sirius' choice of ward beneath a thin veil of incredulity. "However did you learn the necessary skills to attend Hogwarts in the short time before attending? You must have been able to read your textbooks..."
With as little mocking as he can possibly manage, Sirius tells his cousin: "Muggles teach their kids to read and write, Cissy. Calculus too, if you can believe it!" earning a wide stare.
"Truly? How fascinating." Narcissa seems to mean it too, and once again Sirius curses the sheltered upbringing of most rich Pure-bloods. Had he and Regulus not been sorted into Houses that accepted Muggle-borns, would he be this alienated from the Muggle world too? Or is it a case of wilful ignorance? Slytherin has plenty of Half-bloods, surely they talk about their experiences at home from time to time...
"That I come from Muggles doesn't mean I am one," Hermione defensively snaps back. "I am at the top of my classes at Hogwarts. I'm a witch, a Black, and will prove that to everyone who doubts I belong."
By the raising of pale eyebrows, Sirius can tell his cousin is impressed by the fire, if still sceptical for no other reason than Hermione's ancestry. For the second time within minutes, he represses the urge to draw his wand, as starting a duel right here and now will surely see them kicked out, justified as it might be when faced with Lucius Malfoy's cruel little smirk. "You better get used to the idea of seeing Hermione on the family tapestry, Cissy," Sirius tells his cousin. "I have spelled that stubborn thing myself to accept her name after the adoption. Blood or no, she's family."
Narcissa stiffens, splotches on pale skin showing she considers this to cross too many lines. "Have you forgotten our family's motto?" she hisses, apparently finally able to air her grievances without being held back by rules of courtesy. "Toujours Pur! Accepting a Half-blood as your Heir was already a scandal, but this?"
He barks out a mirthless laugh. "Our 'purity' has been a sham for centuries, hypocrisy covered up by the many stains on our tapestry. The only reason our family is so small is because there are so many lines we pretend do not exist, despite them sharing as much of our ancestor's blood as we do. Did you know the Black's unique blood trait ability was passed down to Andromeda's kid? If the one who inherited the magical bloodline isn't 'pure,' maybe we ought to change the motto? Or, if you are so concerned about our family, you should have convinced your husband to take your surname and made a court appeal for heirship? No?"
"Siri," Harry speaks in quiet warning. It's said in a more authoritative tone than an eleven-year-old should utter towards his guardian in public, but does serve to steer Sirius' mind away from the red haze that has started to obscure it.
"It was not my intention to start a fight with you, cousin dear," he stiffly mutters by way of apology.
With jerky movements of her fingers, Narcissa fixes her already-perfect updo and straightens non-existing creases in her sleeves. "Nor had I meant to lose my composure," she answers. "We shall be seeing each other. Husband mine, would you be a darling and show me around the garden? Matilda was gushing over spotting rare orchids that I simply must see for myself."
As the Malfoys trot off, Hermione releases a seething noise that Sirius feels like imitating. "Want to help me design a new family motto?" he offers with a wry smile. "I was serious about that. It becomes about time we lose that piece of prejudice, should have done so ages ago. We can always use the excuse that it truly would be incredibly strange if a Half-Blood continues the family line under that motto."
"Or a Muggle-born," Harry throws in. "Don't know about Hermione, but I can't go through raising a child of my own. So even if I would take up the title initially, the line wouldn't go far with me."
This is so not the place and time to receive the devastating news of Harry not giving him grandkids. It's not the 'family line' or heirships Sirius cares about, but he'd always imagined Grimmauld Place filled at some point with the next generation, another swathe of little green-eyed toddlers with unruly hair running around. "You- You don't know that," he instinctively, agitatedly stutters. "You've a whole life ahead of you to decide that!" Hermione, too, looks quite shocked and uncertain what to say to Harry's sudden declaration. Possibly for different reasons.
"And who would the kid's other parent be?" his son fires off, a debate-shattering argument if Sirius has ever heard one. Regardless of Harry's own abilities to raise children, Sirius can't see the Dark Lord changing nappies. Even if they'd not have their own through the various procedures offered by St. Mungo's and adopt an older kid instead, would the world really benefit from a mini-Voldemort, raised to believe the acceptable response to any threat is murder? He can't even hope for Harry to break up with the violent man and move on, for when two soulmates meet and mutually agree to have a romantic relationship... Well, Sirius has rarely heard of a union like that not lasting a lifetime.
This party hasn't been as fun as hoped so far... Taking the question as rhetorical, Sirius briskly walks over to the snack table – which hadn't been far anyway – to eat his sorrows away. Just as he desecrated the still-intact croquembouche by cutting off the top cream puff with a slash of his wand and was about to bite into it, does he catch a glimpse of two people who spell further trouble. To him, at least.
A large, bald wizard with an enormous silver moustache approaches with open arms and jovially greets: "Mr Black, such a long time it has been! And Harry, how wonderful to see you accepted my invitation!"
"Professor Slughorn," Sirius automatically replies. Retired or not, it's hard to refer to one's old teachers by any other title. The likeable ones, at least, and Slughorn had been pretty decent, if a bit elitist with his little club. Sev, Lily and Reggie had all made the cut and accepted, but as their accounts of the organised get-togethers sounded far too similar to all the stuffy family gatherings Sirius had had to sit through from a young age, he'd declined when receiving his own invitation in sixth year. Hanging out with James had been far more fun, whom Sirius had erroneously believed to be his fated soul mate... Life can twist in such strange directions.
Slughorn does not manage to lead the conversation for long, as a flamboyant wizard Sirius has only ever seen pictures of in magazines jumps in, boldly walking up to Harry to give the boy a couple of forceful pats on the shoulder. "If it isn't my talented assistant! I was just working on the chapter of Brawling with Basilisks that details your contributions to the slaying of that terrifying monster. I included a paragraph or two about Miss Granger at your insistence of her research being so valuable," he babbles, glancing at the girl. "Oh, but it was not my intention to make this all about me and my upcoming bestseller – available within the month if the muses bless me with the amount of inspiration I've had all week. Or was the book promotion the reason you attended today? Be honest, no need to shy away from the limelight."
Oh Merlin, his children have had to suffer through a whole year of this prattling parrot teaching them Defence? No wonder Severus had mentioned spending more time away from the staff room due to this guy.
It takes a second of listening to the 'Hero of Hogwarts' droning on about book details and marketing before Sirius realises the full scope of the situation. It's an act, a frighteningly convincing act. Lockhart has been threatened into submitting to Harry, is well-aware that the boy he's raining mildly condescending praise and headpats on is a competent dark wizard with more power in his pinky than Lockhart himself possesses in his entire body. Moreover, this man is a criminal who'd ruined lives by obliviating competent mages to take their credit and spin it into golden fame to drape himself in. Even the book he's feigning enthusiasm about is no more than an outrageous lie, one which covers up that Slytherin's monster is very much still a threat, one Hogwarts will not be equipped to handle if it were to ever wake. That the Basilisk is slumbering right now, as Harry assured them, doesn't mean it will never be awoken.
"-a picture for the Prophet?" Slughorn suggests, already waving over a grumpy photographer who is quick to shoulder his way through anyone standing between him and what is sure to be one of tonight's prime pictures.
"Oh, can we Siri?" Harry innocently asks. "Just the one?"
Lockhart approvingly flashes a smile. "Already learned about the allure of exclusivity, haven't you?" he asks as if proudly doting on a favourite son instead of the one who put a chain around his neck. "Mr Black, Harry is already a rarity at public events like this, surely a single photo with his favourite teacher cannot hurt?"
The dreadfully arrogant wizard better hope no magazine quotes him on that, else Severus will personally hunt Lockhart down to pry that title back from cold, dead hands. "One," he grimaces, for Harry wouldn't have so openly and enthusiastically asked if it weren't important to show his contacts off to the public. Unsurprisingly, the picture taken includes Slughorn, Sirius and Hermione too. The happy family with their important, famous allies...
"Professor Lockhart, as you are including us in your upcoming book, would you tell us some more details?" Hermione asks once the photographer has disappeared. "Maybe in one of the tents to avoid spoilers from being overheard?"
"Ah... while I would love to..." Lockhart hesitates, gaze flicking to Harry, who gives a barely-perceptible nod to the row of tents. "I would certainly love to!" the man exclaims, clapping his hands together. "Horace, we'll catch up later, won't we? You must introduce me to Wilbert and Wendy Slinkhard before the end of the Soiree, it will be marvellous to exchange ideas with fellow famed authors. Perhaps I can give the Slinkhard siblings some tips! Their writing is fine, but the book promotions were lukewarm at best, if you know what I mean." When the old Potion Master gives a short bow to them all and takes his leave, Lockhart drapes his arms around the shoulders of both of the kids and guffaws. "Publicity is half the work in the world of writing, take it from me!" he conspiratorially says as if divulging a great secret, fat wink included. "Always look your best! Should I hand you a business card for my personal tailor so you have matching outfits for the upcoming promotion? Yes, I think that is a grand idea!"
"We're regulars at Twilfitt and Tattings," Sirius states with irritation, as it feels like Lockhart is claiming the Blacks dress in rags. All of them are wearing sets of brand-new, stylish dress robes that show off taste as well as old money. Harry's forest green tunic-and-cloak combination as well as Hermione's gown-like periwinkle dress robe are better choices than Lockhart's own knee-length cape that blinds all those unfortunate enough to catch a glimpse of the ever-changing patterns of curling leaves on the shimmering cyan fabric.
"Oh, I can see that, but my stylist-" the man doubles down until Harry dryly clears his throat.
"Tents?" his son asks with a chilly undertone, far less pleasant than when Slughorn was still in earshot. Sneakily, Sirius glances around to check for other guests who could possibly catch onto their conversation, but this central area is so large that most have dispersed far enough to avoid prying.
As it's better to be safe than sorry, their little group marches over to one of the square pergola tents that is just large enough for four. Carefully, Harry pulls the drapes close until they are cut off from the rest of the guests. "We need to be quick, I assume the main event will start soon, I caught a glimpse of Fudge while our picture was being taken. But first..." Placing a hand over his left eye, Harry mutters a long incantation that Sirius is unfamiliar with. When the hand drops, emerald has been replaced by bright yellow, in the middle of which sits a pupil as slitted as a cat's. Before saying another word, the unsettling eye inspects every corner of the tent. "Precaution," Harry mumbles, as if that explains anything. Drawing his wand, the boy casts several heavy privacy wards in addition to the already existing ones.
"Ah... so... the book?" Lockhart half-heartedly says, shooting glances at Sirius and, in particular, his Auror badge.
Harry scoffs in response. "Don't be ridiculous Gilderoy, I don't give two fucks about your book other than it publishing my alibi. We can speak openly here, they're both in the know."
Any remnant of Lockhart's blinding, disingenuous grin slips away. "Yes Sir," he unhappily says. "Though is it wise to initiate one of his profession...?"
The question drives another painful nail into Sirius' already shaking resolve to remain employed as a dark wizard hunter. Neutrality sounded good in theory but thinking practically... he is a guest in the house of the Dark Lord, looked away as a Death Eater yapped about mopping up bloody bits, his daughter openly declared she wants to grow up to become a Dark Arts practitioner and his son turned out to have been one since before Sirius had held Harry as a babe. He is stuck between a cerberus bite and dragon fire. Either he tries to continue on as normal while his morality is chipped away at a bit more each day – with each lie, each moment of deliberate blindness, - while distrusted by all those his son is close to, or he jumps into the deep end as Severus had decided on. Sirius should have pried more about what his Intended had witnessed to cause this sudden change of mind. Sev hadn't been willing to reveal more than 'memories of the war' as an explanation.
Maybe he really should start name-hunting for that detective agency idea...
"Leave the thinking to me," Harry tells Lockhart off. "You're here to look pretty and distract possible enemies. You've not redeemed yourself enough from your last stunt with my dear familiar to second-guess my decisions." The ice in his voice is sharper than glass, making it far easier for Sirius to differentiate between the childish facade and the grim man Harry has revealed himself to be, even more now than when the ability to cast dark magic in the kitchen of their home had been demonstrated... "I wish to know if any of your many new acquaintances since your last boost in fame are useful to me. I had a dispute of sorts with the Headmasterr of Hogwarts last week, who to my knowledge contacted Minister Fudge about it. Only, I have been unable to find out what was conveyed or how Fudge reacted. I plan on speaking to the Minister personally to clear up any... misunderstandings, but would prefer to have a heads-up. Heard any whispers about this?"
"Whispers, suggestions, perhaps a litany of complaints... Eh-hem," Lockhart coughs under the murderous glare. "I had dinner with the Fudges just yesterday to discuss details of today's soiree and that topic happened to come up. The Minister wished me to lend him an ear as it's well-known that we get along and that Dumbledore gave me so much trouble at Hogwarts during my 'investigation'. While the Minister did not go into great detail, it was suggested that the Headmaster is spouting nonsense about the return of You-Know-Who and your supposed support of that." Lockhart lets out a forced chuckle. "Of course, I protected your reputation, mentioned that Dumbledore has been sowing panic left and right ever since the incidents at Hogwarts because he refuses to believe that a new hire and a couple of students solved a case he couldn't. I must say that I also cannot fathom what the Headmaster is thinking, announcing the revival of You-Know-Who. Did he figure out that you are a dark wizard and ran a bit too far with fantasising? Or is he truly growing senile to believe the dead can come back to life?"
"Oh, right, I suppose we didn't tell you that much about my planned war, did we?" Harry muses. "Dumbledore's speculations regarding the Dark Lord having resurrected are entirely true. I needed a powerful ally, after all, who better than an immortal, powerful dark wizard with a slumbering army at his beck and call? Close your mouth, Gilderoy, he isn't so bad. Not to those on our side. Well, this talk has certainly been enlightening and I feel much more at ease knowing-" Suddenly, Harry freezes up, the feline pupil dilating for a long second as it flickers over something on floor-height. Looking in the same direction, Sirius cannot see anything but greenhouse tiles and the waving, thick purple walls of the tent.
A red jet of light leaves Harry's wand and hits the drapes – or at least Sirius believed it should only have hit that until Harry strides towards it and crouches down, pushing against the fabric to reveal a sliver of something scaled.
"I thought I would catch a different Animagus today," Harry mutters while pinching the tip of the tail of whatever had tried to flee, dragging it inside the tent. "We really should invent Animagi-repelling wards, the ability is a bloody nuisance. Nothing against Snuffles, of course," the boy adds with a wry smile as he holds up a stunned silver serpent, the length of which is barely shorter than Harry's entire body. "Siri, would you do the honours?"
"Drop it on the floor first, I don't want to be liable for sprains or bruises. I may not be on active duty, but I'll be held accountable all the same. Besides, eaves-dropping isn't a crime, so stunning them to interrupt it is already questionable enough."
"Not registering as an Animagus is a crime, though" Hermione says, narrowing her eyes at the snake. "I read the entire register in my spare time when Professor McGonagall first told us about it in Transfiguration. There should be only one snake Animagus in the United Kingdom, with the form of an albino ball python, not a Montpellier snake."
That's one worry less, although Sirius hadn't counted on spending today filling out the paperwork that comes with making an arrest... Or on having to deal with memory modification, a charm he usually relies on the Obliviator Squad for as it's not his forte. "Let's see it then," he says under his breath as soon as the serpent has been lowered to the floor. A bright blue flash later, he is quite astonished to look down on his cousin's unpleasant husband.
"Didn't know Lucius Malfoy to be an Animagus, impressive." Harry picks up the black-laquered cane that had appeared, its handle equally serpentine as the man's animal form. "Had it been anyone else, I'd have just erased their memories and be done with it but..." His son hums thoughtfully, then casts an 'Incarcerous' and a 'Rennervate' in rapid succession to have the man awake yet bound. "Hello, Mr Malfoy, were you having a good time listening in? Why were you spying? I somehow doubt you're such an avid fan that you were interested in Professor Lockhart's newest book..."
"Quite the interesting spell you've cast on your eye, Mr Potter," Malfoy speaks, ignoring the questions entirely as he sits as upright as possible while sitting on the floor, hampered by restrains that bind hands and feet. "Rather dark magic for the son of an Auror, isn't it?" Steel eyes hush over to Sirius, who refuses to show how unnerving this all is.
"Quite the interesting Animagus form you have," Harry echoes. "Unregistered, it's rather illegal magic for one of the Minister's personal advisors."
Outside of the tent – the privacy wards only going one way – commotion can suddenly be heard; loud applause and excited chattering. The main event is starting, and it will get them off on a bad foot with the Minister if they are nowhere to be seen for the grand speech Mrs Fudge is supposed to give about the newly planned educational reform. When picking up on the noise, Malfoy relaxes and smiles victoriously, clearly aware they won't have time for an in-depth interrogation. With Harry's last words before discovering the intruder having been very damning, it's no wonder the slippery man looks unconcerned about having been caught. "Harry," Sirius softly says, jerking his head towards the still-closed door of their tent.
"Got it..." his son replies while pulling a face. "Let's cut to the chase, then." Crouching down, Harry roughly grabs a pale left arm above the bound wrist and pushes up the sleeve, exposing a black tattoo that is decidedly not a soul mark, but the brand of Lord Voldemort. Seeing the Dark Mark decorate Lucius Malfoy's arm doesn't come as a shock to Sirius, who is well-aware of the man's sob story of having been imperiused, forced into unwilling servitude – a lie according to Dumbledore, but not one the Order had had enough proof for that money couldn't make disappear.
Malfoy tries the same lie again now: "What are you trying to prove, Potter? My record is clean, the Imperius curse..."
"I'll use the Imperius curse to let you imitate a monkey in public if you don't cut the crap." Prodding a wand into tattooed skin, Harry hisses an unfamiliar spell: "Morsmordre." Whatever it does is severe enough to drain the remaining colour from Malfoy's pointy face. Does it cause pain? Give control? The ink of the Dark Mark shifts and darkens as if renewed on the twitching arm.
"You are- you are truly in contact with-" Malfoy whispers, sounding frightened. "He is back?"
"Worried he might hold a grudge against those who cosied up to his enemies after renouncing his name? You should be. Now, I'm in quite the dilemma, Lucius. I should really head out there and butter up to Fudge. However, I also don't trust you. Your petty quarrel with my godfathers and rampant prejudice against my sister is quite the annoyance. This assures I can hurt you whenever I want to – a neat trick I learned from our mutual friend just this week – but is that enough? Or should I wipe your memories until he is interested in showing mercy and calling you to his side?" Crooking a finger, Harry makes the ink darken until the Death Eater struggles against the ropes.
Something flashes in Malfoy's eyes. "I never abandoned the cause!" he bites. "I renounced his name in public only, to give him an edge once revived. Behind closed doors-"
"Behind closed doors, you twisted his vision to fit yours. Hermione, come closer and hold out your hand," Harry flatly interrupts, motioning for his sister to approach. Without an ounce of hesitation, the girl steps forward and offers the back of her hand. "I won't lie, Lucius, I don't like you. You treat magical creatures, Squibs, anyone you deem beneath Pure-bloods like scum. These are not the teachings of the Dark Lord. He has recruited giants, werewolves, and accepted many a Half-blood into his ranks. It's true that he harboured some of the same views, though this has recently been mended. The question is if you can keep up with the times? Show Hermione some respect, greet her like an equal deserves to be. I'll even free your hands for it. Refuse, and you won't remember a thing until the Dark Lord calls for you. Do keep in mind that in that case, I won't put in the good word for you that you so desperately need to avoid being on the wrong end of his favourite curse."
The man's cheeks redden in anger at the request, which to Malfoy is possibly just as offensive and humiliating as being asked to voluntarily step in Hippogriff dung. Before Harry can start to undo the ropes, the Death Eater has spat on Hermione's hand rather than kissed it as would have been an appropriate greeting for a young woman. Instantly, Sirius' blood boils from witnessing how his daughter is being treated, and only Harry's aura manifesting into threateningly flickering shadows stays his wand hand.
"Whatever you are, Potter, I don't need to disgrace myself by greeting Mudbloods!" Malfoy snarls to add insult to injury.
Another crooking of the finger has the Death Eater writhing on the floor, choking on his own spit. "Pity. Gilderoy, the stage is yours. Do leave his mind intact enough, we don't need another case for the closed ward. Not yet. Come find us after to report." For good measure, Harry casts a silencing spell upon his captive, likely so Malfoy cannot call for help once the door of the tent opens.
"As you wish, Sir." Lockhart's pale blue eyes light up as his wand pokes Malfoy's temple.
Sirius pulls his gaze away from the scene, eager to get away from this tent, in which multiple crimes have been committed in under a couple of minutes. Prior to exiting, he maybe should add one tally to that list... "Are you alright?" he asks, offering Hermione a handkerchief to clean herself with. "Should I break his nose?"
"Thank you, but I'm fine," she answers with a surprisingly cheerful smile as she accepts the handkerchief. "I'll ask Zach to be in the room during their reunion. That'll be enough recompensation."
Sirius internally sends a prayer to whatever gods are listening that it isn't too late to curb Hermione's sadistic tendencies once Harry and Voldemort are both far away from her sphere of influence. He should send Reggie another letter asking to spend time with her, as his younger brother has always had a calming presence on everyone he meets. With Hermione being suspected to be Reggie's soulmate, that effect might even be heightened...
"Harry, could you add a disinfectant charm to my hand?" the girl continues, whirling around to face her brother.
Casting the requested spell, Harry regretfully speaks: "I'm so sorry for you having been treated so brutishly. I'd truly wagered he'd have caved once I activated the mark..."
"Forget about it, let's go. I'm genuinely curious what this educational reform is about and don't want to miss the majority of the speech. As I'll be going back to Hogwarts soon, it might affect the next six years of my life. Not everyone has the privilege of loitering around at home."
"I'm not planning on loitering," Harry grumbles, having one last good look around the tent before his left eye shifts back to its normal green.
"Really? And what did I see in the garden yesterday? Looked suspiciously like loitering to me."
Linking their arms together, the little menaces slip out of the tent, followed closely by Sirius, who isn't about to let them run off and cause more trouble. He almost bumps into Harry's back, as the boy has halted after only a few paces, head raised to look at the duelling platform. It is currently being used for the on-going speech, so everyone has a good view of Mrs Fudge as she addresses the crowd in her hight-pitched, girly voice. She looks ridiculous as always with her pink outfit and black bow perched atop brown curls. Having met the woman a couple of times, Sirius has learned not to underestimate Mrs Fudge, who is the driving force behind many of the Minister's harsher decisions, from creature regulations to monitoring systems within the Ministry to ensure employees do not 'slack off'.
"Harry, keep walking," he urgently whispers in his son's ear, placing a hand on an extremely tense shoulder. "Harry?"
The boy's head turns slowly to look at Sirius over his shoulder, face ashen. "Fudge's bowler hat... magenta..." he nonsensically whispers. "Don't tell me that she is the wife of Cornelius Fudge. Not Umbridge!"
AN: I know it's not a huge reveal because about 90% of those who commented on Chapter 17 of Book 1 already clued together that Umbridge is Fudge's soul mate, but poor Harry is having the shock of his life, so he'll need a bit to process this, hehe.
Just to add some visuals: for Lockharts cape, I was envisioning the one from Gilderoy Lockhart in the musical 'A Very Potter Senior Year'. The Song 'Gilderoy' lives in my head rent-free and may have played on loop when writing Lockhart's monologuing bits.