Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Fine, We'll Do It Our Way

“YOU’RE CHILDREN!” Mrs. Weasley screams, panting hard. She and Harry are facing off in the middle of the super-secret base everyone but Harry has known about for months.

After his whirlwind of a recuse, Harry only got to hug his godfather once before Mrs. Weasley was herding him out of the kitchen. Ron and Mione filled him in best as they could.

Apparently, Dumbledore is the leader of a resistance organization called the Order of The Phoenix, and Padfoot’s childhood home, Grimmauld Place, is their headquarters. 

Harry has been imprisoned at the Dursely’s being starved for weeks while a group of useless adults bounced between spying on him and whining about how horrible all this war business is.

When any of the younger generations asked to be a part of the meetings they were either scoffed or cooed at. The adults won’t even let the Twins join and they are seventeen! It’s like everybody over twenty has forgotten about the last four years, namely Ron, Hermione, and Harry constantly saving the day every damn time.

Dumbledore left Harry to rot in his grief and misery, going as far as to ban his friends from writing to him and burning the letters when they tried.

He is so far past angry they’ll have to invent a new word for his rage. 

The Order finished their meeting and the kiddies were finally allowed back in the kitchen. Harry tried again to get some information and was swiftly shut down. Then, when he asked for a copy of the Daily Prophet, Mrs. Weasley completely blew her lid. Shrieking about how he is "just a child" and "shouldn’t be concerned about grown-up business".

Ron and Hermione stand behind him as Harry glares at the Weasley mother, two solid pillars of support. Harry calmly rolls up his right sleeve to reveal the bite scar seared into his skin. 

“This is where a basilisk bit me in my second year. The only reason I am not dead is because a phoenix cried on the wound,” Harry bites out scathingly, and Mrs. Weasley’s mouth snaps shut. Harry rolls up his left sleeve, revealing a jagged scar. “And this is where my parents’ betrayer dug a knife into my arm so my blood could be used in Voldemort’s resurrection. I was there when the Dark Lord was brought back to life. It was me who saw Cedric Diggory fall soundlessly to the ground, dead. It was Ron, Hermione, and me who stopped Voldemort in our first year. It was Hermione and me who saved Sirius from the dementors.” 

“We haven’t been children for years, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry states, a bitter twist to his lips. Mrs. Weasley is clutching her chest, tears in her eyes. It pains him to hurt her so, but Harry hasn’t spoken a single word that isn’t true. “Locking us out of these meetings is only going to get us killed. If the last few years have proven anything, it’s that you may be able to keep us out of the war, but you can’t keep the war from us.” 

Harry storms out of the kitchen after that, Hermione and Ron following close behind. The rage is still simmering behind his eyes as Harry throws open the door to the room he and Ron are sharing. Harry can feel his magic bubbling under his skin, itching to be let out. He paces the length of the room instead, muttering curses under his breath. 

Ginny slips in right before Hermione closes the door and for a second Hermione and the two Weasleys watch Harry pace angrily around the room. The twins apperating in with a jarring pop efficiently breaks the growing tension and gains Harry’s attention. He spins to face the gathered crowd, fire in his eyes. 

“You all know just as well as I do that we’ll be the ones facing the conflict at the end of the year,” Harry declares, not seeming to notice the raw magic sparking between his fingers.

Hermione and Ron share a wary glance; the last time they saw Harry lose control of his magic to this degree was the night after Pettigrew was revealed. Harry had bottled up his emotions to a dangerous extent and the magical fallout when he released them was explosive, to say the least. 

“There isn’t a force on this earth that could keep Voldemort from screwing up my life in some way,” Harry exclaims, throwing his hands up in frustration.

A wave of aggravated magic slams into the ceiling with an almighty bang and a flood of dust particles cascades toward the ground. Harry freezes with his arms still pointed to the sky and slowly looks up. A sheepish smile flits across his face as soon as he sees the newly installed cracks speckled across the ceiling.

“Oops,” he murmurs, an embarrassed flush spreading down his neck. Ron clasps his shoulder comfortingly and pulls Harry over to one of the beds. The boys flop down, grinning at each other. 

“I’m serious though,” Harry says a moment later, sobering quickly. He expertly ignores the twin’s snickering response of, ‘No, Sirius is downstairs.’

“If they don’t let us prepare, or at the very least understand the current dangers, we are going to get slaughtered.” 

“I agree,” Hermione readily concurs, enjoying the way Harry’s head snaps up in shock. “I would have liked a bit more information during our third year. Figuring out Sirius was innocent would have been much easier if we knew he was Harry’s godfather.” 

“A little assistance when the whole school thought you were the heir of Slytherin would have been appreciated,” Ron comments, slinging an arm over Harry’s shoulders. 

“Perhaps some extra training to help you survive the bloody dragons wouldn’t have been remise,” Ginny points out, fierce protectiveness coloring her words. 

“And maybe…” Fred begins, making an exaggerated thinking face. 

“They could have…” George continues, stroking his chin obnoxiously. 

“Oh, I don't know…” Fred says, peering searchingly into the great beyond. 

“And keep in mind this is just a thought…” George cautions, grinning cheekily. 

“But maybe the professors could have…” Fred chirps, resuming their original point. 

“Not hidden the Philosopher's Stone…” George continues scathingly, 

“In a bloody school!” The twins hiss the last bit together, finishing as one.

Harry takes a moment to marvel at the solemnity of their demeanor. It’s so rare for the twins to show the world anything other than their jovial masks, and Harry appreciates the honor he and the others have been granted. Hermione places a calming hand on the backs of their necks, smiling softly at the twins. 

Harry is a little overwhelmed by the outpouring of support, but overall he’s mostly relieved he isn’t alone in his wrath. Something has got to change, and soon, or Harry won’t live to see his seventeenth birthday. An outcome everyone in the cramped bedroom wishes to avoid. 

“Alright,” Harry says, springing to his feet. Hope is stirring in his chest for the first time all summer and he just can’t stay motionless at a time like this. “So the current management has to go. Thoughts?” 

“First things first,” Hermione calls, quickly taking control of the conversation. “Your trial tomorrow morning.” 

Oh, yeah. Harry thinks, sagging internally. That. 

Sirius Black observes the youngsters with narrowed, calculating eyes. They are remarkably upbeat considering one of their own is about to attend a trial to determine whether he’ll be expelled and his wand snapped.

If a person were to discount the bags under their eyes that should really be labeled suitcases by their sheer size and bruise-like coloring, the kids appear downright cheerful. Sirius would even go as far as to say they look anticipatory, predatory in a sense. 

Harry, Sirius’ amazing pup, is even grinning. He’s dressed in what Sirius recognizes as a pair of Regulus’s old dress robes, charmed to fit Harry. His hair is combed as neatly as possible with the Potter hair and his glasses are nowhere in sight. He hasn’t been running into furniture all morning so the kids must have done something to correct the Pup’s eyesight, temporarily or otherwise. 

A gleaming silver knife is strapped to Harry’s chest and a wand holster peaks out beneath his shirt sleeve. A pair of dragonhide boots and some black muggle jeans complete the ensemble.

The pup strikes quite the intimidating figure. Magic is condensed around him like a physical presence. It shimmers in the air near Harry and all of the Order members are keeping a cautious distance. The children, on the other hand, exhibit no such apprehension. Primarily, Hermione and Ron. They touch and bustle around Harry like it’s their Merlin-given right. 

“I expect you home in time for lunch, you understand?” Hermione is saying, demanding really. Ron and Harry exchange fond, exasperated smiles, but the pup nods his consensus anyways. 

“Give 'em hell,” Ron orders, leaning forward to rest their foreheads together briefly. The twins take turns ruffling Harry’s hair and scampering away. Ginny punches Harry lightly on the arm and they share a grin. 

“Time to go, Harry,” Arthur announces gravely, peering sadly at the boy.

The kids surround the pup, pulling him into a hurried bear hug. Harry is laughing as he escapes the embrace. He cheerfully salutes his friends and quickly follows Arthur out of the room.

The mood turns somber briefly as everyone stares after the departing duo, but Molly makes her presence known shortly after, and the kiddies scatter. Molly chases after them, hollering about chores and cleaning schedules. 

Remus ambles over to Sirius, leaning casually next to the Azkaban escapee. Sirius glances over at him, catching the same amused, suspicious expression on the werewolf’s face that Sirius is positive marks on his own. 

“You think they are planning something,” Remus states, not even having to ask. 

“No doubt about it,” Sirius confirms, turning to face his old friend. 

“Well, this should be interesting,” Remus comments and Sirius can’t help but agree. 

Harry looks around keenly, eyes threatening to pop out of his head. The entrance hall, or the Atrium as Mr. Weasley quickly informs him, of the British Ministry of Magic is extremely grandiose. Arches made of red brick tower above him, dozens of active floos nestled beneath. Witches and wizards of all stature enter and exit the floos at a dizzying pace. Mr. Weasley brought him through the muggle entrance, so Harry has an exquisite hawk-eye view of the controlled chaos. 

The vivid green floo fires flaring continuously around him cause shadows to dance across Harry’s skin as they push through the bustling crowd. Harry intentionally allowed his magic to flow more freely than he usually permits today and the charged, almost magnetic energy soon clears a path for him and Mr. Weasley. People take note of Harry’s electric presence and stop to gawk at him. 

Harry keeps his head held high and his steady stride confident. Mr. Weasley strides directly to the wand clerk’s desk, quietly explaining the upcoming procedure to Harry on the way. The ocean of ministry officials and Aurors part, creating a tunnel of bodies for Harry and Mr. Weasley to walk through. Harry lets an assured swagger sweep into his steps, projecting a sense of morale he doesn’t truly possess. 

For the plan the Weasley siblings, Hermione, and Harry hatched to succeed, he must shed the skin of that scared, overwhelmed child he has shown the wizarding world up to this point. No longer can he be the timid, meek Boy-Who-Lived who let the whole planet walk over him.

Harry has to embrace his proud heritage and sizable magical power. In the greater world of British magical politics, Harry is a major player. He simply never acknowledged that fact before now. 

“Wand, please,” sighs the bored, overworked wand clerk manning the Ministry’s check-in desk. Mr. Weasley amicably hands over his apple wood wand, wiping his nervously sweating hands on his trousers.

Harry feels for the Weasley father, but it is mildly amusing that the man escorting him to his trial is more nervous than the actual defendant. The clerk passes the wand back to Mr. Weasley and holds out his hand imperiously for Harry’s wand, not even bothering to look up. 

Harry remains where he is, waiting patiently. Eventually, the clerk looks up, annoyed glare dialed up to full effect. The clerk jerks dramatically when he registers Harry’s bright green eyes and the infamous lightning bolt scar. Harry smiles pleasantly at him, titling his head in a way that Ron swears makes the receiving party feel small and foolish. 

“Oh! Uh-, Mr. Potter, sir,” the clerk stammers, staring at Harry with big eyes. Harry lets his smile grow, an edge of something vulturine framing his face. The clerk visibly gulps, his eyes darting around wildly in search of help that is not there to be found. 

“Yes?” Harry drawls, dragging the word out mockingly. 

“Can I scan your wand, um, please?” The clerk ventures unsurely, and Harry takes pity on him, softening his features. 

“Of course,” Harry graciously allows, nimbly catching his wand as it slides out of his holster. Ginny discovered the wand holster tucked away in the same closet they found the robes Harry is currently wearing. 

The clerk accepts Harry’s wand with a trembling hand and Harry is slightly bewildered the head tilt worked so well. Of course, the boy doesn't know his freed magic responded to his ire with the clerk and made his green eyes glow threateningly. Harry also didn’t notice the lightning cracking down his spine and racing up his arms, but the gathered audience certainly did. 

Mr. Weasley is staring wonderly at Harry when the teenager turns away from the check-in desk, wand safely secured back in his borrowed holster, but Harry dismisses it. The Weasley patriarch is probably taken aback by Harry’s newfound assertive demeanor. After all, the Harry Potter of yesterday would have let the rude wand clerk pass him by timidly.

Mr. Weasley swiftly gathers himself and leads the way toward the lifts, the gathered crowd watching them depart with shocked gazes.

They manage to squeeze into the available lift right before it leaves. A black man dressed in rich, purple robes slips in at the last second, shoving his way through the constricted space to reach Mr. Weasley.

Harry recognizes him from what little he saw of the Order members, Kingsley Shacklebolt. Kingsley leans down and urgently whispers something in Mr. Weasley’s ear that has the man rapidly paling. Kingsley exits the lift on the next floor, pushing through the lift’s occupants once again. 

“What was that about?” Harry asks Mr. Weasley softly.

“Your trial has been rescheduled and moved to a different floor,” Mr. Wealsey reveals, lips pursed in disapproval. A shock of anxiety races through Harry; a burst of cold freezing his veins. 

“Why?” Harry demands, a familiar fury beginning to take over. 

“I haven’t a clue,” Mr. Weasley admits, an angry flush coloring his cheeks. “We have to hurry, though. We were supposed to be there 5 minutes ago.” 

Figures, Harry thinks morosely, Not even a criminal trial would go smoothly for the Great Harry Potter. 

The lift travels on, and no matter how much anxious fidgeting Harry and Mr. Weasley indulge in, it still stops at each floor. A cool, monotone voice announces each arrival and by the time they reach the required floor, Harry is halfway into a panic attack.

Mr. Weasley rushes out of the lift into what the monotone voice declared is the Department of Mysteries. He ushers Harry quickly down the hallway, barely refraining from running. 

The corridors are nothing like what Harry has seen of the Ministry before. There are no doors or windows. The walls are made of a green marble that shifts leisurely into purple in the low lighting. They are moving too fast for Harry to truly appreciate the architecture and before he’s actually prepared, they are standing before the assigned courtroom. 

“Off you go,” Mr. Weasley says, guesting at the awaiting door looming in front of them.

“You’re not coming as well?” Harry demands, whisper-shouting. Mr. Weasley looks genuinely regretful, but he shakes his head. 

“I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. Well, that would have been nice to know before now. Any previous moment would have been sufficient.

No matter, there’s nothing to be done about it now. 

Harry draws himself up to his full height, straightening his shoulders and plastering a confident smirk across his lips. He smothers the tremors jolting his hands and breathes deeply three times. After the third exhale, Harry opens his piercing green eyes, grasps the heavy door handle, and enters the courtroom. 

Here we go, no turning back now.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: The-Boy-Who-Doesn't-Give-A-Fuck

“You’re late,” an imposing voice calls out patronizingly before Harry’s even made it three steps into the courtroom. Harry traces the voice’s direction with his eyes and levels the man wearing plum-colored robes seated imperiously above him with a deeply unimpressed look. Harry recognizes him, of course, having met the Minister of Magic multiple times during his third year when everyone and their mother was kicking up a fuss about Sirius’ escape. 

“Yes, and you changed the location and time of my arraignment without bothering to inform me. I’d say we’re even,” Harry shoots back blithely, flashing his best guileless smile. 

“That is not the Wizengamot’s fault,” Fudge declares primly, glaring down at him. “We sent you a letter.” 

“Oh,” Harry inquires, ruthlessly squashing the panic that briefly threatens to overwhelm him. Surely he would have noticed an official letter from the Ministry. “And when, exactly, did you send this fabled letter?” 

The Minister shifts uncomfortably in his seat and Harry feels a surge of vindication. Clearly, the mysteriously missing letter isn’t worth the breath wasted spinning tales about it. Harry waits Fudge out patiently, eyes boring into the Minister’s head. 

“Uh, f-five minutes ago,” Fudge grudgingly admits several strained seconds later. Harry allows a sharp, mocking smile to twist his lips, indulging in a smug, internal happy dance. 

“So you sent the letter meant to inform me of the changed timetable when you planned to begin?” Harry clarifies, his voice practically dripping in surgery-sweet sarcasm. Fudge reluctantly nods, his cheeks burning with an embarrassed flush. 

“Oh, yes,” Harry drawls, honestly shocked at the man’s audacity, “the Wizengamot holds no blame for my tardiness.”

An obnoxious noise breaks up the staring match Harry and Fudge were engaged in. The noise would have sounded like a young child clearing their throat if the child in question possessed the voice of a professionally trained soprano and only spoke like a Disney princess. Harry has to fight to keep his composure as he turns to face the person who talked (coughed?). She’s sitting directly to the right of the Minister. Her face and complexion are distinctly toad-like in appearance and she has a comically large, bubblegum pink bow pinned in her hair. 

“Forgive me, Mr. Potter, but are you attempting to imply something?” The woman demands, her simpering tone almost suffocating in manner. 

“Of course not, Madame…,” Harry says, a smirk playing on the edge of his mouth. 

“Umbridge.” 

“I would never seek to undermine the Minister, Madame Umbridge,” Harry admonishes, batting his eyes innocently. “I was simply agreeing with Minister Fudge’s earlier statement.” 

“Now,” Harry chirps cheerfully, effectively dismissing Umbridge. “Where’s my seat?” 

His gaze falls on the wooden chair looming in the center of the defendant's platform. Heavy metal chains dangle from the chair’s arms, glinting ominously. Harry resists the urge to swallow and confidently strides over to the provided accommodations. He plops down and sprawls casually across the chair as though he attends criminal trials regularly and is not silently freaking out. 

“As everyone is, ah, present, we shall begin,” Fudge announces, obviously flustered. Harry smiles pleasantly at him and takes a slightly vindictive pleasure out of watching the Minister squirm. “Disciplinary hearing of the twelfth of August into offenses committed under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery and…” 

Harry tunes him out, Hermione explained the court regulations currently taking place and outlined the laws Harry supposedly broke the night of th dementor attack. The Minister isn’t conveying anything Harry hasn’t heard already and he would bet his firebolt that Hermione summarized it better than Fudge ever could. He idly scans the gathered witnesses, his gaze catching on the ten wizards sitting near the back. They are the only spectators presiding who are not wearing plum-colored robes. 

They are dressed in high-quality dress robes and even from half a courtroom away, Harry can tell their ensembles must have cost a pretty penny. The ten wizards hold themselves with a distinctly sophisticated air, but Harry supposes that makes sense, seeing as they are Lords. They are the heads of old, powerful wizarding families. Which, as Harry found out last night, are called Noble and Most Ancient houses or some variation of those titles. Harry was also advised that he is, in fact, a Lord as well.

“You mean to tell me that I’m a bloody Lord and no one thought to inform me before now?!” Harry explodes, staring incredulously at his friends. The twins shrink back under his withering glare, but Ron stands his ground, calmly holding Harry’s gaze. 

“It honestly slipped my mind,” Ron admits, shrugging apologetically. “Dad only really mentioned the Lord stuff a few times and my mom actively disdains the topic. It’s not like your Lord status was a nightly discussion we held over dinner.”

“Same,” Ginny is quick to say, an embarrassed blush working its way down her neck. 

“We thought you already…” 

“Knew and were just…” 

“Ignoring it,” the twins offer sheepishly. They drop to their knees a moment later and start wailing their apologies. Against his will, their exorbitant actions manage to tease a laugh out of Harry, and the twins high-five, celebrating their victory. Ron meets Harry's eyes and rolls his own, grinning at his flamboyant brothers. 

“It’s fine,” Harry dismisses, calming down. He begins pacing again, mind whirling with all the possibilities this new information offers him. “Maybe we could work that into the trail somehow.”

“It could offer an intimidation factor at the very least,” Ron remarks, lounging from his place spread out on one of the beds, “but we’d have to-” 

“No,” Hermione interrupts, looking up from the book she lunged for the moment the words ‘Head of the Potter Family’ came out of Ron’s mouth. She’s been buried nose-deep for the last five minutes and this is the first time she’s come up for air. “I agree that your Lordship will be very useful in the coming weeks, but there are multiple actions you need to take before you can be officially recognized.” 

The resulting silence lasts long enough for Hermione to take notice and she glances over at them only to find everyone staring at her in bewilderment. She rolls her eyes and defensively clutches her book closer. 

“What?” She demands, glaring at the gawking crowd. 

“When did you- how long,” Ron begins, trying to put the group's collective thoughts into words and failing miserably. 

“Oh, honestly,” Hermione huffs, her annoyed glare sharp enough to cut bone. “I found the book a couple of days ago in the Black Library. We’ve had other matters to focus on, so I haven’t gotten a chance to read it yet. I was saving it for the opportune time.”

“And this is the opportune time,” Ginny finishes for her, chuckling. Hermione raises her eyebrows smugly in agreement and Harry is suddenly hit with a rush of fondness for his brilliant friend.

“Alright, point taken,” Ron says, glaring playfully at their bushy-haired genius. “So what does Harry have to do to be recognized by the Wizengamot?”

“First of all, he'd have to head to Gringotts and claim his Lordship rings, assuming of course that the Potter family magic accepts him,” Hermione rattles off, scribbling down notes in a journal she pulled from somewhere Harry couldn’t fathom for the life of him, “Then he’d have to present himself at the next Wizengamot meeting and swear his Lordship oaths. None of that applies to the trial anyways because Harry wouldn’t be allowed to vote on his own sentencing.” 

Harry can’t help the snort that escapes him at the Twins’ and Ginny’s dumbfounded expressions. They haven’t yet been exposed to Hermione’s brilliance enough to build a tolerance. Ron smirks at him, and the boys share a commiserating look. 

“You got all…” Fred begins, blinking in shock.

“That in just…” George continues, his expression flabbergasted. 

“Three minutes?!?” They exclaim together, stars in their eyes. Hermione maintains her superior, haughty expression for all three seconds before breaking. She’s helplessly overcome with peals of hearty laughter and Harry and Ron, besotted idiots that they are, quickly follow her example.  

By the end of their late-night conference, the kids had agreed that they should wait to reveal Harry’s newfound knowledge of the Potter Lordship. At least until his appointment is secure. Harry can easily imagine Dumbledore or Mrs. Wealsey sabotaging the claiming of his Lordship in some misguided attempt to protect his innocence. To say nothing of the numerous enemies who would seek to undermine him for less angelic reasons.  

Harry tunes back into the Minister’s commentary when he mentions a familiar name, “... and Percy Weasley will serve as the scribe. Now, onto the charges, …” 

Harry attempts to catch Percy’s eye, relieved to see a friendly face. Instead of the expected recognition or encouraging wave, Percy completely ignores him, staring determinedly down at his notepad. Harry tries not to let the slight affect him, but they went to school together for two years. One might think that would warrant a glance in his direction at the very least. 

“Mr. Potter,” Fudge calls, effectively reclaiming Harry’s attention. “You cast a Patronus Charm in full view of a muggle or do you deny this?

“I do not,” Harry proclaims, staring defiantly up at the man. Whispers break out among the witnesses. Harry feels their eyes like claws on his back, but he refuses to cower. “I would, however, like to offer some context.” 

“And I’m sure it would be a lovely story, but the Wizengamot doesn’t have time to waste on nonsense,” Fudge proclaims, ignoring Harry’s second statement with practiced ease. 

It looks like Fudge has regained his rhythm, Harry thinks with faint amusement. 

“This court is one of justice, or has that changed?” Harry asks loudly, cutting off Fudge’s next statement with unconcealed glee. 

“Mr. Potter, you cannot interrupt-” 

“So you are saying the Wizengamot doesn’t deal in justice?” Harry inquires further, batting his eyelashes sweetly at the large crowd gathered above him. 

“We deal in justice, Mr. Potter,” a new voice answers, easily dominating Fudge’s weak attempts to control the situation. Harry examines the latest speaker interestedly, and endeavors not to squirm as she partakes in her own examination of him. Harry suspects the speaker is Amelia Bones, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the aunt of a Hufflepuff in his year. From what Ron can remember his dad saying, Madam Bones is a smart, upstanding woman. 

“Then I or a lawyer should be allowed to speak in my defense, Madam Bones,” Harry insists, holding her gaze as evenly as he can manage. She smiles slightly after a second and nods her assent. Harry sucks in a shuddering breath and thanks Merlin for strong, intimidating women. 

“I would like to begin by congratulating everyone attending today, we are making history,” Harry declares, trying not to smirk at all the confused faces peering down at him. “This is the first time the full Wizengamot has ever been called in response to an incident of underage magic. Which, in case you don’t know, is a minor offense that usually results in a fine. All previous incidents were handled by the Misuse of Magic Department with a legal guardian present.” 

There are several uncomfortable coughs after that declaration and most of the people present fidget guilty in their seats. Madam Bones’ smile has broadened into a sharp, amused smirk. 

“Moving on, I would like to address the first time I was charged with misuse of magic, three years ago,” Harry continues, leaping to his feet. “I was spending the summer with my muggle relatives when a house-elf suddenly invaded the peace. The poor thing was in quite the state, absolutely convinced Hogwarts was going to be deadly to me that year. Trying to solve the issue, the house elf decided to get me in trouble and dropped a cake on the heads of my uncle's guests. Not even two minutes later a letter arrived informing me I had broken the law and a mark would be made on my permanent record.” 

“Outrageous,” the Minister bellows, his bright red complexion reminiscent of Uncle Vernon in a mode. “The boy is clearly making up stories!” 

“Actually, Minister, my words are quite true,” Harry says reassuringly, as though he is soothing a great fear. “And I can prove it. Madam Bones, is there someone you can summon who can tell if a memory has been tampered with?” 

“There is always an unspeakable present during trials with that ability,” Madam Bones replies, just like Harry knew she would. Sometime during Hermione’s many trips to the library, she stumbled across a book on Ministry policy, and that little fact stuck with her. “Foxblood, if you would.” 

A figure in shimmering robes stalks forward, seemingly appearing from nowhere. A hooded cloak obscures their features, the fabric itself impossible to focus on. They march right up to Harry, wand held loosely at their side. Having no desire for that wand to be anywhere near his head, Harry takes a deep breath, focuses on his disastrous first meeting with Dobby, and touches his wand to his temple. Barely a second later, he draws it carefully away and a silver, wispy strand is pulled from Harry’s forehead. 

He flings it into the air, allowing his magic to rush along after it. As soon as his magic connects with the memory, the silver strand widens dramatically, stretching as long as a movie theater screen. The memory begins without prompting and Dobby’s well-meant but catastrophic actions are soon revealed, the unspeakable observing intently beside Harry. 

“It was not tampered with. The memory is a valid piece of evidence,” the Unspeakable intones in a neutral, genderless voice. The Minister slumps in his seat, pouting like a thwarted toddler. Madam Bones drills him with a gaze so searing it forces the Minster to sit back up only moments later. 

“Let the record show that the first charge of misuse of magic will be removed from Mr. Potter’s file,” Fudge sighs despondently, avoiding the heated stares of his fellow Wizengamot members. Percy documents the latest proceedings a touch spitefully, and Harry eyes the pleased smile on the redhead’s lips with something like relief in his heart. Maybe there’s hope for Ron’s third oldest brother yet. 

“Now, on to why we’re gathered here today,” Harry resumes his defense, pacing neatly in front of his chair. “I was in the middle of resolving an argument with my cousin when the air abruptly began to grow cold and a familiar sense of despair appeared. Recognizing the atmosphere dementors evoke, I grabbed my cousin and made a break for home. Unfortunately, the dementors caught us before we could escape and I had to act. Hence the Patronus Charm.” 

Harry repeats the process of drawing out a memory before anyone can comment and the silence after it finishes is deafening. Well, at least until the unspeakable speaks (ha). 

“It was not tampered with. The memory is a valid piece of evidence,” the unspeakable recites once more, shadowed face pointed towards Madam Bones. An eruption of noise overtakes the courtroom as the Wizengamot is forced to confront the notion of rogue dementors or, perhaps more likely, a rogue ministry official with a grudge. 

“This is a fabrication,” Madam Umbridge squeaks furiously, standing from her seat. “No child could perform such a spell.” 

“I find it interesting that you were prepared to charge me for a spell you don’t believe I’m capable of casting,” Harry muses aloud, eyeing the angry flush on her cheeks with a vicious kind of pride. “But I assure you, I am fully capable. Expecto Patronum!”  

Instantly, Prongs bursts out of Harry's wand, tossing his back in an impressive show of strength. He prances around the courtroom, searching for danger. He shines bright enough to force anyone close to shield their eyes. Assured of the relative safety, Prongs trots happily over to Harry. The patronis then shocks everyone present, Harry included, by nudging his solid, completely corporal head against Harry’s thigh, demanding pets. Harry quickly schools his gobsmacked expression into something a tad more neutral. Ignoring his pounding heart, Harry softly strokes Prongs’ neck a few times before letting the stag evaporate. 

Harry looks up in time to see the entire courtroom staring at him in astonishment. He grins at them, perhaps a bit sheepishly, and wiggles his fingers. Madam Bones recovers first, turning to spear the Minister with a truly breathtaking glare. 

“Let the record show that Mr. Potter is cleared of all charges,” Fudge admits grudgingly, his arms crossed moodily over his chest. “Court dismissed.” 

“I apologize, on behalf of the Ministry, for this farce of a trial, Mr. Potter,” Madam Bones says, shaking her head. Harry smiles at her, the first genuine expression to cross his face in an hour. 

“My gratitude, Madam Bones, but it is not with you that my ire lies,” Harrys claims, making direct eye contact with Minister Fudge. The Minister coughs uncomfortably and avoids Harry’s burning gaze, something Fudge has gotten a lot of practice at today.

Harry bows at the Wizengamot, thanking them for their time and swaggers off the defendants' platform. The door slams open just as Harry reaches the courtroom’s exit and Professor Dumbledore is revealed, poised for a dramatic entrance, the familiar form of his crazy cat lady neighbor positioned right behind him. Harry smiles pleasantly at them both and sweeps by him. 

“Headmaster, Mrs. Figgs,” Harry greets merrily, already striding down the hallway. Mr. Weasley is waiting for him by the elevators and Harry beams at him. 

“I’m ready to go, Mr. Weasley,” Harry says, strolling into the waiting lift. Mr. Weasley follows, clearly bemused, and the doors close after him, leaving behind a thoroughly baffled Headmaster.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: We Should Probably Have a Plan

Ron surveys the cluttered room with something like contentment. He’s not fully satisfied because Harry isn’t here, but the feeling is very similar. 

Hermione and Ginny are sitting shoulder to shoulder on Harry’s bed, books and parchment spread all around them. The twins are sprawled on the carpet, arms and legs tangled together to the point it’s impossible to tell which limb belongs to who. Ron is lounging on his bed, pretending to read while he watches the door.

The only one actually doing homework is Ginny. Hermione is researching everything she can find on Lordships, having finished her homework sometime during the first week of summer break. The twins are pouring over books detailing Azkaban and dementors. Preparatory work in case they have to stage a jailbreak later that night on Harry’s behalf. 

Ron, completely focused on listening for nosy adults, is the first to notice the commotion transpiring downstairs. He scrambles off the bed immediately, racing for the door and, more importantly, the stairs just after it. Only Harry Potter could create that level of uproarious chaos in such a small amount of time. 

Hermione is a step behind him as Ron flies down the stairs. They hastily push past several Order Members that are loitering in their way and burst into the entranceway. No one notices their dramatic entry, though, because everyone is focused on Harry. 

An upset, quickly deteriorating Harry. Looking at his placid expression, one might assume Harry’s as calm as could be, but Ron knows his friend well enough to recognize the storm brewing. Harry is seconds away from breaking down and he would absolutely loathe it if all these strangers witnessed the quickly approaching outburst. 

Hermione and Ron share a single glance and advance as one. Hermione slips back through the gawking Order Members and sprints up the stairs. Ron positions himself firmly in front of Harry and glares at the Headmaster, who is attempting to trap Harry in a corner. 

“That was an arrogant act to take, dear boy. Not to mention foolish,” the Headmaster scolds, his twinkling eyes peering sadly down at Harry. “You should have waited for me to arrive. I would have given you a proper defense.”

Harry's nostrils flare and Ron feels a wave of static prickle against his skin as Harry’s magic reacts to his anger. 

“Headmaster, no one told me you were coming,” Harry snarls, his eyes glowing an eerie green. “And even if I was informed, what was I supposed to do? If I’d waited for you, I would be in shackles on my way to Azkaban by now. No one was there to help me, to fight for me, so I did it myself.” 

“Dear boy, you must understand that-” 

The Headmaster is interrupted by a glorious explosion and Ron struggles to keep a grin off his face. The floor shudders under his feet as the house resettles and dust particles invade the muggy air with a vengeance. The adults start freaking out, alarms blaring all throughout Grimmauld Place, but Ron knows exactly what caused the blast. Hermione Granger on a mission is a force to be reckoned with, after all. 

Sure enough, Hermione comes stomping back down the stairs a second later, shrieking about the twins and experiments, annoying teenage boys, and the injustice of being forced to live in the same house as them. The adults quickly converge around her, Ron’s mum leading the charge, allowing Harry the chance to disappear in peace. Ron trails subtly after him, wishing to avoid drawing attention to the escaping boy savior. 

Hermione catches Ron’s eye in a fleeting glance as he creeps past the crowd, her expression communicating plainly that she expects him to take care of their upset friend. Ron dips his head in agreement, a solemn look on his freckled face. Hermione, satisfied, focuses once more on distracting the adults. 

The door to the room Harry and Ron are sharing is wide open, so Ron keeps climbing. Eventually, the hair on Ron’s arms rises and the air heats; two unmistakable signs of an overwhelmed Harry Potter in close proximity. Ron follows the crackling static through a dusty, dark hallway that hasn’t seen visitors in a long time. The sound of choked-off gasps and retching are, unfortunately, more indications of his goal and Ron halts before a door, heart breaking for his friend. 

“Harry, mate, can I come in please?” Ron calls softly, resting a hand on the rotting wooden door. After a moment's consideration, the door cracks open, and Ron gratefully enters. He isn’t surprised to find the room Harry sought refuge in is a bath, nor is he surprised to find Harry himself bent over the toilet, his breakfast making a vicious reappearance. Ron quickly skates to his knees beside him, pushing Harry’s sweaty hair out of his face and shouldering some of his weight. 

“Get it out. There you go, mate, just get it all out,” Ron whispers soothingly, rubbing gentle circles into Harry’s trembling back. “You did so well. I know it must have been awful, but you’re safe now and you did amazing. I’m so, so proud of you. You’re safe now.” 

They stay like that for a long time, Ron chanting sweet words into the minute space between them while Harry shudders, and shakes, and cries. Once his stomach stops revolting, Harry sits up and tries to pull away, shamefully avoiding Ron’s eyes. Harry flinches away from the loving hug Ron tries to offer him, cheeks burning scarlet. Ron can’t have that, now can he?

“Hey there, babe, none of that. There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Ron insists, pushing Harry’s chin up so they can make eye contact. “You’ve had something of a stressful day, love. A little nerves are to be expected.” 

Harry huffs a laugh at the gross understatement, but he finally relaxes so Ron’s gonna count it as a win all around. 

“They brought out the whole Wizengamot,” Harry confesses, his voice hoarse and disbelieving. Ron conjures a glass and fills it with an absentminded Aguamenti. Harry accepts it gratefully, gulping it down in record time.  

“We expected that,” Ron points out, refilling the glass. Harry nods, acknowledging the point. 

“I know, but I didn’t honestly think they would actually do it,” Harry murmurs, taking small sips this time. “I mean, Fudge wasn’t going to let me speak. I wasn’t afforded time to hire a lawyer. If we didn’t have a plan, Ron, well, it would have been really bad.”  

“We did have a plan though, babe,” Ron reminds him, a sympathetic smile curling his lips. Harry nods, but his eyes still have a wild edge. 

Ron scoots back until he hits the wall opposite the one Harry’s leaning against. Then he weaves their legs together and prods at Harry with his toes until he plops his feet in Ron’s lap. The perfect position for a foot massage, in Ron’s humble opinion.

They stay like that for a while, luxuriating in each other's quiet company. Ron smiles as he feels Harry’s magic slowly begin to calm down. 

“You ready to face the masses?” Ron asks, the humor in his voice mixing pleasantly with the relaxed atmosphere. 

“Five more minutes?” Harry mumbles from where he’s melted against the wall. The wonders of having one’s feet rubbed. 

“Whatever you want, mate. I've got all day,” Ron agrees easily, resting his head against the wall while his hands work their magic on Harry’s tense muscles. 

Hermione follows the sound of rich, hearty laughter to the seventh floor of Grimmauld Place, three plates of food balanced precariously in her arms. 

“Boys, it's me,” Hermione calls, knocking against the door with her foot. Ron yells for her to enter and Hermione shoves the door open with her hip, juggling her ambitious burden.  The scene that greets her makes an involuntary smile sprout on Hermione’s lips. 

The boys, her boys, are sprawled across the floor, legs braided together and laughing so sweetly. Adorable is the only word that comes to mind, looking at Hermione’s boys. She’s loath to spoil the pretty picture, but a bathroom is not the most sanitary place to eat one’s lunch. 

“Up you get,” Hermione commands, walking back into the hallway. “We’ve food to consume and plans to make.”

She strides to the nearest door, throwing it open with a creative mixture of wandless magic and her knee. The door opens to reveal a bedroom, complete with a frankly humongous bed. Perfect. A few waves of her wand later has several years' worth of accumulated dust banished and the lamps switched on. By the time her boys make the journey across the hall, she’s conjured three lap trays out of a couple of discarded candles and is seated primly on the bed. 

Ron makes a beeline for the food as soon as he registers its presence, and once again Hermione is taken aback by how cute he is. Harry climbs onto the bed at a more sedate pace, but he too eagerly reaches for his plate once sufficiently close. Conversation is sparse as the trio begins their meal, lost in the heavenly delights of Mrs. Wealsey’s cooking. Hermione allows her boys enough time to finish half the food on their plates before pouncing on Harry, questions loaded and ready to fire. 

Hermione listens as calmly as she is capable of as Harry recounts his morning. It was easy to deduce the Ministry’s, and more specifically the Minister’s motivations, even before Hermione had the additional data of Harry’s trial, but his experiences offer her more substantial insights. It is clear the Minister wanted to silence Harry. Fudge can’t have a teenage celebrity going around claiming the Dark Lord was brought back to life during Fudge’s administration. Especially not if the rebirth took place during the final task of a world-renowned tournament Fudge was responsible for hosting and thus protecting. 

Snapping Harry’s wand and expelling him from Hogwarts would have muzzled him quite nicely, efficiently solving Fudge’s problem. Unfortunately for their esteemed Minister, Harry is not the defenseless boy his slight frame and oversized clothes would have the world believe. Not only is his well of innate magical power vast and not to be underestimated, but Harry also has the support of an immensely protective group of friends, and as they discovered last night, a political title of some importance. 

No, the Minister chose the wrong boy to make an enemy out of. A fact Hermione is sure Fudge will soon realize. 

“Well, it sounds like you had quite the adventure,” Hermione comments lightly, stowing the rage burning in her soul for a more opportune time. She reaches for Harry’s hand and squeezes it comfortingly, displaying her sympathy for his hectic morning. Ron catches her eye over Harry’s head and they share a nod, acknowledging their mutual desire to see Fudge screaming and terrified. 

“The trip to Gringotts will have to be sooner rather than later,” Hermione declares, releasing Harry’s hand and picking up her cup. 

“Tonight, if we can make it work,” Harry agrees, nodding. 

“Actually,” Ron hedges, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief, “the twins have some ideas about that.” 

They find the before-mentioned twins huddled in a secluded bathroom on the third floor, Ginny a steadfast sentry guarding the door. She perks up at the sight of the golden trio striding down the hallway, Harry safely nestled under Ron’s arm as Hermione leads the way. Ginny knocks twice on the door, the sharp noise ringing out. A second later the door swings open and a heavily modified space is revealed. 

What used to be a bathroom has been transformed into a workshop for the twins. Three large tables are positioned around the space: their gleaming metal surfaces barely visible under the mountain of papers, experiments, and equipment piled on top of them. In the very back of the room, several cauldrons are bubbling away, multi-colored fumes wafting out of them. 

Hermione and Ron have visited the workshop before, but Harry is experiencing the full magnitude of the twins set loose for the first time. His wide eyes sweep across the room, again and again, astonished every time he spots another of the twin’s inventions. 

“Ah, our fearless leader has returned, Gred!” George exclaims, spinning to face Harry with a massive grin splitting his lips. 

“So I can see, Forge. Welcome, oh Magnificent Lord!” Fred cries dramatically, popping out of seemingly nowhere. Hermione whirls around, narrowing her eyes menacingly at the tall redhead. Fred gulps nervously and scampers over to his twin, leaving behind a smug Hermione. 

“Ron said you guys have something that will make sneaking out easier,” Harry says, walking deeper into the room. His magic stretches lazily across the room, cat-like. Hermoine and Ron have always been especially sensitive to Harry’s magic. They can effortlessly interpret Harry’s moods based on his magic’s disposition. Hermione has researched the phenomenon, but there was very little data to be analyzed. 

Either Hermione and Ron are the first to experience this, which she doubts, or the wizarding world is loath to record the unique connection. At any rate, Hermione understands the shifts and levels of Harry’s magic like it’s her native language and it warms her to see him so relaxed. So at peace with his environment and the people surrounding him. It’s a rare sight even at Hogwarts, to say nothing of when he’s staying with those disgusting Dursleys. Oh, what Hermione would like to do to Petunia and Vernon Dursley. Hell has witnessed no comparable horrors. 

“Great Savior, we have many wonders for you to gaze upon,” George announces, beckoning Harry closer. Fred sweeps up to them holding a tray weighed down by several of the Twin's inventions. 

“We’ve been hard at work since you invested your tournament winnings, Beloved Benefactor,” Fred professes, setting the tray down on a worktable with a flourish. The Twins proceed to launch into an extravagant explanation of each of their new products. Harry is pale by the end of it, blinking up at the twins in horrified amazement. His posture, however, is more confident and there’s a glimmer of pride in his eyes, so Hermione adds another tally to the win column. She ponders, not the first time, how easily the twins could take over the world if they put their minds to it. 

“Alright,” Harry calls, shaking off the residual shock of the Twins’ brilliance. “We have until September 1st before we have to go back to Hogwarts. That’s 20 days to accomplish as much as we can. Let’s brainstorm, just holler your ideas when they come to you.” 

Hermione watches, intrigued, as Harry conjures a blackboard and some chalk. He scrawls The Plan at the top and pivots to face the group with expectant eyes. 

“You need to claim your lordship,” Hermione remarks, jumping in first. Harry nods and writes Lordship on the board. 

“We all could use some training,” Ginny offers, gesturing to Ron’s lanky frame as an example. Ron squawks indignantly, glaring at his sister, as Harry adds Training to the board. 

“Good, what else? How about ideas for annoying Voldepants?” Harry asks, waving his hands encouragingly. 

“A list of all active deatheaters might be helpful,” Ron ventures, a thoughtful tilt to his head. Harry writes Defeating Lord Noseless and adds List of Deatheaters under it as a bullet point. 

“Stealing his money,” Fred pipes up, nudging his twin. 

“Can’t wage a war without galleons,” George agrees, batting his eyelashes innocently. 

Harry grins at them and adds Heist as a bullet point under Defeating Lord Noseless. He also marks down Muzzling Voldepants’ Political Power in between Lordship and Defeating Lord Noseless. 

“You could use some nutrient potions, Harry,” Ron states firmly, staring Harry down until he sighs and adds Healing below Training. 

“Your clothes will need an upgrade,” Hermione points out, raising a judgemental eyebrow at Harry’s confused expression, “Lord Harry Potter can’t go around dressed in rags.” 

“You’ll need to look the part,” Ron eagerly agrees, jumping at any chance to get Harry out of those awful hand-me-downs, if the garments could even be called that. 

“All of us will need a makeover then,” Harry decides, scrawling Makeover under Lordship. The resulting baffled silence that comment produces makes Harry glance up and offer the group a slightly sheepish smile. “I was hoping that maybe you might consider allying or joining the House of Potter.” 

Hermione watches, amused, as the Weasleys proceed to stare at Harry in shocked disbelief for several long moments. It’s reasonable, in a way, that they’re astounded, but Hermione isn’t surprised in the slightest. Harry has longed for a loving, loyal family every year of his life except the very first one. Of course, he would leap at the first opportunity that came along to create a family of his own. 

“I would be honored, Harry. Thank you,” Hermione pronounces, offering the boy a soft, happy smile. Harry blushes prettily in response, but there is no hiding his pleased expression. 

“Yes, yes of course!” Ron exclaims, bounding over to envelop Harry in a hug. It seems Hermione’s words were what the redhead needed to snap out of his shock. 

“You’ve always been a brother to us, Harry,” Fred proclaims, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. The only part of Harry’s body Ron isn’t wrapped around like a koala bear. 

“You couldn’t keep us away if you tried,” George swears, beaming at Harry. Ginny makes eye contact with Harry over Ron’s back, slightly misty-eyed. 

“I would like that,” Ginny says, timid in a way Hermione has never seen her before. Harry smiles at her, understanding in his eyes, and thanks her quietly. 

“G-good. Alright then, I’m so, um. Thank you,” Harry finally settles on, stumbling over his words. Ron ruffles his hair fondly, and Harry shoves him away, dispelling the poignant moment, but Hermione securely tucks away the memory for safekeeping. She has a feeling tonight will become one of her favorite evenings to reminisce about. 

By the time the youths are summoned for dinner, the blackboard looks a little something like this: 

The Plan 

Lordship 

• Makeover
• Muzzling Voldepants' Political Power
• Family/Ally Rituals
• First Wizengamot Meeting                                                                

 Defeating Lord Noseless         

• List of Deatheaters 
• Heist
• Muzzling Voldepants' Political Power
• Reek Havoc in the Most Annoying Way
• Locate Secret Base/Destroy Secret Base                                         

 Training 

• Healing
• Occlumency 
• Dueling Practice 

Hermione would have preferred brainstorming for a few more hours, but Mrs. Weasley would not be swayed. Besides, it’s important they keep their energy up. This evening is the night they will sneak out to Gringotts and claim Harry’s Lordship, after all. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Introducing Lord Harry J Potter

Gringotts is full to bursting when Harry, Ron, and Hermione trudge through the huge golden doors. Witches and wizards of all classes and ages wait impatiently in long lines while others shove their way through the crowd trying to reach the exit. Everyone is annoyed and sincerely believes their tasks and wants are far more important than any other person present and can’t fathom why the goblins aren’t tripping over themselves in a rush to aid them.

Hermione and Ron slide neatly into the back of a cue, Harry an invisible presence under his clock between them. Ron shifts subtly behind his friends so he can guard their backs more thoroughly and Harry, in spite of himself, finds the overprotective action impossibly endearing. Hermione’s derisive sneer grows more disgusted with every muttered slur against the goblins they hear from the surrounding wixen, her own whispered comments distinctly unfriendly.

“It’s like they’ve forgotten all of their money rests in the care of the very race they are scorning,” Hermione mutters, glaring at the rude wizard just in front of them who is loudly bemoaning how awful it is to be forced to speak with goblins. “Every time I think wixens can’t get any more obtuse, they race to prove me wrong.”

The trio arrives at a counter some fifteen minutes later, hardly the agonizing wait the surrounding wixen would have the world believe. A surly goblin peers dispassionately down at them from his tall stool, a goblin Harry recognizes.

“Griphook?” Harry asks, lowering the hood of his invisibility cloak. Griphook raises one bushy eyebrow in what appears to be supreme and scathing judgment.

“Mr. Potter, I assume you have a good reason for hiding your presence in our great bank?” Griphook demands, lowering his voice slightly as he says Harry’s name. The gesture is greatly appreciated, there’s no telling the kind of mob the nearby witches and wizards would create if they knew THE Boy-Who-Lived was so close.

“I meant no offense, sir. I’m simply in the middle of running from a dozen or so nosy adults,” Harry informs the goblin cheerfully. He expertly ignores Hermione’s muttered complaints that nobody she’s friends with is good at being subtle.

“I see,” Griphook murmurs, the judgment radiating off him not lessening in the slightest. “What is your business at Gringotts?”

“I’m here to claim my Lordship,” Harry explains brightly, offering the goblin his best smile. Hermione sighs in despair beside him, but Harry doesn’t know what she expected. Straight-up honesty is best when it comes to dealing with goblins. Tricky words and flowery language will sooner have your head relieved from your shoulders than grant your access to your gold.

“Why now and not two years ago when you became eligible for the Lordship?” Griphook demands suspiciously, a truly astounding glare sharpening his beady eyes.

“Well, sir, I only found out about my Lordship two days ago,” Harry admits a tad sheepishly, shrugging. The next minute is consumed by silence as Griphook stares at him in profound disbelief and Harry smiles calmly back at him, refusing to be intimidated. Just as Ron’s beginning to contemplate stepping in between the pair, Griphook tears his gaze away and searches for something on his desk. The goblin straightens a moment later, triumphant, and slams a stack of paperwork on the counter.

“This confirms that you were sent no less than twenty letters from Gringotts informing you of your Lordship and instructions on how to claim your ring,” Griphook drawls, the judgemental look from before making a reappearance as he peers down at them.

“I have no doubt the bank sent them, sir,” Harry agrees calmly, soothing any ruffled feathers before the goblin's ire is truly irked. “Just as l also have no trouble believing some well-meaning, but arrogant wizard intercepted them before the letters could reach me.”

“You mean to tell me that you had no inkling of your family's centuries-old heritage and title that’s been passed down from eldest son to eldest son for close to three hundred years until two days ago?” Griphook accuses, steam practically pouring out of his ears.

“That is exactly what I’m telling you,” Harry confirms, his smile brittle as stone.

“And the letters, there’s no way you could have forgotten or discarded them?” Griphook questions, eagerly leaning forward.

“The very first piece of magical mail I received was the Hogwarts letter that arrived on my 11th birthday,” Harry assures the goblin, allowing the resentment that fact causes to show plainly on his face. “I didn’t even know magic existed until then.”

“I see,” Griphood says again, a savage, predatory grin curving his lips, “This is grounds for the termination of the current Potter Manager. He’s obviously not been doing his job.”

“How marvelous,” Hermione exclaims, cutting neatly into the conversation, “We planned on meeting with the Potter Manager after Harry claimed his Lordship anyhow. I’m so eager to hear his explanations on this matter.”

“Indeed, Miss..”

“Granger, Hermione Granger,”

“I quite agree, Miss Granger,” Griphook intones, bowing his head respectfully, “I would have loved to watch him squirm.”

“Maybe you can,” Hermione hedges, flashing her devilish smile, “we could use an escort, someone with knowledge of the bank's inner workings and our rights in Gringotts. We would compensate you handsomely for the effort, of course.”

“The gift of our comfort and safety is priceless, after all,” Ron confirms, falling into place on Harry’s other side, a charming smile adorning his lips. Harry nods his agreement, big emerald green doe eyes on full display.

“I suppose that could be arranged,” Griphook allows, smirking at them. He sweeps the paperwork back into his desk, closes the inkwell sitting on the counter, and jumps smoothly from his stool. The counter splits apart, creating an opening just big enough for the trio to walk through. Griphook wastes no time before spinning smartly on his heel and marching down the closest hallway, leaving the young humans no choice but to hurry after him.

Away from the gleaming, golden entrance hall, the walls of Gringotts are made of sturdy stone. Flickering torches and intricately woven tapestries are the only adornments decorating the cavernous hallways. Griphook allows the trio no time to admire the masterful artworks, leading them through countless doors and confusing turns. Eventually, they stop in front of a large metal door that simply reads, Inheritance Testing.

Griphook drags a clawed finger across the door and the sound of a lock turning rings throughout the quiet hallway. Seconds later the door opens with a hiss and Griphook pushes his way inside. Ron maneuvers to enter first, sweeping the room for any hidden threats before allowing his companions to enter. They do so at once, Hermione with an indulgent smile and Harry with an eye-roll. Ron huffs, blushing, and stares at the suddenly fascinating ceiling.

“Normally inheritance tests are held in a manager’s office,” Griphook informs them, stalking all across the room as he gathers the needed supplies, “but I have the authority needed to conduct one here.”

Hermione shuffles forward, watching the proceedings with great interest. Harry can already imagine her performing the same test on all of their friends who stayed behind, her diligent mind cataloging and storing each motion Griphook makes. Griphook lays out a copper bowl, a mixing spoon carved from stone, two glimmering potions, and an empty potion vial on the only barren table in the room.

The rest of the room is filled to the brim with cabinets of various sizes. Most of them are clearly filing cupboards, meant for paperwork and important documents. The other cabinets are cramped nearly to bursting with old, beaten-up trunks. The trunks are where Griphook retrieved the supplies. The ancient chests open grudgingly for the goblin, squeaky hinges loud in their protest.

“I’ll need you to fill this vial with your blood, Mr. Potter,” Griphook announces, unceremoniously waving a wicked dagger in Harry’s face. Ron snatches it up before anyone can so much as blink, glaring at the grouchy goblin. He gently grasps Harry’s right hand, turning it softly so that his palm is facing up. Quick as a flash, Ron swipes the knife over Harry’s palm. It’s over before Harry even registers the brief sting.

Hermione holds the potion vial under the wound, neatly catching the dripping blood. She offers it wordlessly to the goblin, who’s staring at them in mild bewilderment. Hermione simply arches an eyebrow, expectant, and Griphook startles and promptly returns to preparing the ritual. Harry finds himself immensely relieved that the attention of the room has shifted from him, his cheeks burning scarlet for reasons unclear to him.

“The potions track familial and magical lineage,” Griphook explains as he pours all three vials into the bowl, Harry’s blood causing it to turn a deep maroon, “This way it won’t matter if the Family Magics determine compatibility through magical strength or blood, the potion will find all possible Lordships.”

Griphook mixes the bloody concoction unwaveringly for close to three minutes, Hermione steadily inching closer the whole time. Harry can’t help but find Hermione’s unquenchable thirst for knowledge charming. Abruptly, the potion must decide it’s had enough of being stirred and starts smoking madly. Griphook calmly retrieves a thick piece of parchment from yet another reluctant trunk.

He dumps the potion over the parchment, watching in satisfaction as it’s coated completely in red. Griphook shakes the copper bowl a few times, making absolutely sure no drops of fluid are left behind and goes to return the bowl to its trunk. Ron stops him before the goblin can make it two steps. He points his wand at the bowl and murmurs a quick cleaning charm. Harry cocks his head, confused, and Ron mouths ‘graveyard’. Harry understands immediately, remembering vividly how dangerous his blood can be in the wrong hands. Flashes of Voldemort’s pale, monstrous face play in his mind.

Hermione’s gasp of wonder draws both boys’ attention to the matter at hand. Harry glances at the parchment, his eyes widening in amazement. Gone is the soggy paper and in its place, a beautifully intricate family tree painted in an intense, rich, crimson. What must be hundreds of generations of Potters branch out across the page, weaving and twisting around each other. Harry’s face sits at the very bottom, detailed exactly as he looks today. His parents, his parents, smile down at him from their positions right above, roses lace their portraits together.

Harry sallows past the lump in his throat, and blinks away the gathering tears, greedily soaking up the image of his parents depicted as they were on their final days on earth. Hermione’s soft, small fingers intertwine with his, and Ron’s warmth suddenly melts the sorrow freezing his heart as the boy drapes himself over Harry’s shoulders. Harry smiles, overwhelmed once more by how much they care for him.

“What do these mean?” Harry asks after he’s calm once more, pointing to the two crowns barricading his image on the tree.

“Those are there to symbolize the Lordships you could claim,” Griphook explains, his voice like gravel, “You are eligible for the Potter and Black Lordships.”

“Black?” Hermione inquires, a puzzled frown marring her features. Griphook lays a clawed finger on the portrait a little to the left of James Potter that Harry didn’t notice previously. It’s a painting of Sirius, labeled Sirius Orion Black, Blood-Adopted Father, Godfather. Harry promptly chokes on air, bending forward to get a closer look, but no, it still reads Blood-Adopted FATHER.

“Father?!” Harry exclaims, the word rushing out in one strangled breath. Ron pounds him helpfully on the back, while Hermione pins Griphook with her withering stare.

“What can Harry claim today?” She asks, gesturing to the parchment and the two painted crowns branded on it.

“The Potter Lordship, Miss Granger,” Griphook replies smartly, cleaning up the rest of the supplies, “The current Lord Black would have to be present and grant permission for Harry to claim that title.”

“Sirius,” Hermione muses, head tilted thoughtfully before turning to the still-sputtering Potter, “Now, Harry, I know this is quite the shock, but interrogating Sirius will have to take a backseat. We have more pressing matters at hand.”

“Like firing the Potter Account Manger,” Ron suggests eagerly, as he helps Harry find his balance again.

“And claiming your Lordship,” Hermione adds, nodding at the redhead. Harry draws in three sharp breaths, pushing down the betrayal (why didn’t he tell me?) and elation (I have a dad?) warring in his heart and focuses on the present. Become Lord Potter now, have an emotional breakdown later.

“Right, how does one become a Lord, Griphook?” Harry asks, pasting a crisp, plastic smile on his face. From the looks both Ron and Hermione shoot him, they don’t buy it for a second, but they don’t say anything so Harry is going to count this as a win.

“I’ve taken the liberty of calling a runner to deliver the Heir and Lordship rings,” Griphook says, walking over to the door, “You simply put the ring on, and if the Family Magics accept you, you will be the next Lord Potter.”

A sharp knock rings out before the goblin can explain anything more. Griphook throws the door open, revealing a short goblin carrying two small boxes waiting nervously on the other side. Griphook snatches the boxes before the other goblin even finishes bowing in greeting. Griphook then proceeds to slam the door in the poor goblin’s face and marches back to the table.

He sets the boxes down in a neat little row and gestures at the slightly bigger one. It has beautiful designs etched on the sides and a crest carved proudly on the top. It occurs to Harry, with crushing sadness and the fresh beginnings of rage, that it must be the Potter crest. It seems wrong, unjust in the worst kind of way, that he’s only seeing his family crest for the first time at fifteen years old.

Harry opens the box, exposing a stunning signet ring. The ring is made completely of gold. A braided pattern winds around the edges, leading to a handsome ruby cut in a perfect circle. The ring seems to be whispering to him, little wisps of curious magic teasing at Harry’s wild curls. Harry picks it up with trembling fingers. It slides onto his pinky finger with ease, automatically shrinking to fit his size.

A torrent of magic immediately slams into Harry, filling every piece of available space in his body and pushing ruthlessly to make more room. The magic doesn’t stop when it’s reached the limits of Harry’s mortal body, it keeps its unforgiving momentum. It pours into his mind and forces its way into Harry’s very soul. Despite its merciless exploration, Harry welcomes it. The sensation is unlike anything he has experienced before, there are no words to describe it.

The magic is calming, it soothes his body like a long, relaxing bath. Harry’s muscles loosen one by one under the relentless warmth. He’s quickly overwhelmed, but for what might be the first time in his life, Harry doesn’t fight. He simply surrenders to the potent song gleefully welcoming him home.

Ron lunges forward just in time to catch Harry as he falls unconscious, saving the boy’s head from a nasty impact on the hard stone floor. Ron kneels on the ground, cradling Harry’s head gently in his arms. Hermione bends down beside them, a hand positioned under Harry’s nose to make sure he’s breathing. After she’s assured of their friend’s comparable health, she straightens and levels Griphook with a scathing look. The goblin has the good sense to shuffle backward under her poisonous glare.

“What was that?” Hermione demands through gritted teeth, something murderous peeking through her eyes.

“Nothing to worry about, Miss Granger,” Griphook quickly reassures the irate young woman. “The last time someone died from donning a Potter ring was over two hundred years ago.”

“What?!?” Ron shouts, halfway to his feet in a second. He passes Harry over to Hermione and stalks towards the goblin, expression thunderous. Harry wakes with a dramatic gasp before Ron can start on the death threats and violence he had planned, but he’s sure his cutting glare got the intended message across well enough.

“Harry?” Hermione calls anxiously, stroking his cheek. Harry’s eyes flutter open and a blinding smile splits his lips. His magic dances merrily around the room, jubilant and happy. Ron smiles helplessly in response to Harry’s joy, momentarily setting his confusion and worry aside.

“Mione,” Harry murmurs, eyes glazed a little drunkenly, “I felt them. My parents were there, Hermione. Everyone was there. They love me, they really love me.”

The way he says it, surprised and not quite convinced, breaks Ron’s heart. No person should doubt their parent’s love for them, but especially not Ron’s kind, wonderful friend.

“Well of course they do, darling,” Hermione proclaims in that no-nonsense way of hers, “You were their whole world.”

“Now, I think you should answer the lady’s question,” Ron declares, eyeing the fidgeting goblin, when Harry starts blushing again, “What was that?”

“It is not uncommon for powerful wixens to connect directly with their ancestors when their Family Magics are testing them, and Lord Potter is certainly a powerful wizard,” Griphook explains, pushing the other box towards Harry. “You will have to choose an heir, Lord Potter. As you are the last Potter by blood, you may choose anyone. The Family Magics must accept your choice for them to become heir, so do make sure you trust your chosen deeply and that they are loyal to you. Gringotts will recall the ring back into the Potter vault if an heir is not chosen in a week and you will have to come to claim it again.”

“Oh my god,” Harry whispers, suddenly ashen.

“What?” Ron demands, grasping his shoulder.

“I’m a Lord,” he states, incredulous.

Froatnose has been the Potter Account Manager for a blissful 14 years. Dumbledore hired him after the old Manager was fed to the dragons for losing the late Lord and Lady Potter’s will. Froatnose has since learned it was the Headmaster who misplaced the will, but as announcing that knowledge would probably get Froatnose sacked from his cushy job, the goblin has declined to share. In the days following the Lord and Lady Potter’s deaths and the young heir’s disappearance, Dumbledore ordered the Potter accounts closed. The old coot didn’t have the needed authority to issue such a command but obeying served Froatnose’s purposes. If the Potter accounts were closed, he wouldn’t be required to invest the savings and grow the Potter’s wealth. Essentially, Froatnose would get to rake in the salary of a Manager, a job that is usually time-consuming and extremely difficult, without having to do any of the hard work.

He hasn’t caused any real harm, of course. The Potter accounts are immense. They’ve barely lost .01% of the overarching wealth, but in the time Froatnose spent neglecting his duties, the Potters could have made literal millions. Luckily the job of informing wixen orphans of their inheritance falls to their magical guardian. Dumbledore quickly snatched up the honor of being the Potter Heir’s guardian after the will went "missing", a tragedy the man himself was responsible for. The Headmaster slyly requested Froatnose to “misplace” the letters sent to heirs and heiresses informing them that they are eligible for their titles and estate.

Froatnose quietly pulled some strings and managed to isolate the Potter heir’s access enough that the child could only utilize the Potter Trust Vault. A vault meant for young children just beginning to learn to handle money. A minuscule fraction of the true Potter wealth. So far the boy hasn’t shown any signs of catching onto the goblin’s and headmaster’s ruse. Froatnose has come to the conclusion that the Potter heir is either an idiot who has never picked up a book or has stupid friends who have neglected to tell the boy of his heritage. In all likelihood, both options are probably correct.

Impatient knocking rouses Froatnose from his musings. The goblin hastily rises from his seat, straightening his clothes while rounding his desk. Seeing as how the Potter accounts have been closed for over a decade, it’s very rare that someone comes knocking at his door. Froatnose heaves open the door, expecting a goblin of some importance, and is highly aggrieved to find Griphook, the lowly teller after his job, standing before him.

Griphook has been vying for a manager position for years now. Unfortunately for the young goblin, there is no availability. All of the Noble and Most Ancient families' accounts have been managed by the same goblin clans for centuries. Froatnose is the Potter Manager only through a twist of luck. The previous manager was the last of his line and was killed before he could find a mate. Griphook is a highly skilled goblin, hardworking, dedicated, and notoriously clever. If anyone could steal Froatnose’s rightful position, it would be him.

“How dare you interrupt my important work, Teller,” Froatnose snarls, glaring at the young goblin. Griphook is unmoved by the Potter Manager’s scathing words, he simply arches a bushy eyebrow and gestures behind him. Blinded by his fury, Froatnose hadn’t noticed the trio of humans loitering behind the other goblin. Outraged once more, Froatnose turns burning eyes on Griphook. Only wixen Lords and Ladies are allowed this deep into the bank, something these vagrants surely aren’t.

“What is the meaning of this Griphook?” Froatnose demands, waving an imperious hand at the humans. “These waifs shouldn’t be here!” Griphook’s face takes on a viciously satisfied edge and his lips curl into a mean little grin. Suddenly nervous, Froatnose shuffles back a few steps.

“Allow me to introduce Lord Potter and his companions, Manager Froatnose,” Griphook drawls gleefully, dropping into a mocking bow. Heart thudding in his ears, Froatnose peers again at the humans, this time looking past the scruffy clothes. The young boy in the middle immediately draws his eye. The wild black main is unmistakable, the vivid green eyes exactly as legend depicts. Oh, no.

“Hello,” Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, purrs, demonstratively wiggling his hand with the imposing ring gleaming from his pinky finger. Oh, no.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: It's a Matter of Business 

Ron murmurs, “Follow my lead,” and muscles his way into the Potter Account Manager’s office, neatly shoulder-checking Froatnose out of his way. He peers around the cluttered, messy space with a disdainful air, sneering quite spectacularly. The redheaded boy practically saunters over to one of the lumpy chairs positioned in front of the large desk and gracefully sprawls across it. 

Hermione and Harry are left gapping in astonishment, frozen in the entranceway. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever witnessed Ron move so fluidly. Griphook pokes them harshly on the backs of their knees, urging them into the room, and they shuffle through the door in a daze, wide eyes locked on Ron. The tall boy winks at them, further shocking his companions, and focuses an imperious, disgusted look on the Potter Manager. 

“Tell me, Griphook, how does Gringotts react when their Managers neglect to do their jobs?” Ron asks, dispassionately inspecting his nails. He’s acting like, well, he’s acting like Malfoy. Harry has to muffle a snort as he catches on. Ron is channeling his inner Draco Malfoy and, surprisingly, it’s nothing short of spectacular. 

“Not well, Mr. Weasley, not well at all,” Griphook growls, pleased as a peach watching Froatnose squirm under Ron’s wrathful attentions. 

“Hmm, just as I suspected. I wonder, what is the punishment for Account Managers who fail to inform their chargers of their inheritance?” Ron questions, batting his eyelashes oh so innocently. 

“Life-long servitude to the family in question,” Griphook replies, sounding quite taken with the idea. 

“Sounds positively ghastly, and the penalty for declining to so much as meet with their assigned clientele?” Ron wonders, pinning Froatnose in place with his icy blue eyes. 

“Beheading,” Griphook answers, smiling with all his many jagged, sharp fangs on display. 

“Perfectly reasonable. What might happen to a goblin that willfully restricts an heir’s access to their vaults and allows others to retrieve gold without the heir present or their explicit permission?” 

“They would be fed to the dragons, Mr. Weasley,” Griphook grins, beady eyes aglow with delight. 

“What a gruesome way to die, don’t you think Froatnose, sir?” Ron inquires sweetly, a dangerous, condescending aura practically radiating off of him. 

“Such a shame,” Hermione simpers, shaking her head sadly. 

“A true tragedy,” Harry intones, playing along. 

“Please, Lord Potter, show mercy,” Froatnose wails, losing all semblance of composure. Griphook sneers at the disgraceful goblin who is acting without the honor and valor integral to their race.

“Mercy,” Harry hisses, his earlier jovial mood vanishing behind his sudden, seething intensity, “Mercy! Where was your mercy, thief, when you trapped me in that awful house for fourteen useless years? Where was your mercy when I was beaten and starved and condemned? You may not have ordered the sentencing, thief, but you certainly played a part in the execution.” 

“Feeding criminals to dragons is a bit extreme for human standards, I’ll give you that, but we’re not in the human world, are we?” Harry questions mockingly, his furious, convulsing magic blanketing the office and its occupants like a thick fog. “No, we are in Gringotts, a stronghold of the Goblin Nation, and you, sir, are a goblin. I see no reason why I or my friends should interfere in Goblin justice. Ron, Mione?” 

“Less work for us,” Hermione states simply, seemingly bored of the conversation. 

“A dragon’s got to eat,” Ron declares, a humorous tilt to his lips, “I do wonder, though, if there might be a way to avoid all that nasty, agonizing death. Griphook?” 

“Lord Potter could fire him, leaving Froatnose a disgraced one for all eternity,” Griphook answers promptly, eagerly, “Or he could resign, proving himself a cowardly, spineless rat.” 

“I resign,” Froatnose squeaks, wasting no time in rushing for the door. Harry stops the goblin before he can fully escape. 

“Froatnose,” the young Lord calls, dark green eyes smoldering, “If you ever harm me or mine again, I won’t need Goblin justice to obtain my retribution. Do you understand?” 

Froatnose nods hurriedly and flees out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Ugly business concluded, Ron faces his friends, grinning from ear to ear. His grin flatters immediately after his first glimpse of Harry’s shaking figure. Chagrined, Ron concentrates and senses Harry’s magic shifting restlessly. The office has grown several degrees warmer in the presence of his simmering magic. Harry is still mad, boiling mad, and Ron can’t believe he missed it.

Hermione, however, is at the top of her game; she’s already at Harry’s side. She grasps the young Lord’s hands, ignoring the sparks flying off them with the ease of long practice, and urges Harry to lock eyes with her. 

“Can’t control it, Mione,” Harry grits out, his features tightening with the effort, “There’s too much.” 

“Make me a light, Harry,” Hermione demands, cutting neatly over Harry’s anxious mumbling. “I want it nice and bright. Large enough to make the whole room glow.” 

Harry’s face eases as he focuses fully on the given task. This is a practice Ron and Hermione came up with all the way back in their first year. Harry has a lot of magic; sometimes there’s entirely too much for his body to contain. Instead of the humbling and herculean effort it would take to keep a hold of it, Hermione proposed finding a method for Harry to safely release it. Hence the ‘make me a light’ exercise. 

Lumos is one of the first spells every young wixen learns. It is relatively easy, only requiring a small burst of power and some creative manifesting. The caster must imagine a ball of light, picturing every detail, and then push a small string of their magic through their wand. An effective and simple way to teach first-years how to utilize their magic.

They tweaked it a bit to work for Harry’s needs. They needed a spell that employed a lot of power and energy, but that was still moderately easy to cast. Lumos, when cast wandlessly and silently, requires way more magic than when casting the traditional way. Depending on the size he makes his ball of light, Harry could theoretically drain his entire magical core. The bigger the apparition, the more magic is demanded. It’s a highly effective method of exhausting Harry’s unstable magic when he’s really angry. 

Over the years, Harry has gotten very, very good at conjuring balls of light. His hands begin to glow, the errant sparks fading. The glow condenses in his palms as Harry molds the light as a sculptor would clay. A circular form begins to take shape and the room slowly loses its heaviness. The air cools and a subtle breeze flutters through the office. Ron turns to gauge Griphook’s reaction and finds the goblin staring with his jaw hanging open. He doesn’t look scared though, so Ron relaxes and returns his gaze to his friends; content to watch as Harry finishes the process of calming his magic. 

The ball of light grows larger and larger until it's almost unbearably bright. It is nearly the size of Harry’s entire chest, dwarfing his head completely. 

“Now turn it purple,” Hermione instructs, pride evident in her words. The light wavers for a moment, stubbornly clinging to its golden hue, but it relents eventually, turning a rich beautiful purple. Changing the light’s color is something they only recently realized is possible. Lumos is all about will and manifestation. If the caster envisions a blue light and believes fiercely enough that it's achievable, that they’re capable, the light will obligingly become the desired color. It just takes a bit of concentration. 

Hermione leads Harry through a few more color changes before coaching him to shrink the ball of light until the glow fades back into his hands. Magic settled once more, Harry stretches his neck and comes fully back to himself. His pose is much more relaxed now that his magic is down to its normal power levels. Of course, considering this is Harry, his normal power levels would feel like a tsunami of magic to anyone else, but the point still stands. 

“Sorry about that, Griphook,” Harry says, blushing slightly, “I hadn’t meant for that to happen.” 

“It’s no problem, Lord Potter,” Griphook declares, waving away the human’s apology. “In fact, that was very enlightening.”

Ron's gaze sharpens at those words, but Hermione beats him to the punch once again. 

“Yes, our Lord Potter is very powerful,” Hermione intones, voice as cool as ice, “You’d best remember that in our future relations.” 

“Future relations, Miss Granger?” Griphook questions, beady eyes alight with anticipation.

“We rather got the impression you wanted the past Account Manager’s job,” Harry answers for her, drawing the goblin's gaze.

“And you seem right smart,” Ron adds, the golden trio as attuned with each other as ever. 

“I would be amenable,” Griphook allows, his toothy grin revealing just how "amenable" the goblin truly is. 

“Perfect,” Harry chirps, sliding into the chair opposite Ron’s. The redhead hops up from his slouched position and offers his seat to Hermione. He much prefers to stand behind the chairs where he can properly guard their backs anyway. His choice has nothing at all to do with the way Hermione’s pleased, happy smile makes his stomach squirm with butterflies. No, of course not. 

Griphook spares a moment to sneer at the utter mess Froatnose left of the desk before claiming his chair behind it. In quick order, the goblin has acquired the needed paperwork for him to become the Potter Account Manager and Harry signs it promptly after Hermione has read through each line and granted her approval. 

Griphook summons a thick folder from seemingly nowhere and plops it down on the desk with a satisfying thud. Years of dust ripple out of the stacks of paper, making it clear the folder has been left abandoned for a long time. Hermione leans forward eagerly, eyeing the towering stack like a lion who’s unexpectedly stumbled across lunch. Griphook sorts through it with the efficiency of a being long since experienced with fools. Bearing his teeth in triumph, the goblin brandishes a piece of parchment victoriously. 

 “This, Lord Potter, is the Potter Accounts totals. It includes the full sum of every vault, residence, and business currently adding to the Potter wealth,” Griphook explains, passing the yellowing parchment to Harry. Harry barely scans half of the page before his eyes grow wide enough to threaten to pop out of his head. Ron carefully takes the parchment from his numb fingers, curious to see what shocked his friend so badly. Ron, too, reads only the first couple of sentences before his brain promptly shuts down. 

Hermione, thoroughly annoyed by this point, snatches it up herself and easily reads the entire length of the page. She doesn’t even have the courtesy to appear surprised, simply humming in thought as she absorbs the new information. 

The parchment reads as follows: 

Potter Accounts Total

375, 944, 484 galleons, 955, 274 sickles, 521, 370 knuts

Vaults: 

-Vault 56- Potter Vault Main Branch 

-Vault 57- Potter Treasury 

-Vault 58- Potter Portrait Vault 

-Vault 59- Potter Arsenal Vault

-Vault 687- Potter Trust Vault

-Vault 689- Potter Business Vault 

-Vault 703- Potter Consort Vault

-Vault 855- Potter Charity Vault

-Vault 1,004- Harry J. Potter Vault

Properties: 

Potter Manor -Unplotted (Portkey in Vault 56) 

Potter House -Unplotted (Porkey in Vault 56)

Griffin Castle -Unplotted (Portkey in Vault 56) 

Prongs’ & Pad’s Pad -Unknown (Porkey in Unknown) 

Potter Cottage -Godric’s Hollow (Portkey in Unknown)

Businesses: 

Potter Farm (Funding Discontinued -1891)

Potter Orchard (Funding Discontinued -1891)

Potter Quidditch Camp (Funding Discontinued -1891) 

Daily Prophet (25% of stock owned) 

Flourish and Blotts (49% of stock owned) 

Florean Fortescue’s Ice-Cream Parlour (49% of stock owned) 

“Interesting,” Hermione murmurs, finishing her perusal of the parchment. She sets it neatly back on the desk and fixes her intelligent eyes on Griphook. “Does that total include the value of every piece of jewelry and heirloom in the Potter vaults and properties?” 

“No, Miss Granger, it does not,” Griphook answers easily, diligently sorting through his enormous folder. 

“Interesting,” Hermione says again, brain whirling a mile a minute. “What would be your estimate of their worth, Griphook?” 

“At minium, a couple million galleons, Miss Granger,” Griphook replies after some thought, “It’s impossible to truly know. The Potter Vaults hold thousands of jewels and heirlooms, each one valuable.” 

“How could you know that?” Ron demands suspiciously, brain finally powering back on after its long hiatus. 

“The old Potter manager, the one preceding Froatnose, was courting my mother before he was killed,” Griphook reveals, a heavy sadness lacing his words. “She died of a broken heart not long after.” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers, understanding at least a little what a younger Griphook must have felt. Griphook nods his thanks and the two orphans share a commiserating grimace. 

“Timberstone, that was his name, told stories of the Potter’s unimaginable wealth,” Griphook carries ne, nodding to the parchment that managed to so astound the boys. “Speaking of, Lord Potter, I would recommend you tour the main vault. There is no doubt that your parents would have left you something and those objects would have been stored in vault 56, as it is the most secure of the Potter vaults.” 

“I will do so, Griphook, thank you,” Harry pronounces, grateful for the information in depths that are impossible to convey. “While we’re on the subject of vaults, I’ll need to open a few more today.”

“Of course, Lord Potter,” Griphook agrees, visibly relieved to be returning to bank business. “I just need the names of the intended owners and the amount you wish to transfer.” 

“You bet,” Harry says brightly, inching closer to the goblin’s desk and away from Ron for some reason. “The first vault will be for Ronald Billus Weasley. One million galleons should be transferred over immediately.”  

“WHAT?!?” Ron shouts, lurching forward so fast he nearly falls on his bum. Harry dodges his arms effortlessly and carries on smoothly as though Ron never spoke. 

“The second will be under Hermione Jean Granger with the same amount,” Harry continues, vacating his chair fully under Hermione’s unimpressed glare. Griphook nods along like this is all completely reasonable, studiously filling out the needed paperwork. 

“Five hundred thousand galleons should be transferred into vaults under the following names,” Harry persists stubbornly, having retreated to Griphook’s side of the desk. 

“Ginerva Rose Weasley,” 

“HARRY,” Ron shouts, attempting to make the overly generous idiot see sense.

“Fredric Gideon Weasley,” 

“Harry, you just can’t-” 

“George Fabien Weasley,” 

“Merlin’s saggy balls, Harry!” 

“And Remus John Lupin.”  

“Will that be all, Lord Potter?” Griphook inquires, lips twitching as Harry grins rebelliously, if a bit fearfully, at his friends. 

“Yes, Griphook, that will be all,” Harry agrees cheerfully, ducking smoothly under Hermione’s stinging hex. Underage magic can’t be traced in places warded strongly enough so Harry’s not worried about her getting in trouble; Gringotts Branches, after all, have some of the best (and most deadly) wards in the world. 

“Do you wish for those vaults to fall under my preview as part of the Potter Accounts or to go on without a manager?” Griphook asks, skillfully ignoring the young Lord desperately inching away from his vexed companions. 

“Keep the new vaults under your preview for now Griphook, but I’ll clarify with their owners tomorrow to get the final verdict,” Harry answers, batting away a hex with his bare hand. Ron sullenly mutters ‘show off’ under his breath, and Harry winks cheekily at the redhead. 

“The vault keys will arrive by owl no more than ten hours from now,” Griphook informs them, pushing five folders he’s spent the past ten minutes sorting papers into towards Harry. “These are the listings for the Potter Accounts currently available. If I find more, I will forward them to you. Red holds the vault listings, orange the properties, yellow harbors the businesses information, green the current investments, and blue contains the voting records of the Potter seats for the past twenty years. Any votes made before 1985 can no longer be recalled. You must work with the Wizengamot directly for any votes you do wish to recall.” 

Harry eyes the folders dubiously but slides them into his messenger bag nonetheless. He did notice the green folder was significantly thinner than the others; evidence of Froatnose’s sabotaging efforts.

“We have a lot of work to do to get the Potter Accounts back to where they should be, but I have no doubt we’ll manage,” Griphook announces, shuffling through the mountain of papers still cluttering his newly obtained desk. “Send an owl if you have any questions, it would be a shame if the newest Lord Potter made a fool of himself because he was too shy to write a letter. Do you have any more business that needs attending, Lord Potter?” 

“I can’t think of anything. Ron, Mione?” Harry says, mind still struggling to understand the full depth of the Potter wealth. His wealth. Hermione and Ron shake their heads, unable to think of anything else. 

“Good, then get out,” Griphook commands, all sense of amiability gone now their business has concluded. “I’ve called for a teller to lead you back to the main lobby.” 

Ron and Hermione are still visibly steaming by the time the trio make it out into Diagon Alley. Harry sighs deeply and glares at them, annoyed himself. 

“Look, it's my money, having the vaults will make our lives much easier in the future, and I wanted to give you guys this. If you really don’t want the money you can donate it to charity or something,” Harry declares, throwing his arms up in aggravation. Not that they can currently appreciate his dramatics while he’s hidden under his cloak. 

“Can’t really argue with that,” Ron sighs, rolling his eyes. He perks up suddenly and a truly wicked glint enters his expression. “But you’re the one who will have to explain her children’s sudden wealth to my mother.” 

Harry pales rapidly at the thought and groans. The trio slink back to Grimmauld Place, Ron’s soft chuckle following in their wake. 

Dumbledore is waiting for them when they push through the front door of Grimmauld Place. He’s standing at the bottom of the staircase, his silver beard glowing in the dark. It’s well past midnight and the rest of the house’s occupants have long since retired. Harry spots him first, the weight of his disappointed, judgemental gaze hard not to notice. He meets the Headmaster’s blues eyes head-on, shoulders drawn back and confident. He can sense Ron stiffen and Hermione gasp when they see him, but neither of them cowers; they are two solid pillars of support guarding Harry’s back. 

“Harry, my boy, you have no idea what you’ve done,” Dumbledore declares sorrowfully, his tone one of condescension. 

“What he’s done, sir?” Ron questions, stepping forward so he’s level with Harry’s side. “Do you mean claiming his birthright?” 

“He is far too young for such a burden-” 

“Age does not matter if the Family Magics accept him,” Hermione angrily snaps, cutting Dumbledore off. “The ring on his finger is a testament to that endorsement, sir, as you very well know.” 

“Nonetheless, he must renounce his claim,” Dumbledore insists, striding towards the trio. “If the Wixengamot finds out, there will be absolute chaos.” 

Harry stalks forward to meet him in the middle. Dumbledore visibly startles, obviously not expecting the young lord to defy his intimidation tactics. 

“It’s interesting, is it not, that you discovered my ascension so quickly,” Harry softly murmurs, his green eyes blazing. “It must have been very shocking for you, Headmaster. Would you like to hear about some of the astounding discoveries we’ve made today?” 

“Before officially becoming Lord Potter, legally speaking, I had to sign a document acknowledging I was releasing my magical guardian from their sacred duties to protect and care for me. Can you imagine my surprise when your name was listed?” This time, there is nothing soft about Harry’s words. He’s practically snarling, his magic whipping around him like a hurricane. Dumbledore's eyes are wide, his legendary twinkle absent. Harry prowls forward and Dumbledore, Dumbledore, stumbles back. 

“Harry, my boy-” 

“You abandoned me there,” Harry hisses, cutting him off for the second time this evening. “You left me with those, those monsters. I was beaten, starved. I thought my name was Freak for six fucking years. It’s a bloody miracle I’m still alive!” 

Dumbledore’s face is ashen, blues eyes glassy with shock, but Ron doesn’t feel even a speck of sympathy. Ron knew it was bad, he knew those muggles treated Harry poorly. The bars on his windows and Harry’s bird-thin bones are evidence enough, but physical abuse. Keeping his own Merlin damned name from him. Ron has never felt hatred as he feels for the Dursleys before. 

Hermione’s hand slips into his, squeezing hard enough to draw a wince from him, but Ron doesn’t hesitate to grasp her back. They are together in this, united by two simple truths; the Durselys will pay and Dumbledore will never be forgiven. 

“Harry, please, I- you don’t understand,” Dumbledore speaks pleadingly, voice wrecked. 

“Here is what I understand, sir. These are the facts,” Harry states, pressing right over him. “You were my magical guardian, someone who was meant to protect me and ensure my happiness. You failed quite spectacularly. Last year, when my name came out of that fucking goblet, we researched ways for me to escape it. My magical guardian could have contested the goblet’s claim on me. You must have known that, sir, considering you were one of the officials that set up the damn competition. So either you truly believed I entered myself, meaning you don’t know me at all, or you wanted me in that tournament. 

“You left Sirius to rot in Azkaban for twelve years! You are the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards. You could have gotten him a fair trial twelve years ago and you could get him one today. So again, you either believed he betrayed my parents or wanted him in Azkaban. Either way, you certainly aren’t doing anything to help him now.” 

Dumbledore is noticeably rattled, staring at Harry in a mix of outrage, guilt, and heavy sadness. Harry doesn’t falter, he continues to press his advantage ruthlessly while Ron and Hermione watch on in awe. Dumbledore’s silence, his stupefaction, won’t last long. Soon he’ll recover and the true battle will begin, but right now, Harry is the clear victor and it is magnificent.  

“Or we could talk about our first year, sir. When you set a trap for Voldemort in a school full of children,” Harry snarls, forcing the older man to retreat further down the hallway. Harry’s magic is a violent, hostile presence around him, glowing a brilliant gold. “Or maybe the bias against Slytherins you endorse throughout Hogwarts. Or perhaps how you so diligently kept me from discovering my Lordship. I understand perfectly, sir. I understand that you’ve had too much power for far too long. I understand that someone needs to knock you off that high horse you call a throne, and, Headmaster, that is a task I am more than willing to undertake.” 

“What will you do then, my boy?” Dumbledore wonders, his condensing, all-knowing tone making a reappearance. “You will never succeed in this war alone.” 

“As you have, sir, ” Harry scoffs, glaring at the Headmaster. “The only reason Voldemort didn’t win the first war was because of my mother’s sacrifice. You’ve done miserably as a general. The Order of the Phoenix has accomplished next to nothing and your speeches about Voldemort’s resurrection are doing far more harm than good. Besides, I have never been alone. My friends are always beside me.” 

“You are only children,” Dumbledore retorts solemnly, as if those words are gospel. Harry grins at the man, slow and purposeful. He knows it’s not a nice expression. It’s the smile of a boy who has fought dragons and dark lords and a fucking basilisk. Dumbledore pales in the face of it. 

“We’ve managed well enough on our own the last few years and I am Lord Potter now,” Harry replies, eyes hard and spine straight. “Times are changing, sir. No longer is it black and white, light and dark. No, now there is a Grey Lord as well. A third side to this war. Yours. Voldemort’s. And Mine. If you are not going to be an ally, then you are left with two choices. Become an enemy or get out of my way.”  

“Now it’s been a long day, and I’d like to get some rest,” Harry remarks casually, stepping away from the Headmaster. “I’ll leave you to consider your options. Good night, sir.” 

He turns smartly on his heel a second later, striding towards the staircase. Ron and Hermione smoothly fall into step beside him. It is only as Hermione closes the door to the boys’ room does Ron break the stony silence that fell over them. 

“‘I’ll leave you to consider your options’” he reiterates, already choking on a laugh. “I can not believe you said that!” 

“It just felt right in the moment,” Harry shrugs, smirking at him, completely unrepented. His magic is finally beginning to calm down. It prances across the room, occasionally nipping playfully at Ron and Hermione. Hermione can’t help but smile at her boys, utterly charmed by them once more.

“I can’t believe we didn’t wake Mrs. Black’s portrait,” Hermione points out, genuinely baffled by that fact. There’s a momentary hush as her boys consider that, and then they’re all breaking out into hearty peals of laughter. 

Sirius scurries up the stairs, mind whirling with all the new information he just overheard. Sirius was on a mission to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of milk (Kreacher refuses to serve him after midnight and Sirius still hasn’t been able to figure out how the bastard is resisting his commands) when the wards alerted him that Dumbledore just entered Grimmauld Place. Curious, he redirected his path and arrived just in time to see Dumbledore ambush Sirius’ pup. 

Now Sirius knew his pup, Hermione, and Ron were gone the whole time. The Weasley twins have been wreaking chaos all day, distracting everyone from the trios’ absence, but old Padfoot is an expert at seeing through pranks. He confronted the youngest Weasley and Ginny confirmed that they had a way to monitor the trio’s whereabouts and health so Sirius left them alone after making the girl promise to call him if his pup needed help. He was planning on coaxing an agreement from Harry to take Sirius or Moony the next time he needed an escape, but Dumbledore beat him to the chase. 

Sirius was just about to intervene when his pup fought back with a fire Sirius hadn’t known the boy possessed. After that, Sirius was helpless to do anything but sit back and enjoy the show. And what a show it was. A rather substantial part of him wants to go hunt down those muggles and rip them limb from limb. Another part of Sirius wants to march up to Hogwarts, drag the Headmaster out of his ivory tower and beat him to a bloody pulp. 

The majority of Sirius, however, is absolutely delighted. A Grey Lord. He likes the sound of that. His pup serving as the Grey Lord. He loves the sound of that. A little change, or not so little as the case may be, will do the Wizarding World good. Might just kick those old, stuffy Lords and Ladies off their asses and into gear. Sirius has never been good at resisting a good prank and this will be the best one yet. Besides, Sirius Black will never hesitate to follow a Potter into war. 

Although, Moony might need a little convincing.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Adult Supervision

“No!” 

“Oh come on, Moony!” 

“No, absolutely not, Padfoot! They are cubs, barely out of training wheels,” Remus says again, for what must be the hundredth time. He’s reigning in his anger by the skin of his teeth at this point. 

“Yes, because that argument worked marvelously for Molly,” Sirius snarls back, having abandoned all hope of controlling his temper about half an hour ago. They have been at this for nearly an hour now, going back and forth. Spewing insults at each other and opening wounds Sirius had thought were long since healed. 

“Sirius, listen to my words, I will never allow our cub to fight in this war. Never.” Remus declares, solemn and resolute. Sirius barely refrains from grabbing his shoulders and shaking some sense into his stubborn wolf. By the looks of Remus’ quickly reddening face, he is experiencing similar desires for the canine animagus. 

“It is you who is not listening, Remus! He is already fighting, has been since Voldemort carved that scar onto his forehead. We watched him battle a dragon last year, for Merlin’s sake. A cub he may be, but Harry has always been a soldier. The world has allowed him to be nothing else,” Sirius hisses, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm himself. He can feel the wards of Grimmauld Place responding to his agitation, too much more of this and the curtains might take offense and endeavor to strangle Moony. 

“Maybe that is true, maybe Harry's destiny is to be at the center of this war, but not now. Not when he is still so young, with only four years of shoddy defense professors for training,” Remus insists, rubbing the bridge of his nose tiredly.

“You did not hear him last night, Moony,” Sirius explains, the passion of his pup’s biting words still ringing in his ears. “There is no stopping him. We can not allow him to do anything. He is an extremely powerful young wizard, as well as Lord Potter now. The only thing we can do is join him and offer our experience and assistance.” 

“And you seem to relish the opportunity,” Remus growls, amber eyes sparking. He prowls toward Sirius and pokes a sharp finger at his chest. “Maybe Azkaban has rotted your brain, but those of us with our sanity intact can see the folly of following a fifteen-year-old into war.”

Sirius laughs and it is a bitter, broken sound. He grins at Remus, the countenance more a barring of teeth than a true expression of joy. 

“Sirius, I didn’t mean that-”

“No, you are right,” Sirius says softly, cutting off Remus’ remorseful words. “I want Harry to tear everything down. I want him to raze our world so we can begin anew. We are a corrupt, debased society, Remus. Select families rule us and their power is indisputable. Voldemort has already begun the demolishing process. I believe Harry could do a considerably better job. He is strong, he is loyal, and his cause is a just one. Perhaps that is insane, but I am a Black. Insanity is practically a synonym of our name.”

“Understand this, Moony. Our pup is set on this path, his conviction is a formidable foe and I don’t hold much hope for our chances of conquering it. It is true that he is young, that he has limited experience, and that his training is pitiful. I am not denying that, but you can not refute his power. He holds the will and the means to pursue this entirely on his own, with no one except his schoolmates to watch his back. We can either oppose him, a fruitless effort, and abandon him to Voldemort’s cruel mercy in the process, or we can help him. Stand by his side in the coming fight. I, for one, know which option I would prefer.”  

“You’re serious about this,” Remus breathes, his eyes a little wide. For perhaps the first time in his life, Sirius bypasses the opportune joke about his name and simply nods because he is, in fact, serious about this.

“They need guidance,” Sirius insists, nodding.

“Adult supervision,” Remus muses, his lips twitching in the slightest of smirks. Sirius grins at him, delighted. He recognizes that tone, his wolf has gotten on board. Which is truly for the best, as Sirius wouldn’t have enjoyed obliviating his oldest and, at this point, only friend. 

“Fine,” Remus sighs, running a hand through his tangled hair. “We will talk with them, attempt to talk some sense into their stubborn heads, and when that inevitably doesn’t work, we’ll set some ground rules.”

“We’ll help them?” Sirius inquires, just to double-check.

“Yes, Padfoot, we will help them,” Remus confirms, already heading for the door. Sirius excitedly pumps the air after Moony’s back is safely turned. 

Remus has been convinced, though he seems to have gotten the wrong idea about which role he will play. Admittedly, however, Sirius can’t wait to see Remus run headfirst into the obstinate will that is teenagers in the midst of a rebellion. He doesn’t think the werewolf is fully prepared for the imminent confrontation and is all too confident in his ability to take control of the situation. Especially as the teenager responsible for said situation is the child of Lily I-am-the-smartest-person-in-any-room-and-I-know-it Potter and James I-have-never-listened-to-an-authority-figure-in-my-life-and-I-don’t-plan-on-ever-changing-that Potter. 

“Well, this is depressing,” Ginny declares, glaring at the parchment laying innocently on the bed. Scrawled neatly on it in Hermione’s elegant script is a list of spells the combined might of all their schooling has taught them. There are only 32 spells listed. Harry is forced to agree with Ginny’s assessment; it is rather pitiful. 

Hogwarts curriculum includes more than 32 two spells, of course, but those are the only ones the professors covered long enough to actually understand and master them. Out of those, 14 came from Professor Lupin and 5 from Hermione’s extracurriculars. Not to mention, most of those spells are charms or used for transfiguration. Not exactly ideal for defensive magic. Britain’s claims that Hogwarts is the superior wizarding school are starting to become suspect.  

“Alright, improving our arsenal of spells will have to move up on the priority list,” Hermione declares, peering distastefully down at the parchment as though it has personally offended her. Which it has, just to be clear. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Ron announces from his place sprawled across his bed. All six of the children are congregated in Harry and Ron’s room, draped over beds or the thick carpet.

“A dangerous pastime,” Fred cautions, ducking smoothly under the pillow Ron hurls at his head. 

“We should take advantage of the spells most people overlook,” Ron continues smoothly, as though he was never interrupted. “The spells we were taught in first year, the ones we could cast in our sleep, could be turned into dangerous weapons.” 

“How can the tickling charm be dangerous?” Ginny scoffs, absently playing with a piece of her hair.

“Do it long enough and your assailant won’t be able to breathe,” Ron points out, shrugging at her wide-eyed surprise. “Not to mention it immediately takes away their ability to speak incantations. Meaning one would have to be proficient in silent-casting to continue dueling.” 

“ Wingardium Leviosa could be deadly if you levitate someone ten or twenty feet in the air and then drop them,” Hermione muses, nodding.

“A tripping hex right before the stairs and goodbye pesky death eater,” George adds, exchanging a loaded look with his twin,

“A Lumos so bright it blinds your opponent,” Harry remarks, considering their list of spells in a new light. 

“Exactly! My point being we are not as defenseless as that list would have us believe,” Ron enunciates, gesturing to the parchment. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t broaden our knowledge, that is certainly necessary, but magic is versatile and in most cases severally underutilized. We pose a perilous threat just as we are now.” 

“A significant distinction, Ron. Well done,” Hermione praises, hands already busy jotting down notes on a spare piece of parchment as her quick mind works its magic. 

“Always the tone of surprise,” Ron teases, causing Hermione to look up and smile at him. Ron returns the gesture and Harry is struck by how much he enjoys their smiles, by how lovely they are. He wrestles his mind back on track, surprised by the nature of his wandering thoughts and how flustered they made him. 

“We have two objectives then,” Harry declares, resolutely ignoring the blush creeping up his neck. He ignores Ron’s questing look as well, refusing to acknowledge how his friend’s attention causes his cheeks to redden further. “Contemplate ways the spells we’ve already mastered can be used in combative situations and research new spells. Our main priority right now needs to be training, both magical and physical. We are in the preparatory stages. I think we can all agree we are not prepared to meet Voldemort in battle as we are now.”

“Quite right,” Ron nods, he sits up from his lazy slouch and pins Harry with his abruptly focused gaze. “You seemed to have forgotten one matter of importance, however.” 

“Oh?” Harry inquires, raising an eyebrow. 

“Getting you to a healer,” Hermione answers for the redhead, the tone of her voice brooking no augment. Not that Harry was planning on arguing. He knows his childhood has left lasting scars. It embarrasses him, angers him, to think about all the damage the Durselys inflicted, but Harry understands it must be treated for him to be an effective leader. There is one problem, though. 

“How are we going to find a trustworthy healer without going to St Mungo’s or alerting Dumbledore?” Harry questions, it’s not like he knows anyone that could help. The list of Harry's acquaintances doesn’t spread much further from the people in this building. 

Someone knocks on the door before anyone can come up with an answer to his question. Ron, Hermione, and Harry exchange confused looks. It’s early in the morning, the sun has barely begun shaking off the cobwebs of its slumber. Harry’s sleep was uncomfortable and uneasy, rife with nightmares and disquieting images. He gave up on rest entirely somewhere around four in the morning. Ron noticed because he is Ron Weasley, mother hen extraordinaire. After retrieving a light snack, they figured hey, they're up anyways, might as well get some work done. 

They found Hermione reading in bed, having long since greeted the morning and Ginny was easily convinced to join them. Waking the Twins was an exercise of extreme courage, but they managed and within half an hour all six of them were safely cocooned in Ron and Harry's room, scheming away. It’s been about two hours, just after six, and they weren’t expecting Mrs. Weasley for at least another hour. 

Shrugging, Harry makes his way to the door. They are safe here, in Grimmauld Place; the person or people on the other side of that door will not cause them harm. At least not physical harm. 

It swings open to reveal the disheveled appearance of Professor Lupin and Harry’s godfather. Lupin wastes no time pushing past Harry, gazing around the room with eyes a bit too judgemental for Harry’s tastes. Sirius offers Harry a slightly strained smile but follows his comrade in willingly enough. Harry turns to face them, the door closing softly behind him. 

Hermione meets his eyes over Sirius’ shoulder, a question on her face, but Harry can only blink back at her. He doesn’t have any idea what this is about either. In the ensuing silence, it is not any of the Golden trio who take charge, nor the Twins but Ginny. She smiles at Sirius and Lupin, her expression guileless and friendly. Looking at her now, one would never suspect this is the same girl who has gotten into no less than seven fistfights in her time at Hogwarts. 

“Good morning, gentlemen, what can we do for you?” She chirps, flashing her brightest grin. Harry has witnessed her use that exact expression to evade consequences and all blame for the aforementioned fistfights. A dangerous lady, Ginny Weasley. 

“We wanted to talk about last night,” Lupin states, looking directly at Harry. 

“Is that so?” Harry asks, meeting the werewolf’s gaze fearlessly. His magic bubbles under his skin, reacting to the blatant challenge. Harry doesn’t let it escape his control, only allowing his magic to seep into his eyes and make them glow. He’s been reliably informed the effect is rather ominous. 

“You took a ludicrous risk,” Lupin remarks, peering at each of them in turn. 

“I’m quite sure I have no idea what you’re speaking of, Professor. I was here yesterday, cleaning with the others,” Harry replies balefully, blinking up at the irate man. 

“You know exactly what I mean, Lord Potter,” Lupin retorts, his words biting. Harry cocks his head, making a show of examining the man from head to toe. 

“I would have thought you’d be pleased I’ve claimed my father's title,” Harry says, turning slightly to make direct eye contact with Sirius. “Though, I also never would have pegged you as one of Dumbledore’s unquestioning lackeys. It seems I have misjudged you.” 

“We are not here for the Headmaster, pup,” Sirius corrects hastily, stepping closer to Harry with his hands held out beseechingly. “We only wanted to point out the danger of leaving alone. We could have helped you, we are on your side.” 

“Like you have been in the past?” Harry wonders, eyes narrowed and words harsh. His magic reacts accordingly, whipping around the room fast enough to create a light breeze. “Why should I have trusted you, Sirius, when you abandoned your duties as Godfather for revenge 14 years ago? Should I have confided in a man I know only as a professor? A man who ignored me for my entire childhood? A man who never sent a single letter. A man who, when he finally did decide to enter my life, hoarded stories of my parents like treasured gold. These are the people I should have looked to for aid?” 

Sirius has gone pale, and Lupin has lost the ability to maintain eye contact, but Harry grants them no mercy. Ron is proud of him, Merlin knows he could use the release a good rant offers. 

“No adult has ever helped me without consequence, barring Hagrid as the sole expectation. I have never been able to rely on their assistance,” Harry asserts, past disappointments flashing through his eyes. “I have tried to ask for help before. I have been dismissed, refused, or cast aside every. Single. Time. It did not work in the muggle world when my relatives' abuse was obvious from the bruises on my skin. No one would listen in first year when we knew someone was attempting to steal the stone. The professors ignored it when I was shunned by the entire damn school in second year and then again last year. I had to find out the mass murderer targeting me was my godfather by overhearing a conversation.” 

The silence that settles over the room after the young lord’s words stop echoing holds a weight so heavy as to be suffocating. Harry stands before them, fists clenched and magic bristling. Ron is a protective presence looming just behind him. Hermione’s scathing glare could cut glass, it’s certainly sharp enough to pierce Sirius’ heart. The Twins, for once, are quiet; two tall pillars of barely restrained fury. Ginny's fingers, which have been steadily inching towards her wand this whole then, wrap steadily around the polished wood. 

Remus comes to the abrupt realization that they- that he has made a grave error. Shame licks up his spine, borrowing into familiar lodgings in his head. 

“I- there is no excuse for how I have failed you, cub,” Remus says, his words barely more than a whisper. “I am sorry, and I hope to earn your forgiveness, but that does not change the fact that you put yourself in enormous danger. It was an inordinate risk-”

“It was necessary!” Harry angrily cuts him off, his magic snapping across the room. Remus stumbles back, wide-eyed, as Harry’s magic makes itself known in its typical dramatic fashion. A gold dome manifests around the kids, protecting them from the object of Harry’s ire. “I was caged in the shackles of adult expectations. I would never have been allowed to fight if I still had a magical guardian. I would have been forced back to the Dursleys next summer, stored away neatly on the shelf like a useful tool until I was needed again. Without becoming Lord Potter I would have been kept hidden in the shadows, forbidden from so much as thinking about the war.” 

“As it should be!” Remus roars, panting harshly. He and Harry are nose to nose, glares fierce enough to burn. Ron’s just the slightest bit impressed the werewolf hasn’t succumbed to Harry’s overwhelming magic yet. “You are a child! Barely fifteen years old. You should not have to fight! You will end up dead before the summer is out. You could have been captured or worse last night, Harry. This is real life, cub, with real, deadly consequences.” 

“You think I don’t know that, Professor,” Harry sighs, jaw clenched tight. “I lost my parents before I could truly know them. My only memory of my mother is of her death, her screams. I watched as Cedric was murdered; I carried his lifeless corpse back to his father, for Merlin’s sake. I am no stranger to the impacts of war, of death.”

“But there is one thing you are forgetting, Professor,” Harry insists, eyes glistening. “There is no escaping this war for me. Even if this wasn’t the path I have chosen,-”

“We have chosen,” Ron breaks in, refusing to allow Harry to stand alone in this.

“We have chosen,” Harry relents easily, nodding at his protective friends. “The Wizarding World has been heaping their expectations and problems on my shoulders for years. I would never have been permitted freedom from the role of their savior. Not to mention Voldemort’s fixation on killing me, preferably, I’m sure, with a pinch of torture before the main event. It has always been my destiny to be a soldier in this war. I’d simply rather take my place as a general, instead of acting as someone else’s puppet.” 

“And you seem to be under the impression that we are idiots,” Ginny remarks, the protective bubble of Harry’s magic dissipating as she steps through it. “We had precautions in place to protect them. Ways to monitor their location and general well-being.”

“Charmed cuffs designed by us,” Fred announces, folding his right sleeve up to showcase the metal bracelet wrapped around his wrist. His siblings, Hermione, and Harry follow suit, each one revealing a similar cuff on their person. 

“They are all connected and charmed to light up if one of us is hurt or in danger,” George explains, brandishing his wand. He makes a small cut on his palm and the other kids’ bracelets immediately start to glow. 

“If you tap your cuff with your wand and say one of our names, their location will write itself in the air before you,” Fred continues, demonstrating said feature with, perhaps, a bit of a flourish. It was bloody difficult to figure out and Fred is proud of the work he and George accomplished. 

“And if someone steals a cuff and uses it to find Harry’s location?” Sirius asks, his alarm at the blatant security risk overcoming his awe at the Twin’s invention.

“They are bonded to us with blood magic, Sirius,” Harry soothes, granting his godfather a small smile. This nugget of information does little to calm the canine animagus; in fact, it causes the opposite effect. 

“What?! That is very dark magic,” Sirius exclaims, a warning nip from Harry’s magic just barely stopping him from rushing toward his godson.

“It’s gray magic at best, Sirius. The blood was given freely and used for protection,” Hermione corrects immediately, using a tone that wouldn’t be out of place slipping from Professor McGonagal’s tongue. “Don’t let your prejudices undermine your sense.” 

Sirius opens his mouth to object and then snaps it closed seconds after because, well, fair enough. Point Granger. Still though, “Where did you learn such magics?”

“Did you forget whose house we are in?” Ginny drawls, one eyebrow raised in what Sirius can only term as supreme judgment. “And which library is on the second floor?” 

Damn, Point Weasley. Although, “There were very impressive, very hazardous wards guarding those rooms.”  

“They were no match for the infamous Weasley Twins,” Ron grins, laughing as his brothers indulge in a theatrical bow.

“We have gotten sidetracked,” Remus says, drawing the room’s attention to himself once more. “Perhaps you are right in saying it is inevitable that you must fight, Harry, but that does not mean it has to be now or like this. Dumbledore-”

“Aren’t you tired of it, Professor?” Harry asks, his voice dropping low and compelling. “Doesn’t it anger you, how the world has tossed you aside, how Dumbledore has? Aren’t you ready to fight?” 

“I am fighting, cub. Following the Headmaster’s orders-”

“No, Lupin, I am not asking if you’re ready to obey Dumbledore’s commands like a leashed puppy, led around the battlefield like a chess piece on a game board,” Harry snarls, plowing right over their old professor. “I’m asking if you’re ready to fight. To take a stand and defy all who stand in your way. I wonder now, looking at the man you’ve become, what the sorting hat saw to put you in the House of Lions. There’s got to be something of that fire still burning, even if smoldering embers are all that survived.” 

“I think Sirius is ready,” Harry muses, grinning at his Godfather. Sirius nods, he is more than willing. 

“We have a chance to make real change happen here, Lupin,” Harry proclaims, splaying his arms wide to encompass the whole room and all its occupants. “What has Dumbledore done for you in the past fifteen years? What has he done for the other werewolves? You remain the only of your kind to attend Hogwarts. We will change that. Voldemort will fall, but we will not stop there. Every bigoted, racist law will crumble under our banner. We will not back down, we will not be discouraged. This is the future, right here in this room. There is no stopping us.”

“I will give you the same terms I presented the Headmaster with, Professor,” Harry declares, his magic crackling in the air around him. His eyes are a burning, vivid green. The very air feels charged, powerful, and potent. It is easy to believe, seeing Harry like this, that he will change the world. “Join us or get out of our way. Do neither and become an enemy.” 

The ensuing silence stretches for what feels like a millennium. Sirius waits with bated breath, anxiety threatening to shake apart his bones. The kids watch on, prepared to act no matter the outcome. Harry and Remus lock eyes, partaking in a battle of wills vicious enough to shatter most others. Finally, Remus breaks eye contact and heaves a sigh. His lips are twitching slightly when he faces the young lord again. 

“I will join you,” Remus announces, chuckling at Sirius’ loud whoop of excited relief. “But that does not mean I am any less concerned. There will be training, a lot of training.” 

“I can accept those terms, Professor Lupin,” Harry states, a happy smile gentling his expression. 

“Please, call me Remus,” the werewolf says, gazing at Harry with warm eyes. Harry nods, a grin breaking out on his face. Hermione and Ron exchange fond glances, delighted for their friend. 

“Great! Now that we’ve settled that, I don’t suppose either of you knows a healer we can trust?” Ron asks hopefully. 

There's a moment of thoughtful silence, and then,

“I might know someone,” Remus proclaims, a sparkle in his eye.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: The Werewolf Healer

Lucinda Stripe has known Remus Lupin for a depressingly long time. Roger, her younger brother, was bitten by a werewolf 13 years ago. She was working as a healer in St Mungo’s at the time, blissfully unaware her whole life was about to be turned upside down. Roger is very dear to her. Their parents are horrid, not even worth the oxygen they consume, and raising her little brother was left to Lucinda alone. 

She did a damn fine job, if she says so herself, and not even a rabid man-dog obsessed with the moon was going to ruin her hard work. Thus she quit her job at the hospital and started a clinic of her own. It turns out werewolves are an untapped clientele when it comes to medical needs, something about laws banning healers from treating werewolves, but Lucinda doesn’t care for bigoted nonsense and business has been booming.

Remus was one of her first patients. He was an unequivocal help in her early days. It is illegal to offer healing services to werewolves. Accepting their coin in exchange for her assistance would have landed her in Azkaban within a year, but there’s nothing that says they can’t offer a generous donation. And if those donations always arrive right after she’s treated a wolf, well, that’s the business of herself and her clients. 

Remus was the one who came up with that delightful little workaround. Without his help, Lucinda would have been bankrupt and destitute days after her grand opening. Despite this, he remains one of the biggest annoyances of her life to date. Remus is a paradox. He is strong but plays the victim. He will fight but never for himself. He drags the new cubs to her door, oversees while they receive treatment, and then leaves before she can see to his own wounds, of which there are always many. 

He is a good man. He is infuriating. She has listened to many wonderful wolves who would love to mate with him moan about his continued isolation. It is obvious Remus knows they desire him, but no, he must remain miserable and alone. She suspects that he has a cub out there somewhere, though she has never been able to confirm it. She catches him, sometimes, watching the little ones with a mournful, wistful look about his eye. 

So, it is to her great vexation that a little after 8 am, on her day off, she hears a knock on her door. Now this isn’t a rare occurrence, werewolves, she has learned, are a reckless, idiotic bunch, but she already knows exactly who is on the other side of that door and she is none too pleased about it. 

Sure enough, she finds Remus Lupin standing in her entranceway, looking sheepish and a tad apologetic. That is never a good combination when working with wolves, as Lucinda has long since realized. 

“You have a lot of nerve turning up at my door, on my day off at that, when you know as well as I do that you missed your last three appointments,” Lucinda drawls, her voice thick and smooth as honey. She arches an eyebrow as he shuffles his feet and scratches the back of his neck, but offers no apology. 

“I was busy,” is all he says, and honestly, how is she meant to keep her wolves whole and in relative health if they insist upon being this bothersome? Soon enough the wounds she tends to will come from her own hand instead of the moon’s wrath. 

“You need to see me after every full moon, Remus,” she scolds him for what must be the hundredth time. All wolves come away from a night of prowling under the moon with some minor injuries, but Remus is an especially worrying case. The inner conflict he has with his wolf is troubling on any given day, but it is a true problem when his wolf can fight back. Remus is always a bloody mess after a moon. 

“I will, I will. Promise,” he swears, blinking up at her with those amber puppy eyes all wolves seem to have. It wouldn’t be a problem if they didn’t also intuitively understand how to utilize them to full effect minutes after gaining them. Werewolves, honestly. 

“Uh-huh,” Lucinda murmurs, unconvinced. The day Remus Lupin actually shows up to his post-moon appointments will be the day she retires. “Alright, where is the new cub? I know that’s why you’re really here, as it couldn’t possibly be to seek medical treatment for yourself. That would be insane.”  

“Um, about that,” Remus hedges, uncharacteristically timid. That immediately catches Lucinda's attention, as a nervous Remus Lupin is never a good thing. Before she can demand to know the details of whatever sordid catastrophe he has brought to her doorstep, Remus reaches behind him and tugs on something invisible to her eye. 

A disembodied head materializes out of thin air, and, quite despite herself, Lucinda shrieks like banish. It takes her seconds to recognize the lighting bolt scar and the emerald green eyes peering up at her in mild amusement. That is Harry Potter. 

“That’s Harry Potter,” Lucinda repeats, out loud this time. 

“Hi,” the Boy-Who-Fucking-Lived chirps, waving. His hand, Lucinda feels it should be noted, also does not appear to be attached to a body. 

“Oh, boy,” Lucinda sighs, rubbing a weary hand across her face. “Well, you’d best come in.” 

Harry was skeptical when Remus led him into a portion of London that was distinctly muggle. They took the Tube, exchanged trains three different times, and then walked half a block before arriving at a squat little house at the very edge of an overgrown park. However, he must admit he was wrong. Lucinda has alleviated every doubt and Harry has found himself utterly charmed by the woman. 

After ushering them through a cozy waiting area and into the room where she treats patients, Lucinda proceeds to conduct a frankly startling number of tests. In comparison, Madam Pomphery's diligence was put to shame. Lucinda knows far more about Harry’s medical history than the healer of Hogwarts ever will and he just met the woman ten minutes ago. 

Lucinda’s frown grows more severe with every scan she executes. Finally,  she sets her wand to the side and levels Harry with a searching look that seems to pierce his very soul. After a moment of strained silence, she nods quietly to herself, raises to her feet, and kicks Remus out of the room. 

“Lucy, listen to me! I’m here to ensure his safety,” Remus is saying, desperately trying to evade the woman herding him out the door. 

“Yes, yes, very interesting,” Lucinda dismisses, pushing on steadily, “Remus you were part of the team who helped me install my wards. You know perfectly well you’ll be alerted the second one of us is in physical danger. Give me some credit, I work with werewolves during all parts of the lunar cycle. I’m not a daft idiot when it comes to safety, unlike some people I know. Namely you.” 

“Now, we’ll only be a moment,” she says and closes the door firmly in his face. She turns back to Harry with her hands on her hips, muttering about overprotective werewolves under her breath. It’s decided, Harry likes this woman. She retakes her place in front of the cushioned table Harry is seated on, offering him a commiserating smile. 

“He won’t be able to hear what we say in this room. We have complete privacy,” Lucinda begins, crossing one leg over the other. “I’m going to be honest with you, Mr. Potter, because I feel like you are a person who appreciates blunt discussion. I am, quite frankly, horrified by the state of your health and body. It's a miracle you are able to move under what I’m sure is a staggering amount of chronic pain.” 

She retrieves a scroll from the table beside her. It popped out of her wand during one of the previous scans. She holds it level with her head and lets it unfurl. It’s long enough to gather in a pile at her feet. 

“This is a list of all the serious injuries you’ve sustained during your lifetime. Minor wounds like a stubbed toe or paper cut aren’t included,” Lucinda explains, watching with kind eyes as Harry’s face loses all color. “Mr. Potter, I’ve only ever seen the parchment grow to this length with war veterans and severely abused children.”  

“You are being abused,” it’s a statement, not a question, and Harry is consumed by the familiar rush of shame and panic. He’s loved, there is evidence of that fact in Hermione’s eyes and Ron’s smile, but the Durselys instilled a lifetime of self-doubts and the biggest, most important rule is to never let anyone find out about how they treat him. It’s been burned into his mind. He wouldn’t be surprised to find the words etched deep into the bones of his skull. 

Lucinda detects the rising hysteria like they are her own emotions and moves at once to counteract them. She slides off her seat and kneels before Harry, gently placing her hands on his legs. They tremble slightly beneath her fingers. 

“Now, now, cub,” Lucinda soothes, the term of endearment slipping out after years of use, “None of that. You’ll receive no judgment from me and you certainly won’t be harmed. You are the same snarky cub who walked through my door, only now I know you’ll make me a lot more money.” 

That shocks a laugh out of him, though it’s really more of an aborted half-snort. Assured that Harry has settled into his normal levels of anxiety, Lucinda backs out of his space and retakes her seat. 

“I have three questions for you, and then we never have to speak of this again. Alright?” Lucinda asks, maintaining eye contact with the young lord before her. Harry nods, clenching his hands into fists tight enough for his nails to dig into his skin. 

“Is Remus a part of the abuse?” Lucinda questions, tone low and soothing as though she is trying to avoid spooking a wild animal. 

“What?! No!” Harry denies hotly, shocked at the accusation. Lucinda holds her hands up in surrender, visibly trying to hide her relief. 

“I had to ask, cub, just to be sure. Okay, next question, are you in a safe place now?” She continues, moving right along. 

“Yes,” Harry answers, flexing his right hand in agitation. 

“Good. Is there any chance you won’t be in the future?” The healer asks, her tone leaving no room for anything less than total honesty. 

“No. I’m never going back to that house again,” Harry vows, the words feel monumental and liberating in his chest. He will never see the Dursleys again, never hear his horrid Aunt shrieking at him in the morning, never be the focus of his Uncle’s rage. He is free. It is a sensational realization. It fills him, an elation strong enough to lighten the very air in his lungs. He is free. 

“Can you guarantee that?” Lucinda presses, forcing him back to reality. 

“Yes.” 

“Do you swear?” 

“I promise.” 

“Alrighty, then,” Lucinda exclaims, her bright smile back in place. “Then I have one more thing to say and I’ll drop the subject. If you are in need of a safe harbor, you will always be welcome here. I’m not speaking of your business with dark lords and revolutions, though I wouldn’t mind lending a hand there either. What I mean is this, if someone has harmed you, belittled you, or made you feel afraid, come here to reclaim your peace. I make this offer to every cub that passes through my door and I’m making it to you. I will fight till the end to keep these halls standing strong.” 

There is silence after her declaration, as Harry sits soaking in the echoing strength of her words. Lucinda is brave in a way that is entirely new to him. The acts of bravery Harry has witnessed before have all held some form of violence. Facing a dragon, making the sacrifice play in a mammoth-sized chess game, standing between a friend and a werewolf lost to the moon. 

Lucinda’s is an act of defiance, of devotion. She has fought no one, she is not declaring war, she has simply drawn a line in the sand. Has stated, frankly and honestly, that she will defend it. That she will try. She knows the dangers, she is not stupid nor naive, but it makes no difference. Lucinda has made her choice; she has will and conviction and she will not be deterred. 

Harry wants, suddenly, desperately, to emulate that, to follow her example. The time for battle is quickly approaching, and Harry will fight, but he wants to protect as well. He wants to build havens where people can just be, with no heartache or expectations, and guard them fiercely. Maybe, he can do both. 

“Do you understand?” Lucinda asks, peering at him. 

“I do, thank you,” Harry nods, a grin breaking out across his face. Lucinda smiles back, pleased. 

She catches Harry’s eye and asks, “Cub, do I have your permission to share medical information with Remus?” 

Harry consents easily, nodding. 

“Good. Now, we should let Remus back in before he breaks the door down,” the healer suggests, a mischievous glint in her eye. Harry agrees, laughing, and she goes to open the door. 

Remus eyes them suspiciously as he enters the room, but settles in the chair next to Harry amicably enough. Lucinda rolls her eyes, the very picture of exasperation. 

“I told you it would be fine, Remus. You should know by now that I’m always right,” Lucinda declares, retrieving her wand. 

“I can smell the recent panic,”  Remus huffs, crossing his arms sullenly over his chest. Harry startles, both from the fact Remus can apparently smell emotions and from his behavior. Harry has never seen this side of Remus. There have been flashes of it when he and Sirius think they’re alone, but never anything this vibrant. It’s nice. 

“Ah, but only a whiff right? I understand this might be a foreign concept for you, Remus, but some of us know how to process our emotions in a healthy, productive manner,” Lucinda informs him, scanning through the parchment she showed Harry earlier. Remus glares balefully up at the healer and she smiles sweetly in return. Harry quickly stifles a laugh, it’s like watching Ron and Ginny butt heads.

“Well, boys, the extent of the damage is quite, well, it’s honestly impressive,” she says, looking up from her perusal of the parchment. “Mr. Potter is severely malnourished. He has an extreme calcium and iron deficiency, which has made his bones weak and brittle. I’m sure you’ve noticed a propensity for broken bones that your classmates don’t share, cub.” 

“These conditions, working together, have stunted your growth almost entirely,” Lucinda explains, enlightening Harry as to why he is the shortest boy in his class. Hermione always suspected his eating habits and the lack of them at the Dursleys impacted his size. Ron, on the other hand, just has a personal vendetta against Harry’s disinterest in food. It objectively offends the redheaded teen. 

“The scarring along your back and thighs is another problem we must address,” Lucinda continues, referencing the many lacerations recorded on the parchment. 

“Scaring?” Remus questions sharply, gaze snapping between Harry and the healer. 

“Vernon likes to hit, especially with his belt,” Harry remarks bitterly, defensive and embarrassed about it. 

“I see,” Remus bites out, the words barely more than an exhale. There’s an ominous creaking noise. Harry glances down to find that Remus has clenched his hands around the armrests of his chair with enough force to leave indents in the metal. 

“There are two salves I would suggest you buy,” Lucinda says, carrying on as though they never interrupted her. Though she does observe the new additions to her chair with a roll of her eyes and a muttered comment about werewolves with no impulse control. “One heals scar tissue and moisturizes the skin while the other ensures it gets the nutrients it needs and encourages muscle growth. Remus can tell you all about the salves considering the number of times he has ignored my recommendation to use them.”  

This last comment is said with a glare thrown in Remus’ direction. The werewolf bears his teeth in response, but the healer’s goal is accomplished. Harry relaxes significantly with the knowledge that Remus also has issues with scarring. 

“Your eyesight is the easiest issue to correct,” Lucinda declares, surprising Harry. He didn’t think his poor vision would be brought up. Madam Pomfrey has never mentioned it. Harry honestly thought there wasn’t a way to improve it. 

“Whoever administered your prescription should have their license removed immediately! Your glasses are actively causing more damage to your vision,” Lucinda exclaims, clearly passionate about the subject. Harry resolves right then and there to never inform her that Aunt Petunia chose a pair at random from a donation bin when his elementary teachers insisted Harry needed glasses. He’s not entirely sure his aunt would survive the healer gaining that insight. 

“Every time you squint, laboring to see, your eyes grow more strained. Eventually, your eyes adjust to the prescription, limiting your chances of natural recovery,” Lucinda explains, shaking her head. “There are two options for treatment. I know a very good Optometrist. She can find your actual prescription and set you up with a nice pair of glasses or contacts. Or you can take the vision-correction potion. It’s quite expensive-” 

“Price isn’t an issue,” Remus interjects, cutting her off. Sirius already declared he would be paying for everything and the Black fortune, Harry has been informed, surpasses even the Potter's wealth. “Though I do have a question, cub. You weren’t wearing your glasses at your trial. What kept you from running into every wall in the Ministry?” 

“Actually, I was wearing them,” Harry corrects, smirking. “Ginny charmed them invisible because, and I quote, ‘They make me look like a three-year-old masquerading as an adult and I would embarrass the family if I went out with them on.” 

“Harsh,” Remus comments, chuckling. 

“Yeah, well, it was a stressful night. Filters were nonexistent. Honestly, I was just pleased to be included in the family,” Harry says, grinning. 

“The vision-correction potion it is,” Lucinda remarks, making a note of it on a pad of paper. Harry notices that she uses a pen instead of a quill. That’s the first wixen he’s found that ignores tradition for convenience. 

“Alright, that brings us back to the most pressing matter, your malnourishment and fragile bones,” Lucinda proclaims, striding over to a cabinet set against the left wall. She retrieves two vials and sets them on the counter in front of the examination table. One is a bright red hue and the other is the purple shade of a plum.

“If money is no issue then we have two options, the painful, long way or the fast, excruciating way,” she declares, offering them an expression that is half grimace, half sheepish shrug. Harry chokes on a laugh and slumps against the wall, wheezing, as Remus alternates between staring at Lucinda and his cub in horror.  

“Why are you laughing?” Remus demands, rubbing a weary hand over his haggard expression. “That wasn’t amusing.”

“No, Remus, trust me. That was hilarious,” Harry cackles, bent over the middle with his shoulders shaking in mirth. “That is entirely on theme with how my life has gone so far.” 

“That is not, at all, reassuring,” Remus grumbles, sinking lower into his seat. “Explain yourself, Lucy.” 

“Right, so, the purple guy is part of a six-month regimen,” Lucinda informs them, guesting to the aforementioned vial. “You would take it three times a day, once before every meal. It introduces healthy fat and nourishment into the body, but you need to ingest calories right before taking it so the potion has energy to work off of. Unfortunately, it also causes nausea and extreme body aches. Basically, it forces the body through a whole childhood's worth of growth in half a year, but it’s cheaper by a significant margin so most people choose it.” 

“The red one is a fast-acting, one-time use reparative potion,” Lucinda explains, pointing at the vial. “It forces the body through an extreme version of what the purple potion does. Bones are healed and muscles are repaired in one fell swoop. It draws energy from the magical core, instead of generating power through its own ingredients. So the more powerful you are the quicker the potion works. You’ll grow like a week, but the potion doesn’t induce muscle growth or fat cells so you’ll be as skinny as a stick. If you do choose this option you’ll need a diet plan, a nourishment potion regimen, and an exercise program, but I would have recommended those anyways.”

 “Because the potion utilizes its user's native magic it has a wild host of side effects,” Lucinda cautions, eyeing Harry’s eager body language with amusement. “No body is prepared to have its magical core drained so quickly. You’ll experience a nasty fever, intense muscle spasms, and you will be incredibly sore for days afterward. While the potion works you will be bedridden and have no strength to speak of. Most people take three to five days before the potion has run its course, it all depends on your power level.” 

“Of course, it’s also very, very expensive,” Lucinda concludes, waving her hand with a flourish to indicate the many gallons it will cost them. 

“I want the reparative potion,” Harry declares immediately, having already made his choice halfway through the healer’s speech. “I’ll be tripping constantly if my height changes every other day. I can’t afford that weakness for half a year. Especially not now.”

Remus nods his agreement, leveraging a callused hand to squeeze Harry’s shoulder in comfort. 

“Okay, makes sense to me,” Lucinda pronounces, reaching behind her for the list of Harry’s injuries again. “If we’re going in that direction, I must address three areas of concern before I can offer you the potion in good conscience. The potion improves upon what is already there; it can’t correct the groundwork. So, any broken bones that healed incorrectly will be strengthened as they are, creating a whole new set of problems.” 

Lucinda conjures a projection of what is clearly Harry’s body. His left wrist, left ankle, and the entirety of his right leg are highlighted. Harry doesn’t recall what he did to his wrist or ankle, but he vividly remembers what happened to his leg. 

His elementary school was on a hill and there was a long flight of stairs leading to the playground in the back. One of Dudley’s favorite hobbies was pushing Harry down them. One time he landed wrong and pulverized his knee. He couldn’t walk on it for weeks afterward. He still experiences the occasional throb of pain when he crouches or bends that leg. 

“I’ll need to rebreak the highlighted bones and heal them correctly. I recommend taking a bit of Dreamless Sleep so you don’t have to experience that agony again. Sleke-grow will have you healed up in about an hour, so you can take a nice little nap,” Lucinda says, storing the red and purple potions back in her cabinet. “I’ll have the two salves and the eye-correction potion ready for you then. The reparative potion will take me a day or two to brew.”

“Why can’t I use the one you just showed us?” Harry asks, guesting towards the cabinet. 

“The potion needs to be specifically calibrated to each patient. I’ll need to instill your blood several times during the brewing process,” Lucinda explains, retrieving a new set of potion vials. 

“Isn’t that illegal?” Harry wonders, glancing at Remus for confirmation. The werewolf just shrugs, gesturing at Lucinda as though to say, ‘ That is the woman we’re dealing with and you want to try reasoning with her?’ 

“So is treating werewolves, but that’s never stopped me before,” Lucinda scoffs, dismissing the notion with an errant wave. Harry huffs a laugh, charmed once again. 

“I noticed something curious, cub,” Lucidna comments, turning to face them again, potions in hand. “The bones in your right arm are in much better condition than the rest of your body. Do you know why that might be?”
“Uh, yeah. In my second year, I had a nasty fall during a Quidditch game and the defense professor vanished all the bones in my right arm trying to heal me,” Harry admits, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. Remus goes stock still in his chair, before slumping with a heavy sigh. Harry pats his arm consolingly. 

“Oh,” is all Lucinda says, blinking in obvious shock. It takes her a few seconds to rally and regain her composure. “Well, the good news is it’s much easier to mend bones with Sleke-grow than it is to regrow them. This will be a far better experience for you, cub.” 

She hands him a vial of what Harry recognizes as Dreamless Sleep .

“Just a sip, if you please,” Lucinda commands, preparing a dosage of what must be sleke-grow over a nearby sink.  

Harry takes a deep breath before pressing the vial to his lips. Just as Lucinda asks, he only swallows a single mouthful. He shuffles around until he can lay comfortably on the cushioned table. His eyes immediately start to grow heavy.

“Go to sleep, cub. I’ll be right here when you wake,” Remus says, placing a comforting hand on the leg closest to him. 

Harry does as he’s told. He allows his eyes to close and within seconds, he is sound asleep. 

Ronald Weasley has had cause to contemplate brutally murdering his best friend on multiple occasions in the fifteen years he has been alive and aware on this planet. This very morning granted yet another opportunity for such musings. The Weasley family, minus the three eldest boys, Hermione, and various members of the Order of Phoenix are gathered around the kitchen table in Grimmauld Place. 

His mum had enough food placed on the table to have its wood groaning by the time the kids sluggishly stumbled in. In seconds flat, everyone was eagerly devouring the breakfast offerings. All was peaceful until a loud, persistent pecking started up from the nearest window and shattered the peace. Investigation revealed five highly annoyed owls demanding entrance from the other side of the glass. This alarmed almost everyone in attendance, barring Hermione and Ron, who held a sneaking suspicion about where the owls came from, as the Fidelius Charm should have kept the house completely imperceptible. 

After an impressive number of detection spells, it was determined that neither the birds nor their burdens were laced with any curses or traps, and the owls were reluctantly allowed entrance. They swarmed immediately toward the teenagers, and, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, Ron knew at once his hunch was, in fact, correct. 

This was further proven when, with shaking fingers, he opened his own letter to reveal the bold crest of Gringotts. He threw the letter back on the table like it burned him and proceeded to examine the ceiling in apparent fascination; valiantly harboring a vague hope his mother will forget his presence and focus her ire on her other children. 

He winces at each gasp and exclamation of surprise his siblings let escape their lips. Truly, he can’t really blame them. Harry was immensely generous and they now have claim to an absurd amount of money, but he feels each noise like a knife to the gut. 

The kitchen is consumed with a strained silence as Molly Weasley stares her children down and they studiously avoid her gaze while attempting to make it seem like that is not what they’re doing. The Order Members look on, frozen in their seats as some long-forgotten animal instinct warns them of an angry lioness in the room. Eventually, as all good things do, Molly’s patience reaches its limit and she levels a glare at her children; somehow encompassing them all with a single look, Hermione included.

“Oh, very well, then. Which one of you is going to explain this? Ron? Ginny? Hermione?” Molly asks, peering at each child in turn. She doesn’t bother asking the twins, the smart woman that she is. 

The prospect of staging a war against Voldemort is somehow less daunting than meeting his mother’s eyes in this moment, and, despite his very best efforts, Ron is the first to break. He passes his letter down the table, visibly tensing as it draws ever nearer to Molly’s outstretched hand. 

She gives the letter a shallow scan before pausing, blinking several times in rapid concession, and reading through it again with far more care. Ron didn’t do more than glance at it, only long enough to glimpse the number of galleons that now belong to him, but he can imagine well enough what it must say. After what must be the longest three minutes of his life, Molly sets the letter down neatly beside her plate and shifts to primly arrange one leg over the other. 

The room must have warmed significantly in the past half hour because sweat has broken out along Ron’s brow. 

“I’m not quite sure what to say,” she begins, straightening her already perfectly aligned silverware. “Though I am absolutely certain you have a perfectly acceptable reason as to why Harry has transferred one million galleons into an account under your name, Ronald, and, I’m assuming, for the rest of you as well. Not to mention why he was addressed as Lord Potter and where, for Merlin’s sake, that boy has run off to.” 

Ron swallows nervously, a lump forming in his suddenly bone-dry throat. His mum only speaks so posh-like when she is really and truly infuriated. Again, Ron finds his thoughts wandering to the absolute annihilation of one Harry James Potter because, in the absence of the conveniently missing Lord, Molly’s wrathful attention will shift to-

“Ronald,” Molly prompts, watching avidly as her youngest son fidgets in his chair. 

Called it. 

Oh yes, Ron is going to destroy Harry. 

Harry gradually becomes aware of the sound of soft voices conversing over him. Their words are muffled, as though his ears have been stuffed with cotton. His eyes feel like boulders, unfeasibly heavy. Opening them any time soon is entirely out of the question. He’s laying on something terribly soft, his sleep-warm limbs nestled snugly in the cushioned material. Returning to his dream’s embrace is a serin song impossible to resist. 

He settles there, in this half awareness, for a peaceful time, mind incredibly, wonderfully blank. Eventually, a pesky sensation breaks through the pleasant daze; the scent of milk chocolate blended with that musty, leather smell all old books seem to have. It takes his lethargic mind several long moments to puzzle out who that scent belongs to; Professor Lupin, Remus, Moony. 

It takes longer still for his brain to fully come alive, but slowly his thoughts begin to quicken and the memories of the past few days come flooding in. His confrontation with Mrs. Weasely, the trial, claiming his Lordship, convincing Remus and Sirius to accept him and his chosen path, and, finally Lucinda, the healer of werewolves. 

He has had a whirlwind of a week. There’s barely been time for Harry to catch his breath. His traitorous thoughts, however, have found ample opportunity to run amuck. One thought, in particular, has truly begun to fester. Sirius and Remus have expressed their love for him multiple times since he made their acquaintance, especially after their quarrel that morning. 

Harry has trouble believing them, though that sentiment is pretty much universal for everyone who tells him they love him. Even Ron and Hermione had to fight tooth and nail for him to finally accept the truth of their words. However, at the very least, it is clear they possess a great affection for him; an affection strong enough to rebel against the headmaster and eventually follow Harry into war. 

The thought he’s stuck on is where, exactly, that devotion was for the first fourteen years of his life. Sirius has an excuse, though he has admitted he could have made better choices on the night of Voldemort’s attack, but Remus has none. 

Where was he when Harry was being starved? Where was he when Harry discovered the wizarding world, overwhelmed and utterly lost? Where was he during first year, and second, and fourth? He was there for third year, except he ignored Harry until January. There were no letters on birthdays or Christmases. Nothing on Halloweens, the anniversary of his parent's death. So where was he? 

The question is a torment, stewing in the back of his mind like a leach. It surges to the front at times, engulfing his thoughts with enough force to choke him. It’s all he can think about now, as the fog of sleep slips from his fingers.  There must be some explanation. There has to be. 

“Cub?” The word filters through in sharp clarity; the first to spark an understanding of its meaning. Suddenly, the rest of his senses snap to attention, ambushing him with the sound of someone, Lucinda probably, handling potion vials in the background and Remus’ steady breathing. 

“Harry, can you hear me?” Remus asks, his voice much closer than before. Harry mumbles something that vaguely resembles English and cracks his jaw with an almighty yawn before finally allowing his eyes to inch open. 

Remus is still seated in the chair next to Harry’s bed, leaning towards him with attentive eyes. Harry musters up a smile, bitter thoughts still clamoring for attention. Remus must catch something in his expression, but he can’t do more than furrow his brows before Lucinda is bustling her way over to Harry’s side.

She swipes her wand over his form, nods at whatever it tells her, and levels Harry with a blinding grin. 

“The breaks are completely healed. You are all set to take the reparative potion whenever you feel ready,” she declares, stowing her wand away. “The dreamless sleep won’t be out of your system for a couple of minutes yet. I’ll prepare your potions and salves. You rest for a bit more, I’m sure Remus can entertain you.” 

And with that, she’s gone. Remus sighs after her, shaking his head fondly. He shoots Harry a commiserating grin, relaxing against the back of his chair. 

“How are you feeling, cu-” 

“Where were you?” Harry blurts out, cutting him off; desperate to know, to have any explanation. 

“What? Cub, I’ve been here the whole time,” Remus rushes to confirm, obviously confused by his train of thought. 

“No, Remus, not today. Where were you during my childhood? My first year? Second?” Harry clarifies, avoiding the werewolf’s eyes. His voice is small again, Harry hates it when he feels like this. It reminds him of years better left in the past. 

“Oh, cub,” Remus exhales mournfully, shamefaced. “There is no excuse for my behavior-”

“I’m not asking for an excuse, Remus,” Harry interprets, finally meeting his eyes. He pretends the sheen in his own is from anger and not tears. “I’m asking for a reason. Th-there must be some reason.” 

“Harry, cub, I,” Remus pauses here, visibly steeling himself. He takes a deep breath and sallows harshly enough to be audible, before returning Harry’s tearful gaze. 

“That night, that whole month actually, I wasn’t even in London,” Remus begins, voice tremulous. “I was with the packs, trying to convince any wolves I could to turn from Greyback and the Dark Lord in the process. I didn’t know about what happened on Halloween until days after.” 

“You have to understand something about werewolves, cub. We are pack creatures,” Remus says, offering a smile that wavers on his lips. “I didn’t form a traditional pack, but the humans I claimed remained mine all the same. When pack bonds develop, it creates a link, so to say, between the bonded. When the bond is between wolves, they can monitor the health of their pack, and their emotions, and even share thoughts in some cases. My bonds were muted because I was the only wolf, but I could still tell, I knew , something was wrong.”

“James and Lily, their bonds were broken,” Remus continues, tears slipping down his cheeks. Harry reaches for his hand, and he clutches back, hard enough to bruise. Harry finds he doesn’t mind all that much. “All I had left were the frayed edges but I still hoped, death isn’t the only explanation for that. Sirius, Sirius was consumed by a torrent of emotions, all of them brutal. Peter’s bond was just gone. It dissolved. I didn’t know what to think about that. Not even death would cause such a thing. And our bond, cub, was sealed somehow. I was completely cut off from you.” 

“Our bond? We had a bond?” Harry questions, wondrous at the idea of it. 

“Have, cub. We have a bond,” Remus confirms, squeezing Harry’s hand with a slight smile. “It came roaring back to life the moment I woke to find you on the Express. Whatever it was denying us that connection was overcome.” 

They smile at each other for a long moment, enjoying the peace of each other’s presence. Eventually, Remus focuses once more on telling his story. 

“I was neck deep in pack politics, far into enemy territory; allies were a myth from fairytales. I had to focus on my own survival. I didn’t have time to investigate, to find out what, I couldn’t, I didn’t even try,” Remus is forced to stop there, breathing fractured and heavy as he fights to maintain his composure. “By the time I made it back to London, it had been weeks since the attack. James and Lily were dead, Sirius was in Azkaban, I thought Peter was dead too, and no one would tell me where you were, cub.

“I, fuck, I spiraled. There’s no better word for it. I drank, a lot. I spent my days holed up in an apartment, smoking and sleeping with any willing stranger. It was years before I came up for air and that was only because I heard about a healer crazy enough to treat werewolves. It reminded me of a scheme Prongs and Padfoot might dream up, and I thought maybe she could use some help.”

“After that, I tried to find you. I promise I tried so, so hard, cub,” Remus professes, grasping Harry’s other hand and begging with his eyes for Harry to believe his words. “Dumbledore made it fucking impossible, though. Which I suppose is a good thing from a protection standpoint, but I wasn’t a threat. No letters were allowed through to you and visits were out of the question. It pains me to admit it, but eventually, I gave up. I stopped pushing.” 

“I had convinced myself it was better that way by the time your first year came around. That you were happy and safer away from my taint,” Remus admits ruefully, holding a hand up to stop Harry as he immediately opens his mouth to protest. “Sirius has since disbursed me of that notion, but he wasn’t there in your third year, at least not in the beginning, and the only concession I would allow myself was teaching you the Patronus charm .” 

“And last year?” Harry questions, blinking away the years gathered at the edge of his eyes. 

“Dumbledore thought it would be best if I stayed away. He didn’t want me to distract you from the Tournament or have me be diverted from my own tasks,” Remus says, staring at the wall behind Harry’s head. 

“He sent you back to the packs,” Harry breathes, the realization accompanied by a rush of indignation. How dare the headmaster keep Remus from his pack! How dare he deny Harry that support. Remus is his . 

“Yes,” Remus huffs, lips twitching slightly. “No one was supposed to figure that out. Listen, cub, I’m sorry. For all of it. There are no words to express the true depths of my remorse. I will do everything I can to regain your trust and I hope that someday I can earn your forgiveness as well.” 

“I forgive you,” Harry states, words easy and genuine. 

“What? Just like that?” Remus exclaims in disbelief, eyebrows climbing high across his forehead. 

“Yeah, Moony, just like that. You were already forgiven, I just needed to understand,” Harry explains, his mouth curving with a gentle smile. 

“Thank you,” Remus whispers, eyes wet again. 

“Thank you for telling me what happened,” Harry returns, eagerly accepting the hug that Remus pulls him into. “It’s just, um.” 

“Yes, cub,” Remus encourages, giving his shoulders a comforting squeeze. 

“You can’t leave again,” Harry murmurs, nervous but determined. 

“I won’t. I swear it,” Remus asserts, meeting Harry’s emerald eyes with his own amber orbs. 

“No more infiltration missions with the packs,” Harry presses, clutching at the back of Remus’ shirt. 

“I promise,” Remus vows, settling back into his chair. 

“Thank you,” Harry whispers, swallowing past the ache in the back of his throat. 

“Thank you, cub,” Remus responds, grasping his hand again. 

They smile at each, a newfound lightness in the air around them. This moment feels like the best of beginnings; a family restored. Or a pack, in this case. 

A tentative knock at the door ends their moment, but the joy of it lingers in Harry’s chest. Today has been good, despite its rocky outset. Lucinda is standing in the doorway, looking between them and their sappy grins with a delighted look on her face. 

“I have no idea what has just happened, but I’m excited for you both nonetheless,” Lucinda declares, walking into the room with a drawstring bag in one hand. “Alrighty boys, here are the goodies.” 

She pulls out two medium-sized jars and sets them next to Harry on the cushioned table. 

“These are the anti-scarring and moisturizing salves,” Lucinda tells him, tapping each one as she names it. “I want you to apply them both right after you bathe. Make sure to cover each of your scars. It’ll take about a minute to soak in and then you’re free to carry on. Apply them every day until the jars are empty. We’ll assess whether you need a refill then.”  

“These are for your calcium and iron deficiencies,” Lucinda says, pulling out a wooden box from the bag. She opens it to reveal three rows of neatly organized potion vials, each filled with a simmering silver liquid. “Take one in the morning and one every night for six weeks. The box is equipped with an expansion spell so the full six weeks of potions are included.” 

“Same goes for these,” she declares, revealing another box. This time the potions are a soothing blue color. “A four-week regimen of nutrient potions. Take one before each meal, of which there should be three. Every day. You hear me?” 

“I do, I do,” Harry concedes, pushing himself into an upright position. 

“Good,” Lucinda nods, handing Harry two sheets of paper. “A diet plan and an exercise program. Now those are more loose guidelines, you can adapt them to fit your needs, but follow the groundwork I laid. Okay?”

“I understand,” Harry agrees, studying the papers curiously. 

“Fantastic, here is the eye-correction potion,” Lucinda announces, placing a vivid green next to the jars. “I would recommend waiting to take it until I have the reparative potion ready for you. You won’t be able to see much of anything for a couple of hours and I’m told your eyes burn quite a bit. Best to knock out both nasty potions in one go, I would think, but I’ll leave it to your discretion.”

“I believe that is everything,” the healer states, reviewing her notes. Harry stretches, arms high over his head, and hops off the table. Remus has gathered the prescribed potions and salves back into the drawstring bag which he tucked away neatly into his pocket. “I already drew the necessary blood for the reparative potion while you were sleeping, cub. I’ll send an owl Remus’ way when it's ready. Shouldn’t be more than a day or two.” 

“Sounds amazing. Thank you,” Harry beams, looking gratefully at the healer. “How do we pay you?” 

“It is my pleasure, cub,” Lucinda smiles, pulling Harry into a brief hug. “I’ll hand Remus the bill when he comes to collect your potion.”

Remus huffs and rolls his eyes, but Harry still spots the grin fighting its way on his lips. Lucinda punches his shoulder playfully and Remus takes advantage of her closeness, reeling her into an embrace. He murmurs something into her ear too low for Harry to hear, but when they pull back they’re smiling at each other so he figures the comment was in good spirits. 

“I want you back here in six weeks to see how everything is working out, cub,” Lucinda commands with the air of a woman used to being obeyed. “I have some suspicions about that lightning bolt scar of yours. I wasn’t able to get any useful data from my tests today, but I can tell it’s interacting strangely with your native magic. Hopefully, we’ll be able to understand it a bit more when the great majority of your magical core isn’t focused on keeping you upright and breathing.” 

“I’ll be in school by then,” Harry points out, absentmindedly flattening his hair over his scar. 

“We’ll smuggle you out,” Remus shrugs, patting his shoulder. 

“Perfect! If, for any reason, you feel you need to see me sooner, you are always welcome to drop in,” Lucinda stresses, speaking over her shoulder as she leads them back through the waiting room. “I’m glad to have met you, cub. I’ll see you soon.” 

“Thank you for all your help,” Harry tells her, waving as he treks behind Remus. 

“Bye, Lucy,” Remus calls, tipping an imaginary hat in the healer’s direction. 

“Come to your post-moon appointments, Remus,” she yells after him, cupping her hands around her mouth to enhance the volume of her shouted order. 

“Uh-huh,” is all Remus says in return, rounding the corner. A distant cry of ‘Lupin!’ can be heard in the distance, but Harry barely registers it because in the next moment, Remus tugs him close and they’re gone with a loud, jarring pop. 

Harry practically skips up the front steps of Grimmauld Place, eager to rejoin Ron and Hermione. Spending the morning away from them has left a strange, uncomfortable feeling in his chest. He declined Remus’ offer of lunch, mind occupied with getting back to his friends and celebrating the success of his morning with them. 

He throws open the large wooden door, prepared to bound up the stairs and straight to his friends. The booming voice of the Weasley matriarch stops him in his tracks. 

“WHAT WERE YOU THINKING, SNEAKING OFF TO GRINGOTTS LIKE THAT? YOU COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED!” Mrs. Wealsey is screaming, the furious pace of her shoes meeting the floor echoing loudly down the hallway. 

“SCUM, DIRTY BLOODS, TRAITORS IN MY HOME. LEAVE! LEAVE AT ONCE!” Madam Black shrieks from her portrait on the wall. 

“OH, DO SHUT UP, YOU OLD HAG!” Mrs. Weasley bellows in her direction, clearly fed up. “Ronald, I expected better from you, and, Hermione, you were meant to be the smart one. Now, you will tell me at once where Harry has gone!” 

Harry tiptoes carefully backward. He closes the door as softly as is humanly possible and turns to Remus with wide, panicked eyes. Reentering that house is most certainly not an option. 

“So,” Remus drawls, looking a bit flustered himself. “Lunch?” 

“That’s probably best,” Harry decides, fleeing down the steps at a pace just shy of running. Remus follows close behind, throwing cautious looks at the house behind him every few seconds. They make it to the street unscathed and disappear once more in a flash, leaving the occupants within to the tender mercies of one Molly Weasley. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: Family Ties

Hermione watches, jaw clenched hard enough to throb, as Harry’s pale, sweaty form writhes on his bed. It’s been two days since the young lord’s appointment with Remus’ healer and the letters from Gringotts arrived. Harry swallowed the reparative and eye-correction potions that morning just after breakfast. 

He deteriorated quickly right from the onset. A fever took hold almost at once and the pain of his eyes healing themselves was enough to knock Harry out. Considering the breadth of his pain tolerance, that is truly horrifying knowledge. 

He’s been releasing a constant litany of whimpers and groans for close to six hours now and Hermione has just about reached her limit. Remus’ healer warned them of this outcome. They planned for it, muscle relaxers and water were stored in preparation. Hermione knew this was going to be a painful process, and yet, she was not prepared in the slightest. 

Witnessing Harry’s suffering has never become bearable, despite the many years of practice Hermione has had to master it. Sitting idly by his bedside is especially excruciating when there is nothing to be done about his torment; no possible alleviation, no monster to slay, or idiot to blame. It is the purest form of helplessness, and Hermione loathes the feeling of impotence. 

Harry’s magic has been stagnant as it focuses inward to power the reparative potion. Suddenly, her world is bereft of curious energy nosing playfully at her hair, of protective barriers made of light, and of angry winds snapping across a room. Only in the absence of its potent presence has Hermione realized how reliant she is on the moods of Harry’s magic. It has become second nature to assess his health and emotions on the basis of that manifestation of his will. 

The deprivation is especially jarring as Harry’s magic has been in somewhat of a mood as of late. He had to keep exceptionally tight control of it while meeting with the healer. He did succeed in reining in any outbursts with the woman, even when discussing his scars and the abuse he faced.

Remus reported that the only notable incident was when the healer attempted to re-break his bones so they could heal properly. Apparently, a barrier formed around the young lord, preventing anyone from approaching him for several minutes. Considering Harry was unconscious at the time, Hermione thinks that’s pretty reasonable and a very impressive display of restraint.

In what seems to be a direct protest against such strict constraints, Harry’s magic has gone wild with energy; scraping against walls, knocking objects over, and keeping an ever-present eye on Ron and herself. Harry doesn’t even need to be present in a room for his magic to take up residence and misbehave. 

Hermione wouldn’t be surprised if the rogue behavior is also happening, at least in part, because of Harry’s recent liberation from the Dursleys. He spent months repressing any and all magical outbursts due to a genuine fear for his safety. Every Fall, when they return to the haven of Hogwarts’ halls, Harry goes through periods where his magic is extremely active. A way of stretching cramped muscles, so to speak. Harry might be experiencing those episodes ahead of schedule. After all, Grimmauld Place, like Hogwarts, is somewhere he feels safe and comfortable.

That said, the abrupt silence from such an expressive force is extremely disconcerting. Despite the clearly visible pattern of Harry’s breathing, though sporadic it may be, Hermione aches with the need to go to him and reassure herself of the pulse beneath his skin. Harry’s magic in this state, still and quiet, is unnatural in the most unnerving of ways. Hermione doesn’t approve in the slightest. 

It has everyone on edge, the absence of their driving force. Without Harry there, leaping head first into planning and preparations, they’ve settled into an idle state. Occupied with simply waiting, watching anxiously in turns as the young lord lays bedridden and sick. 

She is on her feet in moments, wand grasped tightly in hand, when someone knocks on the door. Ron pushes his way into the room a second later, a tray of food balanced in his hands. Hermione returns to her chair with a disgruntled sigh, annoyed with herself. Grimmauld Place is nigh impenetrable. With the Fidelius Charm they are safe in ways even Hogwarts can not replicate, but witnessing Harry in this state is deeply unsettling and she can not shake the uneasy weight that’s settled on her shoulders. 

“I’m sorry,” Hermione mutters, shoving her wand back into the pocket of her sweater. Idly, she notes that they really must make purchasing proper wand holsters a priority. 

“It’s alright,” Ron dismisses kindly, handing her a steaming cup of tea. “I understand.” 

Hermione gazes into his sky-blue eyes and knows that he truly does understand. They disagree often, but they are always united in their desire to protect the precious boy unconscious on that bed. 

Ron sets a plate of food on the bedside table in front of Hermione’s chair. He hands her a fork with a pointed look at the food. Hermione rolls her eyes, but she accepts the offering, knowing he’s right even if she’ll never admit it. There is perhaps a slim possibility that Hermione skipped breakfast… and lunch. 

After he is sufficiently assured she’s received the message, Ron pads over to the other side of Harry’s bed to claim the recliner he’s spent most of the past day in. With the softest of touches, he brushes the dripping, tangled hair out of Harry’s eyes before taking his seat, his own plate of food resting on his lap. 

Hermione watches him out of the corner of her eye, fascinated by how the flickering shadows of the candlelight play across his features. He hasn’t seemed to stop growing this summer, racing to keep up with the towering giants who are his brothers. He has been so calm the last few weeks, the steady lighthouse in a billowing storm. He tempers the wild edge of Hermione and Harry’s spirits like he was born for the task; balanced and unshakable. It is undeniably attractive. 

She turns her attention to the food he brought after he catches her looking one too many times. The poor boy might turn as red as his hair if she doesn’t allow him some reprieve. It doesn’t take long, however, before she is poking at her mashed potatoes in lue of actually eating them. Nothing looks particularly appetizing at the moment, not without Harry present to enjoy it with them.

Some sort of commotion from downstairs implodes at a high enough volume for Hermione and Ron to hear it on the second floor. The muffled sound of Mrs. Weasley scolding the twins starts up seconds later and, quite abruptly, Hermione is in the fight of her life to keep from cackling. 

“So,” Hermione ventures, having to swallow down a laugh after each word. “How was dinner?” 

“Well, uh,” Ron begins, lips quivering; a smile threatening to overtake him. “It was, ha , rather tense, I would say. A lot of, um, tension.” 

That’s as far as he gets before they are both bent over sideways, laughing hard enough to cause a cramp. They pay no mind to the plates tittering precariously on their laps, far too busy gasping for breath. 

“My mom is still a bit sore about this morning’s, uh, door debacle,” Ron continues bravely, fighting to get the words out between their unseemly giggles. The door debacle, as Ron so eloquently phrased it, was the accumulation of one of the twins’ latest inventions: the Weasely Warning Wizer.  

Harry didn’t want anyone gawking at him while the potions did their work and no one wanted word of their recent exploits getting back to the headmaster, so the twins were tasked with finding a way to keep unwanted guests out of the boys’ room while Harry recovered. As usual, when the opportunity for sanctioned mischief-making arises, the twins were spectacular with their delivery. 

Anyone attempting to force their way into the boys’ room was met with a face full of some sort of white goo that closely resembles shaving cream and a high-pitched scolding of “No, no, no, silly!” cooed at their face. Mrs. Weasley was the first to discover Grimmauld Place’s newest addition, but she was far from the last meddling adult to run afoul with the twins’ devious minds. 

Hermione is starting to suspect being obscenely nosy is one of the requirements to join the Order of the Phoenix. One might think after the second or third person they would learn, but no, they just kept trying. Those still brave enough to ask about the young lord after that experience are all told the same thing; he’s busy. It’s been a great distraction from the kids’ ever-prevalent worry about Harry. 

“I’ve never seen so many glares leveled at the twins,” Ron wheezes, wiping tears from his eyes. “And, considering the amount of school-wide pranks they’ve pulled, that’s really saying something.” 

“It was a relief to have Mrs. Weasley speechless for once,” Hermione remarks, smirking softly. “God, that woman never shuts up.” 

“Mione!” Ron scolds, staring at her in shock. “That’s my mom you’re talking about.” 

“Ron, even you must admit she’s been a nightmare lately,” Hermione shoots back, unrepentant. Mrs. Weasley hasn’t allowed any of them a moment of peace since the letters from Gringottes arrived. Hermione is down to her last nerve.

“It’s all from a place of love, Mione. She’s just been so worried lately,” Ron returns evenly, all traces of his earlier anger gone. There’s that calm Hermione so admired a moment ago. She no longer finds it attractive.

Stupid tranquil jerk, can’t even have a proper argument with him anymore. Maturity is overrated. 

“I know that, Ron, I do, but the constant fretting, muttered comments, and pointed looks are quickly becoming unbearable,” Hermione declares, clutching her cup of tea defensively to her chest. Ron visibly softens, gaze gentling as he watches her. 

“I can understand that,” Ron says, surprising her. He smiles when she meets his eyes, his affection for Hermione so clear in them that it causes a blush to creep into her cheeks. “I’ve had my whole childhood to build up a tolerance to a worried Molly Weasely. You’ve known my mom in passing for only four years, so it makes sense that you’d find her overwhelming. I never even considered that and I’m sorry. Neither my siblings nor I are concerned because we know this is just a way Mom shows love. Us Weaselys are a rowdy, loud, obnoxious bunch.” 

Hermione chuckles at that, having experienced the truth of those words herself. In Hogwarts, catching the attention of Fred and Goerge is considered interchangeable with a life sentence in Azkaban. Ginny is a minor tornado of red hair and sass and it’s best to keep any negative opinions about Hermione or Harry to yourself when Ron’s around to hear them or you’re liable to be confronted with his fists. Even Percy, before he graduated, was a force to be reckoned with when he was in a fit of temper. 

“I guess I never looked at it that way,” Hermione concedes, hiding the fond twist of her lips behind the rim of her cup. 

“I mean, look at us from my mom’s perspective,” Ron says, bursting up to his feet. He paces between the beds, waving his arms around wildly to enunciate his points. “We are six teenagers, two of which are the twins, Sirius, who I admire greatly, but is in dire need of a healer himself, and Remus, acting as the sole authority figure. We haven’t confirmed it explicitly, but it’s pretty obvious we are gearing up to declare war on the Dark Lord, and, quite frankly, there’s very little she can do to stop us.”

“It’s ludicrous, what we are doing,” Ron exclaims, throwing his hands up. “Especially so to her because she does not know of our caution and plans and the training regime Remus is cooking up. I would be worried too. She just wants to keep us safe.” 

“She’s going about it in the wrong way,” Hermione mutters, staunchly refusing to surrender all the annoyance she’s built up over the last couple of days. 

“I agree,” Ron concurs easily, shrugging at her incredulous look. “I also have every faith that she’ll realize that soon enough, but until that long-awaited day, we have the twins to keep her occupied.” 

“I suppose they are rather good at that,” Hermione allows, barely containing a grin. 

“It’s one of their many talents,” Ron chuckles, beaming at her. 

They grow quiet then, finishing the last couple bites of their dinner. Ron braves the outside world again on a quest for more tea and something sweet. He collects their dirty dishes on the way out, planning to return them to the kitchen during his perilous journey.  

Hermione returns her gaze to Harry, watching him twist and mutter in his sleep. It might be her imagination, but she thinks a bit of color is returning to his skin. She really hopes that’s true and not just her mind conjuring up visions. She misses his voice and the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. His hair will be horrendously matted by the end of this, that at least, she knows for certain. 

He’d agree with Ron, about Mrs. Weasley. Harry loves her like he loves Sirius and how he’s beginning to adore Remus. She hopes for both her boys’ sake that Molly really is close to coming around. Truthfully, all the Weasley children could use her support. 

“You know what I’d like, Hermione?” Ron declares hotly, shouldering the door open. This time the tray is piled high with cakes, an entire pot of tea, and a plate full to bursting with treacle tart, Harry’s absolute favorite wizarding treat. 

“Where did you get all this?” Hermione wonders, helping him set the tray safely on his bed. 

“Oh, I ran into my mom,” Ron mentions offhandedly, pouring more tea into his cup with an impressive display of irritation. “Apparently she noticed I only brought up two plates of dinner. She made me promise to force something down the throat of whoever skipped a meal.” 

“Now, back to my original question,” Ron demands, bypassing the cool-off period and gulping down his tea without pause. “I would like some control over the comings and goings in this house! Order members are everywhere, crawling all over like ants in a nest!” 

“By the time I made it back up the stairs, I had restored to yelling He’s BUSY! at anyone who looked at me too long,” Ron complains, slumping moodily in his recliner.

“It is starting to feel a bit cramped,” Hermione muses, tracing circles into the comforting heat of her mug while she considers this. “Especially with the Headmaster’s locking spells.” 

“The nerve of that man,” Ron huffs, slurping at his tea with visible annoyance. 

Dumbledore charmed the front and back doors of Grimmauld Place with a spell that acts a lot like the age line he put around the Goblet of Fire. Anyone below the age of twenty-one cannot pass through the door frames without a minimum of three adults accompanying them. 

He even found a way to tie the spells to the house without touching the main wards, eliminating Sirius’s ability to remove them. Though Sirius has the ring, he hasn’t been able to complete all the steps to officially become Lord Black nor has the Black Family magics fully accepted him. Without that, he remains Lord Black in only the loosest of terms and so retains only partial control of Grimmauld Place. 

It is, to say the least, irksome. That’s not to imply they had any intention of sneaking out. Of course not, the Gryffindors currently inhabiting Grimmauld Place are all perfect angels, but if they did require a moment to themselves or a bit of fresh air they would have to resort to climbing out a window and that is just not ideal at all.  

“Having control of the Black Lordship would solve a great deal of our problems,” Ron comments nonchalantly, playing with the sleeves of his jumper. Hermione narrows her eyes at him, suspicious. He only uses that particular tone when he’s trying to convince her of something but doesn’t want her to know that’s his goal. 

“Yes, it would, Ronald, but if Sirius were to go before the Wizengamot to claim the title, he would be shackled and on his way to Azkaban before he made it three steps into the ministry,” Hermione points out dryly, enjoying the way his eyes track her movements as she reaches for a slice of cake. Pointedly, she doesn’t fix her sweater when it rides up and exposes a sliver of skin. Ron’s eyes get stuck there for a moment before he shakes himself and refocuses. 

“We could offer the Lordship to someone else,” Ron says, staring resolutely into his mug. Hermione smirks at him, amused by his cherry-red ears. 

Her boys are so silly; they haven’t realized what she’s known for months now. Logically speaking, a triangle is the strongest shape and three heads are always better than two. Why should she have to choose when they are perfect already? The Golden Trio, after all, should stay a trio. 

“To who, Ron? The only acceptable people I can think of are the Tonks family,” Hermione declares, savoring the first bite of Mrs. Weasley’s world-famous double chocolate cake. Whatever her faults, Mrs. Weasley is a fabulous cook. 

“Offering it to Andromeda leaves the door wide open for Lady Malfoy or, merlin-forbid, Belatrix to stake a claim,” Hermione grimaces, shuddering at the very idea. “Tonks would laugh us out of the room if we dared to ask her. That leaves Malfoy. Do you really want to hand the power that comes with being Head of the Black Family to Draco Malfoy of all people?” 

“Over my dead body!” Ron exclaims, outraged at the mere suggestion. “No, I mean someone else. Someone new.” 

“Who?” 

“You.” 

“Me?!” Hermoine splutters, choking on a sip of tea. Ron waits patiently as she hacks up a lung. “Where on earth did you get that idea?” 

“You’re new blood, Mione. No existing ties to other pureblood families,” Ron explains eagerly, his excitement at the idea plain to see. “You’re smart and powerful. I doubt the Black Family Magics will deny you after a little convincing. We need someone we can trust in such a powerful position, and quite frankly, I can’t think of anyone better for the job.” 

“What about Harry?” Hermione demands, cake left forgotten on her chair as she stands. 

“Please, Mione, you know as well as I do that he doesn’t want it,” Ron remarks, watching her wear a hole in the dusty carpet. “The Potter Lordship is more than enough.” 

“Fine,” Hermione huffs, conceding the point. She does know that. “Alright, how would this even work?”

“Well, Sirius could blood adopt you, like he did with Harry-” 

“No,” Hermione denies, cutting him off. Being biologically related to one of the boys she intends to claim as a boyfriend and future husband would be inconvenient; incest really isn’t her thing. 

“Okay,” Ron drawls out slowly, looking at her strangely. Hermione blinks back at him, innocent as a doe. “He could adopt you through magical means. Similar to the blood-adoption ritual, but your magical essence replaces the blood. It would still make you a Black, giving you just as much claim as the Malfoys or Tonks.” 

“Using that logic, why couldn’t you do it?” Hermione questions, halting at the foot of Harry’s bed. He’s quiet at the moment, finally at rest somewhere that looks at least a shade more peaceful. 

“Despite losing our Wizengamot seat a couple of generations back, the Weaselys are still technically a Noble House,” Ron shrugs, glossing over this new piece of his history like Hermione doesn’t treasure every bit of knowledge granted to her. Harry will be jealous he missed it. “Both family magics, Weasely and Black, would throw a tantrum if I tried to claim the Black ring. The Weasley Family Magic is, as you might have guessed, very possessive and opinionated.” 

“Fair enough,” Hermione laughs, charmed by the description. She can only think of one more objection. “What about Sirius?”

“What about him?”
“Do you think he will approve of your idea?” Hermione asks, ambling back to her chair, and, more importantly, the slice of cake she abandoned there. 

“Hermione, do I think Sirius Black will want to have a part in creating the first female, dark-skinned, muggle-born Lady Black? Well, yes, I do,” Ron states matter-of-factly, grinning up at her. 

“What was I thinking? He’ll be delighted,” Hermione huffs, rolling her eyes fondly. He’ll probably consider it the greatest prank he’s ever pulled. 

“Yeah,” Ron agrees, choosing a slice of cake for himself. “But it doesn’t really matter what he thinks, or anyone, for that matter, if you don’t want it. So take a minute, love. Close your eyes and ask yourself, is being Lady Black something you truly want?” 

Hermione chews thoughtfully around her latest bite of double chocolate cake and follows his advice. She lets her eyes fall shut and envisions it, becoming Lady Black. The prestige and the power. The judgment of the other Lord and Ladies. The outrage of purebloods like the Malfoys. The weight of such a responsibility would be harrowing, but Hermione has never shied away from a challenge. She was sorted into the house of lions for a reason. 

There is something captivating about the idea of it, standing at the helm of power without the shadow of Harry’s influence bearing down on her shoulders. She loves the boy more than words can possibly express, but she does not wish to be known only as one of Harry Potter’s best friends for the rest of her life. Sometimes a girl needs to make a name for herself, and be the captain of her own ship. 

Further still, after the war, after Voldemort has been killed and Dumbledore muzzled, she could bring about serious change with the Black Family behind her. The racism against muggle-borns, creature rights, and elementary education, the opportunities are endless, and, with a signet ring on her pinky, quite obtainable. 

“Yes,” she whispers, breathless with the hope of it, “I want it.” 

“I never had any doubt,” Ron smiles, gazing at her with such warmth in his eyes. Hermione beams back at him, excited and happy in a way she hasn’t felt since Harry first collapsed that morning. 

“We’ll have to talk to Sirius,” Hermione pronounces, spearing another piece of cake with unprecedented enthusiasm. “And Harry, of course.” 

“I might have already spoken about it with him,” Ron professes, giving her his best ‘I’m too cute to be mad at smile’ . 

“Which one?” 

“Both,” Ron grins, utterly remorseless. 

“Oh,” Hermione laughs, feeling too exhilarated to be irritated that she was the last to know about Ron’s plan. 

She freezes, fork halfway to her mouth, when Harry mumbles something that almost sounds like actual English words. She whips around to face him, joy leaping through her heart when she spots his eyes struggling to open. In a single blink, Ron has moved to Harry’s side, kneeling over him on the bed. Hermione races to follow his example.  

“It’s not even been a day yet,” Hermione comments in shock, glancing at Ron’s equally wide eyes. Despite their confusion, they’re both entirely willing to accept the early wake-up without a moment’s hesitation. 

“Hey, love,” Ron coos, cupping Harry’s face with gentle hands. The young lord’s eyes scrunch together, eyebrows furrowing as Harry works to rejoin the waking world. “That’s it, darling. You can do it. Reveal those beautiful emerald eyes for me.” 

Harry’s eyes flutter open a moment later, pupils dilated to such a degree that the black almost swallows the green entirely. 

“Ron,” Harry breathes wonderly, gazing up at him with hazy, unfocused eyes. “I can see you. You’re so pretty .” 

“I- uh,” Ron stutters, blushing heavily, but Harry’s attention has already drifted. 

“Hermoine, hi,” Harry smiles dopily, mouth struggling around her name as he stares at her in apparent shock. A hand slips out of his covers to reach weakly for her hair. “Soft,” is his declaration. 

“Hello, silly boy,” Hermoine greets, poking his cheek playfully. 

“‘M not silly,” Harry complains, wrinkling his nose. Ron’s still frozen above him, so Hermione settles comfortably against the redhead’s side. 

“Maybe not, but you are certainly acting a little high, darling,” Hermione observes amusedly, letting him play with the strand of her hair captured in his fingers. 

“Hmm, I am? I certainly feel high,” Harry mumbles, gaze still cloudy.

“It’s just the potions wearing off, honey,” Hermoine soothes, carding her fingers gently through his hair. It’s matted, just like she predicted. 

“Oh, how long was I out?” Harry questions, releasing her hair to let wondering fingers explore the fuzzy texture of Ron’s jumper. 

“A little over seven hours,” Ron answers, having returned from his brief hiatus. 

“The twins will be mad,” Harry snickers, apparently very pleased with this news. 

“And why’s that, love?” Ron asks, thumbs trailing over the soft skin of Harry’s cheeks. Hermoine marvels that they haven’t caught on yet; her boys, honestly. 

“They bet I would be under for at least a day,” Harry tells him gleefully, eyes flicking abundantly around the room. This is the first time he has seen clearly in years, perhaps forever, Hermione can only guess at his wonder. 

“We should get Remus,” Ron murmurs to her, watching Harry take in the room. 

“Agreed, I’ll fetch him,” Hermione decides, moving off the bed. Harry follows her progress and immediately locates the tray Ron brought up over her shoulder. 

“Ooo, is that treacle tart?” Harry cries happily, making grabby hands at the dessert. 

Hermione laughs to herself as she closes the door softly behind her. Harry will be just fine, of that, she’s certain. 

Arthur Weasley has been married for twenty-seven years. He’s loved his wife for at least a decade longer than that measly sum. Arthur grew up with a big family and he wanted the same for his children; a house full to bursting with laughter, opinions, personalities, and love, most importantly. Molly found the idea charming, but she put her foot down after Ginny, the seventh of children.

 Arthur can understand her reasoning; seven pregnancies is an insane ask, even with the help of magic on their side. The hormone changes and the sheer trauma a woman’s body is put through can never be understated and Arthur will forever be grateful for her sacrifice. He also isn’t completely confident the Burrow wouldn’t collapse in protest if they tried to add another floor. 

Loving Molly Weasely is, all at once, the easiest task he’s ever set out to accomplish and the hardest. On some days, it is all they can do to put some distance between themselves and search madly for the patience not to kill the other. Most days, however, they match each other perfectly. Clam meets wild, patience meets drive, kindness meets passion. Undoubtedly, it doesn’t hurt that their bedroom activities are frequent and wonderfully indecent. 

Twenty-seven years, and some change, offers plenty of opportunity to truly know someone. Arthur feels he understands his wife, down to the marrow of her bones. So he isn't surprised when he wakes up in the middle of the night for the fifth time in a row with Molly’s side of the bed cold and empty. 

He follows the sweet scent of Molly working at a kitchen counter. Though he already knew where she would be and what her hands would be busy with, the sight of his beautiful love elbows deep in a dough of some kind still manages to light a flurry of butterflies in his chest. Even now, after seven children and at the cusp of a second war, he is mesmerized by her and how lucky he is to be standing there gazing at her. 

Molly doesn’t notice him, braced against the doorframe, for several minutes. Arthur is content to watch her, warm robe wrapped around him. She startles when she finally does look up and spots him. They smile at each other, remembering a thousand moments just like this one. 

“Arthur, darling, how long have you been there?” Molly asks, shaking her head fondly. “Did you need something, dear?” 

“Only my wife beside me in our bed,” Arthur replies, pushing off the doorframe and padding over to her. 

“I’m preparing for tomorrow’s breakfast,” Molly informs him, gesturing to the table behind her straining under the weight of two dozen bowls. Arthur aches at the sight of them. 

“At three in the morning?” Arthur inquires, voice soft and gentle. He takes one of her hands in his, ignoring her protests about the sticky residue still clinging to them. 

“Well, yes, we have many guests. Lots of mouths to feed,” she murmurs, avoiding his gaze. 

“Molly, dearest, I have loved you long enough to know how long preparing a meal should take,” Arthur scolds, rubbing calloused fingers gently over her knuckles. “Won’t you tell me what’s truly bothering you?” 

She pulls her hands away and walks over to the kitchen sink. She turns the water on and washes her hands in that thorough, efficient manner she taught their children to use. It never fails to bring a smile to his lips. 

“The children,” she begins, though he knows she really means their children; Hermione and Harry included. “They are, um.”

“Yes,” Arthur agrees, giving her space as she starts to collect the dirty dishes to rinse in the sink. 

They are both silent as she works, mulling this over. The children, their children, are very busy doing something nefarious. If Arthur were asked, he would wager those deeds are quite similar to the tasks Ablus is undertaking; preparations for war. If he was to be even more forthright, Arthur would acknowledge that this is another thing that does not surprise him. 

Harry has lived his entire life fending for himself. Ron has explained to them the failings of the countless adults Harry attempted to seek help from. Arthur suspects that he and Molly are also on that list. They are human and they have made a considerable amount of mistakes. The biggest, prehasps, are the many occasions they allowed their fears and worries about a certain bespectacled boy to be assayed by twinkling eyes and a grandfatherly smile. 

Arthur steals the first dish after it has been sufficiently scrubbed, drying it with a rag procured from Kreacher’s secret stash. On the nights when they must think, and think deeply, they forgo their wands and clean up the muggle way.

Eventually, after the dishes have been cleaned and the various doughs stored safely away, Molly turns to him with red-rimmed eyes; ready to be enclosed in his embrace. 

“I-I can not lose them, Arthur,” Molly whispers, voice catching in her throat. “Any of them. I would not survive it.” 

Arthur pulls her closer, arms tightening around her waist. He doesn’t offer her any condolences, there are no words for the kind of fear a parent experiences when war is approaching and their children want to fight. It’s a wonder they continue to draw in enough air to fill their lungs. 

“We can not stop them, they would never forgive us,” he tells her, holding her tight to him. And they could stop them. They could lock their children in the Burrow and throw away the key. They could move the whole family to the Americas or Asia, dragging Harry and Hermione along for the ride. They could simply not allow them to return to Hogwarts. 

“I know,” Molly sighs, resting her head on his chest. “Besides, they’d just end up doing something even more reckless anyway.” 

“Yes,” Arthur agrees, their children are nothing if not creative and unfortunately fond of adventure. 

“I just wish they would talk to us, allow us some knowledge of their schemes,” Molly disparages, clutching at the soft wool of Arthur’s robe. 

“I think we rather lost our opportunity for that one, love,” Arthur points out dryly, stroking her hair. He feels the gentle puffs of air against his neck as she chuckles. 

“I haven’t been my most tactful self this past week,” Molly concedes, smiling faintly. “Poor Hermione has looked seconds away from murder every time I’ve opened my mouth.” 

“I don’t think she knows how to handle you,” Arthur says, pulling back so they can look at each other. 

“Well, hopefully, I can earn my way back into her good graces,” Molly wishes, reaching up to place a quick kiss on his cheek.

“I have no doubt you’ll manage,” Arthur claims, returning the kiss. 

“Oh, but Arthur, we must do something,” Molly cries quietly, trailing after him as he leads the way back to their bedroom in Grimmauld Place. 

“Well, if they won’t talk to us, perhaps we can bring in reinforcements,” Arthur suggests, climbing up the stairs. 

“You mean Bill,” Molly guesses, ducking under his arm as he holds the door open for her. 

“Yes, or Charlie,” he answers, sitting down lightly on their bed. 

“That’s rather devious.” 

“Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” Molly laughs, snuggling up to his side. “We’ll write them both in the morning.” 

Arthur flicks off the lights before slouching down to burrow under the covers. Molly follows him, settling with her head atop his shoulder. He is just beginning to surrender to sleep once more when a thought occurs to him and he grins to himself in the dark.

“I can feel your smile,” Molly drawls, reaching up to poke the offending lips. 

“You really should have seen your face this morning when you tried to open that door,” Arthur teases, all in a rush; already breathless with laughter. Molly whacks him on the chest, but she too is chuckling under her breath. 

“The shock of it, Arthur,” Molly exclaims in playful dismay, “I really didn’t know what to do.” 

“It was hilarious,” Arthur announces, rocking the bed with his laughter. “I wish I had a camera.” 

“Oh, hush,” Molly pouts, feeling light again in the arms of her husband. Eventually, they calm and their chuckles quiet. Sleep comes easily a while later. Tomorrow will be a new day; a better one, she’s already decided.  

Sirius wakes to mumbled cursing and a familiar mop of wild black hair. He follows the messy mane down to the body stretched far enough over the end of the bed to risk toppling right off it. 

“Need a hand there, pup?” Sirius questions, amused. The head pops up and two emerald green eyes narrow at him, clearly not charmed by the smirk framing Sirius’ lips. 

“Thank, Merlin,” Harry groans, flopping back on his bed. “Hand me that glass of water.” 

“So bossy,” Sirius chides, grinning at the answering middle finger thrust in his direction. 

“I’m suffering here, Pads,” Harry whines, batting thick eyelashes at him. 

“Alright, alright. You big baby.” 

That last comment is said under his breath as Sirius stands to retrieve the aforementioned glass of water. He helps Harry sit up in bed, the boy still too weak from the potions to do much of anything without assistance. 

After all parties have been sufficiently watered, Sirius retakes his seat. Coincidentally, it’s the same chair he kicked Hermione out of around midnight last night. Remus is snoring away in Ron’s usual place, feet kicked up on the end of Harry’s bed. 

“How are you feeling, pup?” Sirius asks, surveying his body for any visible damage. Best to be sure, Hermione might actually skin him alive if the young lord is hurt on his watch. Not to mention, Sirius cares an obnoxious amount about the teenager currently attempting to fight his way out of the sheets tangled around his legs. 

“Sore,” is Harry’s fervent reply. His experimental stretch is abandoned halfway through the effort with a vehement curse. Sirius is a little impressed with his creativity. “I’m not actually sure I can feel my toes.”  

“It’ll wear off in a few days,” Sirius reassures him, laughing. Remus reported to him in great detail everything Lucinda told them. Sirius loathed being forced to stay behind during such an important moment in Harry’s life, but he’s glad it was Moony who went in his steed. He would have trusted no one else with the task. 

“Though, you may want to fake the handicap for a while longer,” Sirius whispers conspiratorially, leaning closer to his godson. “Remus has really thrown himself into training planning. I’m scared for you.” 

“I heard that,” Remus growls, trying not to smile when both godson and godfather whip around to face him with identical innocent expressions. 

“Moony!” Sirius exclaims, beaming at him. “How did you sleep? Well, I hope?” 

“Uh-huh,” Remus huffs, shaking his head. “I’ll go wake Hermione and Ron. I know you both have much to discuss.” 

Remus rises fluidly to his feet, sending Sirius a pointed look as he ducks under the doorway. Infuriatingly tall, werewolf bastard, Sirius thinks to himself, annoyed and grateful in equal measure. 

“Is he talking about how you’ve been my adopted father for fifteen years now and forgot to mention it to me even once?” Harry inquires, meeting Sirius’ gaze with two raised eyebrows. 

“Yeah, that’s exactly what he’s talking about,” Sirius admits ruefully, slumping against the back of his chair. The topic came up when everyone was discussing the Black Lordship, but the two of them never got a chance to sit down and really talk about it. “You guys are never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

“Afraid not, Pads,” Harry smiles, squirming around on his pillows to achieve a more comfortable position. 

“Fair enough,” Sirius says, winking at the boy. He grows serious (ha), psyching himself up to fully explain the situation. The war is a time of his life he would rather avoid talking about. 

“Dying young was an accepted fate during the first war,” Sirius begins, horrified that the term first is a needed qualifier now. “The only question we had, James, Lilly, and I, was which one of us was going to fall first. You were new, days old, and already unbelievably powerful. We were terrified someone with unsavory intentions would snap you up if anything happened to us. 

“A lot of families were facing a similar problem and it became common practice for godparents to blood-adopt their godchildren. It was meant only as a precautionary measure; insurance that no law could deny the godparent their kid.” 

“I, Merlin, pup, I forgot,” Sirius confesses, chagrined. He is unable to meet Harry’s eyes, terrified of the disgust that must be in them. “Exposure to the dementors caused a treasure trove of issues. I have gaps in my memory, thousands of them. I’m sorry, pup. Sorry and ashamed.” 

“Sirius,” Harry breaks in, trying to catch his gaze. “There is no reason to apologize. I completely understand.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I promise,” Harry swears, smiling when Sirius finally looks up. “Over a decade under the care of dementors is more than enough to explain the adoption slipping from your mind.” 

“Wait, pup, that isn’t to say I don’t cherish the knowledge,” Sirius rushes to explain, pulling his chair closer so he can reach for one of Harry’s hands. “I would never wish to replace James, but having you as my son is an honor no words could properly describe.” 

“Really?” Harry breathes, heart fluttering. 

“Yes! Yes, of course,” Sirius exclaims, grip tightening around Harry’s fingers. 

“Maybe I could, um,” Harry hesitates, only continuing after Sirius nods his encouragement. “James will always be my dad, but maybe I could call you Papa.” 

“I would like that,” Sirius enthuses, practically flying; he feels so light. They grin at each other, happy. After a moment, Harry starts to fidget.

“Um, could you help me up?” Harry ventures, an embarrassed flush spreading across his cheeks. “I really have to pee.” 

“Oh! Sure, pup,” Sirius agrees, laughing. He springs from his chair, pulling back Harry’s covers as he stands. He steadies the boy, his son, as Harry slowly shifts more of his weight to his legs. 

Sirius blinks at him, a little dazed, as he just keeps rising. When Harry stops, at his full height, he stands several inches taller than Sirius. 

“Wait a damn minute,” Sirius cries, staring at Harry in betrayal. “Am I the shortest one in this family now?!” 

Harry laughs so hard that he almost loses his already precarious balance. Sirius has to lunge to catch him, not that he wouldn’t have deserved the tumble. Sirius grudgingly escorts the still chortling teen to the closet bathroom, grumbling about unfortunately not so little anymore punks the whole way there.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: And So It Begins

Remus bounds down the narrow stairs leading towards the basement of Grimmauld Place. The space down here has been expanded so thoroughly by the many generations of Blacks it could comfortably house the entire Weasley clan. There is a weapons fault, a potions lab, a small library, a wine cellar, an entire corridor of prison cells, several storage rooms, two bathrooms, a sick bay, and a training hall.

The training hall, of course, is what caught their interest. Remus moved into Grimmauld Place seven weeks ago. Officially, it was so he was more accessible for Order business. Truthfully, however, he only agreed so he could watch over Sirius. Padfoot, when left to his own devices, can get into heaps of trouble. Sirius when he’s completely alone, trapped somewhere he hates, and bored is a notion that makes Remus pale.

So, the werewolf came to live in Grimmauld Place.

Truthfully, it was no real sacrifice. He has missed Sirius desperately. Even when he thought the animagus was a traitor, Remus felt his absence like a physical blow every time the man slipped into his thoughts. Which was often.

Housing together only became a problem after the elation of having company wore off and Sirius got bored again. A hyper, demanding, possessive Sirius Black is nothing new to Remus. That is Padfoot’s natural state, after all. Simply a fact of life Remus has long since accepted, even came to appreciate during their time at Hogwarts, but the werewolf has had twelve years to grow accustomed to his isolation.

If Remus wanted any chance of avoiding strangling his friend, Sirius needed a project; something to keep his mind and body occupied for a couple of hours every day so Remus could enjoy some much-needed time to himself.

That is where the training hall came into play.

It was in desperate need of repairs. The walls were mildewy, the wood floors were rotted through, and mold had completely taken over the space. All the equipment was long gone. The dueling dummies had collapsed, imperious to even the strongest of repairing charms, and the rubber mats meant for sparring were a lost cause. Though Sirius did say their cushioning abilities were suspect even when he was a kid.

Restoring the hall to its former majesty was just the kind of undertaking Padfoot needed. Tearing down walls, rebuilding, and designing the layout all offered an outlet for Sirius’ languishing mind. Giving him a purpose, a task to accomplish every day has done wonders for his mental health. The physical benefits of daily exercise for both his body and magic are also evident.

There is no doubt Sirius is still in desperate need of a healer, but he looks worlds away from the emaciated, half-mad inmate he was after escaping Azkaban. Having the cubs in residence was another boon to Remus’ effort to keep himself and Sirius sane. The cubs leaped at any opportunity to escape Molly’s all-encompassing vendetta against the cleanliness of Grimmauld Place and Sirius was soon overrun with company.

Harry’s arrival, however, has caused the greatest benefit. He breathed a new life into the house and Sirius both. Remus had almost forgotten the infectious bark of the animagus’ laugh. It is so good to see the man smile.

“No pups today?” Padfoot asks, vaulting over a pile of mats to open the door for the werewolf.

“They are upstairs doing homework,” Remus tells him, passing Sirius a bottle of water. The animagus accepts it eagerly, refilling it with an absentminded Aguamenti after draining it in seconds.

“How on earth did you manage that?” Sirius wonders incredulously, torn between disappointment that the pups aren’t coming and amazement Remus got them to do schoolwork. Ever since they made the decision to join the war effort under their own power, summer assignments lost what was left of the little appeal they initially maintained.

“I told them they had the day to finish it all before they are mine for the rest of the summer,” Remus informs him, perhaps a bit smugly.

“Ooo, a threat,” Sirius notes admiringly, sweeping into a playful bow. “And that worked?”

“Well, I think Hermione’s glare had more to do with their compliance than anything I did, but I’ll claim the victory nonetheless,” Remus remarks ruefully, the fondness in his tone sweet as honey.

Sirius laughs, guiding Remus further into the room. It’s been a couple of days since the werewolf last visited and Sirius is excited for his reaction to the latest progress. Remus can’t contain a gasp as he gets his first proper view of the training hall. He was here the day before he took Harry to see Lucinda and the room was empty then.

Padfoot had just finished completely gutting it; he repaired the walls, installed new floors, and was in the process of finalizing the layout. He’s been sending the twins out twice, sometimes three times a day to collect all the goodies he ordered through catalogs. Remus has spotted them lugging in all sizes of boxes from a very wide range of stores; muggle and magical alike.

Despite Albus adding the age ward around the exits, the twins’ outings have hardly slowed. The headmaster never really stood a chance against two determined pranksters with Sirius Black on their sides. Though Sirius has spent weeks with the cubs working on the project and Remus witnessed the twins hauling in the fruits of their labor countless times, there is nothing that could have prepared him for the final result.

Padfoot surpassed even his wildest dreams.

Dazed, Remus wanders around the training hall, eyes wide as they devour the visual feast unfolding before him.

The animagus split the training hall into four different sections all geared for separate skills: strength, stamina, agility, and combat.

The strength section is where most of the muggle equipment is stored. There are racks of weights, several elaborate machines that Sirius excitedly explains test all the muscle groups, and an area set up for deadlifting. A wall of mirrors blankets the space, allowing one to watch their form while they lift.

There are also stations set up in that section that hone a wixen’s magical strength. Several targets that analyze the power level of spells hang from half walls. There is a raised mat with three dueling dummies standing off to the side. Even from the doorway, Remus recognizes the brand. Those dummies are specifically designed to resist all spells below a certain power threshold. The threshold can be lowered or raised depending on a wixen's strength, creating an exercise that challenges the vigor of the magical core.

The stamina section is also set up to exhaust both physical and magical endurance. There are several muggle running contraptions Remus has seen a couple of times. He believes they are called treadmills. A rubber track was installed along the edges of the room, easily a quarter of a mile long. Another dueling arena is set up in that section. Those dummies are programmed to stay standing and fighting until a timer goes off, forcing their opponents to defend against a constant barrage of spells for minutes at a time.

The agility section is the most extensive. The entire back side of the hall has been replaced with a rock climbing wall. The foot holds range from typical plastic ledges to ropes to rocks to nets. At several points the wall curves inward or expands, creating sharp angles that make climbing more difficult. There is a foam pit under it to catch anyone who takes a tumble through the air. The running track follows the edge of the pit, making its oval shape a bit irregular.

Up high near the ceiling, an obstacle course is floating in the sky. Remus can’t see it clearly from the ground, but it’s obviously substantial. In any case, an obstacle course designed by Sirius Black is bound to be a rigorous test of mental and physical fortitude.

A massive net spans from wall to wall, ready to rescue the no doubt numerous cubs who lose their balance.

Under the obstacle course and in front of the rock wall is another dueling arena. This one is much larger than the others.

Colossal boulders tower above the ground and valleys burrow deep below the surface. The hall’s typical polished wood is absent, replaced with gravel and large expanses of mud. Exhausted plants struggle against the dirt, barely peeking through in sad little patches.

The gutted remains of a crumbling shack haunt the furthest corner. The dueling dummies in that section are the standard edition, made to resemble a human’s durability and strength as closely as possible. It will take cunning and skill to defeat them.

It’s clear Sirius’ intention was to create an arena that mirrors reality; where battles don’t take place in pristine halls on cushioned mats. The cubs will have to maneuver around barricades and fight through rough terrain. And after they have memorized the layout, Remus can transfigure the space into a brand-new battlefield. The possibilities are endless.

In the middle of the room, separating the strength and agility sections is a small room meant for yoga and deep meditation. Three half walls were erected, enclosing the space from the rest of the training hall.

Beaded curtains descend from the ceiling, softly brushing against the added partitions. Mirrors cover the half walls and eight yoga mats are spread out across the wood floor. Plush cushions are staked in one corner, along with extra mats. Glowing orbs brush up against the curtains, bathing the nook with a soft, warm light.

Closest to the front of the training hall, is the combat section. On either side of large double doors, racks of weapons line the wall. There are countless swords, daggers, spears, axes, bows and arrows, even a javelin is up there. The left and right walls of the training hall are plastered with targets, continuing until they reach the agility and strength sections, respectively.

The left side is clearly meant for the non-magical weapons. The targets on that wall are muggle in origin, designed to resemble countless shapes: human heads and bodies, animals, bullseyes, and even some metal objects like cans and horseshoes.

The right side has targets similar to those in the strength section, except instead of measuring the power level of a spell, they monitor the accuracy of the casting. All factors are considered: power, aim, potency, the casting technique, even how the incantation is pronounced. Until the wixen casts the spell perfectly, the target will stay red. Once it flashes green, one knows they have mastered the spell.

Those targets would have been an immeasurable resource when he was teaching defense at Hogwarts, but the school didn’t have room in the budget for even one. Padfoot has twenty up on the walls.

In the middle of the room, between the target ranges and in front of the yoga and meditation nook, an elevated platform rises from the ground. It appears to be modeled after the muggle boxing rings Remus has spotted once or twice on the screen of a television. The werewolf freezes, breath catching in his lungs, when he spies the dueling dummies looming in the corners of the ring.

Their humanoid shapes are the most convincing out of all the dummies in the room. They look almost like the mannequins used in muggle fashion stores. If Remus is correct, and there is very little doubt that he is, those are the most expensive models on the market. He’s spent hours drooling over them in the defense magazines he’s subscribed to. He turns, slack-jawed, to face a highly entertained Sirius.

“Are those…?” Remus can’t even continue the question, his words trailing off.

“The J-27 Trainers?” Padfoot finishes for him, eyes twinkling. “Yes, yes they are.”

“H-how?” Remus demands, furiously blinking away the no-doubt starry-eyed wonder clouding his gaze.

“Weeks of correspondence with a grouchy old Japanese man, I’m afraid,” Sirius sighs, scrunching his nose at the remembered struggle.

Remus nearly faints with the knowledge that the ‘grouchy’ old man his rowdy, pompous friend was writing to must have been the Haruki Shimizu. Only the best Defense Master the wizarding world has seen in over a century and the founder of the Fire-Ice Corporation, a company that specializes in creating dueling dummies. Though Fire-Ice calls them defense trainers.

“It took ages to convince him, but I had those pretty guys modified to be experts in muggle martial arts as well as magical means of defense,” Sirius brags, gleefully watching as Remus’ mind breaks.

“You have ten custom-charmed J-27 trainers! Ten!” Remus is panting, breathless, fingers itching with the need to touch and explore.

“Yep,” Sirius grins, popping the P obnoxiously.

“How!?!” Remus shrieks, reduced to one-word exclamations yet again.

“My charming persona and good old-fashioned tenacity,” Sirius boasts, fluttering his eyelashes at the gobsmacked werewolf. “Not to mention, very few people can deny what the Black fortune has to offer.”

“Ah, the truth is revealed,” Remus teases, laughing as the animagus shoves him. The werewolf quiets, eyes scanning the hall. Remus’ focus prances around the room, his eyes jumping from place to place like a hummingbird in flight. Every time he turns there’s a new discovery waiting to be found.

“It’s good?” Sirius’ tentative voice draws his wandering attention. The speed at which Remus pivots to face his friend causes a brief bout of nausea.

“Pads, it’s amazing,” he declares, almost fervent in his need to reassure the animagus.

“Yeah?”

“You’ve done so well, Pads.” Remus grasps his shoulders, locking eyes with the stubborn man. A childhood served under the hateful watch of Walburga Black can cause lasting scars, but Remus is a daft hand navigating the perilous waters she left behind.

“Do you think he’ll like it?” Sirius questions, nervous in a way he only ever gets when he’s asking for praise or comfort. Remus doesn’t need more than a second to puzzle out who Sirius is speaking of. Harry has only been at Grimmauld for six days, he hasn’t gotten many opportunities to see the training hall yet.

Remus suggested the project, but he holds no illusions about Sirius’ central motivations. Harry’s favorite subject in school is defense, and Padfoot wants their cub to be comfortable and happy here so badly it shines through in most of their interactions. Even before they knew about the cubs’ desire to form a third side of the war, the driving force of Sirius’ passion for repairing the training hall has always been providing Harry a space to feel at home in.

“Sirius, he will love it,” Remus proclaims, drawing the animagus in for a hug. Their foreheads rest together, eyes softly closed.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Harry muffles a curse against Ron’s shoulder after he nearly trips again. Stairs, Harry has come to realize, are his mortal enemy. They rank higher on the list of things trying to kill him than even Voldemort has managed. In the day since he’s woken from the potion-induced coma, Ron has saved him from an untimely demise no less than five times. It’s absurd, truly.

“I haven’t seen you this weak since your first quidditch practice,” Ron remarks fondly, pushing the door of their room open. They tumble in, braced against each other. Ron helps Harry to his bed, offering a stable hand as he lowers himself to the soft comforter.

“We had to drag you out of bed the next morning,” Ron recalls, grinning down at the young lord. Harry flops back against his cushions, glaring half-heartedly at the redhead.

“You went stark white at the bottom of the moving staircases,” Ron laughs, dodging the pillow Harry hurls at his face. “Seriously, I’ve never seen all the blood drain out of someone’s face faster.”

“Shut up,” Harry whines, burying his head in the covers. Ron isn’t wrong; climbing the endless flights of stairs in Hogwarts is quite the daunting task after barely surviving three hours of Oliver Wood mandated quidditch practice.

“For a full week every other word out of your mouth was a muttered complaint about being sore,” Ron reminds Harry’s back, playfully poking the other teen with his sock-covered foot.

Harry lifts his head, his annoyed look significantly undermined by the sleepy haze covering his features. “I despise you.”

“You do not,” Ron gasps, hands braced dramatically on his chest.

“I do, too.”

“Outrageous!” Ron cries, pouncing on the unsuspecting lord. Harry squeals, thrashing as he tries to escape the tickle warfare.

“You love me, admit it.”

“Never.”

“Then you leave me no choice,” Ron declares solemnly, doubling his efforts.

Three minutes later a breathless Harry finally concedes defeat.

“Stop! Stop!” Harry laughs, pushing at the heavy body draped over his back. “I love you. You win!”

“Ha! That’ll teach you to go against a Weasley,” Ron crows smugly, springing to his feet.

“What ever was I thinking?” Harry rolls his eyes fondly, watching Ron take a victory lap around the room.

Warmth spreads from the tips of his toes all the way to the top of his head; there isn’t anything Harry wouldn’t do to see that particular smile curve those particular lips.

Ron scoops up his toiletry bag on the second turn about the room. He flashes another blinding grin and declares he’s in dire need of a shower. Harry waves him off, utterly infatuated.

One day, very far in the future, Harry might have to do something about the burgeoning feelings he’s developing for his two best friends. Tonight, however, is certainly not the time.

Griphook gave him a week to declare a Potter heir before the bank recalls the heir ring. That time limit is quickly dwindling. Harry doesn’t see the point in waiting any longer, not when he already knows who he wants in the position. There was only ever one choice, one person, who the young lord would feel comfortable inviting into his family.

The Potter family has been brought to its knees. Harry is the last of them. In the quiet moments of the past week, Sirius told him stories of his legacy. The chronicles of his parents and their parents before them. The Potter line is rich with history. There have been famous potioneers, defense masters, charm crafters, dragon tamers, and even a poet or two.

The Potters fought in countless wars, for light and dark, in muggle and magical. They’ve battled dark lords and bowed to them. Potters are loyal, brave, and bold. Gryffindor exemplified, Sirius had said. Their vaults are bursting with the glories of past victories, heartbreaking losses, and legendary love affairs.

All of it is gone, lost to time. Only Harry remains. A quiet conviction grew inside his heart as he listened, mesmerized, to Sirius recounting the tales James once whispered in their dorm on sleepless nights. He will rebuild; the House of Potter will grow into what it once was, surpass its former glory even.

Voldemort will die and the Potter family will stand victorious, stronger than ever. And by his side, guarding Harry’s back, matching him stride for stride, will be his heir: Ronald Billus Weasley.

To that end, Harry tests the limits of his slowly returning strength and rises unsteadily to his feet. His trunk is stored away in the armoire placed against the far wall, only half a dozen steps away.

Despite the meager distance, Harry is breathless by the time he reaches it. Shoulder braced against the aging wood, Harry engages in a battle of wills with the armorie’s latch.

Everything in this house is determined to be as difficult as possible, but Harry wins the fight after a few minutes of struggle. He kneels, flirting with the edge of falling, but mercifully, his trunk isn’t as stubborn as the latch and he manages to make it back to his bed, the ring box clutched safely to his chest, without his face and the floor meeting in a harsh embrace.

All there’s left to do now is wait; so Harry does, leg tapping against the floor in an anxious rhythm. Ron might refuse the ring and that would be his right. Harry would have to choose someone else, or simply go without an heir.

Either way, he’d manage. It’s a big ask, a huge commitment, and Ron would not be remiss in wanting to avoid it. The Potter House has a long way to go before Harry will be satisfied.

He does suspect, however, that Ron will gladly accept the ring. The redhead is unflinchingly loyal, and he loves a good challenge.

On top of that, Harry and Hermoine will be spending quite a lot of time at the Ministry in the coming months, acting in their roles as Lord Potter and Lady Black. As heir Potter, no one could attest Ron’s right to accompany them to Wizengamot meetings and any trials they may be asked to sit in.

What feels like hours later, he recognizes the steady tread that heralds Ron’s journey back from the bathroom across the hall.

Sure enough, the door opens seconds later, and Ron waltzes in, softly whistling a jaunty tune. Harry’s brain stutters to an abrupt halt, all thoughts frozen; suddenly encased in endless layers of ice. His eyes are lost in the landscape of Ron’s bare chest. The flickering light from the lanterns has shadows weaving across his glistening skin.

His hair is still wet. Water is dripping down the sides of his neck. Harry traces their path with his gaze, mesmerized by the sight. Inevitably, the droplets fall prey to the forest of rust-colored hair dusting Ron’s chest; their journey halted long before they could reach the towel.

Harry discovers his mouth has gone dry after a deplorable attempt at clearing his throat.

Quite abruptly, he is nervous for a completely new reason. His hands might be sweaty, he could be dying, anything feels possible at this moment.

He barely manages to tear his eyes away in time; his gawking only escaping notice by the skin of its teeth.

He is obscenely grateful for the couple of minutes it takes Ron to dress, as Harry desperately needs that time to calm his racing heart and wrangle his hormones back under control.

The time to confront his growing feelings is far closer than he had previously imagined, that much is obvious.

After all parties are clothed, and his blush has receded enough that only a light pick hue remains, Harry decides it’s time to claim his heir or, at least, attempt to.

“Ron,” he calls, wincing at how hesitant he sounds.

Ron whirls around, arms raised awkwardly above his head, caught mid-motion while toweling his hair dry. He must sense something from Harry’s face because he quickly abandons his task.

He settles into the chair that still hasn’t been removed from Harry’s bedside, looking up at him with deep, ocean-blue eyes.

“What’s up?” Ron asks, voice soft and gaze even gentler.

Harry lets his fingers unfurl like a blossoming flower, revealing the ring box he previously had in a death grip. Ron inhales sharply and his hand shakes as it drifts closer to the polished wood, hovering over its surface.

Slowly, Harry raises his head, locking gazes with Ron. “Will you- I mean, would you want to, maybe, um,”

“Yes,” Ron breathes, a brilliant grin lighting up his features.

“Really?” Harry beams, relief coursing through him like a flood overtaking a dam.

“Yes, Merlin! Of course,” Ron laughs, throwing his arms around Harry’s shoulders and pulling him close.

They breathe together for a moment, exchanging air and sharing space.

Harry shifts back, breaking away from Ron’s hold. He presses the box into the redhead’s palm, an eager fluttering sensation spreading inside his chest.

Ron flicks it open, revealing a simple golden band. The Potter crest is engraved into the gleaming precious metal. Harry can feel the barest hint of energy wafting from its surface. It calls to him, gentle and soothing.

Ron retrieves the ring, pausing briefly with it poised over his left pinky. He looks up, and Harry knows his whole countenance must soften at the nervous expression twisting those features. He smiles at him, and Ron relaxes, easily recognizing the excitement and joy framing Harry’s face.

Squaring his shoulders, Ron slides the ring past his knuckles and to the base of his finger. The journey is smooth and the ring is soon nestled comfortably in its chosen spot.

There is a drawn-out moment, where they both stare at his hand and wait before Ron sucks in a sharp breath and Harry is suddenly awash in the magic pouring forth from the ring.

It’s a burst of warmth across his skin, a gentle embrace, a joyful welcome. It prances throughout the room, rejoicing, singing, dancing.

Ron is laughing, there are tears streaming down his face. Harry can hear the barest whispers of his ancestors speak.

We like him, a rustle in the air.

So brave, a soft murmur.

And loyal, a declaration.

What a handsome face, a flash of mischief.

Yes, he will do, they decide.

He is perfect, they proclaim.

He is ours, they vow.

Heir Potter, they say together.

And then, after that final revelation, the magic retreats. Gone in a heartbeat, safely enclosed once more beneath its golden cage. Ron is panting, a light sheen of sweat coating his brow.

Harry can relate, he passed out during his own examination by the Potter ancestors. The magic is nothing short of rejuvenating, but it can be overwhelming as well.

Ron meets his gaze, breathless. Grinning.

“Heir Potter,” Harry tells him, shoving playfully at his chest.

“Lord Potter,” Ron returns, a light in his eyes.

“Thank you,” Harry says, once they’ve both caught their breath. “I know it’s a lot to ask.”

“No, thank you,” Ron refutes, grasping Harry’s arm with gentle fingers.

“Besides, we seem to be doing well so far. We doubled the size of the Potter family in just one night, after all.”

“I guess that does set a nice precedent,” Harry acknowledges, watching Ron trace mindless patterns across his wrist.

“We’ll be magnificent, I can feel it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Hermione tries to temper her breathing, to fight through the burn in her lungs. One might think, as she did before this morning, that the true challenge of running is the physical excursion. It is not. The trial lies in breath.

She can deny her body’s fatigue, and ignore her exhausted muscles clamoring for rest, but the pricing ache that cuts her every time she draws in a desperate breath is an altogether different beast; undefeatable and utterly without mercy.

An example of another being who lacks mercy is one Remus John Lupin.

He’s had them running laps for close to an hour now; circling the training hall over and over again on the rubber track. Every couple of minutes he yells, “Pulse!” and they have to hasten their pace.

Once they're just under a sprint, practically blurs flashing along the walls, he calls out, “Break!” and they can slow to a walk.

They’ve repeated this enough times that Hermione has long since lost count. Everyone is struggling, but it seems to her that her levels of suffering have reached heights the others haven’t quite caught up to yet.

Admittedly, she is the least physically fit out of all of them, but it remains vexing nonetheless.

Ron has adopted a slow and steady mentality. He maintains a consistent pace, only modifying it when Remus forces him to. He is focused entirely on putting one foot before the other. His breaths remain consistent and even, the bastard.

The twins, as usual, have taken a completely singular approach. They race across the track, edging each other on, and hardly slowing even when Remus shouts break.

They do speed up when the werewolf demands it, but that’s about the only concession they make. Jokes, quips, puns, and jests are thrown back and forth; the twins taking strength from their humor.

Ginny’s strategy is similar to Ron’s. She chooses a pace she likes after each break and stubbornly sticks with it. When “Pulse!” rings out across the hall her feet hit the ground at slightly increased intervals; her speed quickening at barely perceivable increments.

Hermione, on the other hand, is truly and undeniably struggling. Her breathing is labored, erratic, and wet, for some unfathomable reason. Her legs feel like jelly and every step forward is a hard-won battle. The most exercise she ever gets are their yearly adventures and that inexperience is costing her dearly now.

Though, she muses to herself, it isn’t all bad.

The view is rather nice on 80% of the track. Harry is in the meditation nook with Sirius, working his way through a yoga routine the animagus seems to know by heart.

Apparently, a friend from Padfoot and Moony’s Hogwarts years was really into yoga and everyone around her learned about the art just from mere approximation.

Harry is still too weak from the potions to join the rest of the kids in their torture, so yoga it is. Hermione watches avidly as he bends and twists in the most delicious of ways. It is almost enough to distract her from the fire in her chest.

When she winds the furthest corner and runs past the back of the nook, her pace miraculously accelerates until Harry’s impressively flexible body is back within her sight line.

Hermione exhales in a way that has nothing at all to do with the running when Harry flexes enough to have his shirt pull taunt across his torso.

If this is her motivation, she might just start to enjoy running after all.

Far in the back of his mind, Ron is aware he’s been standing stock-still in the middle of the training hall with his mouth gaping open for some time now. It is a distant thought, causing hardly a pinprick of recognition.

Truly, there is no one who could blame him. A much better man than himself would have been caught in the trap that is Hermione Granger lobbying knives at a target with spectacular, and frankly, intimidating accuracy, as well.

Remus only introduced the non-magical weapons yesterday. It hardly seems fair Hermione has already taken to them so well, but Ron should have known better than to expect the expectable from his two best friends.

Harry was given a sword and a dagger. He is practicing some basic drills with his weapons. A dueling dummy guides him through the movements. Slowly, inch by inch, it flows through the different techniques and Harry mirrors the automated trainer exactly.

Most of the pups are in similar positions, as they must learn the proper formations of their weapons before moving on to sparring.

Hermione went through those steps as well, only she did it in half an hour. Remus sent her off to the targets earlier that morning and she’s almost mastered her aim already.

She has holsters strapped all over her body. She empties them, one after the other, pulling knives smoothly from their leather cases. Each blade sinks into its intended target, always dangerously close to the bullseye.

After her arsenal is exhausted, Hermione ambles over to retrieve her knives and resheath them. Then she chooses a new target and the process repeats itself. Blades plunge deep into metal, wood, or plastic, a deadly soundtrack to the ambient sounds the rest of the kids make training.

Ron is… well, one could say he’s admiring the show. Heat has risen to his cheeks, coloring his pale skin a bright cherry red. He just can’t seem to tear his eyes away.

His own trainer waits patiently, ready to coach him through beginner sword-wielding exercises. Unlike Harry, Ron was only given one non-magical weapon, but his sword is significantly longer than the young lord’s.

Ginny is whirling around her dueling dummy, a long metal stick clutched in her hands. Remus called it a baton. It can break down the middle, separating into two smaller stakes. Ginny is also advancing quickly through her trainer’s lessons. It doesn’t bode well for whoever manages to piss her off next.

The twins also have daggers, as well as what were supposed to be signature weapons. Remus handed one of them a sword and the other an ax in a mad hope that it would help him keep track of who was who.

It failed miserably, only succeeding in teaching them how to use both a sword and an ax. They are also improving at an alarming rate.

They started off following the tutelage of their dueling dummies, but after about twenty minutes they gave up on preparation and jumped straight into sparring.

Remus quickly gave it up as a lost cause, resigning himself to the twin’s ever-present need to do exactly the opposite of what is wanted. And, against all odds, that approach seems to be working well for them.

Harry and Ron are the only two making progress on a reasonable timeline. They are still in the basics, advancing slowly, though Harry more so than him. His body is still adjusting to its sudden height increase.

Ron might have been making better headway if he wasn’t so distracted by Hermione absolutely pulverizing those targets. Harry’s concentration, however, is undivided. Ron might soon be left in the dust completely if he doesn’t refocus.

“You’ll catch flies with your mouth open so wide,” Sirius notes amusedly, suddenly right next to him.

“Merlin’s balls!” Ron exclaims, jumping about seven feet in the air. “Where did you come from?!”

“Best get back to it, Weasley,” Sirius advises, ignoring Ron’s question “Someone other than good old Padfoot might notice your lustful gaze if you aren’t careful.”

“What- it’s not lustful!” Ron splutters, choking on his own tongue.

“Sure,” Sirius drawls, patting the young man’s shoulder. “And I believe that, I do, but Remus will notice you slacking off, and believe me, that is definitely not something you want to happen.”

Ron shudders, acknowledging the point. Remus has taken to training them with an unholy glee.

Ron certainly doesn’t want to get on the bad side of the overprotective werewolf they’ve all agreed to listen to.

“Right,” Ron murmurs, siking himself up. He retakes his place in front of his trainer. Time to get back to work.

Crouched behind a mound of gravel, mud, and victorious weeds, Harry takes a moment to contemplate the life choices that led him to this moment.

Remus has them spread out around the dueling arena in the agility section. The cubs were sent off in random directions and the arena is large enough that Harry doesn’t even have an inkling of where the others might be hiding.

They’re running a stealth drill. Remus taught them this paint-splatter spell. It flings a ball of colored paint at the intended target.

It is completely silent and has an effect similar to the stinging hex only with a greater impact. The goal is to slink around the course and take the others out. Each teen has their own color so they’ll be able to tell who struck who.

The last man standing is the winner and everyone else has to do push-ups, ten for each hit you suffered. Every time paint connects with some part of your body you have to stay frozen for thirty seconds, then you can rejoin the game.

After you’ve been hit three times, you’re out; report to Padfoot and Moony and start on your push-ups.

Harry has been hit twice so far; his left shoulder is drenched in a bright red, Hermione’s color, and his stomach is a riot of dark purple, Fred’s color.

It’s their first round of this drill and he’s been doing pretty well, but he can feel the threat of mortality nipping at his heels.

Ron is already out, Harry had the honor of hitting him for the third time, and he knows George is on his last leg as well, but Fred and Hermione have only been caught once and he hasn’t seen Ginny the whole game.

Realistically, he’s not winning this. Hopefully, though, he can at least go out with a bang. He peeks around the muddy heap he’s braced against, hoping for some kind of divine intervention.

He spies a flicker of sunset orange, the trademark Wealsey hair color, and leaps at the opportunity.

He races after whoever had the misfortune of catching his eye, hoping to find the elusive Ginny Weasley.

He can see a shadow kneeling in front of the deserted shack at the edge of the arena. He creeps up behind them, excitement dancing in his veins, only to come up short when he rounds the corner and no one is there.

His stomach drops with the realization right before he hears a rustle from beside him: it was a trap.

Paint strikes against his back a second later, sending him stumbling to his knees.

He stays there, every muscle frozen, just like the rules dictate. His attacker strolls around to face him and Harry can’t withhold his gasp.

“Ginny!” He hisses, eyes wide.

“Shh, Potter, dead men can’t speak,” Ginny remarks softly, smirking at him.

“How did you do that?” Harry demands quietly, referring to the shadow he knows he saw earlier.

“A bit of magic,” is her cheeky reply.

“You haven’t been hit,” Harry realizes, scanning her figure.

“Not a once,” Ginny agrees breezily, gesturing down her completely paint-free body with a little flourish.

“You’re going to win this.”

“Why the tone of surprise?” Ginny queries, one eyebrow raised. Harry holds out his palms in surrender, grinning at her.

She bends down to help pull him up off his knees. Thirty seconds has run its course.

“Good luck,” he says, backing away.

“I don’t need luck,” she declares, winking.

She’s gone in a flash, disappearing into the shadows of the arena once again.

Harry treks to the edge of the course, feet making contact with polished wood. He ambles over toward Moony’s tall frame.

“I think you might have created a monster,” Harry informs him, showing off Ginny’s green paint dripping down his back.

“I know,” Remus acknowledges amusedly, indicating the two boys doing push-ups behind him.

Harry looks over, noticing for the first time the abundance of green paint decorating Ron and Groege’s forms. Sirius is standing above them, counting off when to rise and lower.

“Ah.”

“Join them,” Remus instructs after a moment, waving at the Weasleys. “Thirty push-ups for you, I believe.”

“Aw, Moony,” Harry complains, even though the consequences of losing were made clear at the beginning of the drill. “You wouldn’t make your favorite cub in the whole entire world do push-ups, now would you?”

“Actually, I would,” Remus is quick to retort, patting him on the back in mock consolation.

“Off with you now.”

Harry shuffles over to Ron, dropping to his knees beside him. He falls into the rhythm Sirius sets easily enough.

“Ginny?” He asks them, panting a little from the strain in his arms.

“Ginny,” George confirms, wheezing out a laugh.

“Ginny,” Ron concurs, wonder in his voice.

“Gred, my good fellow, I have the most horrendous news!” George (probably) shouts, entering the training hall with a bang.

“Forge, you must share this news at once!” Fred (most likely) yells back, capering over to his twin. Sirius trails after him, interest peaked.

“It has come to my attention that no one has attempted dear Padfoot’s obstacle course,” George (maybe) cries, collapsing against his brother in despair.

“Not a single soul?” Fred (perhaps) exclaims, fanning his twin despite the obvious shock such a declaration evoked.

“No one!”

“Why that is distressing news!” Fred (possibly) concedes, worrying his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout.

“We must do something,” George (conceivably) declares, throwing his arms out. Fred has to scramble to keep both his own balance and his twin standing.

“That much was obvious.”

“But what?”

“We could do it ourselves,” Fred volunteers, helping his twin return to standing under his own power.

“We could do it ourselves,” George repeats, delighted. “Gred, you are a brilliant man.”

“Thank you, I know.”

And with that, they’re off. Sirius watches, bemused, as they dash to the far side of the training hall. A fleet of brooms dangle from hooks located near the climbing wall.

Seizing two from the collection, the twins leap onto their noble steeds. They reach the starting point of the obstacle course in seconds flat, landing nimbly on the narrow platform.

One of them, the distance is far too great for Sirius to distinguish who is who (not that he can do so with any reliability when the twins are closer, but the point stands), hits the button that starts the timer.

Hanging next to the broom dock is a billboard that records the names and times of each challenger. It’s a leaderboard, of sorts. The fastest to finish the course without any mistakes gets the place of honor at the top of the board.

It is with an ever-increasing amount of gobsmackedness that Sirius observes the twins absolutely decimate his obstacle course.

They jump over steep falls without so much as a blink. Ladders are climbed with the ease of masters. Nets are smoothly out-maneuvered. They swing through the rope section like they were born with wings.

Four minutes and fifty-nine seconds after they began the timer is stopped. The twins vault onto the landing platform, one after the other.

Sirius blinks up at them, thoroughly appalled and likely gaping. The pups rush over to greet them as the twins soar back to ground level, cheering and hollering.

A deep, throaty chuckle sounds beside him. Sirius turns to his best friend with an almighty pout, arms crossed moodily over his chest.

“They must have practiced that,” Sirius proclaims, nodding once to confirm that he’s decided.

“When?” Is Remus’ simple query.

“In the morning, or well- uh… damn.”

Remus has the teens on a strict schedule: rise at 5, change into clothes that are reasonably stretchy and won’t be horribly uncomfortable after getting sweaty, and meet in the training hall.

Two hours of conditioning exercises; running, lifting, stretching, anything that builds muscle and stamina. Then they trudge up the stairs to take showers and help Molly with breakfast.

After Molly is satisfied everyone has eaten enough, they reconvene in the training hall for spell casting. Known spells are drilled until they can be cast blindfolded, gagged, and wandless. New spells are learned and mastered. Around 11 they break for lunch.

Then they head back to the hall for combat training. That lasts about 2 and a half hours. They have a break until dinner, which is at 6 sharp.

After the final meal of the day, Remus calls the pups back down to discuss what they learned, everyone’s progress, and the plan for tomorrow. They usually end the day with a game of some sort and then the kids have the rest of the night to themselves.

It’s grueling, exhausting work, but Sirius has already seen unbelieve progress in each one of the pups. It’s inspiring and his confidence for their future strengthens with every day that passes.

Truly, after training is completed, the kids barely have the energy needed to climb back up the stairs. They mostly spend the evenings reading, playing chess, and talking quietly amongst themselves.

The twins don’t have the time to practice on the obstacle course. Which means they are just that good. Damn.

Fred (probably) spots Sirius and Remus meandering towards their huddle first. He breaks away from the group and dips into a theatric, sweeping bow. George (most likely) bounds over, copying his twin with great enthusiasm.

“We were never this annoying as teenagers,” Sirius grouses to Remus, fighting hard to maintain his grouchy exterior.

That shocks a belly laugh out of Moony, the joyful sound reverberates pleasantly through Sirius.

“Pads,” Remus says, shaking his head, “That’s gotta be the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

Harry lunges, ducking hastily under the trainer’s staff. He and Ron are back to back, facing off against four of the dueling dummies.

They are sparring in the boxing ring from the combat section. The last ten minutes have been a jarring haze of jagged movements, sharp impacts, and desperate weaving.

They are armed only with their muggle weapons, no wands allowed. Ron has his long sword and Harry his dagger and sword.

It’s been five days of constant drills and the weapons are quickly becoming mere extensions of their arms. Sloppy jabs and half-aborted thrusts are things of the past, as their techniques strengthen and their movements become instinctive.

They’ve practiced so much, Harry is starting to dream about proper sword-wielding maneuvers.

Despite the boys’ significant progress, the trainers are still far more advanced. Their arms are fast and lethal, every sharp jab designed to tear into flesh.

The dummies also don’t suffer from the major handicaps that are human stamina and lung capacity. Full breaths are a notion of myth at this point.

Only one of the dummies has been eliminated, the rest are still going steady. Harry has several developing bruises and the trainer’s blades, though dulled, are still sharp enough to draw blood.

His energy stores are maxed out and he hasn’t drawn a full breath in over a minute. Ron doesn’t seem to be doing much better, his footwork has steadily grown sloppy. It’s looking like they’ll have to forfeit the match.

Remus taught them all how to tap out, how to properly convey the message to the dueling dummies. Harry is just about to do it, four hard stomps in a steady beat, when one of the trainers breaks through their defense and lunges for Ron.

The dummy's thick baton cracks against Ron’s left shoulder. He falls to his knees, yelping in pain.

Harry has only a single moment to process this, to register Ron’s sound of pain and how he isn’t getting back up before instinct takes over and a cloud of red descends over Harry’s mind.

It is not blades clutched in straining fists that respond to the threat directed at his Ron. No, it is his magic. Within a second of Ron hitting the floor, Harry’s magical core ignites in flame and the floodgates are thrown open.

He hasn’t used a lick of magic since waking from the potion coma. He continued with physical exercises when the others moved on to magical training. Six days of waiting, of stores replenishing, and magic rebuilding.

It is eager now, for release; for a target.

A blinding gold sears from within him, soaring across the training hall. Domes of protective golden energy materialize around his family.

Hermione, the Weasley children, Moony, and Papa; all of them secured behind transparent, shimmering barricades faster than a blink.

Harry turns his ire on the stupid thing that dared to hurt his love. He narrows his eyes, barely twitching a finger, and the dueling dummy goes up in flames.

All across the hall, the other trainers face similar fates; reduced to their metal skeletons within seconds.

Distantly, in the very corners of his mind, Harry notes that it’s rather fortunate all the dummies were inlaid with reparative runes. Otherwise, he would have just destroyed quite the chunk of money with nary a thought.

He stands there, in the middle of the mat, seething; magic fluttering wildly around him. It’s visible in shocking flashes of royal gold and bloody amber. He must look a sight; sweaty, bruised, magic half-mad with rage.

Despite his glowing emerald eyes and the static energy coating his skin, Ron slowly maneuvers to his feet and lumbers over to Harry’s side; utterly fearless.

“Well, then,” he says lightly, all casual-like, “I think it’s safe to say you’ve fully recovered.”

Hermione sits on an overstuffed leather couch, gazing at the mildewy tapestry depicting the great Black Family tree. Tomorrow she will become its Lady, the first of her kind.

Eleven days have passed since Harry’s trial. They are a little over the halfway mark on their planning time. Soon they will return to Hogwarts and the true war will begin, preparations over whether they are ready or not.

The sun is waking, the timid fingers of dawn slowly peeking out. Her boys are resting, tired from their unexpectedly eventful sparring session. Ginny is fast asleep, her gentle snores echoing as Hermione slipped out of their room.

Sleep did not find her, however, and so here Hermione sits, thinking about the future and the past and the family that will soon become hers.

Alongside tales of the Potters’ rousing history, so too were the Black Family stories told. They paint a rather colorful, though morbid picture. It amuses her to think of how the elegant, superior, sophisticated purebloods would react knowing that she will soon become the head of their family.

Hermione; a young, female, muggle-born with dark skin. She’ll be breaking all kinds of traditions tomorrow.

“Hermoine?” The sound of her name startles her. She turns to find Sirius leaning against the doorframe, gazing at her.

He ambles across the room, stopping beside her couch, “May I?”

Hermione nods, watching as he flops down next to her. She’s noticed that all his movements are fluid, like grace was bred into his bones. She wonders if that’s a part of a pureblood childhood; posture training.

“You nervous?” Sirius asks, laying a causal arm along the back of the couch.

“A little,” Hermione admits, smile rueful. “It’s a big responsibility to undertake.”

“That it is,” Sirius agrees, humming. “The Blacks are a bit like wizarding royalty in Britain. They are a part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, founders of our nation and culture. If Harry was not who he is, with his great fame and title, he would be the least of your trio. Even the Weasleys, though disgraced, have a more significant political history than the Potters.”

“The great majority of the Wizengamot will share that perspective. Light, Grey, or Dark, it doesn’t matter. Most of those people have been there for decades. Barring a precious few, they are all traditionalists. Harry will have to fight for a voice in those walls. He’ll succeed because that’s just who he is, but he will have to work for it. Endlessly.”

“You, on the other hand, already have their fear. The Black Family is nothing if not feared,” Sirius conveys, voice whisper-soft; a dangerous kind of deception. “And once you’ve gained their respect, well, my dear, you’ll be unstoppable.”

“If the Wizengamot favors tradition, they will find a great many faults in me. Far more than Harry,” Hermione points out, eyes following the branching lines in the tapestry.

“Ah, but it will not matter once the power of the Black Family Magic is under your control,” Sirius replies, confident. “No one will stand against you, not truly. Not in any manner that can’t be hidden or bribed away.”

“That is only if the magic accepts me,” Hermione says, teeth sinking into her lower lip. She’s not worried exactly, but she is perhaps apprehensive.

“It will.”

“How can you be so sure?” Hermione demands, facing him.

“Hermione, love, I would not have offered you the Ladyship if I did not think you would succeed,” Sirius states simply, turning to look her in the eye. “I genuinely believe there is nothing you can not do. Nothing that can stand against your mind and ambition. You are ruthless, loyal, intelligent, and vicious. Hermione, that is what makes a Black.”

“Paired with the allies who stand with you, the deck is stacked almost unbelievably in your favor. Regardless of the ring’s choice, your future will be a monumental one. The family magic would have to be foolish to ignore that and Blacks are never foolish. Mad, of course; prejudiced, undoubtedly, but not stupid. Denying you would be.”

“Oh,” Hermione breathes, blushing faintly; her nerves settled. “Good, then.”

They’ve been waiting for Harry’s magic to recover before conducting the ritual to make Hermoine a daughter of the Black family. Yesterday's incident with the trainers has made it abundantly clear that he is ready.

Tomorrow, Hermione will become Lady Black.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Cleaning House 

Inhale. Hold- two, three, exhale. Inhale. Hold- two, three, exhale. She repeats this pattern again and again until her mind is calm, her magic steady. Midday is near, the sun blazing at its highest point, and it is time. 

Hermione rises steadily to her feet, tranquil; composed. A white silk dress flutters over her figure, the soft material lightly grazing her legs. Ron is waiting for her at the door. They walk together, side by side, to one of the storage rooms in the basement of Grimmauld Place. 

It’s been repurposed into a ritual chamber. The walls were stripped bare and the floor cleansed. The other Weasley children are gathered near the entrance to the chamber. Ginny grins at her as they approach, flashing a thumbs up. George offers her a soft smile and Fred whispers a few words of encouragement. Hermoine soaks it all in; the unconditional support they give so easily. 

A wonder, the Wealseys are. 

Ron escorts her all the way to the door, halting once they reach the barricade. He pulls her into a hug, strong arms wrapped tight around her. She carries the warmth of his embrace as she enters the ritual room alone. Only Blacks, or soon-to-be Blacks, can be present for what comes next. 

Sirius and Harry are already situated in their designated positions when she arrives. Harry wriggles his fingers in greeting. There is a chalk circle drawn on the floor with crystals placed along the edge. Hermione takes her place in the middle of it. She kneels neatly on the bed of flowers meant for her, the fragile petals offering little cushion from the cold stone floors. 

Sirius looks to her then, a question in his eyes. Are you ready? 

Hermoine nods, resolute. She has made her choice. She wants this. She is ready. The elder wixen gazes at her for a moment, searching, before nodding in return. He smiles at her, pride evident, before focusing entirely on his task. 

The ritual they are about to attempt requires the utmost precision. Though rather simple in execution, the consequences if something were to go awry would be dire. It’s an adoption ritual, used almost exclusively during wartime when the victor would forcibly appropriate the children of the fallen. 

It replaces any family magics with that of the ritual conductor. For obvious reasons, the purebloods were very uncomfortable with such a ritual’s existence. Also, the original family magics would often resist their removal and end up tearing the child’s magical core in half… So, it was banned in the early 1800s and is definitely what the current ministry would consider black magic. 

Mrs. Weasley can never find out about this. 

Ron only heard of it because of one of the portraits in his Auntie Muriel’s house. Apparently, the Prewetts have quite a colorful history. Of course, he wasn’t informed of the questionable ethics the ritual boasts of and Sirius was justifiably concerned when they brought it up to him, but in the end, it was decided the ritual was their best option. 

Hermione has no family magics to fight the ritual, no ties to ancient bloodlines eager to protest losing her. Her magic is new, fresh. Instead of breaching her magical core and ripping anything out, the ritual will only be adding. Her core will have to expand a great deal to accommodate the added power and the pain will no doubt be excruciating, but she will not be in danger of becoming a squib. 

There are simpler ways to adopt someone, especially in the magical world. The blood-adoption ritual, for example. Vows of loyalty and love. They could have simply walked into Gringotts and legally crafted her into a Black, but her claim to the Ladyship must be absolute. There are many who will protest her appointment, many who will challenge her right to the Black ring. 

This ritual will ensure they have no ground to stand on. Despite the deepest wish of most purebloods, magic will always mean more than blood. 

With a single flick of his wand, Sirius ignites the countless candles scattered around the room. He elegantly kneels to retrieve the delicate silver dagger lying before him. He leaves his wand where the dagger sat and returns to his full height. Then, he drags the blade across his dominant hand without a single moment of hesitation. 

“With my blood, I claim this witch,” Sirius intones, voice clear and strong. The blood trails over his palm, dripping onto his wand in sporadic patches.

“With my magic, I claim this witch,” Sirius declares, wisps of gentle light flowing from his hand. He struggles with the effort of wandless magic, yet another reason this ritual fled from popularity, but he does not back down. 

“With my mind, I claim this witch,” Sirius says, and they lock eyes. Hermione feels a tender presence invade her thoughts. Images appear; flashes of a young boy with Sirius’ face and laugh, imprints of a cold cell and living nightmares. A rush of sensation, her own face as Sirius flies away to safety on Buckbeek’s back. A growing fondness, established over a summer filled with scattered moments.

Quiet words, fond words: “She is mine to love, mine to protect, to guide and teach.” 

And then, “Daughter of heart, daughter of soul .” 

Magic comes alive in the room, ancient and loyal. It pours into the air, pulsing around Hermione as it searches for an opening in her very soul.

In a flawless, practiced motion, Harry wandlessly summons the dagger from Sirius’ hand. He cuts the palm of his right hand, blood flowing freely to coat the holly wand already placed by his feet. 

“With my blood, I claim this witch,” Harry recites, his magic bouncing excitedly around the room. 

“With my magic, I claim this witch.” His magic needs no encouragement; it rushes at Hermione, tugging playfully at her hair and nipping at her dress. 

“With my mind, I claim this witch.” Hermione meets his gaze, welcoming the almost timid energy knocking at her mind’s inner walls.

Harry had to work for hours to achieve this level of mind magic. It’s a form of legilimency, but instead of reading another’s memories, as is traditional, Harry is pushing his own into her mind. It’s one of the only forms of magic that doesn’t come naturally to him. He is rather terrified to mess up. 

He does wonderfully, though, just as she knew he would, and Hermione is soon overcome with a tidal wave of memories. Little Harry locked in his cupboard. Meeting her and Ron, seeing Hogwarts for the first time. Their yearly adventures, countless images of her face and Ron’s; they’re laughing, crying, grinning, smirking. Quiet moments, ones of chaos, and everything in between. Ron and Hermione star in most of the scenes Harry passes along. 

Caressing whispers, loving words: “She is mine to love, mine to learn from, to protect and adore.”

And finally, “Family of heart, family of soul. ”

Hermione is breathless, listening as their words echo around the chamber. They are halfway there, so close to the finish line. Harry and Sirius speak together for the next part, voices blending into one smooth declaration. 

“We offer a plea, a demand. She is ours in heart and soul, a Black in spirit. She will be a Black in magic. She is worthy. That is our decree.” 

In perfect synchronization, they kneel on their own bed of flowers. Bloody palms hover over the crystals surrounding the chalk circle. There is quartz to cleanse, jasper to stabilize, and bloodstone to strengthen. 

The final words of the ritual are spoken in Latin, once more in harmony, “ Suscipe eam. Suscipe deprecationem nostram. Black of anima et magicae nigrae.”

Hermione braces herself as best she can, muscles held tense. All the books they could find in the libraries upstairs that mentioned the adoption ritual said that this next part would be immeasurably painful. That she will experience an agony of untold depths.

She waits with bated breath, struggling to remain still. All at once the candles flare and the crystals begin to glow. She has one moment, two, before she is consumed. She is wrapped head to two in a powerful embrace. Body devoured, soul engulfed, core filled to bursting. Every nerve is alright, senses heightened, but there is no pain. 

Maybe it is the unclaimed land of her core, her new magic. Perhaps it is the love Harry and Sirius infused the ritual with. After all, theirs is not a claim of vengeful theft, but a celebration of family; a joyful welcome. Regardless, the promised agony is absent. Only overwhelming sensation. 

She can feel her core growing, creating room for the family magics eagerly claiming space. It must be years before the stream begins to wane, it certainly felt endless. Awareness returns to her in a slow trickle. She discovers her hands are braced on the floor, petals crushed beneath her palms. Harry is much closer, pressed against her side. His fingers card softly through her curly locks. 

“You okay?” He asks after he notices her gaze on him, alert once again. 

“Mmhmm.” Hermione hums, resting her head on his shoulder. 

“How do you feel?” Sirius asks, entering her field of vision. Hermione considers this. Every muscle is strained like she’s just finished one of Remus’ training sessions, but her soul feels rejuvenated. Her magic primed with energy, itching to escape her body and fly . She wonders if this is how Harry feels all the time, skin stretched tight over a wild, endless spark clamoring for release.  

“Good,” she decides after a moment, “Really good.” 

“It didn’t look like you were in pain,” Harry says, hopeful. 

“It didn’t hurt,” Hermione murmurs tiredly, a reassurance. “Actually, it felt amazing.” 

Harry lets out a little breathless laugh, visibly relieved. 

“Well, then,” Sirius grins, eyes crinkling at the corners, “That is wonderful.” 

He helps her up, steadying her when her knees almost buckle. It is going to take her a while for her to recover any sense of balance. 

“Some food and a bit of rest will do you wonders, I think,” Sirius says, leading the way out of the chamber. He banishes the ritual supplies and drying blood with an absent-minded wave of his wand. They’ll cleanse the room more thoroughly at a later date. 

The Weasleys and Remus are waiting out in the hall. Ron springs to his feet as soon as the door opens. He takes one look at her face and whoops, knowing they succeeded without needing to be told. He wraps her in a bear hug, simultaneously hauling Harry over to join them. Ginny and the twins pile on a second later.

Remus approaches with a change of clothes for the Blacks after Ron has deemed the duration of the group hug sufficient. Sirius and Harry are wearing simple white robes to match Hermione’s dress and all three of their ensembles have been stained with blood. Remus heals the cuts on Sirius and Harry’s palms after the Blacks finish changing.

They trudge up the stairs together, one big happy group. Mrs. Wealsey has lunch ready to be served when they reach the kitchen. Hermione plops down in her usual seat, famished. Plates are passed around and soon the sounds of silverware scraping against porcelain fill the room; nobody but their trusted few aware of the ritual that took place in the basement. 

Harry watches as Hermione plucks the Black signet ring from Papa’s palm. She twists it this way and that, watching the pitch-black metal gleam in the candlelight. The last of combat training is finished for the evening, showers have been had, and dinner was eaten. Hermione has fully recovered from the ritual and has declared herself ready to claim the Ladyship. 

Everyone is here, in the master study of Grimmauld Place. No Order Members dined with them tonight, so it was just Mr. and Mrs. Weasley in need of a distraction. Ginny handled that nicely, sending them off to the Burrow to fetch an item she is apparently in dire need of. 

Harry leans forward, eyes locked on her hands, as Hermione slowly moves the ring into position. Her movements stall when the ring is hovering over her right pinky. She pauses, jaw clenched so tight it’s visible from halfway across the room. She looks over to where Ron and Harry are standing, clutching at each other like an aghast maiden with her pearls. 

She must draw strength from the picture, though Harry can’t imagine how. Between the three of them, he and Ron are the ones most clearly panicking. Regardless, the sight of them seems to help her, as she proceeds to slide the ring to the base of her pinky without another moment’s hesitation. 

The reaction is instantaneous. The room is swept with a presence that couldn’t be more different from how the Potter ancestors introduced themselves. It’s cold, judging; cruelty so masterfully wielded it feels like grace. Hermione’s newly gray eyes flash silver at the challenge, rising up to meet the Black Family Magics like it’s an activity she completes every Sunday morning with the paper; so routine it’s hardly worth noting. 

The eyes are the only physical feature Hermione got from Sirius, the greatest change in her was the added magic. Her magical core, once on the lighter side of gray, is now drenched in black; a firmly dark core. Despite popular opinions in the polarized light wixen populace, there is absolutely nothing wrong with having a dark magical core. 

Papa has a dark core and Remus, being a werewolf, also has a dark core. Harry himself has a gray core, as do Ginny and the twins. Ron is the only one of their party who has a completely light core. However, anyone watching him play chess would think otherwise. 

The color of one’s core does not determine their personality, or whether they are good or evil. It simply dictates which spells will come more easily to them. Light spells feel natural for wixens with a light core and vice versa for people with dark cores. Of course, every spell is castable to any core, but those outside of one’s designation are harder to master than the ones meant specifically for you. 

There is a branch of magic for gray spells, called neutrals, as well, but they usually get lumped in with the other two categories. This makes sense, as those spells come naturally to everyone, and most people with a gray core lean closer to one side of the spectrum than the other. Very few people have a truly gray core, meaning the wixen is capable of casting any spell regardless of nature.

Normally, after the adoption ritual is completed, all parties move swiftly onto the blood adoption potion. Rewiring the child both genetically and physically to match the donor, but Hermione was rather adamant they skip that part. She also refused to have Harry claim her as a sister in the ritual, preferring instead to have him claim her as simply family. 

Confused, but willing, Harry conceded easily to her wishes. Though, in retrospect, she was probably on to something. It would be kinda awkward if he were madly attracted to his sister. 

She certainly looks beautiful now, battling centuries-old magic and winning . He isn’t as connected to the Black Family Magics as he is to the Potter’s, so everything is a little distant. What were lilting whispers are now barely perceivable murmurs. Adding to that, this magic is hardly interested in him; focused entirely on the witch attempting to gain control of it. 

Papa says even the minor level of awareness he has with other family magics is unprecedented. Family magics should only be sensed by those in direct contact with them. Harry is, once again, accomplishing the impossible. He should probably stop being surprised when that happens. 

Even with his limited perception, it’s clear that Hermione has the Black ancestors well in hand. They rage at her, cold and vicious, but Hermione remains unimpressed. Confidence, strength, and the unquenchable faith that she will succeed are barriers impossible to tear down. It is as Papa predicted, though her gender, race, and blood status offend, the old Lords of the Black family cannot deny her power, nor her intelligence, nor her ruthless ambition. 

Mere minutes after the ring was positioned, the Black Family magics go dormant again. Hermione is left standing tall, the silver glow in her eyes slowly dimming to reveal victorious gray. 

Nobody moves, locked in a silent cage of anticipation. Harry's lungs scream, informing him that he hasn’t drawn a breath in well over a minute. He feels a little lightheaded. Then, as they are wont to do, the twins shatter the stillness. 

Whooping and cheering, they converge on Hermione. Within seconds she is up on their shoulders, laughing as they bounce her around. Ron breaks free next, rushing forward to join the celebration. Ginny follows a second later, grinning broadly. 

Papa sprouts up next to them, rescuing Hermione from the twins. Ron is there immediately, swooping in to steal her. He wraps his arms around her, spinning about. Hermione’s feet even lift in the air with his exuberance. 

Harry is still frozen by the wall. He watches them, the two most important people in his life. They are happy, exhilarated, and stunning. Merlin, he’s so in love with them. Proper love too, romantic love. It’s a sobering realization. It shouldn’t be so shocking, but it really, really is. 

“You okay there, cub?” Moony rests a comforting hand on his shoulder, bright hazel eyes gazing at him in concern. 

“Yeah,” Harry murmurs, a bit dazed, “Just thought of something, is all.”

Remus nods, “You need a minute?” 

“Nah, I’m all good.” 

“Okay, then,” Moony says, and gently pushes him towards the fray. They eagerly envelop him, making space in their hug for him like it is second nature. Hermione is suddenly right next to him and Harry snuggles in even closer, resting their foreheads together. 

“Congratulations,” he whispers, words half-buried in her hair, “You were fantastic.” 

“Thanks, Har,” she whispers back, the nickname slipping out.

“Har?” 

“Couldn’t help myself, sorry,” she murmurs, hiding her face in his neck.

“No, I like it,” Harry is quick to reassure. 

“It’s cute,” is Ron’s contribution, his weight a soothing warmth against Harry’s back. His long calloused fingers travel over Harry’s shoulder, reaching out to gently coax Hermione’s face from where she secreted it away. She is blushing but happy when she’s revealed and Harry can’t help but revel in it; Ron at his back and Hermione at his front. 

“Alright, break it up, love birds,” Papa demands amusedly, forcing Harry to discover that only the three fifth years have remained in the embrace. The rest of their friends and family have already moved on. They quickly disburse, now with all three of them blushing. 

Papa, smirking in obvious delight at their predicament, sets down a heavy box on the mammoth desk that claims half the room’s floor space. 

“In this box, my dear lady, is the wardstone for Grimmauld Place,” Papa explains, bowing slightly as he addresses Hermione. “You will need to both renew and take control of the wards. So, step right up, if you please.” 

Sirius walks her through the process, showing her how to open the box, an overly complicated series of wand movements and a small sample of blood, and how to repower and claim the wards, another offering of blood and some magic this time as well. Moony, ever one to prepare, has a blood-replenishing potion ready for her by the end of it. 

Harry can feel the wards of Grimmauld Place shutter, strengthening as new magic floods their heart stone. He isn’t the only one to notice the house’s shifting loyalty, as a crackling pop snaps into the room. Kreacher has arrived, the old elf stares at his new mistress with wide, bulbous eyes. 

“My lady?” He questions, his ancient knees protesting as he drops into a bow. 

“Hello, Kreacher,” Hermione says softly, watching him. His head snaps up at her tone, eyes somehow growing larger. 

“Your orders, Lady Black?” 

“Take the night, Kreacher,” Hermione decides, stepping closer to the shivering elf, “Get used to our bond and the rejuvenating magic it offers. We will discuss our future together in the morning.” 

“Yes, my lady.” Kreacher bows again before popping out of the room. Harry stares at the empty space the old elf used to inhabit, shocked himself. That is the most respectful he has ever heard Kreacher be to anyone outside of the screaming portrait of Papa’s mother downstairs. 

“Will wonders never cease,” Papa mutters, clearly of the same mind. 

“Remus,” Hermione calls, a glint in her eye, “When is the next Order meeting?” 

“Tomorrow night,” he dutifully answers, “Why?”

“Because, Moony, it will be the last one held in Grimmauld Place.” 

The Weasley children, minus the three eldest boys, are crowded around the entranceway of Grimmauld Place. As the seating options are rather sparse in that section of the house, they are sprawled across the floor, leaned up against walls, and perched on the stairs. They are waiting for their parents to come home from the doomed mission at the burrow. 

Mrs. Black’s portrait had a lot to say on the matter, and after several failed attempts to shut her up, the children restored to binding the curtains around the portrait with a glue-like substance the twins invented. So far, it has been highly effective. 

They don’t have to wait much longer before the front doors are thrown open and the Weasely parents come bustling in. Closest to the door, Ginny is the first to be spotted. 

“Ginny, honey,” Mrs. Wealsey exclaims, turning towards her daughter. “We couldn’t, for the life of us, find that hairbrush you wanted. Are you sure it’s absolutely necessary for…” 

Her words trail off as she notices the rest of her Hogwarts-aged children gathered around her. 

“Oh, dear,” Mr. Wealsey sighs playfully, glancing at each of his children in turn, “This can’t be good.” 

“Well, let’s have it then,” Mrs. Weasley demands, hands inching dangerously close to her hips, “What mischief have you lot caused now?” 

Ginny and the twins glance at each other, before unanimously deciding to throw Ron to the wolves. Fred nudges him forward. 

“We thought you deserved a warning,” Ron hesitantly states, confidence waning with every second he spends under his mother’s baleful gaze. 

“A warning, for what?” 

“Um, well, you see, what happened was-”

“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” Ginny cuts in, rolling her eyes, “Hermione is now Lady Black, she’s claimed Grimmauld Place as her own, and tomorrow she will be informing the Order that they need to find a new place to conduct their meetings. Grimmauld Place is ours.” 

“Yeah,” Ron shrugs, pointing at Ginny, “That.” 

There is a long, drawn-out moment of silence as their parents process this. They watch with bated breath as Mr. and Mrs. Weasley face each other, engaging in a complicated discussion composed entirely of eyebrow movements and facial expressions. Ron wants a relationship like that one day, where words aren’t needed to communicate with his partners. 

They seem to reach a conclusion.

“I see,” Mr. Weasley says, scratching the day-old stubble dotting his chin. “And this is the path you’ve chosen? Is there no way for us to change your minds?” 

“I’m afraid not,” Fred proclaims, his dimple-edged smile apologetic. 

“We've made our decision,” George agrees, nodding at his siblings assembled beside him. 

“We understand,” Mrs. Weasley says, shocking all present, even herself. “We’ll begin packing our bags at once, thank you for the warning.” 

“Wait, what?!” Ron shouts, volume control lost to him. “Why would you do that?” 

“Son, we are a part of the Order,” Mr. Wealsey points out bemusedly, head tilted as all of his children immediately start protesting. 

“We didn’t mean you, of course,” Ginny exclaims, advancing towards her parents. 

“You have to stay here!” George protests, arms failing. 

“Where it's safe!” Fred concurs, head bobbing wildly.  

“You are welcome to stay, Mom, Dad,” Ron proclaims, blocking their path up the stairs. “We want you to.” 

“And Hermione is okay with that?” Mrs. Wealsey questions, eyebrows raised.
“Of course,” Ron answers, brows furrowed, “Why would you ask that?” 

“I rather got the impression she would prefer a household without me,” Mrs. Wealsey admits, perhaps a tad sheepish. 

“ Oh , well,” Ron coughs, and definitely does not chuckle, “That’s fair enough, but if you keep the worrying to only the most necessary amounts, she’s game if you are.” 

“I’m amenable to those terms,” Mrs. Weasley concedes, obviously pleased. 

“Fantastic!” Mr. Weasley chirps, clapping in delight. “Then I only have one question, does the hair brush we just spent the better part of two hours searching for even exist?” 

“Uhhh,” is Ginny’s eloquent response. 

“Ah,” Mr. Wealsey nods seconds before Mrs. Wealsey’s loud cry of, “Ginevra!” 

That wakes Mrs. Black’s portrait, who finally succeeds in breaking free from the glue confining her, and joins the conversation with her own bellowing. Mrs. Weasley’s ire instantly changes directions and Ginny, in all the chaos, manages to slip away unscathed. 

Kreacher makes his appearance just as Hermione is stepping out of her room. Nodding to the elf, she closes the door behind her for Ginny’s privacy. Together, the house elf and witch troop down the stairs. They veer off from the well-traveled route to the kitchen and slip into one of the only semi-clean rooms in the house. 

Hermione settles onto a frail armchair, gesturing for Kreacher to take a seat on the lumpy couch opposite her. 

“Kreacher couldn’t possibly-” 

“Sit, Kreacher,” Hermione instructs, cutting him off. “We have much to discuss.” 

The old house elf wearily obeys, climbing gingerly onto the couch. The new bond has done him a wealth of good. His curved spine has been healed, the elf standing tall and proud once more. His skin has lightened and the great majority of his wrinkles vanished. 

Hermione has learned a lot about house elves and their culture since the establishment of SPEW last year. She now understands, from numerous discussions held with Dobby and the Hogwarts house elves, that they rely on the bond with their families to keep their magic healthy. That serving is in their nature and caring for their families brings them great satisfaction. 

However, according to her research gleaned from the books she “borrowed” from the restricted section, the treatment she has witnessed of house elves is completely at odds with how the bonds should be conducted, and that abuse has steadily grown more severe. It is only in the recent millennium that the bonds have shifted from familial to master and slave. Wixens have greatly abused their power and as such most of the current generation of house elves don’t know what a proper familial bond feels like; a bond of mutual respect and care.

She also knows that outliers exist in every culture; exceptions that prove the rule. There must be some house elves, like Dobby, who despise menial labor and would prefer more exciting occupations. One of her long-term goals is to revolutionize how house elves are treated and their opportunities in the world. Until that is accomplished, she must think smaller and focus on the individual; take every opportunity that reveals itself. Starting with Kreacher. 

“I would like to begin by offering you an out,” Hermione states calmly, trying to put him at ease. Her efforts are in vain, as Kreacher only grows more anxious with every word out of her mouth. “If you do not wish to serve me, I will release you right now. I will help you find a new family to bond with, no questions asked.” 

“No!” Kreacher gasps, springing off the couch. He throws himself at Hermione’s feet, trembling on the floor. “Kreacher has always served the Black family. It’s all Kreacher knows. This be Kreacher’s home.” 

“Okay, okay, Kreacher. I understand,” Hermione soothes, sliding onto the ground next to him. “I will not send you away, I promise. But if you are staying, there are some ground rules you must follow.” 

“Kreacher will. Kreacher obeys!” The elf insists, rubbing at his eyes. 

“I believe you, Kreacher,” Hermione declares, keeping her tone level and smooth. It is hard to reconcile this whimpering being with the foul elf who so callously threw slurs at her just a day ago, but there is no denying the power of a new bond, nor the influence of the old one. Mrs. Black was a vile woman and Kreacher spent decades locked up with her in this house. He can be forgiven for a couple of nasty comments. 

“Firstly, there will be no punishments,” Hermione states, incensed with the very idea. “If someone orders you to hurt yourself, do not listen to them and report the incident to me immediately. I will take care of it.” 

“Yes, my lady,” Kreacher agrees with obvious uncertainty. 

“Good. Secondly, I must insist you be properly clothed,” Hermione says, cutting off the impending protest before it can begin. “This is not me dismissing you. I will not be giving you any clothes, a tailor will handle all the materials, or you can make them yourself, but you will wear trousers and a shirt. Or robes, if that’s what you prefer. Whatever you choose, get several pairs of it. Think of them as uniforms.” 

“Hygiene and diet are also something I can not be lenient about,” Hermione continues, falling into the familiar rhythms of a lecture. “You will eat at every meal; breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Furthermore, hydration is of the utmost importance. I expect you to be bathing at least once daily and I would recommend against wearing an outfit more than three times in a row.”

“Now, where do you sleep?” Hermione questions, shocking the elf out of the dazed stupor he had fallen into. 

“Kreacher sleeps in the attic,” he answers, bushy eyebrows scrunched in confusion. 

“The attic? I see,” Hermione murmurs, shifting to find a more agreeable position on the scratchy carpet. “Do you like it up there? Is there anything that would make it more comfortable?” 

“Kreacher thinks, maybe, some new blankets,” he hesitantly responds. 

“New blankets, I like it,” Hermione says approvingly, tapping her chin in thought. “You have access to the Black vaults, correct?” 

Kreacher nods. “Good, use them to procure anything you might need or want. For your food, clothes, and comfort. There is no limit,” Hermione pauses here, eyeing Kreacher’s ragged form, “Though you might consider purchasing a bed or cot if you don’t have one already. Do you have any preferences for your responsibilities?” 

“Preferences, my lady?” 

“Yes, Kreacher, preferences. For example, would you prefer working out in the sun tending to the gardens? Or caring for the libraries. Or perhaps maintaining the household holds no interest for you and you’d like to further your education instead,” Hermione explains, counting off the list of options with her fingers. Kreacher’s eyes are as wide as saucers by the end of it. She was admittedly reaching with that last one. 

“N-no,” Kreacher stutters, looking at Hermione as though she has lost her mind, “Kreacher likes the house. Cleaning and organizing, Kreacher likes.” 

“Fair enough,” Hermione concedes, making a mental note. “But are there any jobs in the house you would rather avoid?”

There is a long pause, as Hermione gazes expectantly at the elf and Kreacher stares around the room in a manner reminiscent of a mouse searching for escape from a hunting feline. Kreacher breaks first. 

“Kreacher does not like cooking,” he finally admits, body tensing, utterly convinced he is about to be punished for voicing an opinion. 

“Noted. Thank you, Kreacher,” Hermione smiles, ignoring the elf’s wide-eyed surprise. “Mrs. Weasley has that well in hand for now, but I suppose we will eventually have to hire someone to manage the kitchen.” 

“H-hire, my lady?” 

“Yes, Kreacher, hire,” Hermione says abesmindly, thoughts ablaze, “Which reminds me, we must discuss your salary, schedule, and vacation days. What hours do you currently work a day?” 

Hermione peers at the elf, only to find him frozen in sheer panic. Bulging, bewildered eyes are locked on her like she’s a raving lunatic. Hermione pauses, rewinds the last minute of conversation, and acknowledges that she might have gotten a bit ahead of herself. 

“Never mind that, Kreacher, we’ll work up to it,” Hermione remarks, patting him softly on the shoulder. He doesn’t look the least bit reassured. “Now, I understand your former mistress might have had different standards, but the state of Grimmauld Place is abysmal. Very soon we will have a constant stream of guests. We must be prepared to uphold the noble image of the Black family and your good name, Kreacher.” 

Kreacher’s eyes somehow widen even further at the gentle reprimand. He jumps to his feet, rushing to grab one of the metal tongs used to corral the flames of a fireplace. Hermione stops him before he can whack himself on the head with it. 

“No punishments, Kreacher,” Hermione reminds him firmly, taking the fireplace tong out of his hand. “If there is a problem, come to me and we will figure out how to solve it together. Do not hurt yourself. Ever.”

“Yes, my lady. Kreacher understands,” the elf hurries to say, trembling. 

“Good. I know that you will begin setting Grimmauld Place to rights at once. While taking care not to overwork yourself, of course. There is no need to panic,” Hermione soothes, walking him back over to the couch. This time he sits without complaint. 

“Do you understand all that we have talked about today?” Hermione asks, waiting until he nods before continuing. “Wonderful. A summary, if you please.” 

“Kreacher will not punish himself or let others punish Kreacher,” the elf begins hesitantly, gaining confidence when Hermione nods her encouragement. “Kreacher will make a uniform and buy a cot and new blankets. Kreacher will bathe and eat regularly. Kreacher will clean Mistress’ home so it is worthy of the Black name once again.” 

“Fantastic, Kreacher,” Hermione praises, smiling at him. “I feel this went well. We understand each other perfectly. How do you feel, Kreacher? Good?” 

“Yes, my lady,” Kreacher agrees, still recovering from the praise. 

“Wonderful,” Hermione declares, rising to her feet. Kreacher hurries to copy her. “Then I wish you a good day. Please report to me tomorrow about your progress and, of course, come to me at once if there are any issues or if you have a question.” 

“Yes, my lady,” Kreacher says again, reduced to dumbfounded gaping as Hermione sweeps out of the room. 

Hermoine continues to the kitchen. She is the first to arrive, leaving her alone in a room with Mrs. Wealsey for the first time in weeks. They eye each other over the long wooden table. Eventually, Mrs. Weasley looks away, returning her attention to the final steps of breakfast preparation. Hermione claims her usual seat at the left corner of the table, opening the book she brought with her. 

“Thank you for letting us stay,” Mrs. Wealsey says quietly a while later, apparently finished with her work. She sits down in front of Hermione. 

“It would have made Harry and Ron sad to see you leave,” Hermione shrugs, setting aside her book. “Besides, incurring the wrath of Fred and George is far more intimidating than anything the Dark Lord could come up with.” 

Mrs. Weasley inclines her head, chuckling. “You have a point.” 

“Your children love you dearly,” Hermione notes, head tilted. 

“And I them,” Mrs. Weasley proclaims warmly. “I know I’ve made your time here uncomfortable. I’m sorry for that. I have resolved to do better.” 

“We are in stressful times, Mrs. Weasley. You are allowed moments of weakness,” Hermione says, accepting the apology and offering forgiveness all in the same breath. 

“You are very kind,” Mrs. Wealsey says, a smile dimpling her cheeks. 

“You are family,” Hermione returns. She is forced to admit that Ron was right. Mrs. Weasley has discovered the error of her ways and is testing out a new approach. Hermione doesn’t yet know whether Mrs. Weasley will keep her word, but she wouldn’t bet against the woman. 

Weasleys, Hermione has learned, mean what they say, and very rarely break a promise. 

They return to the comfortable quiet, waiting for the others to stray downstairs for breakfast. It isn’t long before the first meal of the day is over and the time for training has arrived. Mr. Weasley speaks up as Moony, Padfoot, and the kids are preparing to exit the kitchen. 

“We were wondering if Molly and I might be able to observe while you all are doing whatever it is you do down there,” he says, looking hopefully up at his children. A barter of looks are exchanged. Ron shrugs, agreeable either way. Harry shrugs as well. Hermione nods, accepting. Fred smirks and George dips his chin. Padfoot and Moony both make consenting gestures. 

“And what you see stays between the ten of us?” Ginny asks, arms crossed over her chest. 

“Of course,” Mrs. Weasley says. 

“Then follow us.” 

Remus takes his place beside Arthur, watching the Order Members as they tumble into the room; jostling each other for seats, talking warmly of their daily news, and waiting, as they always do, for the esteemed Headmaster to make his arrival. Albus is rather fond of fashionably late entrances. 

Molly would usually be in the eye of the storm, commandeering empty hands to help pass out food and making sure everyone had a drink. Tonight she has hardly made an effort to greet their guests. She’s seated next to her husband, quiet; her mind obviously elsewhere. A cup of tea lies forgotten on the table in front of her. Arthur dutifully spells it hot every couple of minutes. 

The couple spent the entire day in the Training Hall with them, watching the cubs run drills and spar. They were in fine form today, showing off for their audience. Remus worked them hard, as he does every day, and they’ve never backed down from any challenge he presented them with, but today they moved with a fire impossible to contain. 

It was awe-inspiring to watch. His cubs are something special; the sheer magical power they possess is astonishing, their unshakable determination formidable, and the trust they have for each other is wonderous. Seeing them train makes him believe they're capable of creating the future they’re fighting for. It gets Remus excited and leaves him breathless. 

Looking at the Weasley parents now, it’s clear he isn’t the only one feeling this way. 

“A bit underwhelming, ain’t it,” Sirius muses, plopping down beside Remus. He gestures to the room around them, and the thirty-something wixens filling it to the brim. He swings his heels up onto the table, crossing them over the ankles. “All this, after what we saw today.”

“Do they know?” Molly whispers, exuding the air of a woman just breaking free from a trance. “How extraordinary they are?”

“Neither of mine have a clue,” Sirius shrugs, claiming Harry and Hermione so casually. It warms Remus to hear him, to know Padfoot is happy to have the pups he always wanted. “Your twins might know, but I don’t think it bothers them either way. Ginny’s been friends with Harry since the day she stepped foot in Hogwarts, the same as Hermione. They don’t understand, not really. Ron’s the only one who I think truly grasps just how powerful the little prongslet is.” 

“His magic,” Molly exhales, wonder in her voice. 

“I know,” Sirius murmurs back, sympathetic. “I’ve never seen anything like it either.” 

“He’s right up there, power-wise, at least, with the Dark Lord and Albus,” Remus confers, joining the discussion.  

“How long have you been training them?” Arthur asks quietly, leaning forward. His forearms rest against the table, his eyes boring into Remus. 

 Remus tracks the days quickly in his head. “Not long, less than a week.” 

“Merlin,” Arthus exclaims, shaking his head. “They’re better than most of the Order Members. Especially Ron, Hermione, and Harry. The way they move together, they shouldn’t be that good. Not with less than a week of formal training.” 

“As much as we hate to admit it,” Sirius cuts in, shooting a quelling look Molly’s way. “Those three have an unfortunate amount of experience with life and death situations. More than the newest generation of Aurors, at the very least.” 

Molly hums, nodding her acknowledgment. “They are skilled.” 

“Makes you think, doesn’t it,” Sirius ponders aloud, shifting towards her. “About what they could do, what we could do with them.” 

Molly never gets a chance to respond to Padfoot’s pushing, as Grimauld’s kitchen doors burst open just as his words are settling in the air between them. Ablus sweeps into the room, gracing them all with a blinding smile; his eyes twinkling madly. Severus slinks into the kitchen right after him and the doors close firmly behind the final Order Member. 

Albus waves his wand, sealing the room with the typical wards he uses during Order meetings. The sole purpose of which are to keep the cubs from interfering, as Grimmauld Place is itself so heavily protected that the added caution is entirely unnecessary. Unless, of course, your goal is to keep people already inside the house from entering a specific room or overhearing what’s said in it. 

As Albus begins the meeting with his usual warm greetings, Remus spots Sirius activating the mirror hidden beneath the table. It flashes once, just long enough for the cubs on the other side to hear that everyone has arrived, before returning to its normal reflective state. 

“Now then, how have you all fared with the guard rotations?” The headmaster asks, presiding over the table as he takes his seat at the head of it. 

“We’re getting along,” Moody growls out, his words composed of their usual granite rasp. 

“A lot easier to keep an eye on the Ministry now that Potter is here,” Tonks chimes in, her hair a flashy bubblegum pick tonight. 

“There are some grumblings from the Unspeakables, but nothing that’s gaining attention from the higher-ups,” Kingsley announces, straight-backed in his richly patterned robes. 

“Wonderful! Have there been any Death Eater sightings since-” 

The headmaster is abruptly cut off when the kitchen doors slam open again. Everyone, apart from Sirius, Remus, Molly, and Arthur, jumps about a foot in the air and immediately brandishes their wands. Albus goes stock still, and though Remus can’t sense it like Harry would be able to, he’s sure the headmaster has just felt his control of the wards around Grimmauld Place slip away. 

Hermione enters first, looking composed in a pair of neat black robes. Harry and Ron follow quickly at her heels. The twins burst in next, one right after the other. Ginny strolls in last, sauntering her way into the room. 

Several people gasp and the kitchen is consumed with hushed exclamations as most of them get their first look at Harry since the restorative potions took effect. He’s much taller now, nearing six feet. His glasses are gone, his dazzling green eyes bared freely to the world. The endless hours of training have already started to pack muscle onto his frame, with the other cubs mirroring that. Even the way he stands is vastly altered. His stance is confident and poised. 

The rumblings start up again as Order Members notice Hermione’s newly gray eyes and the signet rings on both her and Harry’s fingers. 

“What- how?” Dumbledore questions, his words silence the growing commotion in the room. He stares at Hermione for a long moment before looking to Sirius and then back again. The twinkle is noticeably absent from his eyes. 

“No.” It’s little more than a whisper, but the word is deafening in the sudden silence. 

“Yes.” Hermione’s answer is just as quiet, if not substantially more triumphant. 

“How?”

“You don’t need to know that, Headmaster,” Hermione replies, ignoring the muttered hissing from the Order Members at her show of insolence. “All you need to know is that I am now the Head of the Black Family, that I own this house, and that I want you out of it.” 

The kitchen descends into utter chaos. 

“You can’t just-” 

“Why you little brat!” 

“Well, I never-” 

“In all my years-” 

“Dumbledore is the secret keeper,” Snape says, cutting viciously through the rising hysterics. “You can not force him out, regardless of your new title. He has control of the most powerful ward around Grimmauld Place.” 

The Order Members fall quiet, finding calm in their smug satisfaction. Hermione smiles to herself, ambles over to the table, and leans causally against it. She’s right across from Snape, who scowls at her, uncomfortable with her unexpected reaction. 

“No, Professor, he did have control of the Fidelius charm,” Hermione informs him, crushing their hopes easily in the palm of her hand. “You’ve greatly underestimated just how in-depth the Blacks were when creating the wardstone for this house. All of you will forget this place, its name, its location, everything, the moment you step foot out the front door. Which you will be doing now. Goodbye.” 

“I’ve never known you to be this petty, dear girl,” Dumbledore remarks, calling the room’s attention to him once more. He peers down his long nose at the young Lady, condescending and disappointed. 

Hermione smirks at him, unrepented. “Then you’ve proven you don’t know me at all, sir. ” 

“Don’t you remember, Headmaster,” Harry says, his eyes blazing and his tone hard. Everyone quiets at once, turning wide eyes to stare at the electricity crackling down the Potter Lord’s skin. “I gave you three options: Join us” 

“Become an enemy.” That’s Ron. 

“Or get out of our way.” The twins, in perfect unison. 

“I guess it’s time for you to choose,” Hermoine declares. 

“What will it be, Headmaster?” Harry asks, meeting his gaze. 

One second, two seconds, three; time ticks slowly by. No one moves, observing two of the most powerful wizards of their time go head to head. Eventually, after several minutes have passed, Dumbledore concedes, breaking eye contact. Shoulders drooping, head hung low, gaze mournful and beseeching, he slowly moves towards the doors. 

They all watch him go.  

For the third time that evening, the Order riots. Thirty people start shouting all at the same time, screaming to be heard. 

Bang! Ginny is standing next to the doors, a bit of smoke drifting up from the tip of her wand. 

“Here’s the door,” she says, waving at it. “I’m sure you can find your own way out.” 

Kreacher pops in to help her herd the Order Members out. The cubs gather around the deserted table, collapsing into chairs. Remus isn’t sure who started it, but suddenly they are all laughing. Molly and Arthur included. 

Remus sighs, running a trembling hand through his hair. In less than ten minutes the cubs have reclaimed Grimmauld Place right from under Albus Dumbledore’s nose. It makes him wonder: what else can they do?

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: The Noble and Most Ancient 

Ginny saunters back into the kitchen a couple of minutes later, the last of the reluctant Order Members escorted out. “That was exciting.” 

Ron snorts. “Gin, that’s the very definition of an understatement.” 

“What will you do now?” Mrs. Wealsey asks, finally taking a sip from the cup of tea she’s been nursing all evening. 

“Tis’ a good question, Mum,” Fred nods, glancing at the golden trio. 

“What’s next then, mate?” George questions, his words aimed at Harry. 

It’s Ron who answers. “We need to plan.”

Hours pass, the night slipping by in what feels like seconds. Hermione summoned the blackboard Harry originally conjured that very first night, his jagged, familiar scrawl still vibrant on the chalky surface. 

Mrs. Wealsey gathered snacks from the kitchen, several cups of steaming tea levitating neatly behind her. Kreacher lit the hearth nestled in the far corner, settling a warm, comfortable weight in the air. Ideas were tossed around like candy, voices soon rough from the endless discussion. 

They touch upon the Wizengamot and the allies they could find there. After a quick jaunt up to one of the Black Libraries, they confirmed what Sirius already had a suspicion of. An astonishing amount of future Lords and Ladies are currently enrolled in Hogwarts. 

Just from the Sacred Twenty-Eight, there are Hannah Abbott, Malfoy, Neville, Daphne Greengrass, Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson, Marcus Flint, and Millicent Bulstrode and they have the Black seats through Hermione. Technically speaking, the Weasleys still have rights to their seats. If they could convince Bill to stand before the Wizengamot and allow the magic of the court to judge him, odds are he could reclaim his family seats. An argument can be made for him to claim the Prewett seats, as well. 

Then there are the future Wizengamot Members who aren’t a part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, like Susan Bones, Lavender Brown, and Ernie Macmillan. Granted, a lot of these prospective allies are Slytherins or possible Voldemort sympathizers, but they’ve worked with worse odds before. 

There are numerous dormant houses, seats that have sat empty for generations without an heir to fill them. Hermione brought up the idea that there might be some muggle-borns or half-bloods with surprise lineages, a previously unknown heritage that's just waiting to be discovered. Their magic must come from somewhere, after all, and, as Sirius says, everyone is related to everyone in Magical Britain. 

Remembering the blood test Griphook performed to authenticate his Lordship, Harry suggested they find a similar ritual or spell to use on the willing muggle-borns and half-bloods. They resolved to discuss it with Griphook.

Even if they can get half of the heirs at Hogwarts on their side, the gained boon will be instrumental. Their combined political power will be unmatched.

They still need to complete the alliance rituals between their own group. Though with Molly and Arthur softening to their cause, it might be wise to wait until the Blacks and Potters can simply ally with the entire Weasley family instead of a single member at a time. 

As pointed out by the twins, while they are discussing the Potter fiancees and lineage tests with Griphook, they should also ask him how one might go about stealing the Death Eater’s gold without earning the wrath of the entire Goblin Nation. All completely hypothetical, of course. 

The need for Occlumency lessons is becoming more dire with each day their return to Hogwarts nears. They’ve read all the available books on the subject in the Black Family libraries, or, more accurately, Hermione memorized the texts and then summarized anything the rest of the kids needed to know, and they've been practicing the breathing and meditation techniques with Sirius every day. 

Unfortunately, Sirius is in no shape to coach the pups through the final steps. More than a decade under the care of Dementors thoroughly destroyed his own mental landscape and entering another’s mind, as is necessary for the apprentice to learn how to defend their thoughts, would be dangerous for the Azkaban escape. 

Remus’ wolf is far too territorial to allow an intruder into his mind, so he never needed to learn Occlumency. Similarly, Molly and Arthur never had cause to pursue the mind arts. For obvious reasons, Dumbledore is firmly out of the question. Quite depressingly, that leaves them with one option: Snape. 

He is an accomplished occlumentist, as any double (possibly triple) agent and spy must be, and Remus is reasonably sure he won’t attempt to kill the cubs or induce insanity during the lessons. Sirius is less sure, but he was summarily outvoted. 

They haven’t quite figured out a strategy to actually convince the churlish man to teach them, but Harry has faith in their united genius. It’ll probably involve a shaky, tentative truce and a sworn oath that the Potter Lord will withdraw from his classroom and never return. All in all, not exactly a sacrifice Harry isn’t ready and willing to make. 

The Order was discussed, but the only thing of note Dumbledore’s lackeys seem to do is spy on Harry when he’s at the Dursleys, arrive five minutes after Death Eater attacks end to catalog the damages, and guard something in the Department of Mysteries. The guarded item is most likely a prophecy Harry apparently stars in that was the cause of the whole Boy-Who-Lived mess and his parents’ deaths. So, you know, there’s that. 

Voldemort has his eye on it, as he only knows half of the prophecy, and Dumbledore is quite determined to keep it out of his hands. Hermione was unimpressed with the entire concept of an all-knowing seer foretelling the future, but as both the Dark and Light Lords are convinced of its legitimacy, they agreed it would probably be best if they stole it first. 

Only the people the prophecy speaks of can safely hold it, so it shouldn’t be too hard to sneak into the Ministry, retrieve the orb that played a large role in making Harry an orphan, and scuttle quickly back to school. Easy, peasy. 

Sirius still needs healing, but they don’t want to endanger Lucinda by taking a wanted fugitive to her clinic. Not that they plan to leave Sirius’ name tarnished for long, but the point stands. The werewolves need Lucinda, they won’t risk her incarceration, but Sirius also requires a healer. It’s not exactly a dire need, but the sooner, the better.  

The kitchen is the quietest it’s been in hours, as they mull over this problem. They seem to have stumbled across a sticking point. 

“A glamor charm?” Fred suggests, idly picking apart a cookie with his hands. The severed remains of other cookie corpses litter the tabletop in front of him, his fingers are stained with chocolate. 

Remus’ head suddenly snaps up, a thought occurring to him. He faces Sirius. “Didn’t your cousin marry a healer?”  

“Andy?” Sirius muses, scrunching his nose as he tries to remember. “Actually, yeah. I think Ted did end up becoming a healer.” 

“Tonks’ mum?” Ron asks, a considering glint in his eye. 

“That’s the one,” Sirius confirms, nodding. 

Harry taps the stick of chalk they’ve been using to augment the plan as the night progresses against the blackboard a few times, humming thoughtfully. “Do you think she will believe your innocence?”  

“Maybe,” Sirius shrugs, using his hands to mime the scales of a weight. “Probably. Besides, what do you think the odds are that Tonks hasn’t told her mom everything already?” 

Ron inclines his head, acknowledging the point. “So we’ll ask her.” 

“How?” Ginny asks, one eyebrow raised. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we just evicted our best link to Sirius’ cousin.” 

“I’ll need to call a Black family meeting soon anyway,” Hermione points out, her warmth a comforting presence on Harry’s left. “We can talk to her then. Her husband, as well.” 

“Speaking of,” Sirius says, looking at the new Lady Black, “Have you considered the issue of your heir?” 

“Is it urgent?” Hermione asks, cocking her head. “What is the harm in waiting?” 

“Perception, mostly,” Sirius answers, his tone dropping into the familiar cadence he uses during those rare moments of teaching. “The Wizengamot will expect you to have an heir. There is a certain amount of respect in it; in proving that your line is large enough, powerful enough, to produce a worthy successor. It’s also a form of security; it promises that should you fall, the Black line will continue.”

“Alright,” Hermione concedes, yielding to his superior knowledge, “Then we face the same problems we did before I claimed the Ladyship, who on earth can I trust in such a position?” 

Slowly, as if not to spook a wild animal, all eyes turn to Harry. The young lord notices immediately, straightening under the attention. 

“No.” 

“Aww, Harry-” 

“No.” 

 “Fine,” Hermione huffs, ignoring the glower the Potter Lord throws her way. “Tonks might actually attempt to murder me if I dared to ask her.” 

“Andy is out,” Sirius points out, running a hand through his silky mane. “Asking her would give Narcissa and Bellatrix grounds to argue they have a right to the title as well.” 

“It will have to be someone from the bloodline,” Remus observes, stilling the rapid bounce of Padfoot’s heel with a gentle hand on his thigh. They are seated side by side with their chairs pulled close. Their shoulders touch with every exhale, their knees pressed together. Hermione doesn’t think the two men have even noticed their proximity. It’s kind of cute. 

“Maybe there are some distant cousins we could contact,” George musses, his feet propped up on the table, legs crossed at the ankle. “We can have a look through the genealogy books in the upper library.” 

“Guys,” Ginny drawls, her deadpan stare withering. She is crouched atop one of the sturdy wooden kitchen chairs, her weight balanced on the tips of her toes. “There is someone you’re not considering.” 

Ron's eyes widen in understanding then narrow immediately into a glare. “Do not suggest who I think-

“Draco Malfoy does exist,” Ginny finishes, cutting her brother off. She watches in amusement as Harry literally chokes on air in his shock, hacking up a lung.

“Absolutely not!” He wheezes, managing to squeeze out a few words through his constricting throat. 

“That is completely out of the question!” Ron exclaims, gawking at his sister. “Right Moine?” 

“Well,” Hermoine ponders, tilting her head. 

“Moine!” 

“Think about it, Ronald,” Hermione implores sharply, rolling her gray eyes. “He understands the Pureblood world, he’s better informed on the current political atmosphere, and he has a whole host of contacts within the dark faction. If we could ensure his loyalty in some way, he’d be the ideal heir.” 

Ginny reaches across the table for a fist pump that Hermione amusedly returns. “We have all those heirs hidden from us in the dungeons. They won’t trust a Lion, but they might just listen to a fellow Snake. Malfoy would make a great hook for the little fishies.” 

When Ron appears to be considering his sister’s words, Harry rushes to speak sense into the room. “Are we all thinking of the same Draco Malfoy? The boy who relishes in blood supremacy, the boy who gleefully got Buckbeek sentenced to death, the boy who calls Hermione a fucking mudblood on a regular basis. That’s who you want as the Heir to the Black Family?!” 

Fred pops a piece of the brutalized cookie into his mouth, his words coming out muffled. “Harry has a point.” 

“Why have an heir you can’t control or trust?” George asks, continuing his twin’s argument. 

“You could control him,” Arthur says, speaking up for the first time that evening. All heads whip around to stare at him. The Weasley parents were allowed to stay and observe the planning session, on the provision that the same agreement for training holds here as well: nothing leaves the room.

Arthus plows on despite the numerous eyes trained on his figure. “The Blacks hold regency over the Malfoys.” 

“He's correct,” Sirius remarks, eyes bright. “Through Cousin Cissy’s marriage, you are their head of house, Hermione.”

“You could have Mr. Malfoy swear a fidelity oath,” Remus offers, the title a force of habit after his time as a Professor. 

“Malfoy senior could prove useful, as well,” Ron considers, his strategic mind whirling. “He will know where the Death Eaters congregate for meetings, maybe even where the Dark Lord rests his head at night.” 

“And, I suppose, we can’t deny the man’s political power,” Harry grudgingly admits. 

“Lucy is a big part of old Voldy’s influence in the Wizengamot,” Sirius confirms, shooting Harry a comforting smile. 

“So we are all agreed?” Ron asks, ignoring the smug noises coming from Ginny’s place perched on her chair. 

“If we can get him to come to heal, Malfoy will make an adequate Black Heir,” Hermione nods, also pretending not to notice Ginny’s less-than-humble victory dance. Impressively, the girl somehow manages not to lose her balance even while pumping her arm in triumph. 

Ron stands from his seat, arms stretching high over his head. Both Hermione and Harry find themselves suddenly captivated by the dusty ceiling. These two events are completely unrelated, of course. 

“Alrighty folks,” Ron says, snatching the piece of chalk from Harry’s fingers. “The next Wizengamot meeting is on the twenty-second of September. That’s thirty days from now.” 

“We leave for Hogwarts in eight days,” Harry adds, stubbornly ignoring the sudden red hue on his tanned cheeks.

“We have quite a lot to do before then and now,” Hermione determines, looking around the table at their family and friends. 

“The Black Family meeting,” Ginny says. 

“Sirius’ healing,” Fred comments.

“The Occlumency,” George remarks. 

“The list goes on,” Hermione agrees, rising to stand before the blackboard. She raps a knuckle against a bullet point under the Lord/Ladyship's header. “And to complete them we must look the part.” 

“The Makeover?” Molly questions, confused. 

Harry throws her a cheeky wink. “Lords, Ladies, and aspiring vigilantes can’t go around dressed in rags, Mrs. Weasley.” 

“And it would be nice to have proper clothes to train in,” Ginny pipes up, causing the kids to wince in unison. The youngest Weasley is absolutely correct.

Hermione hums in agreement. “We’ll need assistance, and I have just the person in mind.” 

She plucks the chalk from Ron’s hold, her tidy elegant script adding a new bullet point under Makeover. She underlines it, it’s a name. Harry reads it and can’t help but laugh.

The Plan 

Lord/Ladyships 

• The Makeover
• Lavender
• Muzzling Voldepants' Political Power
• Family/Ally Rituals
• First Wizengamot Meeting
• September 22, 1995
• (Third Friday of every month)  

• Wizengamot Heirs in Hogwarts 
• (There are so many?!?)  

• Dormant Houses
• Test Muggleborns?? 
• Gringotts Leinage/Blood Tests??                                         

Defeating Lord Noseless         

• List of Deatheaters 
• Malfoy the Elder
• Heist
• Talk to Griphook
• Muzzling Voldepants' Political Power
• Malfoy the elder
• Reek Havoc in the Most Annoying Way
• Locate Secret Base/Destroy Secret Base       
• Malfoy the elder??                             

Training 

• Healing
• Harry - Lucinda 
• Sirius - Ted Tonks??
• Occlumency 
• Snape 
• Dueling Practice 

Black Family:

• Black Heir
  • Malfoy
• Black Family Meeting 
• Malfoys 
• Tonks
• Clearing Sirius’ Name
• Wormtail
• Wizengamot 

The Order: 

• The Fucking Prophecy
• Heist 2.0

Lavender Brown descends upon Grimmauld Place like a fashion-obsessed hurricane. She responded to Hermione’s plea for assistance post haste, setting off at the first mention of a styling crisis. She signed the magically binding confidentiality agreement to never speak of Grimmauld Place or its occupants without their express permission with nary a blink, as did her companions. 

She brought with her Parvati Patil, Hermione’s other roommate, and a bubbly house elf who goes by Diamond. Diamond is wearing a well-fitted pastel pink dress and soft leather boots. Hermione’s eyes started to gleam immediately when confronted with the obviously happy and comfortably dressed elf. 

Elsewhere in the house, Kreacher shuddered in terror for seemingly no reason. 

After a somewhat tense explanation of Papa’s framing and subsequent innocence, Lavender promptly demanded access to the complete wardrobes of everyone in Grimmauld Place, Papa, Moony, and the Weasley parents included before disappearing into the pile of trunks and clothes waiting for her. 

She’s positioned at the entrance of the Training Hall, beneath the hulking wooden doors and the wall of weapons. She spared perhaps a second to scan the enormous and impressive hall, with its numerous arenas, expensive equipment, and levitating obstacle course before focusing completely on raiding the trunks set out before her. 

In the hours that have since passed, the pile of clothes deemed irrevocable has grown quite exponentially. At one point, Lavender tipped Harry’s entire trunk upside down and dumped every piece of clothing into the pile, vowing to burn his clothes right off him, regardless of setting, if she ever saw him dressed in similar rags again. 

No one else’s wardrobe fared quite so badly, but a stream of muttered complaints and disparaging comments flowed continuously through the blond’s lips. The twins, Sirius, and Ginny were the only victims to receive a modicum of praise from the fashion critic. Any item deemed acceptable is passed to Diamond, who stores it carefully away before returning to her task of jotting down notes about her mistress’ thoughts and plans.   

Lavender paid not a wilt of attention to the training session unfolding around her, focused entirely on the thorough inspection of every garment that’s ever passed through Grimmuald’s walls. Her companion, on the other hand, never takes her eyes off them. 

Harry has felt the constant prickle of Parvati’s gaze through every spar and drill. The girls arrived after lunch, just in time for combat training. Remus was particularly vicious today, it’s been a grueling session. Just the right amount of struggle and exhaustion to put that pleasant ache in his chest and muscles. The one that means he’s worked hard, the one that speaks of growing strength. 

Parvati’s sharp, intelligent eyes watched as Ron faced three dueling dummies and won. She saw Hermione’s skill with her knives. She tracked Ginny as the youngest Weasley flew through the obstacle course, her feet as light as feathers. She observed as Fred scaled the rock wall and George bested a trainer with only his dagger and ax. And she witnessed Harry lob spell after spell at the enchanted targets, waiting for them to flash green, indicating a perfect cast. 

Her intent gaze reminds him of a hawk. Harry wonders if that might be her animagus form if she were ever to learn the art. 

Lavender emerges from her frenzied craze just as Remus dismisses them. She calls to them before they can escape to the showers, pursuing the notepad Diamond holds out to her. 

“Well, some of you will need a complete overhaul,” she declares, eyes sweeping pointedly in Harry’s direction. “But there is hope. I have a vision in mind for each of you. Fred, George, it’s obvious you have your own style; I can respect that. I will work together with you to refine it into something marvelous. The rest of you will be starting from scratch.” 

She flicks her wand and ten binders fly out of her purse. Eight of them speed off like bullets, targeting the pups, Papa, and Moony. It’s only Harry’s seeker-honed reflexes that stop his from colliding with his chest. The others don’t fare as well, and a staccato of muffled thumps sounds. The remaining two binders are handed gently to Diamond. 

Lavender crouches down to smile at her elf. “Give these to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Tell them I understand if they don’t want a complete makeover, but that I do insist on styling them for any public engagements.” 

“Of course, Mistress,” Diamond curtsies and pops away. 

Lavender straightens, peering at them thoughtfully. “The binders contain a catalog of clothing styles and options. Go through them, and tap your wand against anything that catches your fancy. After I have the results, I will shop in Muggle London and Diagon Alley to purchase everything you need. The sooner your surveys are finished, the faster you will receive your completed wardrobes.” 

“You’ve done this before,” Ginny notes, flipping through her binder curiously. 

Lavender grins at the redhead, eyes bright. “No, you are my first official clients, but I’ve always wanted to be a personal stylist and designer. I’ve thought a lot about how I want my process to work.” 

“You shop in Muggle stores?” Papa asks head tilted in a manner that is reminiscent of his dog form. 

“Yes,” Lavender confirms, one perfectly plucked eyebrow raised. “Our mundane counterparts are far more adventurous with fashion than us magicals. In everything but robe design, they are worlds more advanced. Is that going to be a problem?” 

“No problem,” Ron is quick to say, rescuing Papa from the Gryffindor's fiery stare.   

Lavender relaxes, satisfied. “Good. I will need to get your measurements. Harry first, if you please.” 

Weirdly nervous, Harry shuffles over to the formidable blond. She summons a measuring tape from her purse, sending it to work with a wave of her wand. 

“How can you do magic outside of school?” Harry asks, watching the tape zip around him. 

“My father applied for a grant,” Lavender says, noting down the numbers as the measuring tape reveals them. “How are you doing it?” 

A smirk flits across Harry’s face. “Grimmuald’s wards are too strong for the Ministry to detect our, uh, summer tutoring.” 

“Nice,” Lavender smiles, catching the tape after it goes limp; its mission completed. She leans closer to him, voice lowering. “Your binder is a little more in-depth than the others. I had a starting point with them, but I get the sense you had little choice in what you wore before.” 

Harry nods, avoiding eye contact. He refuses to be embarrassed about the cast-offs the Durselys forced him into, but a bit of shame rises to the surface nonetheless. 

“Take your time with the materials,” Lavender half adivies/half orders, her words soft. “I want to do this right. I want your wardrobe to be a true expression of your essence. Allow me to do what I do best.” 

Harry scans her face for a moment, searching for any hint of mockery or scorn. He finds none. “Alright.” 

“Good.” Lavender pulls away from him, gaze sweeping to the line of people behind them. “Next.” 

The twins materialize on either side of her, dancing away when the tape measure tries to paw at them. Harry settles next to Ron, who throws an arm over his shoulders. A moment later, strong, callused fingers glide up to tangle with the curls at the nape of his neck. Harry leans back into the familiar comfort. 

Diamond returns promptly and soon the measurements are speeding by. The prickling sensation of being watched invades his senses; of nails raked down his back. Harry turns his head, finding Parvati’s stare once more locked upon him. 

Lavender speaks up before he can say anything. “These cuffs,” she says, pointing at the metal bracelet circling Ginny’s wrist. “Are they a permanent fixture?” 

“Yes,” Hermione answers. The cuffs are a Weasley Twins original, designed to alert them if anyone is injured and track their locations in case of an ambush or capture. It was how they ensured Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s safety during their trip to Gringotts. They all have them, Papa and Moony as well now. 

“Okay. Can we make different versions?” Lavender asks, studying Ginny’s cuff more closely. “Fancy designs for formal events, maybe leather for everyday wear?” 

“I’m sure we could manage that,” Fred declares, exchanging a quick look with his twin. 

“Send us your ideas and we’ll make it work,” George affirms, arms crossed casually over his chest.  

“Thank you,” Lavender nods, beckoning Papa over; her final client in need of measuring. 

Harry’s magic is starting to react to Parvati’s unwavering stare. Huffing, he turns to face her directly. “Can I help you with something, Patil?” 

Parvati doesn’t cower under his glare, she meets it head-on with one of her own. “You are training for war.” 

It is not a question.

Harry dips his chin. “Yes.” 

“Voldemort is back.” Once more her words are delivered as a statement. 

Harry answers in turn. “Yes.” 

“I want in.” 

His brows furrow, taken aback. “What?”

“I want in,” Parvati repeats steadily, “Hogwarts will be the battleground for the coming conflict. That is unavoidable. Already, we face danger every year. I refuse to be defenseless any longer.” 

“You believe me?” Harry asks, surprised. The Prophet has been spewing slander all summer, claiming him to be a lying, attention-seeking lunatic. 

Parvati scoffs. “Only an idiot would believe what they are printing about you, Potter. We are Gryfindors and I know the truth.” 

“You wish to train with us?” 

“No, I wish to fight with you,” Parvati corrects, her honest conviction clear to hear. “As will my sister.” Padma Patil, her Ravenclaw twin. 

“It will not be easy,” Harry warns. 

“I would not expect it to be,” Parvati retorts. 

All conversation has stopped. The rest of the Hall’s occupants focused on their duel of words. “There is no guarantee of your safety or survival.” 

Parvati steps closer to him, proud and defiant and sure. “That is generally the risk of war.” 

Harry looks away then, turning to face Hermione, who nods, then on to Ron and his siblings, who follow her example. Papa shrugs and finally, Harry addresses Moony. “Remus?”

“We’ve certainly got the space,” Moony observes, as affable as ever. 

Harry grins at him, returning his gaze to Parvati. “Welcome to the club.” 

Parvati holds out an arm, which Harry grasps warmly. She’s got a strong handshake. 

“I have no interest in combat, but I will help however I am able,” Lavender says, coming to stand beside her companion. Parvati reaches down to enclose the blond’s hand with hers, their fingers interweaving. Harry raises an eyebrow, interested. 

“If you are planning to be vocal about your support, you should at least know some basic self-defense. Long enough to last you until help arrives or you can retreat,” Remus professes firmly. 

“Fair enough, Professor Lupin,” Lavender concedes. 

“Please, call me Remus,” Moony insists, smiling a bit mischievously. “And training starts at 5.” 

“In the morning?!” Lavender cries, looking at the werewolf in horror. Remus nods, unrepentant. 

“I can bring my sister?” Parvati inquires, absently soothing her companion. 

“She will have to sign the confidentiality agreement,” Ron warns. 

“That is fine,” Parvati agrees easily. 

Ron smiles at her. “Then she is welcome.”

“We still have to talk about payment,” Lavender points out, pausing in her effort to assist Diamond with sorting the approved clothes into the right trunks. 

“We will be meeting with our account manager sometime in the next week,” Hermione declares, summoning something from her room upstairs. “I will send you the details once we have them ironed out so we can schedule a time slot for you then.” 

The coin purse that connects directly with the Black vaults comes flying into the Training Hall. Hermione catches it smoothly and tosses it to Lavender. “For now, use this to purchase anything you think is necessary.” 

“Wait,” Harry gapes, flabbergasted. He points an accusing finger at Hermione. “I was going to pay!” 

Hermione reaches over to pat his cheek consolingly. She coos, “Hush up now, baby. You are no longer the sugar parent in this relationship.” 

In the shocked silence that follows, Papa is the first to break into peals of uproarious laughter. He is not the last. 

The potions lab in the basement of Grimmauld Place was claimed by the twins and converted into their workroom. They spend every minute outside of training slaving away in the lab. Four large metal tables take up most of the floor space, piled under countless cauldrons bubbling away. Boxes line the walls, in constant threat of collapsing from their teetering stacks. 

The twins’ inventions, in all numbers of assembly stages, clutter the lab. Some are riots of color, meant for the joke shop they plan to establish after Hogwarts. Others are more practical; tricks invented to aid the war effort. Remus has already started incorporating the finished products into their training.

Tonight, the twins are presenting some newly completed projects. Everyone is crowded into their lab, shoulders pressed together in the tight space. Hermione is standing closest to the door, next to Mrs. Weasley. They both have their doubts about the logic of conducting these tests in the Twin’s highly flammable lab. 

Fred is the first to address the crowd. “Ladies and Gentlemen! Welcome! Gather round, don’t be shy!” 

George steps up beside his twin, flashing a blinding grin. “Tonight you will witness history, magic in its truest form! Please, prepare to be amazed.” 

Hermione rolls her eyes at their dramatics, but even she can not deny her amusement. She exchanges a fond look with Mrs. Weasley. 

Fred whips his bright purple robe back, donned just for the occasion, and reveals a small canister. He displays it to the room, everyone wooing and ahhing obediently. 

“This, my friends, is our Black Shadows,” George declares, passing a bundle of items to Ron. He takes one for him and another for Harry, before handing the rest to Ginny. They make their way around the room quickly, and in no time at all Hermione is holding one as well. 

It’s a pair of glasses, made to fit snugly around one’s head. Experimentally, Hermione roughly shakes her head from side to side; the glasses don’t budge an inch. 

“Everyone have their glasses on?” Fred calls, waiting for an affirmative before he pops open the canister. Nothing happens. Hermione leans closer, confident she must be missing something, but no, the room doesn’t appear to have changed at all. 

“Uh, boys,” Mr. Weasley says, a bit apologetically, “I don’t believe it’s working how you intended.” 

“Not to worry, Dad,” George soothes brightly, not dismayed in the slightest. “It’s working perfectly.” 

Fred slings an arm over his shoulder, grinning. “Take off your glasses.” 

Hermione does so, curious, and can’t contain her gasp at what she sees. The potions lab has been engulfed in darkness. Smoak has invaded the air, so thick she can’t see her hands when she holds them millimeters from her face. Sounds of surprise and wonder fill the room. 

A thought occurs to her, and Hermione scrambles to put her glasses back on. She can see perfectly once more. Removing the glasses reveals the room still drenched in pitch black, but with the glasses on her vision isn’t impeded at all. 

“The glasses cancel out the effects,” Remus gasps excitedly, clearly following the same train of thought as her. 

Hermione feels the buzz of Harry’s magic vibrate further as he attempts to spell the smoke away. The shadows hardly flutter, imperious to even the most powerful of banishing spells. 

“How long does this last?” Ron demands, breathless and delighted.

“Well,” one of the twins says, Hermione can’t tell who in the dark, “The best we’ve gotten is forty minutes, but we could probably make more potent batches.”

There’s the pop and hiss of another canister opening before the shadows are smothered away. That must have been a nullifying agent. 

In the sudden light, Mrs. Weasley is beaming with pride. “Boys, that was simply amazing!” 

“Thanks, Mum,” they say together, bashful and blushing. 

George is the first to recover. “But wait, there’s more!” 

They proceed to dazzle their captive audience further. 

The next invention they reveal are little flying devices, smaller than a quill tip. After locking onto a target, they can follow that person for hours, recording their conversations. The twins have even started working on a version with a longer shelf life that can be planted somewhere. They remind Hermione of the listening bugs in spy movies. 

Next up is a spray that can knock someone unconscious in seconds flat, contained in canisters similar to the Black Shadows and its nullifying agent. The last invention of the day is a revised model of the extendable ears. Instead of two ears connected by a string, they are little flesh-colored buds. You hide them in your ear, enabling you to relay messages to anyone with a connected bud and to listen to what’s on their end. 

Hermione is astonished at their talent. Tonight showcased only a small fraction of what the twins are capable of. Their ideas grow wilder and more ambitious every day, and with the Potter and Black fortunes backing them, the twins have the funds and the brains needed to create most anything. 

It’s almost enough to make her feel pity for their enemies. Almost. 

Two days later, Lavender finds herself in Hermione’s ancestral home once more. Of course, the Blacks have only been Hermione’s ancestors for a couple of days now, but Lavender has always believed in adapting quickly. Truly, possessing such a mentality is the only way to survive having Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived as a house and yearmate. 

Lavender is a smart girl who also happens to be dating the queen of the Hogwarts gossip mill. She knows all about the Golden Trio’s yearly adventures. They are the biggest secret at school, so naturally everyone is aware, at least in part, of the three Gryfindor’s frequent brushes with death. 

Parvati makes it her business to know everything about everyone and naturally, she shares the juiciest bits of gossip with her girlfriend. Needless to say, Lavender is well-informed on what the Golden Trio gets up to. 

Today is the second day Lavender and the Patil twins have joined the training sessions. As promised, Lavender’s workouts are much less involved. She practices her spells, partakes in a couple of spars with the dueling dummies, does some conditioning and strengthening exercises and then she’s out of there. From start to finish, Remus owns her for about two hours before she is released. 

Padma and Parvati stay the whole time; through conditioning to spell work to combat, they match the others step for step. Lavender, on the other hand, gladly takes the reprieve and spends her days gallivanting through muggle and magical shopping districts, procuring the foundations for her clients’ wardrobes. 

She’s almost ready for the final steps. All that’s left clothing-wise are the statement pieces, but all the basics are secured. The basics, of course, are workout gear, jeans, shirts, sweaters, socks, etc. It’s been wildly entertaining, shopping for such a varied mixture of styles and preferences. 

Sirius and Ginny actually have similar tastes; all black leather jackets, ripped jeans, and combat boots. The Twins have an entirely unique style with their blazing colors, interesting silhouettes, and vivid patterns. Remus has his chocolate brown aesthetic, composed of knitted jumpers, tan suits, and sweater vests. 

The Golden Trio insisted on complementing wardrobes, a visual unit that remains cohesive regardless of what they choose to wear. It was an engaging challenge. Hermione prefers sleek lines, the polished look of a businesswoman. She is partial to dark academia. Ron is cozy chic; with rumpled button-downs, rich tones, and soft materials. Harry enjoys the old-money look; well-fitted shirts, pressed vests, and dress shoes. 

Lavender got them clothes in their favored styles but kept within a shared color palate. All of the Golden Trio’s outfits will be in shades of red, black, gold, silver, the occasional blue, and earth tones; browns, tans, greens, and ambers. As long as they stay within the color palette, they will look coordinated even if Ron is in jeans, Hermione in a pantsuit, and Harry in a suit and tie.

Today’s goal is to get the facial necessities out of the way; makeup, haircuts, piercings, and the like. She also wants to get a better handle on people’s preferences for their accessories. The next day or two will be all about putting the final touches on their looks. 

She has a station set up in the Training Hall bathrooms. She brought her charmed clippers, scissors, and brushes. With Diamond's help, so far she’s completed Fred, George, Remus, and Ron’s haircuts. She hustles out into the Hall to call for her next victim. “Granger!” 

Hermione obeys swiftly enough, though she is stalled when Ron prances out from one of the stalls. His head is still dripping wet after rinsing off the excess snippings. His hair is clipped short at his neck but lengthens to a tousled nest at the top of his head. Silky red strands frame his face nicely, making his bright, blue eyes glisten. 

Lavender did a marvelous job if she says so herself, which she does, and Hermione seems to agree if the stunned gaping is anything to go by, which it is. 

“Yes, yes, he is very pretty,” Lavender smirks, using one finger to gently push Hermione’s mouth closed. “Off you go, Weasley. I’m sure Remus has already started pouting over his loss of victims.” 

Ron scurries off, the tips of his ears bright red. That snaps Hermione out of the daze she had fallen into. She tears herself away from Lavender, flouncing over to the styling chair positioned in front of a floor-length mirror. 

Lavender saunters after her, drifting closer to peer thoughtfully at Hermione’s reflection. She taps her own chin and then points to the other Gryfindor's. “Is that a bit of drool I see?” 

“Oh, shove off,” Hermione huffs, pushing Lavender away. The blond laughs brightly but settles into her place behind the chair easily enough. 

“Please tell me you three are official now?” Lavender demands, resting her elbows on the back of the chair so she can lower her cheek next to Hermione’s.

The ensuing silence is telling. 

“Hermione!” Lavender scolds, throwing her arms up in exasperation. 

“I’m waiting for them,” Hermione cries, arms crossed over her chest defensively. “What do you want me to do, Brown? Jump them in the shower?” 

“Yes, Granger! That is precisely what you must do,” Lavender throws back, thoroughly worked up now. “They are boys, Hermione. Boys are stupid. You must do the thinking for them. If you wait for them to catch a clue, you won’t have sex till your thirties.” 

Hermione buries her face in her arms, hiding the telltale blush.“Oh my god, Lav!” 

“What!” Lavender demands, hands on her hips. “It’s true!” 

“Can we please talk about something else? Please?”

“Fine,” Lavender rolls her eyes, returning to position behind the styling chair. “But I want it noted that I think you should just lock yourselves in a closet and refuse to let your boys out until they kiss each other and you.” 

“Noted,” Hermione remarks dryly, a fond smile on her lips. 

Lavender nods, pleased. “Good. Now what are you thinking for your hair? Braids, a wig, several wigs? Dreads?” 

Hermione shrugs. “Dealer’s choice.” 

Lavender squeals, utterly delighted by this turn of events. “Braids, then. You will look glorious!” 

Lavender did a great job. Ron can’t draw his eyes away from Harry and Hermione. They look… amazing, mouth-watering, perfect; Ron could go on for hours. 

Hermione’s hair is done up in braids that trail all the way down her back. Strands of silver and gold were woven into the braids alongside gems. She sparkles every time she moves. Her ears are pierced, diamonds flashing from their settings. She even has a small nose ring.  

Her nails are sharp and polished. Her gold dress is sinfully tailored, hugging her curves in a way that makes something within him ache. She’s wearing a pair of black heels that bring her head up to his chin. Her deep, chestnut skin is butter-soft, and her leather wand holster is strapped to her forearm. She's stunning. 

Harry is dressed in an expertly fitted suit. The jacket is black and the shirt beneath is a dazzling gold. Three buttons are undone and for some unknowable reason, that simple fact keeps intelligent thought far from Ron’s capabilities. 

He’s grown so much these past few weeks, just inches short of Ron’s towering build. His sun-kissed skin is glowing, thriving after the salves Lucinda prescribed. His vivid green eyes are on full display and his ears were pierced as well, two emeralds glimmering in the candlelight. His hair is still shaggy and long, but Lavender found a miracle gel that takes it from hopelessly matted to purposefully wild. It has proven to be very distracting. 

Ron himself has on a rich, burgundy shirt. Swirls of gold are embroidered throughout the fabric and his vest is a midnight black. His left ear is pierced, like Bill’s. A ruby dangles from the lobe. 

Ginny is behind him, wearing skin-tight leather pants and a gold turtleneck. Several piercings line her ears and a golden ring marks her septum. Her hair was cropped short and given an undercut. It makes her look like a muggle rock star.

Fred has on a ruby red suit and George a gold one. Their undershirts are a matching black. Their hair curls around their ears, left at its almost shoulder-length style. 

Sirius is wearing his signature black leather jacket, though the silk tank top underneath is a rich maroon. The old piercings in his ears closed during his time in Azkaban, but Lavender reopened them for him; diamond studs now grace his fine features. His hair is long and raven black.

Remus is wearing a cashmere sweater the color of burnt wine. His hair is short, extended at his crown before it fades to a crop. 

Lavender has them posing in front of the wall of weapons in the Training Hall. She wants to get a picture of their completed looks for her future business. She’s proper smug and she has a right to be. They look bloody fantastic; strong and fierce and deadly. 

Hermoine leans closer to him, whispering, “I think we’re ready to send out those letters now.” 

“Yeah,” Ron says, looking at her. She embodies the role of Lady Black in this moment. “I think we are.” 

Tonks is in her parents’ kitchen, recounting the drama from the last Order meeting when a startlingly familiar snowy owl swoops into the room. Hedwig soars across the kitchen, dropping a letter into her mom’s lap, then her dad’s, and then finally her own. 

Tonks picks up the letter curiously, noting the thick, fancy parchment. Her name is scrawled on the top in neat cursive. That too is familiar. She opens the letter with suddenly nervous fingers. 

Miss. Nymphadora Tonks,

Lady Black cordially invites you to attend a Black Family meeting at Grimmauld Place, our ancestral manor. I wish to discuss our future together and your rightful place with our family. 

Attached to this letter is a portkey that will take you directly to the manor. Please arrive tomorrow, August 29th, promptly at 10 in the morning. Simply say “Grimmauld” to activate the portkey. 

I look forward to meeting with you and your parents. 

My very best, Lady Black. 

Tonks says what she believes to be the only logical response to such a summons, “Holly fucking shit!” 

Chapter Text

Draco is practicing the newly discovered art of sitting still and dead silent when the quiet hooting starts up from one of the dining room’s windows. It’s a tower of glass, spanning at least twenty feet into the air, and right at the very top an old golden eagle hovers. 

Mother tenses immediately, her grip tightening around her knife. They have learned, over this cursed summer spent with their esteemed guest, that any unexpected event will likely end with a Malfoy’s blood or screams. It has been an enlightening couple of months, to say the least. 

Father looks hesitantly at his master, and it is only at Lord Voldemort’s careless approval that the once proud Lord Malfoy rises stiffly to allow the bird entrance. The eagle soars nimbly into the room, diving towards the table with a grace few wizarding birds are bred with now. 

Father is allowed only a moment to catch the letter released over his head before the bird is swooping towards Mother and Draco. They share a bewildered glance as they receive their own parcels. The golden eagle lands on the table before them, dipping its regal head to sip at the water in Draco’s goblet. He can only be grateful the house elves don’t serve wine during lunch or the bird would have discovered quite the surprise. 

Mother is studying the eagle, her button nose scrunched up in the way it does when she’s trying to recall something. She gasps softly and Draco knows she must have found the memory she was searching for.  

The Dark Lord hears her exclamation as well. “Narcissssa, dear, what have you dissscovered?” 

Draco represses the shudder that comes every time the Dark Lord speaks. He is soft-spoken, his words more a hiss than spoken English. Draco has never heard him yell or raise his voice, but then, he has no need to. His magic is perfectly capable of expressing his rage and disappointment. Draco knows that well, after a summer spent under his tender mercy and delicate patience. 

“That is Regulus’ bird,” Mother admits after a moment, her head lowered in subservience. 

The Dark Lord spits out a hiss that has no attachment to the English language. It’s wrathful and dripping in condescension. Mother flinches at what must be parseltongue, paling under her master’s rage. 

Beneath the fear, Draco contemplates why the news of the bird’s deceased owner ignited such a response. Cousin Regulus has been dead for over a decade. Not to mention, as far as Draco has heard, he was a devoted follower of the dark side and its Lord. 

“Regulusss, you sssay,” the Dark Lord murmurs, stroking the monster of a snake he calls a pet. “Luciusss, read it to usss. Let usss sssee what a dead man wissshesss to sssay.” 

Father hides the tremble in his hands commendably, but Draco knows the man who raised him. The terror in his father’s eyes is not so well hidden that Draco is unable to detect it. 

Father opens the letter, clearing his throat before beginning to read. “Lord Malfoy, Lady Black summons you and your family to a Black Family meeting tomorrow, on August 29th. Arrive promptly at two in the afternoon. The portkey attached to this letter will take you to the meeting. To activate it simply say, “House of Black.” To our future together, Lady Black.” 

The Dark Lord is smiling after Father finishes reciting the words on the parchment. It is not a pleasant expression, more cruel than mirthful. 

“A woman asss the Head of the Black family, how interesssting. Who could it be, Narcisssa?” 

“I could not say, my lord,” Mother dutifully responds, eyes trained on the letter in her hands. Draco watches as a curious hope blossoms in her gaze. He knows Mother has been searching for a way out of their vows to their master. Perhaps she thinks this summons is the way. “It may be my blood-traitor sister or a daughter of Cousin Sirius none of us knew about.” 

Draco might have a guess as well. This stinks of Potter. If the letter was signed by a Lord Black there would be no doubt, but it was written by a woman. Still, Draco would bet all the gold in his trust vault that Potter has a hand in this somehow. 

“You will go to the meeting,” the Dark Lord declares, turning his blood-red stare onto each of the Malfoys in turn. “Then you will report on thisss new Lady Black. If ssshe can be ssswayed to the correct line of thinking or if ssshe mussst be cut down.” 

“Yes, my lord,” Father bows, his jaw quivering under the strength of his clenching teeth. His body shakes as he lowers himself back into his chair. The constant tremors are a consequence of his master’s favored reprimand, the torture curse. Father has become well acquainted with it over the summer. 

Draco wonders, not for the first time, if he will be an orphan by the time it comes for him to return to Hogwarts. 

Sirius bounds down the main staircase in Grimmauld Place, whistling a jaunty tune. He relishes the ability to be as loud and intrusive as humanly possible in this section of the house. His mother’s portrait is notably absent. 

She really pulled out all of the stops on the permanent sticking spells molding her portrait to the paint. There was no way of getting the foul thing off the wall, short of using Fiendfrye, which might have been a little overkill. So, (quite ingeniously, if you ask him) they simply removed the wall.
A quick blasting curse, a few repair charms, a couple of transfigurations, and BAM! goodbye portrait of your abusive mother.

Sirius gleefully chucked the screaming thing into the kitchen fireplace, offering a fond farewell to the last remnant of Walburga Black. Watching her pinched, loathing expression burn to ash will forever be one of Sirius’ most treasured memories. 

Grimmauld Place is looking better by the day. The display of severed elf heads was moved to one of the storage rooms in the basement. The room was given to Kreacher, who repurposed it as a place to honor the noble servants of the House of Black. It always acts as a safe haven for all the enchanted (read: murderous) trinkets and heirlooms Kreacher was determined to keep. 

Sirius’ semi-congenial relationship with the old house elf is deeply disturbing. Every time Kreacher is halfway respectful to him, or Merlin-forbid, smiles at him, Sirius develops the sudden need to expel the contents of his stomach, but the old bastard seems to be settling well into his bond with his new mistress. 

If nothing else, the dust levels in Grimmauld are no longer suffocating. 

The furniture is still worn and outdated. Some rooms are sparse, as most of their decor had to be thrown out on account of mold or general disrepair. However, the floors are clean, the wallpaper repaired, and the lights shine brightly, free from decades of built-up grime. 

Eventually, Hermione will have to hire an interior designer or attempt it herself, but for now, Grimmauld Place is perfectly liveable. It is certainly worlds apart from how it was in Sirius’ youth, but that may be caused by the much-improved company. 

Sirius leaps over the railing, bypassing the last of the steps entirely. He lands beside Harry, ruffling his pup’s messy hair. “You guys ready for this?” 

Never far from his pup, Ron shoots him a small smile and Hermione nods confidently. They are dressed smartly today; Hermione has on a long-sleeved green dress. It flows down her figure, stopping just above her black-heeled boots. Ron is in an emerald jumper and a pair of jeans. He’s wearing a black pair of those muggle Converse James used to be obsessed with. Though, Prongs’ were bright cherry red. 

Harry is dressed to match, of course. He is wearing all the layers of a suit except the jacket. His shirt is green and his vest and pants black; all well tailored. He has on a pair of gleaming, black, leather dress shoes. 

Sirius is impressed; that Brown girl has quite the fashionable eye. He would feel underdressed just standing near them if he hadn’t been stubbornly insisting that his leather jacket is appropriate for all occasions since his early teens.  

“The Tonks are just the warm-up,” Harry says, adjusting the cuff links lining his sleeves. They are embellished with black diamonds. “The Malfoys will be the true challenge.” 

“A fair point,” Sirius acknowledges, brushing his pup’s hands away to straighten out the cuff links himself. Harry smiles at him in thanks.

Kreacher pops into the foyer, bowing low before Hermione. “Your guests are here, mistress.” 

Hermione smiles down at the elf. “Thank you, Kreacher. You may show them in.” 

Kreacher beams under her attention, puffing up in pride. “Yes, my lady.” 

Ron straightens from his relaxed sprawl against the wall. He strolls over to stand next to his friends. “Show time.” 

Seconds later the front doors creep open and Andromeda Black glides in behind Kreacher, quickly followed by her husband and child. Andy’s cool, gray eyes sweep over the people gathered to greet her and her family. They lock onto Sirius and a slow smile grows upon her lips. 

“Cousin Sirius,” she drawls, her posh accent still strong and clear just as it was in their childhood. “How is it that I find myself not the least bit surprised to discover you at the center of this?” 

Sirius throws his head back and laughs. “You know me, Andy, I’ve always got to be a part of the chaos.” 

“Yes, I do know you,” Andromeda shakes her head fondly. Her attention shifts to the three teenagers standing just behind Sirius. Her gaze settles on Hermione. “Lady Black, I presume?” 

Hermione steps forward, extending a friendly hand. “Yes, Mrs. Tonks. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.” 

“You as well, dear,” Andromeda clasps her hand firmly. “And who are your friends?”

Hermione's lips quirk in a slight smile. She motions towards her boys. 

“This is Lord Harry Potter...” Harry nods respectfully, “Ma’am” 

“... and this is his heir, Ronald Weasley.” Ron offers her a polite smile, “Good to meet you.” 

Andy then takes over the introductions, gesturing at her family. “This is my husband, Edward Tonks, and of course, you know my daughter, Nymphadora.” 

“Well enough to know not to call me that,” Tonks cuts in, rolling her eyes which are a royal purple at the moment. 

Sirius claps excitedly, drawing the attention to him. “Wonderful! We’ve all met. Now, let’s get down to business.” 

Kreacher makes his presence known, leading everyone into an adjoining parlor. The least damaged chairs were placed in the room, arranged around an intimate round table. The hearth is lit in the corner, creating a warm, comfortable temperature. 

Hermoine takes the seat farthest from the door and her boys claim the chairs on either side of her. Sirius plops down on Harry’s right and Andromeda reclines gracefully in the chair directly opposite Hermione, her husband and child to her left and right. 

“Allow me to put this simply, Mrs. Tonks,” Hermione begins after everyone has gotten situated. “You were disowned for marrying a muggle-born, whom the previous Head of House did not believe was worthy of your love. I disagree completely with that judgment and would like to welcome you and your family back into the House of Black.” 

Sirius swallows a startled laugh, wheezing into the crook of his arm. You have to give it to her, Hermione has got nerves of steel. 

Defying all known laws of gravity and physics (not that Sirius knows much about those), Andy’s posture somehow becomes more vertical. 

Her expression is carefully crafted when she asks, “What exactly would that entail, Lady Black?” 

Hermione does not hesitate. “I would like to reopen your vaults; with restorations for the years of lost investments and growth, of course. I would like to conduct the ritual that restores your connection with the family magics, for you and your family. I would like to offer you the protection of the House of Black. I would like you to retake its name and stand once more beneath its banner.” 

Four consecutive, rapid blinks are the only sign of surprise Andy allows herself. “You are looking for allies, wands to add to your army.” 

“Yes,” Hermione does not deny it. “We are a small faction, newly hatched, and we need strong allies, but I am also looking for family.” 

Ron clears his throat, looking seriously at Andromeda. “There would be no obligation to fight. We will never force you into anything, much less combat.” 

“Though,” Harry says, glancing at the only male Tonks, “We could use your healing expertise for Sirius, Mr. Tonks.” 

Ted appears surprised to be addressed, but he recovers quickly. “Oh, of course, I would help you, Sirius! Whatever you need.” 

“Thank you, old chap,” Sirius smiles, weirdly charmed by the man’s earnest conviction. 

“So, Mrs. Tonks,” Hermione ventures, looking directly at Andromeda. “What do you say?” 

“I say,” she begins slowly, exchanging a quick glance with her husband, “that it would be best for you to call me Andy.” 

Hermione’s smile, when it comes, is breathtaking. Sirius watches fondly as both Harry and Ron get caught in its brilliance. 

“I would be pleased to,” Hermione declares warmly, grinning at Andromeda. “You must call me Hermione.”   

They are once more absconded in the makeshift ritual room in the basement of Grimmauld Place. There is an actual ritual room on the second floor, but it’s so infused with black magic that the air tastes of iron and smoke. It also protests heavily against any magics that aren’t strictly dark, so they come here for all of their ritual-based needs. 

Ron is with them this time. He’s resting against the far wall, observing the going-ons. This is Hermione and Sirius’ show, as Lady Black and the person who grew up memorizing the needed ritual respectfully. Harry is mostly there to lend his magic. He spends most of his time admiring his tall redhead. 

Ron is very handsome. So handsome, in fact, that Lavender’s makeover has made him into a public menace. He should be hidden away for the sanity of teenage Potter Lords who are desperately attempting not to ruin their most treasured friendships and thus the best things in their lives. 

Ron’s dark emerald jumper strains against his quickly developing muscles. The soft fabric bulges obscenely around his biceps every time he moves his arms. Every. Single. Time. It’s doing dangerous things to Harry’s psyche.  

The ruby in Ron’s left ear sparkles in the soft candlelight. It’s from the Potter Vault. Lavender insisted on them being properly accessorized, the twins insisted on protective spells, and Mrs. Weasley insisted on saving money. A compromise was made after Papa brought up the many, many pieces of jewelry in the Potter and Black vaults. Most of it has been passed down from generation to generation and a great deal of the jewels have centuries of defensive magic woven into them. 

Griphook, who was recently promoted to the Black Account Manager as well as Potter, grudgingly allowed Lavender entry to the vaults. She proceeded to raid anything that caught her eye. By the end of her allotted hour in the vaults, she managed to fill three trunks worth of jewelry, each equipped with state-of-the-art expansion charms. 

Needless to say, they were not left wanting for options and Lavender ordered- er… encouraged everyone to choose at least twenty pieces. Ron’s ruby is charmed to repel most low-level hexes and makes him moderately fire-resistant. 

Ron catches him staring. He flashes a startled smile, head tilted curiously. Harry smiles awkwardly in return and quickly refocuses on Hermione and Sirius. 

Andromeda and Ted have already completed their rituals, officially Mr. and Mrs. Tonks-Black. It’s Tonks’ turn now. She is standing before Hermione, her hair nervously flitting between colors and lengths. 

Hermoine places one hand on the metamorphmagus’ shoulder. Papa clasps Hermoine’s free hand and Harry takes his. They form a human circuit, so Harry’s magic will flow into Papa, who will direct it into Hermione, who will channel it into the ritual, which will propel it into Tonks. 

Hermione takes a deep breath, signaling the start of the ritual. Harry releases the tight hold he had his hyper magic trapped in. It bursts from within him, sprinting towards Papa. 

“I, Lady Hermione Jean Granger-Black, Head of the House of Black, welcome our lost daughter, Nymphadora Tonks, into our family. May the Family Magics embrace her. May all Black territories shelter her. In times of need, we will protect her. In all battles, we will fight by her side. Our gold is her gold. Our joy is her joy. Our legacy is her legacy. Let all those who belong to the House of Black know Nymphorda Tonks is a Black forever more. So I say, so mote it be.” 

The Black Family magic is rejoicing, pleased beyond belief to have its daughters and new son returned to it. Harry can sense its presence, weightless in the air; happy, satisfied, eager. It feels amazing. 

Hermione allows the room a couple of seconds to breathe before she separates from Papa and Tonks. Ron joins them now that the rituals are completed, stopping a hair’s breadth away from Harry’s shoulder. The Potter Lord finds himself very aware of the redhead’s nearness. 

The Tonks-Blacks are beaming at each other, cheeks flushed with the Family Magics coursing through their veins. 

“Fantastic work, everyone,” Hermione says, breathless herself. “Just one more thing to do now.” 

She calls for Kreacher, who pops in with the trunk of jewelry from the Black Vaults. Lavender would have returned with more, but most of the jewels in those vaults had a lot of opinions about anyone not of Black descent handling them and they were not afraid to express their displeasure.  

Andromeda gasps when Kreacher flips open the trunk. “How did you get those out of Gringotts?” 

Ron and Harry exchange a quick smirk, both reaching into one of their pockets. 

“We have a stylist,” Harry says, pulling out a stack of business cards from his breast pocket. It has Lavender’s name and logo printed on the surface in glittering gold lettering. Lavender ordered- er… asked them to offer a card anytime someone asks about their clothes or newly improved sense of fashion. 

Ron also holds out a card, “She’s hard to say no to.” 

Hermione bats their hands away, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. “No need for the cards, boys, I’m sure they will soon become acquainted with our wondrous Miss Brown.” 

“Now, please choose something from the top or second shelf,” she says, looking towards the Tonks-Blacks. “They are the ones with protection charms.” 

Their protests fall on deaf ears, and it is soon discovered that Lavender Brown is not the only person who is hard to say no to.

Tonks and her parents agreed to stay for the meeting with the Malfoys later that day. They catch up with the others just in time for lunch. Tonks is practically salivating at the thought of another taste of Molly’s homemade cooking. She also can’t wait to prove to her parents just how skilled the Weasley matriarch is with food and spices. 

They dismissed her ringing endorsement as over-exaggeration. In fairness to her parents, Tonks might have been a tad enthusiastic with her recounting, but Molly’s food is truly worth the hype. 

They get to meet the infamous stylist, who becomes fascinated with Tonks’ metamorphmagus talent the instant she learns of it. Lavender spends the entirety of the meal pestering Tonks with question after question. The auror finds she doesn’t mind all that much. 

She wasn’t expecting the two new Gryffindors, nor the Ravenclaw. She wasn’t expecting the kids’ group to have expanded so quickly. The confrontation with the Order last week was the first Tonks heard of their intention to create a third side of the war. It has been obvious for weeks now that the kids were dissatisfied with the Order and Dumbledore, especially Dumbledore, but Tonks had no idea just how serious they were. 

If she’s completely honest with herself, Tonks shares their disquiet. The Order is largely useless. They spend hours guarding the prophecy and gather at meetings to mutter disparagingly about the wixen sheep that seem to make up their government and society. Occasionally they will stumble across chatter about a Deaf Eater raid, but they always arrive too late. They’ve found nothing but burning buildings, dead or dying muggles, and a Dark Mark painted in the sky; the violence long over. 

Having said that, Tonks also has her doubts about how much good a group of overeager teenagers can do. Yes, Harry has experience with dangerous situations, but he has no knowledge of war; of vicious battles, and gruesome death. Of course, neither does Tonks nor most of the Order, but she has years of auror training under her belt and they are adults with fully matured magical cores and brains. Not to mention the handful who fought in the First War. 

Though, Tonks ponders privately to herself, there are not just teenagers sitting around this table. Harry and his friends have seduced Remus to their side. Molly and Arthur seem to have accepted their pleas to fight, however reluctantly. Hell, they got Tonks and her parents too. And there is no discounting Sirius Fucking Black; a legend in the Auror office despite his supposed anarchy. 

“You were right,” Dad whispers conspiratorially from her right. He is enthusiastically dragging a bread roll across his plate, making certain all the excess sauce soaks into the dough. “This is amazing.” 

“We are sorry we doubted you,” Mom murmurs from her left. She dabs her napkin delicately along the edges of her mouth, always so prim and proper when in the company of people who are not family. She raises her voice, speaking to Wealseys on the other side of the table. “My sincerest compliments to the chef. That might be the most delicious lunch I’ve had in years.” 

Molly’s cheeks dimple charmingly under the praise. Arthur aims a grateful smile at Andromeda, kissing his wife’s knuckles gently. The Weasley children perk up as well, grinning at Tonks’ mom with happy approval. 

Remus clears his throat, peering at his wristwatch. “Alright, cubs, it’s a little after 11:30. We’ve got time for combat training before the Malfoys arrive. Head to the hall, we start in ten minutes.” 

The kids gather their dishes and leave with only a mild amount of grumbling and protests. Tonks spies the Weasley twins crowd around the Golden Trio, whispering to them excitedly. The stylist, Lavender, stays behind to help Molly clean up. She doesn’t participate in every aspect of training.

Tonks stops Remus before he can vacate the kitchen as well. “Combat training, you say?”

The werewolf’s eyes are sparkling when he meets her gaze. “Care to join us?” 

Tonks grins. “Of course.” 

“So,” Andy drawls, perched on an armchair. She, Ted, and Sirius are in one of the sitting rooms on the main floor. “Have you fucked your wolf yet?” 

Sirius splutters. He chokes on air and immediately starts hacking up a lung. Ted chuckles softly, leaning outside of the splash zone. He is kneeling in front of Sirius, his medical bag open at his feet.

“Darling, please don’t send my patients into shock while I’m examining them,” Ted scolds playfully, perusing the long scroll of results from the diagnostic spell he just performed on the Azkaban escapee. 

“Sorry, my love,” Andy grins, patting her husband on the back. “Next time I’ll wait till after your examination.” 

“Thank you, darling. I am much obliged.” 

Sirius holds out a beseeching hand, finally recovered from his coughing fit. 

“Wait,” he says, glancing incredulously between husband and wife. “Wait just one moment. You can’t say things like that, Andy!” 

Andy arches an unimpressed eyebrow. “Why? It’s an honest query.” 

Sirius returns to spluttering. “I- it is not the- We are not, well, that is to say, we haven’t- Moony doesn’t even- We aren’t like that!” 

It is Andromeda’s turn to be incredulous. “You mean to tell me you haven’t climbed that man like a tree? Never? Not even once?!”

“Andy!” Sirius cries, arms flailing dramatically. “Stop! Please!”

Andy does not stop. “There were no desperate escapades in less-than-ideal locations? No broom closets? No late-night hookups in the Astronomy Tower?”

“Err,” Sirius mutters, looking anywhere but at his cousin. “Well…”

“I knew it!” Andromeda crows smugly, leaning over Ted’s shoulder to get in Sirius’ face. “Then why haven’t you started back up again? It’s obvious you still feel strongly for each other.” 

“It’s not like that,” Sirius sighs despairingly, almost falling off his chair in his desperate attempt to scramble away from her. “They were just heat of the moment, teenage hormone hookups. Remus isn’t even gay!” 

Silence. Both Ted and Andromeda are staring at him like he’s lost his head. Andromeda heaves a sigh so heavy the very foundations of Grimmauld Place shudder with her. 

“Wow. My love,” she says, twisting around to face her husband. “Check for brain damage while you’re at it. Won’t you?” 

Ted wiggles the hand with the scroll. “One step ahead of you, darling.” 

Andromeda turns her attention back to her idiot, younger cousin. “I need you to listen to me very closely, Sirius Orion Black. That man is so in love with you that it’s a little disgusting to be in the same room with the two of you.” 

For once in his life, Sirius is speechless. Wonders of all wonders. Andy muses over the merit of adding, rending Sirius Black mute, to her resume. Probably best to wait until after he’s exonerated.

“I- what?” 

Andromeda barely refrains from rolling her eyes. “Siri, Remus spent the entire lunch undressing you with his eyes.” 

“He did not!” 

She is no longer refraining; her eyes roll skyward. “You were sitting so close to him, your knees touched every time you fidgeted.” 

“That’s how we’ve always sat together!” 

“Sweet Merlin, Sirius,” Andy drawls, meeting his slightly manic gaze head-on. “When we were at Hogwarts, every month like clockwork, coincidently right after the full moon, he would spend days panting after you like a dog in heat.” 

“He never did that!” 

Andromeda calls in reinforcements. “Ted, please back me up here.” 

“Of course, darling,” Ted steps in smoothly. He looks up at his newest patient. “It’s true, Sirius. I honestly believed you guys had been dating since third year.” 

“We thought he was the reason you left home,” Andromeda adds helpfully. 

Sirius scoffs. “Not the abuse?” 

“Well,” Andy murmurs, blushing faintly, “I was sure that played a role in it, but mostly I thought it was because of Remus.” 

“Yeah, well, you were wrong about us,” Sirius bites out, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. “We’ve never been a couple.” 

“Well, maybe you should broach the topic,” Andy advises, placing a gentle hand on his knee. “I think Remus would be very receptive to the idea.” 

“Maybe…” 

“We only want you to be happy, Sirius,” Ted declares kindly, looking up from the scroll. “And I think Remus would make you happy.” 

“I also want you to get screwed,” Andy cuts in, that salacious grin Sirius remembers so fondly from their childhood making a reappearance. Andy is the very definition of composed in public, the epitome of Pureblood refinement. With family, however, she is a foul-mouthed hooligan. “Twelve years in Azkaban could not have been good for your libido.” 

Sirius rises abruptly to his feet. “That’s it, I’m leaving.” 

Ted disagrees with this proclamation. “No, you’re not. Sit down,” he orders sternly, using his ‘I am the medical profession, you are my patient, and you will listen to me’ voice. “I’m not down with you yet.” 

Sirius sits and Andromeda squirms. That voice always does something special to her. 

Andy takes this moment to offer another piece of perfectly reasonable advice. “Just throw on some eyeliner, forgo a shift underneath that leather jacket, shimmy into a pair of skinny jeans, and you’ll have your wolf salivating in seconds.” 

Sirius slumps resignedly into his chair, drawing a weary hand over his face. 

Ted chuckles again, gazing at his wife with obvious affection. “After that wonderful bit of counsel, I think I’ll offer some of my own.” 

He reaches into his medical bag, pulling out several bundles of potions. He taps the group of lime green vials. “Nutrition potions. Take one every day for six weeks. It doesn't matter when you take them, as long as it happens alongside a meal.” 

He taps the bundle whose potions are glowing a faint purple. “These are to treat the remnants of the dementors’ effects. You will need to take two doses every day for at least three months.” 

“You expect me to believe you just carry around potions that heal the wounds left behind from dementor exposure?” Sirius asks dubiously. 

Ted gives him a bland look. “We are not idiots, Sirius. We knew who would be in attendance at a Black Family meeting. I would have insisted on treating you had you not asked first and I prepared accordingly.” 

“Oh,” Sirius says, smiling one of his innocent, bashful smiles. 

“Quite,” Ted responds dryly, “Now, I brought only a month’s supply, as this was a bit of a rush job, but I’ll get the rest to you shortly.” 

He gestures towards the remaining bundle of potions. They are a pale blue color. “These are to help you win the battle against depression I’m sure you’re fighting.” 

Sirius starts protesting at once. “I’m not-” Ted raises a single eyebrow. Sirius deflates, “Yeah, alright.” 

Ted continues smoothly on like he was never interrupted. “They boost serotonin levels and help repair mental landscapes. How are your Occlumency shields?” 

Sirius shrugs. “Dismal, atrocious. Pick any negative adjective and it’ll be pretty accurate.” 

Ted nods, expecting as much. “You need a mind healer and a therapist.” 

“That’s not an option until my name is cleared,” Sirius points out. 

“How long do you think that will take?” Ted asks. Andromeda leans forward, also interested in the answer. 

“At least a month, not until the next Wizengamot meeting,” Sirius says, trying to push down the rush of hopeful longing those words inspire. 

“That’s fine then,” Ted declares, looking thoughtfully down at the scroll. “We will heal your body first and then we can focus on your mind. I’ll send you a list of prospective therapists and mind healers. Write a couple of letters, get a feel for who you like; they don’t need to know your identity for that.” 

“Do you know any therapists who work with children?” Sirius asks, expression suddenly avid. It’s the most adult Andromeda has ever seen him. It makes her realize, maybe for the first time, that this is not the same twenty-two-year-old she lost to prison. He’s older, more mature and he has a kid of his own now. A kid who has his own share of trauma. 

Ted meets his gaze and nods firmly, promising to look into it. His focus shifts back to the scroll. “Have you tried entering your mental landscape?” 

“A couple of times,” Sirius admits, shifting uncomfortably. “It’s a mess.” 

“Understandable, given what you’ve been through,” Ted remarks, no judgment in his tone or words. Sirius relaxes slightly. “You might try taking someone you trust along for the ride. Have them look at your defenses and shields; help you repair what you can.” 

“I’ll try,” Sirius agrees. 

Ted presses the bundle of blue potions into his hands. “Take one every night before you sleep for six weeks. I’ll examine you again after the first round of these and the nutrient potions to determine where we go from there. Hopefully, by then, we can also get you an appointment with a mind healer and therapist.” 

“Sounds great,” Sirius replies, a little shell-shocked. 

“Perfect,” Ted exclaims, pushing shakily to his feet. His knees groan in protest. He looks between the two cousins. “I’ll just leave you to talk amongst yourselves, shall I?” 

Andromeda smiles at her husband. “Thank you, dear.” Ted nods amicably and shuffles out of the room. 

The cousins stare at each other, sleet gray eyes meet warm hazel. Finally, after what feels like decades, Sirius’ lips begin to twitch. 

“Eyeliner, huh?” He chuckles, reaching out to pull Andy into a tight hug. 

Andromeda snuggles deeper into his arms, her smile wide enough to stretch her lips. “Works like a charm every damn time.” 

Tonks lays panting on the ground of the Training Hall. She can’t decide what is hurting her the most, her straining muscles or her drained magical core. A shadow appears above her, cutting off the light streaming down from the Hall’s chandeliers. 

Tonks cracks open one eye to discover Remus John Lupin smirking down at her. She sticks out her tongue at him. “Shut up.” 

Remus laughs, offering her a hand up. “I didn’t say anything.” 

Tonks accepts the help, barely avoiding a dramatic collapse back to the floor the instant her weight becomes her legs’ burden again. “I underestimated them.” 

“Yes, you did,” Remus confirms bluntly, watching his cubs across the hall. Tonks follows his gaze to the kids chugging water bottles and heading for the showers. They were unbelievable today. Tonks still has years more of training and there is a clear difference between their skill levels. It’s true that her edges are sharper, but they were amazing. 

With the newly accepting Family Magics, Tonks’ lifelong affliction of chronic clumsiness was startlingly absent. Her legs, which always seemed to be a half-inch off from each other, finally aligned. Tonks is a metamorphmagus, has been since birth, but she was never able to complete perfect transformations; something was always a little wonky.

Now, with the Black Family Magics on her side, every aspect is intuitive and seamless. It gives her such a rush, to flow in between forms with barely a thought, but even with that boon, it was a genuine struggle to keep up with the kids. 

Remus says they’ve only been training for ten days, but it’s almost impossible to believe. They are fast. They work intimidatingly well together, it’s as if a hive brain connects them. The sheer span of Harry’s magical power is staggering. He doesn’t even seem to realize that most of the things he does with his magic should not be possible. 

The Patil twins are the most behind, but they are catching up quickly. The kids’ work ethic is insane. It’s clear they are exhausted, but they just keep pushing. It’s Gryffindor stubbornness through and through, no offense to the lone Ravenclaw, of course.

Tonks know Aurors who would have tapped out long before the kids’ session ended and that was their third of the day! Remus is pushing them hard. It’s inspiring. It has her blood pumping; her magic itching for the chance to do some actual work. 

“Do you understand now why Sirus and I joined them?” Remus asks her quietly. 

“Yes, I do,” Tonks says, equally soft. She looks away from the kids, turning to face him. “I want to come back every weekend and every day I’m off from work.”

Remus smiles, a hint of triumph in his eyes. “We’d be happy to have you.” 

“Moony?” Tonks spins around to look for Harry, who just called for Remus. One of his fists is curled into a thumbs-up, his expression questioning. 

“We got her,” Remus shouts back, holding out his own thumbs up. Harry whoops, grinning at Tonks, before trooping off to inform his friends of the good news. 

“I was just played,” Tonks realizes, shooting an accusing look at Remus. 

He just smirks at her. “Yep.” 

Tonks can’t help but laugh. She’s not even all that mad. This feels like the beginning of something important, something that will shape the future, and she wants to be right in the middle of it. 

Draco watches Mother adjust Father’s robes, smoothing down unseeable wrinkles and plucking invisible lint. They are nervous, though for different reasons. Father fears the unknown; he does not like the idea of a Lady who holds regency over his house and family. Mother can barely contain her hope, so full of the burning promise this meeting might bring she’s sick with it. 

Draco suffers neither of their misgivings. He’s learned, through these long, long months, that unnecessary emotions will only bring pain. He knows now that hope is dangerous, that freedom is a lie, that his parents are flawed, and his father is powerless. It’s a lot of information to process during one measly summer break. 

So, he doesn’t react when Father pulls out the portkey attached to his letter. He doesn’t flinch when Mother slips her arm through his and clutches at Draco's hand with enough force to make the bones ache. He only retrieves his own portkey, the old coin heavy in his palm. Mother takes out hers, releasing Draco from her death grip. As unobtrusively as possible, he stretches out the sore muscles. 

Father meets his gaze above Mother’s soft blond hair. He nods curtly and together they whisper the activation phrase, “House of Black.” 

The familiar haze of portkey travel rushes across his body. He feels a sharp tug behind his navel and then the world fades to iridescent color and overwhelming sensation. The air is solid and pressing against him; he’s being crushed; he’s flattened, as thin as paper; he can see nothing, hear nothing, but he feels everything.  

And then, just as abruptly as it began, it’s over. He is thrown from the all-consuming portal, suddenly freefalling towards the ground at breathtaking speeds. He takes one moment, just one, to relish in the wind whipping through his hair and over his skin before he rights himself and begins the controlled descent Mother spent years coaching him through. 

He lands nimbly on his feet, as any Pureblood of his station must. Father and Mother touch down gracefully beside him, hair and clothes only slightly ruffled from the journey. 

Draco looks around curiously. His brow furrows; this is a muggle neighborhood. There are several walking along the street, pushing wheeled carts holding their children, and wearing strange clothes. He’s never seen a muggle so close before. They are not as animalistic as he expected. 

Father’s expression twists in distaste as he too observes their surroundings. He ushers Draco and Mother closer, mouth pinched. An elf pops in before he can do more to express his disdain. 

“Kreacher?” Mother exclaims, hand flying to her mouth. The elderly elf inclines his head graciously in greeting. He is dressed peculiarly for a house elf. The expected pillow case is absent and in its place is a three-piece suit carefully designed to fit the elf’s small frame. 

“Hello, Lady Malfoy,” Kreacher welcomes, bowing slightly. He gestures them forward. “If you and your family could please follow me.” 

With Father leading them, they trail behind the odd house-elf, who speaks without the race’s typical abysmal grammar and dresses like a human.
As they traverse the street, the townhouses across from them start to rumble. Draco watches, his face meticulously sculpted to hide away his surprise and wonder, as numbers 11 and 13 slide apart and the missing townhouse, number 12, fills in the empty space. Draco has never seen magic like it. 

The bricks of Number 12 are blackened, stained from years of grim and no sun exposure. The small garden in front of the entranceway steps is barren, though it does look to have been recently swept up. The windows are clean if tarnished. All in all, it looks like an abandoned residence that’s only just become occupied. 

Kreacher opens the front door with a snap of his fingers. He marches into the building, with the Malfoys a step behind. Draco barely has time to catalog the abnormally sparse corridor, as though most of the furniture was removed before Kreacher leads them into the first room on the left. 

It’s a formal parlor, once more with scant decoration. Instead of furniture, it is full of people. The first person to catch Draco’s eye is the infamous Sirius Black. He looks a great deal improved from the wanted posters that are still scattered around the country, but Draco reckons he can still spot madness in his eyes. 

Then he notices the cluster of people to Black’s left. The older woman holds herself with an impeccable posture that is startlingly reminiscent of Mother’s bearing. The man beside her is slightly taller, with sandy blond hair and a kind demeanor. The young lady in front of them is… a metamorphmagus! Her eyes just changed color, then her hair, and now her mouth is contouring into a new shape. 

It is only at Father’s outraged gasp that Draco is able to tear his attention away from the impossible metamorphmagus. That is a Black family talent that died out generations ago. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Father demands, staring hotly at the people gathered to the right of Black. Draco follows his gaze, not the least bit surprised to find the cursed Golden Trio standing there. However, he is shocked by their attire. Who dressed them? As Draco knows they could not have managed to create such a well-composed color palette on their own. 

“Andromeda?” Mother asks softly, speaking to the tall, brown-haired woman. She stares cooly back. “Is it you? You are Lady Black?” 

“It is not me, sister,” the woman responds. Draco’s head snaps around to gape at her. Sister?! This must be the blood traitor. 

“Then who?” Mother asks, returning her sister's glare. Draco’s eyes stray to the Golden Trio, a nasty feeling rising in his chest. He looks at Granger, searching, and yes, her eyes are different. They are gray, a perfect match to Black’s silver gaze. 

Black laughs, a rough bark, and holds out a hand to Granger. She accepts it placidly, gray eyes directed undeterred at Father. Black escorts her to the center of the room, delight brimming on his face. 

“Allow me to introduce Lady Hermione Granger Black.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: Of Reunions and News

“I do not believe you are understanding me, Lord Malfoy, so I will speak plainly. I am the Head of your Household. I hold regency over you and your family. You will obey me. You will cooperate and assist our efforts to the best of your ability and in return, me and mine will do our utmost to protect your wife and child. If you betray us and run to your lord, I will bind your magic, deny you any claim to your heritage, and cast you out to the muggle world; to a life without magic. You will be nothing more than a disgraced coward with no name and no wealth.”

“Do you understand me now, Lord Malfoy?” 

“... yes, I do, Lady Black.”  

“Good.” 

These are the words that rattle throughout his head as Lucius apparates to the edge of Malfoy Manor’s wards. He is alone; Narcissa and Draco left behind, safe in the protected walls of the Black ancestral home.  

Malfoy Manor was safe once, too. Before Lucius’ grandfather bowed to a bright young man with such promise and power his magic flowed off him in waves. Lucius was raised on stories of the almighty Dark Lord; their savior and king. He knew from a young age that his future would be dedicated to the service of the Dark Lord.

He was brimming with the knowledge, so proud and eager. He was determined to impress his Lord, desperate for a shred of approval from the man his father and grandfather held such respect for. He was a fool- a lamb raised not for slaughter, per se, but for servitude. Which is worse than the sweet bliss of death when one’s master is a sadistic narcissist.

Lucius was already becoming disillusioned during the rise of the First War. That impending realization was helped along immensely by his new wife, who had no interest in the life of a slave nor in bowing to any man. He was fully decided when the Dark Lord chose to target a child, a baby hardly out of the womb.

The Potter boy, though possessing an unfortunate tie to a mudblood, was one of their own. Children are sacred, treasured. Especially to the purebloods who have so few of them. For their Lord to declare his intention to murder a child, well it had many balking. 

It was a relief when the Dark Lord fell to the Potters, cut down by an infant and his mudblood mother. For thirteen years there was peace, just long enough for him to begin to relax. Lucius was not prepared for his Lord to return, but he wasn’t surprised to discover his resurrection nor the ensuing call to arms. 

It was then that the horrors truly began. The Dark Lord discovered his diary missing and invited himself to live in Malfoy Manor, a punishment disguised as an honor. That Lucius could stomach- he had made his vows, sworn himself to his master, and he would live with that choice, but then the Hogwarts term ended and Draco came home. 

Suddenly, the cruel remarks, harsh punishments, and mindless torture were no longer acceptable. Standing here now, gazing at the home that has guarded his ancestors for generations, Lucius allows the blossom of rage in his heart to unfurl. 

It was too dangerous, before, to indulge in anger. Made impossible with a master able and willing to tear through the minds of his servants. Lucius would never endanger his child and beloved that way. So he pushed it down; hidden beneath aimless thoughts and daily drivel, but he never fully squandered it- wasn’t able to. That fury, his wrath, lived on as a smoldering amber; festering like a tumor in his chest. 

Narcissa and Draco are not here now, no longer at the mercy of a madman’s temper. The bastard who dared to harm his son, however, who cursed him and made him scream is in that house. He is sleeping, peaceful; assured of his supreme power over the Malfoys. 

The amber burning softly in his chest has sparked, the rage let free. It is the worst of insults to yield to the mudblood Lady Black. It rankles to ally with blood traitors and Light wixen scum, but he will not cower before the Dark Lord any longer, not when there is a better option, and neither can he oppose the Head of the Black Family. 

Lucius will act and play at subjugation to his Lord. He will charm and deceive, and when the trap springs, when the Dark Lord is brought to heel, oh the ecstasy he will feel. 

Wake up, Lord Voldemort, he thinks, stalking toward the marble facade of his home, Lucius Malfoy has come to play.

Narcissa watches her son rummage through his school trunks, fondness in her heart. Lucius called Fetley, her personal elf, to retrieve Draco’s trunks and pack enough clothes and toiletries to last her mistress a couple of weeks. He then ordered her to remain with Narcissa before forbidding all contact with the other elves to ensure the Dark Lord would not be able to track her through their servants.

The Black heir ring is nestled on Draco’s right pinky, a striking contrast to the Malfoy heir ring on his left. Silver and gold, heir to two of the most powerful pureblood families still active. He has already made her so proud, her son. 

“I can feel your staring, Mother,” Draco huffs, straightening from where he was hunched over the trunk containing his books. Fortunately, he had already finished packing for school before this whole debacle began. Gathering all his things for the start of a new term is always quite the process for her son. 

“I thought I might inquire as to your thoughts, dragon petit,” Narcissa murmurs softly, moving further into the room. The quarters they were given are side by side but are comparatively quite small to the comfort they are used to at home.   

“About Granger’s plan?” Draco asks, turning to face her. It pains her to see that he has lost some weight in these past horrid weeks. 

“Yes, mon fils,” Narcissa agrees, gently shifting the pile of books littering his bed. She lowers herself to the soft comforter, crossing one ankle over the other with picture-perfect posture. 

Draco drags a weary hand over his tired features, sitting down next to her. He considers her question. “Their harebrained schemes rarely fail. I have no doubt Granger will meet her goals. Potter has an uncanny ability to survive against all odds. No, it is not a question of if they will succeed; the true question lies in whether Father will survive long enough to see their plan come to fruition.” 

Narcissa’s heart clenches at the reminder that her dear husband is absent; gone to where she can neither protect him nor follow. “It surprised me that they would ask that of him, it does not seem like Gryffindor behavior.” 

“They are more than their House, Mother,” Draco reminds her sardonically, an ironic twist to his lips. He rubs at the dip between his brows where she knows he tends to develop headaches. “I hold no care for them, quite the opposite, actually, but even I can admit that Granger is smart, that Potter is ridiculously powerful, and that Wealsey can be ruthless. They are not people to be dismissed.” 

“Still,” Narcissa carries on, after a moment spent contemplating his response, “It seems a bit hypocritical, no? To force Lucius in such a position and to threaten his magic.”

Draco pushes suddenly to his feet, hands reaching up to tug at his hair. “What other choice was there? He is branded, Mother! The Dark Lord can break his mind if Father refuses an order. He doesn’t even have to be in the same room!” 

“Draco,” Narcissa says, cautioning. 

Draco scoffs, shaking his head. “No, Mother. I do not understand- what could have, why would he- why?” 

Narcissa eyes her son, thoughtful. It is clear to her that this is an outburst long overdue. “You must understand, cher fils, that your father was not given much of a choice. He was raised with clear expectations and to deny them would be to betray everything he knew. He almost certainly would have been disowned.” 

She pauses here, choosing her next words carefully. “And the Dark Lord, he was not always as he is now. He used to be invigorating, his mere presence an intoxication.” 

“Oh, please, Mother,” Draco cuts in derisively, “Do not tell there wasn’t any hint of his… profound personality. I will not believe you.” 

Narcissa inclines her head, acknowledging the point. “Yes, he was dangerous. Since the beginning, that much was evident, but he maintained a clear structure. He was not fair, exactly, but the rules never changed and no punishment was senseless. The cause was always known.” 

“What he is now, how he acts, that is new,” Narcissa insists, fiddling with her marriage band. It glides smoothly across her finger, well-worn after years of enduring similar abuse. “That- that fou is nothing like the man your father fell for. His deranged mind pales to his past genius.” 

Draco is looking at her strangely, expression intent. “‘Father fell for’, were you not taken as well, Mother? I thought this obsession was a trait you both shared.” 

Narcissa’s mouth quirks, a droll amusement clouding her features. “I would have been, cher cœur, had the Dark Lord possessed any interest in allowing women power. Bella was the only woman in his ranks, and my sister was ruined for it. Forced to offer all but her very soul for the honor of kneeling at his feet.”

“What do you mean, Mother? The Dark Lord didn’t recruit witches?” Draco asks, confused at the reasoning.

Narcissa softens, gazing up at him with ice-blue eyes. The same color she gave to him. “It was a different time, cher fils. Women were considered weak, worthless for all but betrothal. That has changed immensely in these past years, with witches like Lady Black and Lily Potter entering our world, but the Dark faction has always been the last to let go of old traditions and ways of thinking.” 

Draco's lips pinch, haughty and judgemental. This is the way he looks when he has several opinions and the will to share them, loudly. “That is the most idiotic notion I have ever had the misfortune of hearing. Witches, weak? Please, Pansy intimidates even the Seventh Years and has since she was eleven. Greengrass is not to be trifled with, and Merlin help anyone who upsets her younger sister. I’m positive Bulstrode holds the school record for most noses broken in Hogwarts, not that I or anyone else will ever be able to prove it. If I was an aspiring Dark Lord, I would enlist my female classmates first. They know all. To exclude them based solely on gender is the height of absurdity! Merlin, no wonder the Dark lost the First War.” 

Narcissa stifles a laugh; steam is practically spewing from his ears. 

“Quite,” she agrees, a slither away from grinning outright. “It was perhaps his first fatal mistake. We were desperate for a future that offered freedom from an arranged marriage and the expected consummation. We would have served him faithfully.” 

Draco’s eyes snap to hers, suddenly concerned. “Your marriage to Father was arranged.” 

Narcissa’s smile gentles into something small and fond. “Yes, but I had the benefit of years of friendship with my future husband. I was lucky. Very few shared that fortuity.” 

Draco falls quiet then, reclaiming his place next to her on his bed. She lays her head on his shoulder, wondering at the fact that this was the summer he finally outgrew her. They both surrender to their thoughts for several long moments. 

“Do you think they can win this war?” Narcissa asks, voice whisper-soft; speaking of the children downstairs, who are so very young and powerful and brimming with conviction. 

Draco swallows before he speaks; she can feel the vibrations of his words traveling down his throat before she hears them. “I don’t think they will stop trying until they do. Only death can stop them now, and Mother, they are very hard to kill.” 

It’s at moments like these that Ron wonders about the reality of his life. There, on the owl perch in the corner of the kitchen, next to the owl who delivered the Daily Prophet, is a parrot. It’s not just any parrot either. 

Oh, no, that would be far too easy. Instead of any normal combination of colors, it is a riot of neon pink and iridescent yellow. Every time the bird shifts in the sunlight streaming in from the recently scrubbed windows, the yellow transforms into a bright, vibrant lime green. 

The parrot was carrying a scroll that appears to be handmade, with little flowers and leaves pressed into the parchment. The words inscribed on the scroll were written with a color-changing ink that flashes through the rainbow from one letter to the next. 

It’s addressed to the Grey Lord, Harry James Weasley-Potter-Black, which has his ears bleeding red every time he thinks of it. And as if all that wasn’t enough, Ron also has two Malfoys sitting at the far end of the table picking dubiously at his mum’s cooking. It’s enough to threaten anyone’s sanity. 

Truly, what is his life?

The scroll has been making the rounds, passed from person to person. Hermione just finished skimming the contents. She hands it to Ron, who takes a brief moment to contemplate the benefit of suicide after discovering the parchment has been doused with a sweet perfume, before returning to her copy of the Daily Prophet. 

The scroll reads: 

Hello, Mister Lord Weasley-Potter-Black, sir, 

I think it would be nice to commit myself to you and your cause. I like the idea of friends and, though I do have one very good friend, having more seems to be the popular way of doing things. I am certain you could help me and I am hopeful I could help you. Please do let me know what I can do to prove my worth and loyalty to you, Harry, Grey Lord, sir. 

Your faithful servant, 

Luna 

The signature scrolled in loopy, whimsical script clears a lot of things up. Slowly, Ron turns to face his sister, who is determinedly studying the kitchen’s fading wallpaper like it is her life’s ambition to memorize its every detail. 

“Ginny,” Ron calls, watching bemusedly as her feigned focus intensifies tenfold. “I thought we agreed not to speak about what we are doing here.” 

Ginny whips around to glare at him with a huff. “I haven’t said anything!” 

“And yet,” Fred butts in, wagging his finger in her direction. “Your little Eagle seems to be well informed.” 

“Like I said, I didn’t tell her anything,” Ginny repeats, insistent. Ron is inclined to believe her. Outside of prank-related squabbles, it’s rare that any of his siblings lie. “Sometimes Luna just knows things.” 

“A seer,” Ron muses thoughtfully, that could be useful. Ginny shrugs, uncomfortable with the topic. 

“Do you trust her?” Harry asks, making eye contact with the youngest Weasley. 

Ginny doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, with my life.” 

Harry nods, seemingly satisfied. “Write her back then, tell her to meet us on the Express. We can talk then.” 

Ron shoots him a look, eyebrows raised. 

“What?” He asks defensively, arms crossed. “We could use all the allies we can get.”  

“Yeah, but Loony Lovegood isn’t exactly all there-” 

Ginny interrupts by punching him hard on the arm. Ron leaps out of his chair with a yelp, dodging her next attack. The first one was quite enough, thank you very much. His arm is smarting from the impact. 

“Ow! Merlin, Ginny! That hurt!” Ron exclaims, taking cover behind Hermione’s chair. Hermione doesn’t even look up, focus zeroed in on the Prophet. 

“Luna is smart,” Ginny seethes, glaring bloody murder at him. “She was sorted into Ravenclaw for a reason. She understands the world in ways we can’t begin to fathom. She’s loyal, brave, and kind. She’s the best witch I’ve ever met. We’d be lucky to have her!” 

Ron subsides immediately, recognizing the genuine upset in her tone. He’s screwed up. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Gin,” he apologizes, trying not to wince at the disapproval radiating from his mum’s direction. “I wasn’t thinking.” 

“A lifetime affliction of our dear Ronnie’s, I’m afraid,” George says, shaking his head sadly. He throws an arm around Ginny’s shoulders. “As you well know, sister mine.” 

Ron glares sulkily at him but is grateful for the aid nonetheless. Ginny’s temper is a thing to be reckoned with, especially when she’s feeling protective. Ginny shoves their brother off her with a reluctant laugh. 

“Just don’t call her that,” she finally murmurs, staring at him. Ron nearly winces again, realizing his mistake. Everyone calls the younger Ravenclaw Loony, not that it's any excuse. He hadn’t even noticed the name slipping out. 

“I won’t. I’m sorry,” he says again, shameful. Ginny nods once and retakes her seat. Ron settles back into his own chair, grateful when Harry squeezes his thigh comfortingly. 

The sounds of cutlery scraping against porcelain resume. Conversation restarts, though it is notably absent from the Malfoys’ corner. It was rather amusing watching the Slytherin boy struggle through training this morning; wheezing and red in the face just minutes into their warm-up. 

Less entertaining was the visible struggle Malfoy underwent every time he forcibly repressed the numerous insults he so obviously wished to unleash. Not that Ron has much of a hill to stand on after his recent blunder. He’ll have to find some way of making it up to Ginny. He truly wasn’t thinking; a lifetime affliction, indeed.  

Ron glances at Hermione, curious as to her thoughts about Luna’s letter and the extra surnames she awarded Harry, and notices that her plate is untouched, eggs cold and bread soggy. Her head is still buried in the Daily Prophet, eyes flicking across the page. It’s with a nervous swallow that he notes the thunderous expression gracing her fine features. Distantly, Ron reflects that Hermione’s ire is far more terrifying than Ginny’s. 

“Uh, ‘Mione?” Ron intones hesitantly, paling when her head snaps up instantly. Her glare has always been intimidating, but the new silver tint has taken it up several levels. 

“Read this,” she demands, shoving the paper into his chest. It’s quickly evident which section she means, as it has already been heavily marked up by a pen and highlighter. Ron is impressed; it’s been less than fifteen minutes since today’s edition of the Daily Prophet was delivered. 

The highlighted section is titled, Educational Decree Number Twenty-Two , which states that should the Headmaster of Hogwarts fail to appoint a professor before the new term begins, the Ministry has the right to select a candidate themselves for the empty position. 

It’s two days until they return to school and they still have not received their official Hogwarts letters. They were sent a rudimentary list of required supplies for their classes, enough for Mum to buy what they needed from Diagon and for Lavender to replace anything that fell under her standards, but Defense Against the Dark Arts was notably absent. 

Dumbledore was struggling to find a trustworthy candidate for the position, that much they knew from their exploits with the Extendable Ears, and now the Ministry has stepped in. 

The newspaper repeats the previous path of Luna’s scroll around the table. Remus is the last to read it; he exchanges a worried look with Sirius after he’s finished. 

“The Ministry is interfering at Hogwarts,” Remus summarizes, amber eyes narrowed. 

“Why that hasn’t happened since… since, well, I don’t know when,” Dad says, blinking in shock. 

“What does this mean?” Ginny wonders, picking apart a piece of her French toast. 

“A fourth side of the war,” Hermione suggests, finally starting in on her breakfast. Ron shoots a subtle heating charm at her plate. 

Harry disagrees, shaking his head. He meets her curious gaze. “A new obstacle. They aren’t organized enough to be a real threat, but an annoyance? Absolutely.” 

“We’ll keep an eye on it,” Ron assures, making eye contact with his brothers. The twins grin at each other, teeth flashing. 

Ginny eyes them with mild trepidation. “The poor, poor soul who's going to be our next Defense professor best start praying.” 

Harry snorts, laughing. He checks his new wristwatch, courtesy of Lavender, and curses. “Shit! We’d best be leaving, ‘Mione, Ron. Our appointment with Griphook is in twenty minutes.” 

Hermione rises at once and Ron scrambles after her, scooping up her plate at the last second so she doesn’t go hungry. 

“See you there, Lav,” Hermione calls over her shoulder, already halfway to the door. 

“‘Kay,” Lavender agrees from where she’s slumped against Pavarti. She still hasn’t gotten used to all the exercising, limited though her training is. “In two hours right?” 

Ron shouts a confirmation, they want a bit of time with Griphook before she arrives, before bounding after his companions. They have a surly goblin to annoy. 

Charlie lands in an undignified heap on the floor of the British Ministry’s portkey reception hall. His legs are sprawled in opposite directions, he hasn’t got a clue where his bag ended up, and his tailbone aches from the rough landing. 

Charlie despises long-distance portkeys; they are torture devices disguised as modern luxury. He would have taken a boat, but the letter his parents sent seemed rather urgent. 

A familiar chuckle sounds above him, bringing with it a rush of memories and comfort, and a not insignificant amount of mortification. Charlie groans, loud and with feeling. Of course, Bill saw that. Charlie turned down the offer to sync their arrival times for just this reason, but nooooooo, Bill had to get here at just the right moment to witness Charlie face plant on British soil. 

A pair of weathered dragon-hide boots shuffle into his line of vision seconds before his older brother crouches down, peering at him with a shit-eating grin. 

Charlie groans again, just to make certain his feelings about this whole ordeal are translating clearly. Bill’s grin widens. 

“Shut up,” Charlie whines, turning his face away; resigned to spending the rest of his life as a peculiar, but interesting floor motif in the portkey arrivals gate. 

“Are you planning on living there now, chum?” Bill asks playfully, nudging Charlie’s side with the edge of his boot. 

Charlie nods miserably. “Seems my only option.” 

He hears a scoff above him and then his point of gravity is abruptly shifting. Bill hauls him to his feet, dusting off the grime gathered on his coat and smoothing down the wrinkles in his shirt. Charlie can’t stifle the well of fondness those actions inspire; Billy’s always been a mother hen. 

Bill hands him his bag, shoulders his own, and guides them off the landing platform posthaste. Once they are safely away from the flying forms spiraling down from the sky, -now that he thinks about it, Charlie is a little amazed he wasn’t flattened during his sulk, Bill must have done something- Bill tugs him into a bone-crushing hug. 

Charlie clutches back just as hard, he hasn’t seen his older brother in months, pretending not to notice the wetness gathering in his eyes; just allergies, is all. 

Bill pulls back slightly, resting their foreheads together. “Hello, little brother.” 

Charlie moves closer, definitely not snuggling. “Hi, missed you.” 

Bill’s smile is warm and fond, and Merlin, Charlie loves his life out at the dragon reserve, the daily adventure, and the friends he’s made, but there’s nothing like coming home to family. 

After a final squeeze, Bill releases him completely. His expression turns serious, reminding Charlie of the reason they came home outside of their usual holiday schedule in the first place. 

“You transfer?” Charlie asks, following close behind as Bill leads them out of the receiving hall. They pass through quickly and enter the Ministry Atrium. 

Bill nods, cutting a neat line between the crowds of people gathered in clusters. “Yeah, I’m at the Gringotts branch in Diagon. You?” 

“Got a job at an animal sanctuary up in Scotland,” Charlie tells him, scanning the atrium for any sign of their parents. 

Bill hums, approving. “Nice and close to the kiddies. You need a place to stay?” 

“Yes ,” Charlie rushes to say, perhaps a bit desperate. He loves his mother, Merlin does he, but he was not looking forward to living under her roof again. 

Bill huffs a laugh, completely understanding. “Gringotts is giving me a flat in London, it has two bedrooms. You can stay with me.” 

Charlie grins at him in gratitude. “Thank you, Billy. I appreciate it.” 

Bill bumps their shoulders together, reaching over to ruffle Charlie’s hair. “Don’t worry about it, chum. You are always welcome.” 

Charlie pushes him away, refusing to acknowledge the warmth rising on his cheeks. He had almost forgotten just how genuine Bill could be. 

Bill straightens suddenly, eyes locked on something behind him. Charlie follows his gaze and draws in a sharp breath. It’s Percy. He has noticed them too, his big blue eyes comically wide. Bill starts after him, but their brother disappears before they can take more than three steps in his direction. They exchange a worried glance. 

“He look scared to you?” Charlie wonders, staring after their little brother. Bill just hums, his concern obvious.  

Charlie spots their parents then, a flash of orange in a sea of otherwise boring hair colors. He walks in their direction, pulling Bill after him. “Come on, let’s go figure out what those crazy youngsters have done to get our parents so worked up this time.” 

Bill gathers himself, refocusing on the problem at hand. “And figure out what in Merlin’s name is going on with Percy.” 

“Yeah, and join the war effort,” Charlie adds, sharing a slightly morbid grin with his brother. 

Bill shakes his head, a wry smirk on his lips. “So much to do…”

Charlie finishes for him, a familiar ritual, “... so little time.” 

“So,” Harry drawls, about halfway through their meeting with Griphook, “hypothetically speaking, what might you suggest someone do if they wanted to deprive an individual of their gold without inciting the wrath of the entire Goblin Nation?” 

Griphook raises one bushy eyebrow, beady eyes narrowing into slits. To the left of Harry, Hermione heaves an aggrieved sigh, muttering about the lack of subtlety teenage boys possess under her breath. Ron snickers, kicking the leg of Harry’s chair. He’s positioned against the back wall again. Harry leans forward, undeterred. 

Griphook clears his throat, eyes drilling into Harry’s skull. “This is a hypothetical?” 

Harry pulls a look of innocence too pure to be believed. “Of course.” 

“Hmm.” Griphook flicks his eyes between the trio of humans before him. Harry meets his gaze, serene in the face of the goblin’s suspicions. Finally, after several drawn-out moments of silent observation, Griphook releases a sigh reminiscent of Hermione’s. “As long as you hold the key belonging to a vault, we don’t much care who the vault itself belongs to.” 

Harry goes still, deer in headlights level of frozen. Griphook starts to exude even higher amounts of exasperation than he has previously managed thus far into their meeting. 

Their Account Manager exhales rather noisily through his nose. “What?” 

Harry focuses on the tower of folders teetering on Griphook’s desk, suddenly quite fascinated. It’s taller than the goblin himself. “Oh, hmm, nothing.” 

Griphook pinches the bridge of his nose, looking as though he very much regrets every choice that’s led him to this moment. “You don’t know where your vault key is, do you?” 

“Uh, er, that is-” 

“Sweet Mother of Magic ,” Griphook exclaims, slamming a piece of parchment down in front of Harry. “Sign this; it’s an order to have all preexisting keys destroyed and a new one made. I’ll owl it to you as well as a copy for each of your life-mates.” 

“They are not my mates,” Harry protests grumpily for what must be the fifth time in the past hour. Griphook ignores him, just as he has before. Harry passes the parchment over to Hermione for her to scrutinize before signing it with a flourish. 

Griphook observes this process with clear interest. “Will you never trust me, Lady Black?”

Hermione watches him right back, unimpressed. “I trust you to handle our finances well and with great success, but I will never allow either of my boys to sign something without first inspecting it. That is simply common sense.” 

Griphook nods in understanding, approval and what might be a hint of respect on his face. “So many of your fellow wixen do not seem to have acquired any.” 

Hermione huffs, her amusement plain to see. “On that, we can agree, Griphook.” 

Griphook bares his teeth in a grin. He pushes aside the folders relating to the Black accounts, which they focused on during the first half of the meeting. “As we have discussed, the Black wealth has been handed diligently. All investments still gaining profit will remain active and those whose worth is lost will be sold. With your permission, Lady Black, I will seek out the previous Black Account Manager to join my staff. I would recommend searching for new companies or stocks you might like to invest in, but other than that, the Black accounts are well in hand.” 

Hermione nods, satisfied with the state of her wealth. Griphook passes her copies of all of the paperwork that was necessary for their meeting today, which she stores neatly away in her brown leather messenger bag, courtesy of Lavender. 

Griphook turns his attention to the mammoth stack of folders sitting on the other side of his desk. Harry starts preemptively fidgeting. “Now, the Potter accounts, on the other hand, are a travesty. I have managed to restart all previous investments and am in the process of acquiring more stock in the Daily Prophet, as you requested, Lord Potter.” 

“However, I’m afraid there are several heirlooms that are missing and I can not locate the will of the late Lord and Lady Potter. It is not in the main vault, as it should be, nor in any accessible property. I have allotted funding for the Potter Farm, Orchid, and Quidditch Camp, but as of yet have not heard back from the former employees.” 

“Both the Potter Business and Charity Vaults are in desperate need of attention, as they seem to have been almost completely drained; the money going to something called the Order of the Phoenix. I have not yet been able to find any information on the origins of such a corporation nor proof of its actual existence.” 

“In a previously unlisted section of your trust vault, Lord Potter, is a room overflowing with years of unopened mail and gifts. It seems to hold everything from betrothal offers to business contracts to will summons to letters of admiration. As such, you have been willed over four million galleons from various benefactors. I’ve added the sum to your trust vault, as that was where the money was stored, but do let me know if you want it moved.” 

“The elves at the Potter House and Manor have been awakened, as well as those at Griffin Castle. They seem to be in good spirits and have already begun seeing to their duties at your properties. However, I do advise visiting them in person sometime in the coming weeks to properly renew your bonds with them, Lord Potter.” 

“Unfortunately the portkeys to Prongs’ and Pad’s Pad and the Potter Cottage are still missing. Additionally, the Potter Cottage has been claimed by the British Ministry of Magic as a quote, ‘national treasure’ and ‘historical site,’ unquote. I have included a list of lawyers you may wish to contact about such issues. At the top is the law office your grandfather employed.” 

“As with the Black accounts, I recommend seeking new investments, Lord Potter. The Potter accounts are in dire need of some new life. I would also highly encourage you to hire a steward. The same for you, Lady Black. The Potter and Black accounts are a lot to manage for two people, even with Coalburn, the prior Black Account Manager, and myself on your side. Not to mention any other ‘hypotheticals’ you might be engaging in.” 

Silence reigns in the aftermath of Griphook’s spiel. Harry is staring at him, he can acknowledge that, but he can’t seem to stop it. In a panic, he turns to Hermione. No help there; she is four folders deep into the stack on Griphook’s desk. She lunged for them half a sentence into the goblin’s speech. He looks to Ron instead. 

The redhead straightens under Harry’s attention. He walks forward, a hand finding its way into the curls at the back of Harry’s neck. Ron smiles at him reassuringly, perhaps sensing the turmoil in Harry’s magic, before taking control of the situation. 

“What do you need from Lord Potter today, Griphook?” Ron asks, calling the goblin’s attention to him. 

Griphook adjusts easily. “The missing heirlooms are the most pressing issue, Heir Potter. Here is a list of what’s been lost.”

Ron takes the parchment from the goblin, scanning its contents. Harry’s invisibility cloak is on there, as well as a pair of ceremonial daggers, an enchanted mirror, and a lot of books. 

“We have the cloak,” Ron tells him. Looking at that list, he half expects Hermione to be the culprit. “What do you need to find the others?” 

“A drop of Lord Potter’s blood for a tracking spell and permission to pay a team of Hunters to retrieve the artifacts,” Griphook answers promptly. Ron nods, that makes sense. He’s heard of Gringotts Hunters before; teams of lethal goblins and curse breakers who take back what’s been stolen. Bill’s worked with them before. 

“Have a contract drawn up for the Hunters, please,” Ron instructs. 

Griphook slips a piece of parchment from the stack in front of him, a tad smug “Already done, Heir Potter.” 

Ron laughs, accepting it from the goblin. He passes it to Hermione who hands it to Harry after she’s deemed it safe. Harry signs it obediently, still in a daze. Most of his attention is centered on keeping his magic in check. He’d rather not have a repeat of what happened after their visit with Froatnose. 

After the contract is signed, Griphook pulls out a thick sheet of parchment. Next, an aqua-blue potion is retrieved. Harry allows a drop of his blood to fall into it; Ron moves swiftly to cleanse the used knife and heal Harry’s small wound. Once the blood has fully merged with the potion, Griphook pours it over the parchment. 

Harry watches, amazed as he always is in the face of new magic, as a map appears on the surface. Griphook stores both the contract and the map away, that matter settled. 

“What now?” Ron asks, fingers still playing with the young lord’s errant curls.

Griphook looks to Harry. “Lord Potter?” 

Balance finally regained, Harry joins the conversation. “Uh, right. Okay, so, please have the money willed to me moved from my trust vault into the Potter Charity and Business Vaults. Split evenly between the two. Also, stop all outgoing payments to the Order of the Phoenix.”   

“Of course, Lord Potter.” 

“Is there anything more you can do for the Potter Orchid, Farm, or Quidditch Camp?”

“I’m afraid not, Lord Potter,” Griphook denies, shaking his head. “I’ve gotten the money flowing, now you need staff to man the businesses. That is not Gringotts’ preview.” 

“I understand,” Harry says, thoughts racing. “The same goes for the Potter Cottage debacle, I assume? And the votes my Wizengamot seats were used for?” 

“Yes.” 

“Okay. Do you have any recommendations for stewards?” 

“Lawyers are the only humans we goblins willingly engage with, Lord Potter. Other than our clientele, of course.” 

“Right,” Harry says, sharing an amused look with Ron. “On the matter of new investments, we do have some ideas.” 

Griphook raises an eyebrow. “Oh?” 

“Yes,” Ron nods, cutting in. “Two of my brothers are in the process of starting a joke shop.” 

“And,” Harry adds, smiling the guilty smile of someone who is about to unleash Lavender Brown on an unsuspecting bystander. “There is a girl who wants to start a fashion line.” 

Griphooks brows furrow. “A fashion line?”

“Yep,” Harry confirms, popping the P. “She’s supposed to join us soon.” 

“She should be here any minute,” Ron informs their account manager. 

There’s a knock at the door before Griphook can respond. A teller pokes his head in, “A Miss Brown for you, Manager.” 

“Speak of the devil,” Hermione murmurs, laughing quietly, “And she will appear.”  

“Eighty.” 

“Forty.” 

Miss Brown’s eyes narrow. “Seventy-five.” 

“Forty-five,” Griphook counters, smiling nastily. 

Miss Brown sneers, not backing down an inch. “Seventy.” 

Griphook considers her; a little witch going head to head with a Gringotts Account Manager without so much as a nervous twitch. He inclines his head, deciding to let her win this round. “Sixty-five, and that’s my final offer.” 

Miss Brown accepts her victory with grace, bowing slightly. “You have my thanks, Account Manager Griphook.” 

Griphook laughs then, rocks against gravel; a genuine sound of amusement. Miss Brown came prepared with samples of her work, projections of future earnings, and research conducted to prove the success of similar clothing lines in the non-magical world. It is clear she has spent years thinking about and planning this and she impressed him.  

Today, not only is she walking away with one million galleon investments from Lord Potter and Lady Black each and a generous payment for her prior work with them, but also a contract declaring her to be their stylist for all future public events and a sixty-five thousand galleon investment from Griphook himself. 

He hasn’t seen such a comprehensive business plan in decades. Miss Brown’s hunger is clear, she will work hard for this dream; a rare trait in wixens. She managed to convince Griphook, of all goblins, of her future success. It would have been blasphemy not to invest in her. 

Lord Potter and Lady Black will each own 15% of the stock in Miss Brown’s business with 6% going to Griphook. Miss Brown will hold the clear majority, with two generous donors at her back. It’s every entrepreneur’s dream; the best deal she could have received, but Griphook believes her cause is worthy. He can’t wait to see what she does now that she has the money to fund her ideas. 

He addresses Lord Potter, Heir Potter, and Lady Black. “You have good taste in companions.” 

Lady Black smirks, a shadow of pride in her eye. “Yes, we do.” 

Griphook looks to Heir Potter. “Bring those brothers of yours next time. I would like to hear more about their ‘ joke shop’.” 

Heir Potter grins, agreeing at once. Lord Potter moves to stand in front of

Griphook, bowing at the waist. “Thank you for your time, Account Manager Griphook. You have been invaluable. May your gold flow swift and plentiful.” 

Griphook bows in return. “And may your enemies cower, Lord Potter.” 

Griphook watches them leave, a glint in his eye. Imagine the future those four will bring. It will be glorious.

Bill is gaping at his parents, utterly bewildered. He must have heard them wrong. “You’re gonna have to run that by me one more time.” 

Mum nods understandingly, barely pausing in her effort to dish out lunch. They have converged in the Burrow, gathered around the same kitchen table that stars in many of Bill’s cherished boyhood memories. 

He runs his fingers over the familiar nicks in its ancient wood, the routine an old comfort. The Burrow is oddly hollow today, quiet in a way Bill has never seen it before. He supposes that makes sense, as most of its residents are currently taking shelter someplace else. 

Dad shakes his napkin out before placing it over his lap, reaching for the plate of fruit. Bill’s parents are acting strangely calm for the staggering truth they just dropped on his and Charlie's heads. 

“Well,” Dad begins, sharing a look with Mum. “I know it must be a lot to take in, but in the end, it is rather simple. Harry has started a third side to the war, with Ronnie and Hermione backing him. They are gathering allies, most of your siblings included, and we are considering whether it might be best to join them as well.” 

“Right,” Charlie says slowly, exchanging a look of his own with Bill. “Our siblings are joining the war effort.” 

Mum nods. “That’s correct.” 

“On their own,” Bill hedges. 

Now Dad nods. “Yes.” 

“And you don’t want us to talk them out of it?” Charlie asks. 

“Or even just stop them flat out?” Bill adds. 

Dad smiles a little secretive smile. “I wouldn’t be so sure of your success on that front.” 

“Not to mention, we are teetering on the edge of joining them ourselves,” Mom reminds them, sipping daintily at her tea. 

“The teenagers?” Bill clarifies in the vague hope they might be speaking of some other group of civic-minded avengers.  

If Bill didn’t know any better, he would swear Dad’s eyes are sparkling in mirth. “The very same.” 

“You want to follow a fifteen-year-old boy and his schoolmates into war instead of, say, Albus Dumbledore?” Charlie demands, eyebrows making an intimate acquaintance with his hairline. 

Nope, Dad is definitely laughing at them. “I’m afraid so,” Dad confirms, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. Bill lets his head fall forward to thunk onto the table, narrowly avoiding his salad bowl. 

“Right,” Charlie says again, even more slowly. “Okay. Sure. Why not? Teenagers leading a war effort. That’s fine. I’m completely on board with that idea. It doesn’t concern me at all.”

Bill lifts his head slightly to glare blearily at his parents. “Why are you two okay with that?” 

They exchange another look. Dad answers for them both, “Come with us tomorrow; see them train, hear them talk. I bet they get you before sunset.” 

“Before sunset, eh?” Bill repeats dubiously. 

Mum hums her agreement. “We’d like to hear your thoughts, after. If you can be convinced as well, I’ll feel much better about making this choice.” 

Bill and Charlie shrug in unison. “Yeah, alright,” Bill agrees. What the hell, why not? It’s not like he had plans for tomorrow anyway. 

Percy Weasley has been called a lot of things: a tattle-tale, a know-it-all, an ambitious overachiever, an older brother, a younger brother, a snob. He’s been called worse and more and most frequently he’s called a coward. 

Admittedly, the great majority of those terms actually do apply to him. He’s a proud snitch, especially when he’s doing it to protect someone. He does, in fact, know a lot and he really and truly enjoys rubbing this fact in people’s faces. He is ambitious, so much so that he used to wonder how on earth he wasn’t sorted into Slytherin, and overachieving is his bread and butter.

He is the third son out of six. He has two older brothers and four younger siblings, and he is most definitely a snob, but he is not and never will be a coward. Or, at least, that was true before, because right now, in this very moment, he is about to do something cowardly. 

Dumbledore asked him to spy on the Minister, asked him to forsake his family and join the Order of the Phoenix in secret, and by Merlin, he agreed. Percy is good at it too, really good. Nobody suspects a thing, not even his siblings, not even his parents. 

It’s just that- it’s killing him; a little bit more each day. Percy likes politics, enjoys it even, but what the Minister does is not politics; it’s just stupidity. He’s getting people killed with his inaction, greed, and sheer brainlessness. Bigotry is rife in his cabinet, encouraged even. Bribes are common and being corrupt is expected. The flames are eagerly fanned by the Senior Undersecretary, Dolores Fucking Umbridge. 

Percy loathes Umbridge, he hates her. She is truly an awful toad of a woman and seems to have a personal grudge against Percy and his family. He knows it isn’t a good enough reason to quit; the growing helplessness that threatens to drown him. It’s not even a valid reason. 

The work he does for the Order is genuinely helpful, it’s saving lives. He knows that, but, Merlin, it’s suffocating him. Penelope made him promise, after weeks of begging, that if he found an opportunity to escape he would take it. It’s spineless and shameful, and it will finally prove them right, -he is a coward- but his brothers are home. 

They will help him, even if they hate him right now, even if they believe the lies Percy so masterfully spun. They’ll help him. They won’t ever turn him away. He knows that too. 

So here he is, on the edge of the Weasley property; the Burrow looming just ahead. He shouldn’t be here, and yet he doesn’t stop walking forward. This is his worst act, but he still knocks on the front door. He is a blight on the Weasley name, but he doesn’t run from the footsteps nearing. 

Bill opens the door, shirtless with rumpled cotton pants on. He blinks down at Percy, foggy mind struggling to catch up. Percy is preparing to cut his losses and hightail it out of there when Bill lurches forward and crushes Percy to his chest. 

“Pez?” Bill asks, confused and oh so hopeful. Percy doesn’t get a chance to reply before they hear a second pair of feet bounding down the staircase and then Charlie joins them on the front step, another set of arms encircling Percy, who is just doing his utmost not to burst into tears. 

When he speaks next his words are muffled, pushed up against Bill’s neck as he is. “I’m sorry,” Percy whispers, and then, even quieter, “I need your help.” 

“Of course, chum,” Bill says at once, pulling him closer. “We’ll help you.” 

Charlie’s head falls between Percy’s shoulder blades, his presence protective and comforting; just as Percy remembers it. “We will always help you, little brother.” 

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: They're Back

Whack! Her knife connects sharply with the cutting board. Snic, snic, snic. The cucumber collapses into perfectly measured slices, falling like dominoes in a neat row. Whack! The process repeats with a second cucumber, then a head of lettuce, and finally three peppers. 

Molly is not satisfied, so very far from calm, so she pulls out a watermelon and begins craving into it. Kreacher watches her with reproach, disapproving as he always is when Molly forgoes magic to do things the muggle way, but she could hardly care less for the house elf’s opinion right then. 

Albus Dumbledore should count himself lucky he is not within her sights. She would skin him alive if she had the opportunity. Her son, her Percy- he dares. Asking her son to spy on the Ministry, fine . That’s fine. She could get over that with enough time. Asking her son to keep his efforts a secret, to lie and purposely sabotage his relationships with his family, that she will never forgive. 

She is done with the Headmaster. Done. He has lost her trust- threw it away with this careless gesture. Molly is a loving, compassionate person; she considers her kindness to be her biggest strength, but once betrayed, once hurt, she is gone. She disappears with the morning light, with the rising dawn. The final word dismissed, fond memories forgotten. You hurt her in a way she can not forgive and she will simply leave; there one moment and gone the next. 

Molly is not one for revenge, she much prefers a swift and complete retreat. An abandonment so absolute her very presence is put to question. To regain her trust, to earn back her faith, she must forgive you, and Molly’s forgiveness is such a fickle thing. 

She may not be one for revenge, but she is a master at maintaining a grudge. Once scorned, always bitter; that could be her life’s motto. 

Her dearest Arthur sits a breath away, fiddling with an old muggle radio. This too earns Kreacher’s disdain; though she doesn’t believe Arthur has noticed his judgemental observer despite Kreacher’s best efforts. Poor thing. 

Her children, all of them, blessed be, are sweating under Remus’ watchful eye; learning the skills they will need to survive the coming conflict. They are yet to come up for breakfast, though prior routine suggests it should be any moment now. 

She’s making the salad for lunch, breakfast having long since been prepared, and is using the opportunity to release some of the tension that’s gathered between her shoulders. 

They went to collect Bill and Charlie at the Burrow that morning, only to discover not two but all of her eldest boys waiting behind its walls. They hardly had time to do more than gasp in surprise before Percy was rushing out his story, stuttering and fearful. 

Her Arthur, normally so calm and good-natured, just about stormed the gates of Hogwarts himself right then and there. Once assured of their forgiveness and steadfast love, Percy regained some of his typical composure and poise -the grace of an aristocrat her son- but it was obvious he was still shaken. 

It is a sad day indeed to learn that one's child feels safer and holds more trust in his brothers than his own parents. Percy did not feel secure enough to come to them when he was hurting. That is their fault and it will be fixed. Such knowledge breaks her heart and she is determined to never let it happen again. 

After all parties were on the same page, it was the work of moments to collect one Penelope Clearwater- their future daughter-in-law, no doubt- and return to Grimmauld Place with quite a few more guests than expected. Penelope is Percy’s long-time girlfriend. She was his only confidant through this whole debacle and thus has gained Molly’s undying gratitude and loyalty. 

Now her children are at training, making up through, she is sure, some more or less friendly sparring, and Molly, well, she has made a decision. Arthur looks up from his radio after a particularly loud smack, the knife trembling in her grasp; she’s started in on a new head of lettuce. 

He settles his glasses back on the tip of his nose and blinks over at her, “Dearest?”

“We will join them,” Molly declares, decisive. “If the boys agree, we will join Harry’s side. Yes?” 

Arthur straightens in his chair, rubbing the edge of his left brow thoughtfully. “Oh, yes, alright then.” 

Molly nods, Arthur nods in return, and they both focus back on their respective tasks; that matter dealt with.

“I can’t feel my legs,” Charlie hisses at Bill, who is seated next to him painstakingly bringing his spoon to his lips in a shaking, painful rhythm. 

They joined the kids for their morning conditioning, the first of three training sessions they partake in each day. The focus of the conditioning sessions is to build stamina and strength, work on balance and flexibility, form climbing and parkour skills, and hone reflexes. It’s two hours of grueling, nonstop exercise and it’s only the first part of their day. 

The crew the kids have gathered for this surprised him, though perhaps it shouldn’t have. They’ve almost managed to convince his mother , after all. Those slumped around the table include a junior auror who goes by Tonks, Black, Lupin, two extra lions, an eagle, Harry, Hermione, Percy’s girlfriend Penelope, the Malfoy boy, and, of course, all of the Weasley children. It’s quite an impressive collection. 

Bill understands exactly where Charlie is coming from; his arms burn with every small movement and even lifting a spoonful of porridge is taking all his mental fortitude. They are going to be sore tomorrow. A look around the table proves everyone else is in a similar predicament, tired and achy, but it’s also clear he, Charlie, Percy, and Penelope are in the worst state. The Malfoy boy, however, is giving them a run for their money.

In between muttered complaints and vivid swears lobbed in Lupin’s direction, Bill kept an eye on the trio who instigated it all; Harry, Ron, and Hermione. They were- well, they were something . Inspiring, maybe. Everyone else grows weary, but they just keep pushing. Their blatant exhaustion? Not a problem. Their drive? Unstoppable. 

And Bill’s younger siblings were just a step behind. The Patils twins, though less skilled, were keeping up as well. The Brown girl had different exercises to complete, conditioning, spell casting, and combat training all in the first two hours, but she was obviously giving her all. The Malfoy boy loitered well behind the last of the pack, but his conviction was apparent too; though outpaced and with less experience, he would not be left behind. 

It’s not enough to convince him to follow them into war, but it’s got Bill feeling some kind of way. It's an emotion that’s growing, building, swelling in his chest. Let’s just say, he’s beginning to understand why the adults around this table have agreed to the madness. He’s tempted himself, already, just two hours into his introduction. 

Percy stretches too far, reaching across the table for a serving of freshly sliced melon, and must pull at his fiercely protesting muscles. He collapses dramatically on top of the table, still with that elegant bearing he seemed to have been born with, and whines into the aged wood. Penelope giggles at him, patting his back in consolation. 

“Nope, I refuse. I simply can not,” Percy announces, arching his neck to glare in Lupin’s general direction. “You sir, are a demon. I wasn’t made for all this physical labor. I want to do what Brown’s doing. Let me do what Brown is doing, I beg of you.” 

Penelope, still laughing at her boyfriend, nods her agreement. “The same for me please.” 

Fred punches Percy’s arm. “Pez, you’re embarrassing us.” 

“Yeah,” George says, poking at where the older redhead’s stomach is peeking out beneath his rumpled shirt. “You’re damaging the Weasley reputation.” 

Percy slaps George’s wandering hands away before sitting up properly, his nose raised loftily in the air. “I don’t think you understand how little such a notion affects me, brother.” 

Lupin intervenes before George can respond with anything more than an outraged expression. “Alright,” the ex-professor chuckles, amber eyes lit up with amusement. “Finish out the rest of the day with us and tomorrow we’ll start you on Lavender’s track.” 

“I really don’t think it’s necessary to finish…” Percy's words trail off slowly, caught under the pleading expressions on all of his younger siblings’ faces. He sits back with a huff. “Oh, alright.” 

Bill and Charlie exchange a knowing look. Percy is such a sucker for their siblings. Poor soul. The twins, his twins that is, not the Patils, high-five over the table, and Ginny’s grin takes on a predatory edge. Percy swallows, paling a bit. 

“Well,” Penelope says, standing with her plate in hand, “You have fun with that, love.” 

Percy whips around to stare at her, betrayal written across his face. “You wouldn’t abandon me, would you?” 

Penelope smiles softly, leaning down to brush a kiss across his cheek. She murmurs, just loud enough for Bill to hear, “Without hesitation,” and walks off to place her dirty plate in the sink.  

Percy blinks after her in shock and Bill can’t help but laugh at his expression. He’s starting to like this girl. 

“Okay, folks,” Remus says, facing the group clustered before him. “We’ve got some non-believers in the room today. How about we dazzle them before we move onto the regularly scheduled programming, hm?”

Sirius takes over from there, grinning his Cheshire grin. “Your best spells, pups. I want to see some magic!” 

Fred (probably) bounds forward barely a second later, throwing something into the air. It expands quickly, bathing the Training Hall in a piercing, glaring light. Eyes clenched shut against the glow, Sirius can’t see a thing. He hears a whispered incantation, and, seconds later, feels something slither around his wrists, binding them together. 

When the light fades, Sirius discovers he is not the only one to have been shackled. All across the Hall, every person excluding George (most likely) has rope encircling their wrists, too snug to wiggle free from but loose enough to avoid cutting off blood flow. 

A modified version of the Incarcerous Spell. Very impressive indeed. Fred (perhaps) waves his wand to vanish the rope and takes a flourishing bow. There’s a spattering of applause from the pups. 

Ron is the next to take the initiative. Without a word, he flicks his wand and both Hermione and Harry float into the air. Five feet, ten, fifteen, they just keep rising. After about a minute of holding them steady above the ground, he gently returns them to gravity’s care, smiling at their laughter. 

Wingradium Leviosa , though a first-year spell, can be wildly effective on the battlefield. Ron’s ability to lift two people is seriously (ha) impressive. It takes a lot of magical strength and concentration, especially since he did it nonverbally. 

Ginny steps forward next, moving so quickly her limbs are a blur. She conjures a thick stonewall. It stands four feet taller than her, and with one muttered incantation she reduces it to rumble. The wall is in ruins at her feet thirty seconds after it came into existence. 

The Bombardment Spell, used with deadly speed and accuracy. Ginny is becoming a force to be reckoned with. 

George (if he had to guess) is sly. One moment Sirius is standing on even ground, and the next he is scrambling to keep his balance, slipping and sliding on a field of ice. Half of the Training Hall has frozen over and it’s suddenly all the rest of them can do to stay on their feet. 

George lets them suffer for a while longer before vanishing the ice. He too drops into a bow. A brutal mix of Aguamenti and Glacius ; one to conjure water and the other to freeze it. It is a highly effective way to even the playing field if you're outnumbered or cornered and one of George’s favorite techniques. 

It also answers the question (finally) of which twin is which. 

Hermione’s is the act that follows. She speaks loudly and clearly, swishing her wand in concise movements, and, and- Sirius had someplace to be, he’s sure of it. Somewhere that isn’t here. Upstairs maybe, far away from the Training Hall. He moves at once to leave, intent on his new direction, only to stutter to a halt almost immediately. 

His mind clears, the confusion washed away, replaced with a realization. The Confundus Charm . It twists the mind, obscuring goals and ambitions. It’s a fifth-year spell, but Moony wanted their younger pups to get a head start, the Weasley twins already knew of it, and damn , Hermione is getting really good with the charm. Sirius is not alone in shaking off the mind haze. 

The Patil sisters move as one, perfectly in sync. In a flowing, practiced motion, their wands sweep up and across their chests. A powerful gust of wind spirals from the tips, filling Sirius with a bone-deep dread. The wind shoves at his body, urging him to flee; the unease creeps through his thoughts, planting seeds of doubt. 

It’s an Indian spell from their homeland, Sandeh Ki Hawa, which can be roughly translated into ‘ Wind of Doubt’. It’s pretty awesome. Being caucasian and English, Sirius has never heard of the spell before. Odds are the Death Eaters will be in the same boat, making it a strong defense against Voldemort’s forces. 

Harry is the next to strike. Being the overpowered showoff that he is, Sirius’ pup proceeds to perform a wandless, nonverbal Patronus Charm. Prongs bursts free from the boy's wand, tossing his head back in a flashy show of force. The blazing, gleaming stag gallops around the Hall, searching for danger. Finding none, he trots happily over to Harry. 

Just to add insult to injury, the Patronus is, of course, completely corporal. After dispensing some much-deserved nose pats, Harry dismisses Prongs. Sirius blinks the spots out of his eyes, adjusting to the sudden absence of the stag’s bright glow. 

He turns his attention to the only remaining pup, as Lavender has long since abandoned them. The Malfoy brat flatters, not expecting the half-a-dozen eyes now trained on him. 

“Draco,” Moony calls, looking kindly at the boy. “It’s your turn.” 

Sirius thinks that he’s being too nice to the little bastard, but Remus insists on remaining cordial even though Malfoy was one of the loudest voices calling for his removal from Hogwarts two years ago. He guesses it proves that Remus is the better man, but then again, that’s hardly news; Moony’s always been the best of the Marauders. 

Malfoy looks surprised to be addressed at all, much less so warmly, but he recovers fast. He makes a great show of unholstering his wand, but when he moves next it's quick as lightning. 

“ Serpensortia, ” he incants, the word falling swift and nimble off his tongue. An enormous adder the width of Hagrid’s leg topples from the end of Malfoy’s wand. It rears up, as tall as Malfoy, and hisses in clear threat. Harry hisses something back, and the adder calms reluctantly, curling sulkily around Malfoy’s feet. 

Anyone other than Harry would have been in significant danger. The size and venom of the snake Malfoy summoned could easily kill a man. Malfoy smirks at them all before returning the snake to wherever the spell took it from. 

Sirius slinks over to where the eldest Weasley boys are gapping at everyone, smirking himself. Well, Bill and Charlie’s jaws are on the ground. The only indication of shock on Percy is the slight widening of his eyes, but Sirius gets the impression that equates to hysterical laughter from the boy. 

“Dazzled yet?” Sirius asks, elbowing Charlie playfully in the ribs. 

The young man turns to him with wide eyes. “How long have they been-” 

“Just over three weeks.” 

Bill immediately starts spluttering. “No, you’re fucking with us.” 

Sirius shakes his head. “Afraid not, my friend.” 

“Merlin,” Charlie swears, wonder in his tone. A soft hum is Percy’s only contribution to the conversion. 

Remus takes control of the Hall before any more can be said. “Well done, cubs. Now, let’s do some drills.” 

The Hogwarts letters arrived while they were in the Training Hall. Mrs. Weasley passes them out at lunch. Hermione takes hers with a polite smile, still adjusting to her recent truce with the Weasley matriarch. 

Her letter is thicker this year, a new weight added to the parcel. A little burst of joy rushes through her when the Prefect’s badge falls into her palm. She expected it, yes, but she’s excited and honored nonetheless. Not to mention, she was worried their earlier confrontation with the Headmaster might have ruined her chances. 

Ron’s letter reveals a second Prefect’s badge. A pleased blush dots his cheeks, his ears turning a bright cheery. He didn’t think he’d get a badge, no matter how many times she and Harry reassured him. Harry, who is sitting on Ron’s right with the redhead in between them, knocks their shoulders together, grinning at him. 

“My chances of getting away with mischief have either gotten way higher or significantly lower,” Harry muses, his emerald eyes shining. 

Hermione allows a smirk to dance across her lips. “That depends entirely on which one of us catches you.” 

Ron winks at him. “I’ll protect you from her, Haz. Don’t you worry.” 

Harry flutters his lashes, batting his eyes. “My savior,” he purrs sweetly. He picks up his own letter, not noticing the way Ron goes rigid next to him, his blush darkening for reasons completely unrelated to his Prefect appointment. Hermione hides her widening smirk behind her water glass and leaves Ron to his internal panic. 

“Who is our new Defense professor?” Hermione asks Harry, leaning over Ron’s frozen form to peer at his letter. Her own letter lies forgotten under her new, shiny Prefect’s badge. 

Harry scrunches his nose in distaste. “Dolores Umbridge.” 

Percy, who is seated right across from them, overhears this and immediately chokes on a poorly timed sip of tea. “They have that- that bitch working at Hogwarts? She’s the Senior Undersecortory to the Minister, for Merlin’s sake! What business does she have as a professor?” 

Utter silence. All of the Wealseys, parents included, are staring at Percy in astonishment. George is the first to comment. “You cursed.” He is clearly overjoyed by this fact. 

“You never curse,” Fred proclaims, the approval evident in his tone. 

George nods in agreement. “We thought you were incapable.” 

Ron taught Hermione how to spot the difference between his brothers all the way back in first year; Fred has a cluster of freckles beside his nose and George has a tiny mole beneath his right eye. No one has informed Sirius yet because his mounting frustration is hilarious. Remus assures them the animagus would do the same if the roles were reversed. 

Percy shrugs, uncomfortable under all the attention. “Yes, well, if there was ever someone deserving it would be her.” 

“I concur,” Harry says, shuddering. 

“You’re acquainted?” Penelope asks the young lord curiously. 

“Unfortunately,” Harry confirms, a rare note of dislike in his voice. It’s not often someone garners his disdain like that; excluding all Malfoys and Potions professors, of course. “She was at my trial.” 

Penelope gives him a sympathetic look. “Percy has told me so many horror stories I feel like I’ve had the misfortune of knowing her as well.” 

Ron gasps in sudden understanding. “She’s the toad woman who tried to have your wand snapped!” 

Ah, Hermione remembers now. Dolores Umbridge, it’s nice to know the names of your enemies. She will not forget it again. 

The table erupts into noise.

“She did what?!” 

“Excuse me?” 

“What did you say?” 

“Oh,” Harry murmurs sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m guessing I didn’t tell you that story.” 

“No,” Ginny says, unimpressed eyebrow raised to its highest setting. “You did not.” 

Fred and Geoge’s expressions are equally as deadpan. Harry chuckles nervously. They look murderous by the time he finishes recounting the tale of his trial. 

“She’s dead,” Ginny states calmly. Too calm. 

“Yes,” the twins say together, their speech syncing the way it does when they are genuinely upset. “She is.” 

Malfoy lifts his glass in a mocking toast. “To our new Defense professor’s  imminent demise.” 

Ron holds up his cup of pumpkin juice. “I’ll drink to that.” 

Charlie is next to Tonks, both of them crouched behind Sirius and Remus. Bill and Percy are a little ways up ahead, scouting out the terrain. They are back in the Training Hall, positioned in the arena that’s in front of the rock wall. It’s different from the others, made up to look like a natural landscape. 

In the far left corner a steep, miniature mountain craves into the air. Across from it is an old dilapidated shack set on top of a hill. A gaggle of tall evergreens cut across the arena. The other half is made up of a muddy marshland and another hill. Charlie's group is gathered on that hill, overlooking the marshland. 

It’s combat training time. Remus started off the session with a round of sparring with the muggle weapons. Charlie, Bill, and Percy were just observers for that bit. The fast-paced, complex movements left Charlie thoroughly impressed. It gave off the impression of a choreographed dance. 

After a water break, Remus introduced his next scheme; a tournament, adults vs. kids. The oldest Weasleys were included for this part. The proposed rules are as such: only one wand is allowed per team and the first team completely eliminated losses. To eliminate someone you have to get close enough to land a “killing” blow and whisper, “You’re dead.” 

It’s a stealth and teamwork drill and Charlie finds himself excited at the challenge. He pokes Remus in the middle of his back. “Do you think we’ll win?” 

The werewolf peers over his shoulder to regard him. He leans forward, so close Charlie can see the red flakes in his amber eyes. “Honestly?” He asks, voice low and smooth. Charlie nods and Remus’ grin turns sharp. “I don’t have a clue.” 

He turns back and Charlie has to resist the urge to fan himself. The tight, breathable fabric of Remus’ workout shirt displays the wide breadth of his shoulders in a way that Charlie doesn’t mind at all. Not one bit. 

Charlie shifts closer to Tonks. “Is it just me or is Remus…” 

“Unbelievably attractive?” Tonks suggests when he trails off. 

Charlie hums. “Yes, that.” 

“It’s not just you,” Tonks assures him with a salacious smirk. 

“I need to have a taste of that,” Charlie mutters, eyeing Remus appreciatively. Tonks shakes her head sadly. “No? He yours?” 

“In my dreams, maybe,” Tonks sighs. 

“Then what’s the problem?” Charlie asks. 

She gestures at Sirius. Charlie looks back over just in time to see Remus shoot Sirius a smile, eyes soft and fond. Sirius practically starts glowing. 

“Oh,” Charlie says, a little despondently. 

“Yeah,” Tonks agrees. 

“Why do the hot ones always pair up with the other hot ones?” Charlie whines, slumping against Tonks. She holds him up with a quickly stifled laugh. 

“It’s a conspiracy.” 

“Hey,” Charlie murmurs, refocusing on the task they’re actually supposed to be worried about. “You’ve trained with the kids before-” 

“Yeah, like three times,” Tonks interrupts. 

Charlie ignores her. “What do you think our chances are?” 

Tonks considers this for a moment. “Well, the one wand rule limits them, but they have gotten pretty damn good with their muggle weapons. So that’s probably more of a handicap for us. Harry, Hermione, and Ron work extremely well together, but they tend to forget about their other teammates in a bigger group. The same goes for your twins.”

She pauses here, thinking. A second later she continues. “Odds are Ginny will be sent out alone; she’s fast and deadly quiet. If they can find a way not to lose track of her, it would be a good strategy. Padma is still timid around the others, which is a shame because her ideas are solid. Parvati has the opposite problem; she’s a natural leader and sometimes forgets to listen, but she is incredibly steady in the heat of the moment.” 

“All in all,” Tonks finishes, a note of pride in her voice, “if they find a rhythm, they will be hard to beat.” 

“So we’re pretty evenly matched?” Charlie clarifies. 

Tonks dips her chin. “I’d say so.” 

Remus forgot to disallow the use of the Twins’ products. The kids won; it was a massacre. 

“Alright,” Bill says, after they have all showered and changed into lounge clothes. “You’ve proven you can fight, but where are your heads at? What are your plans?” 

Ron lazily draws his wand. “ Accio blackboard.” 

A blackboard half the size of Bill flies into the room a second later. It’s entitled simply, The Plan. 

“Why do I feel like we should be scared?” Charlie wonders, looking a bit wild-eyed. Ron just smiles back at him, surgery sweet. 

Oh boy, Bill thinks, here we go. 

“Well?” Mom asks, when Bill, Charlie, Percy, and Penelope wander dazedly into the sitting room she and Dad are reading in. 

“Yeah, alright,” Bill says, collapsing into a nearby chair. 

“We’re in,” Charlie explains at their questioning expressions. Percy and Penelope murmur their agreement. 

Molly and Arthur look at each other, nodding; the Weasleys are going to war. 

Mr. Weasley and Harry are clasping wrists, blood dripping freely from their hands. Bill stands behind Arthur, and Ron behind Harry, as their respective heirs. In the interest of time, it was decided the Weasley and Potter families would ally directly instead of with individual vows. 

Mr. Weasley goes first, as the house whose current political standing is lower. “I swear to give sanctuary in times of need. I offer freely the service of my family and wards. I pledge my wand to your cause and the warmth of friendship to you and yours. So I swear, so mote it be.” 

Harry repeats the oath back to him, adding the protection of the Potter’s social and political power. The pact is sealed with a flash of magic strong enough to heal the cuts on both their hands. Mr. Weasley smiles at him, face flushed with the rush of sensation. Harry laughs, joy in his heart. 

He and Hermione have already allied their families, but the Weasleys want to wait to ally officially with the Blacks until the Bellatrix Lestrange situation is dealt with and Hermione respects that. After all, the Death Eater is still a Black, both in the magical and legal sense, but Hermione has plans to deal with that issue at the next Wizengamot meeting. 

Remus steps forward next. He cuts a neat line into his palm and then passes the bloody knife to Harry. They speak the oath with little fanfare, the ritual a mere formality at this point. They are family, through ties both decades old and newly forged. Harry relishes the gentle flow of Moony’s warm, protective magic as it curls around him, brought out through the ritual. 

Remus pulls him in for a brief hug, which Harry reciprocates gladly. He’s released from the embrace only to find all of his friends and Malfoy have knelt before him, the adults looking on in confusion.  

Harry groans loudly, holding out an accusing finger. “No, we agreed that this would not be happening.” 

Ron grins up at him, impish and unabashed. “No, love, you declared it wasn’t happening and we went along with it in the moment to stop your whining.” 

Hermione and the other Weasley children nod, and Malfoy just holds his gaze evenly, so Harry turns to Lavender and the Patil sisters. “What would your parents think?” He tries, a bit desperate. 

Parvati shrugs, unbothered. “They’re in India and don’t care what we do as long as we find rich husbands by graduation.” 

Lavender sneers. “My parents hardly remember they have a daughter. They won’t notice either way.” 

“Alright, fine,” Harry huffs, making a mental note to double back to those revelations later. “But-” 

“This is happening, Potter,” Ginny cuts in, rolling her eyes. “Deal with it.” 

As one, his friends brandish their wands and raise them to their foreheads, positioned horizontally over their eyes. 

“Did you guys rehearse this?” Harry wonders drolly, hastily dodging the stinging hex Hermione slings at him. 

Still, in unison, they say, “We pledge ourselves to the Grey Lord, Harry Potter-Black. Our wands are his, our strength is his, our magic is his. We will guard him, protect him; fight, die, and live with him. He is ours and we are his. Long live the Grey Lord, Harry Potter-Black.” 

This time the charge of magic is a tidal wave; it plows through him and his magic answers the call. It twines with its brothers and sisters, eager to greet and play with them. Harry drops to his knees, surrendering to the flood. 

They are all breathing heavily after the ritual finishes settling. Harry meets their eyes; Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Fred, George, Padma, Lavender, Parvati, Malfoy - HIS- utterly overwhelmed. 

Papa makes a considering noise behind him. “A fidelity vow. Now that’s an idea. Moony, maybe we should-” 

Harry clambers hastily to his feet. “No!” He shouts over his shoulder, striding to the door with purpose. 

“Aww, pup,” Sirius cajoles, quick to follow him. 

“Nope, I’m leaving,” Harry denies firmly, his pace hastening. “Can’t swear anything if I’m not there.” 

He reaches the door, leaps across the threshold, and promptly slams it in Sirius’ face. Padfoot stands there frozen for a minute, shocked. Moony is the first to start laughing. 

The chaos of September First with the Weasley clan is always a sight to see. Hermione sits calmly at the kitchen table, idly picking at her breakfast, as Harry and the youngest Weasley children dash throughout Grimmauld Place yelling at each other and throwing things into their trunks. Kreacher follows behind, passively setting the house to rights as all manner of furniture is overturned. 

Hermione, as the logical and organized wixen she is, finished packing yesterday. All her belongings are lying neatly by the front door, next to her new dragonhide boots. 

Sirius gleefully joined the rampaging Hogwarts students and Mrs. Weasley is lending her voice to the last-minute packing efforts. Those left at the table include Mr. Weasley, Remus, the elder Weasley sons, and Penelope. Parvati, Padma, and Lavender are at the Brown residence this morning, preparing for the new term. The Patil twins spend most school breaks with Lavender, whose parents host the sisters while attending Hogwarts. The Malfoys retired to one of the refurbished sitting rooms to wait out the madness. 

Remus has his nose buried in a book, calmly ignoring the mayhem unfolding around him. Bill is explaining some of his work with the Goblins to his father, Charlie is having a grand time observing his siblings, and Hermione is making polite conversation with Percy and Penelope. 

“What do you plan to do now, Percy?” Hermione asks him, tracing the rim of her tea cup. “Now that you’re, um…” 

“Unemployed,” Percy offers amusedly, one arm resting comfortably along the back of Penelope’s chair. “I’ll probably do what Pen has and find some job in muggle London.” 

“Oh?” Hermione inquires, curiosity peaked. Penelope was top of her class back at Hogwarts. Hermione thought she planned to go straight to the Ministry after graduation. 

“Yeah, I’m working part-time as a barista and a math tutor,” Penelope says, an uncomfortable expression on her face. 

Hermione’s brows furrow, taken aback. “Didn’t you get straight Os on your NEWTs?” 

“Yep,” Penelope confirms bitterly, arms crossed over her chest. “But I’m a muggle-born and we don’t get hired at the Ministry, no matter how menial the job.” 

 Hermione sits up properly, leaning towards the older girl. “You’re saying muggle-borns are discriminated against to the point that they can’t get well-paying jobs?” 

Penelope nods sharply, caught up in Hermione’s outrage. “Yes! It’s ridiculous! A pureblood Hufflepuff from our year got the internship I wanted! I am far more qualified than him, he didn’t even pass two of his NEWTs!” 

“It’s a shame,” Percy confirms, rubbing soothing circles on his girlfriend’s back. “The only jobs that consistently hire half-bloods or muggle-borns are the shops in Diagon Alley, but if you are going to work as a store clerk, it’s smarter to do so in the muggle world; the pay is better.” 

“Hmm,” Hermione says, deep in thought. “I see.” 

They allow her time to process the new, disheartening information, turning to speak in quiet tones to each other. Hermione's eyes sharpen after a minute or two. 

“Harry and I are in need of stewards,” she comments casually, bright silver gaze locked on the two love birds. 

“Oh?” Percy quires, hardly daring to hope. Penelope grips his hand tightly under the table. 

“Yes,” Hermione nods, smiling at their excitement. “But I have to warn you, odds are it will be dangerous to be so connected to us with how things are going.” 

“We would be in danger anyways,” Penelope dismisses, eager to secure this opportunity. Being a steward to one of the Ancient Houses is a coveted job. It should ensure her endless possibilities for future employment.

Hermione inclines her head, accepting of that. “Alright, then a final caveat: the work will be difficult and time-consuming. Odds are the hours will be long and the responsibilities varied and irregular. A lot of reading and research, as well.” 

Percy smirks at her, prideful and smug- his signature look. “Please, Granger, we can handle whatever you’ve got.” 

Hermione grins at him, shark-like. “Understood, Weasley. I’ll ask our Account Manager to draft up an employment contract and send it to you later today or tomorrow. After I speak with Harry, of course.” 

“Thank you,” Penelope says, heartfelt. 

“No,” Hermione smiles, a gleam in her silver eyes. “Thank you.” 

Penelope whips around to face her boyfriend, quickly capturing his lips in a celebratory kiss. Hermione watches them fondly, thoughts racing. She knew about the blood purity nonsense, of course. Hard not to with Malfoy as your yearmate, but she hadn't considered the implications of what it meant for life after Hogwarts. 

She can’t solve the issue now, not all at once, but she can make certain Ron’s brother and his beloved have jobs matching their skill sets and gain two wonderfully capable stewards in a single move. In the future, however, muggle-born and half-blood equality have moved further up her list of priorities, right alongside house elf and magical creature rights. 

“Fred!” Ginny yells from the top of the staircase, audibly furious. “Did you take my mascara?” 

“No!” Fred’s muffled response flutters up from the basement. 

“Then why did I find it in your toiletry bag?” Ginny demands, her voice moving closer as she marches down the stairs. 

“Fuck!” Is Fred’s even more muffled reply. Ginny passes the kitchen doorway in a dead sprint. Seconds later, a distant scream can be heard, as well as uproarious laughter as George presumably laughs at his twin’s misfortune. 

Harry trudges into the kitchen then, plopping down in the seat next to her. “Pass me the toast?” 

Hermione hands him the platter, warmth in her chest for her silly, chaotic family. 

“Are you sure you girls will be alright all on your own?” Mrs. Brown frets, wringing her hands worriedly. Parvati watches Lavender’s visible struggle as she attempts not to roll her eyes at her frail nerved mother. They’ve been at this for fifteen minutes now. 

“Yes, Mother,” Lavender reassures her with what little patience she has left after a summer spent with the woman hovering right over their shoulders. “We’ll stay in the compartment and wait for our friends to come to us.” 

“They’ll be fine, pet,” Mr. Brown huffs, annoyed with the redundant behavior. He checks his pocket watch for what must be the tenth time, eager to depart. “We’d best leave them to it.” 

“Oh, alright,” Mrs Brown finally acquiesces, upper lip wobbling. She pats Lavender’s cheek and levels a sweet if condescending smile at Parvati and her sister. “You’re to write home at least once a week, honey.” 

“Yes, Mother,” Lavender sighs, barely stopping herself from leaning away from the kiss Mrs Brown presses to the top of her head. 

“And I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense about designing clothes,” Mr. Brown declares, glaring at his daughter. “Just focus on finding yourself a husband.” 

“Yes, father,” Lavender murmurs, jaw clenched tight enough to strain the muscles in her neck. 

“Good,” he says, nodding decisively. He looks to the Patil sisters, “Be good, girls.” 

“Yes, Mr. Brown,” they chorus back to him, and with that he sweeps from the room, tugging his timid wife behind him. 

“Misogynistic prick,” Padma hisses spitefully, watching their forms traverse the empty platform. 

“Spineless coward,” Lavender sneers, speaking of her mother. 

“Yes,” Parvati agrees, taking Lavender’s hand in her own and leaning forward to place the other on Padma’s knee. “They would get along wonderfully with our parents, hm?” 

Padma laughs at that, dipping her chin in assent. 

“They don’t know about your investments,” Parvati reminds her girlfriend, squeezing her hand comfortingly. “Or your emancipation efforts.” 

“And they won’t, not until I’m truly free,” Lavender proclaims, a glint in her eye. She’s working closely with Griphook to secure her emancipation and if anyone can do it, Parvati has no doubt it’s that surly, cunning goblin. 

The laws are different in India, emancipation is a foreign concept, but with the fidelity oath, Harry has more claim to the Patil twins than their parents do. Parvati isn’t concerned, their father doesn’t stand a chance against the young lord. 

With her two favorite people as mollified as they can be, Parvati settles into her place beside Lavender. They arrived just after Platform 9 ¾ opened for two reasons. Firstly, to claim a compartment big enough for their ever-expanding group of friends/co-conspirators and secondly, they wanted the best view of the coming show. 

Padma cracks open her most recent book, Lavender starts a new sketch in her design journal, and Parvati occupies herself by people-watching. The slow trickle of arriving families thickens steadily until the whole platform is covered. Parvati senses the shift in atmosphere as soon as it occurs. She grins, gesturing for Lav and Padma to pay attention; it’s showtime. 

Remus is the first through the barrier. He strolls onto the platform, eyes on a swivel. He is still the same homey professor most of Hogwarts remembers him as, but there is something sharper to him now. His clothes remain mostly shades of brown and tan, but they aren’t threadbare and they fit him well. He doesn’t look exhausted, a radical change from the perpetual edge of collapse he sported in their third year. His shoulders aren’t quite as hunched and his face has some color to it. 

He looks happy and well rested and that air of danger he always had, that animalistic shine in his amber eyes is far present now. Paired with the large grim trotting placidly at his side, Remus strikes an impressive figure. He seems strong and authoritative. Like someone you can put your trust in, someone who can protect you no matter the threat. 

Following just behind him is the Weasley family, every member present barring their youngest son. It occurs to Parvati, not for the first time, that they really are a handsome brood. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley shine brightly with their kindness, two beacons of comfort who you just know give the warmest hugs. 

Their eldest boys are a sight to see. Bill is tall and lean, his long red hair drawn up in a ponytail. He’s mysterious and interesting to look at, with his fang earring and leather boots. Charlie is a couple of inches shorter than his older brother, but he more than makes up for it in width. His shoulders seem to span miles, and a number of scars dot his well-defined arms. 

Percy and Penelope move with a sophisticated air. They are smartly dressed, looking the perfect academics. The slanted tilt to their heads and glittering eyes seem to say, yes, we know more than you, and , yes, we are judging your every action. 

Ginny walks behind them with her usual purposeful stride. The black leather jacket Lavender found her is skintight and flattering. Her eyes are lined with kohl and her lips are painted red. The piercings in her ears and septum glint in the morning light. She is the rebellious spirit personified. 

Fred and George are next to come through the barrier. Fred is in a purple suit layered over a blue dress shirt. George compliments him in his baby blue suit with its purple accents. Their wide, roguish smirks pair perfectly with the playful way they move. They bounce forward together, their steps both rhythmic and unpredictable. 

The Weasleys congregate around Remus. The clash of their conflicting styles should be hard to witness, but somehow it all seems to flow so nicely. The Weasleys themselves are varied and distinct, but they are a united, loyal family and that is reflected in how their clothes blend together. 

A new level of intensity sweeps through the crowd when the next group steps onto Platform 9 3⁄4. It’s the Golden Trio in all their glory and oh , what glory they have. Hermione stands between her boys, a red leather skirt hugging her hips. Her lips shine with polish, her eyes that new gleaming silver. Her hair cascades down her back in braids entwined with strands of gold. Her smile is sharp and the Black signet right rests on her left pinky finger. 

Ron, who only grew taller over the summer months, looms beside her. His prowling gait is new, as is the hardened way he holds himself. His faded t-shirt strains against his shoulders, the ruby in his ear a perfect match to his fire-red hair. His wand is holstered openly on his left forearm. His blue eyes watch his companions, both attentive and protective. 

Harry is resplendent in an elegantly tailored suit, almost unrecognizable from the malleable boy they watched battle a dragon last year. He stands just inches shy of Ron’s towering build. His glasses are gone, the bright emerald glow of his eyes on full display. There’s something dangerous in the upturn of his lips now, in the static way his magic pulses in the air around him.  

All eyes are on them, shocked at their appearances and demeanor. Parvati wonders how many of her peers were expecting Harry to return to them bitter and cowed after a summer of continuous slander lobbied against him by the Daily Prophet . 

The tension rackets up several notches when Lady Malfoy and her son glide through the barrier moments after them. They are in their usual fashions, a tasteful, sophisticated dress and suave suit respectfully, but their stylish clothes are not what caught people’s attention. 

They are half a step away from the Gryffindor trio, clearly together. Parvati can practically see the Hogwarts rumor mill reviving its rusty wheels after a summer of rest. It gives her a thrill to already know the secrets of such a union far before her gossiping peers. 

They join Remus and the Weasleys. The grim, obviously Sirius in his animagus form to anyone in the know, leaps onto his hind legs to smear a slobbering kiss across Harry’s face. The Potter Lord pushes him away with a laugh. Parvait watches several people follow the bob of his head avidly, hunger in their gaze. 

It isn’t long before the group disperses. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley direct a torrent of hugs, waving their children off with misty eyes. Remus drags Hermione and Harry into an embrace, the grim’s tail wagging happily in between them. Malfoy offers his mother a somewhat stiff farewell, and she cups his cheek gently in return. They nod at each other, a promise in their eyes. Then the students in the group veer off, disappearing into the Hogwarts Express. 

Parvati turns to face her beaming girlfriend. “Marvelous,” Parvati declares, dotting a happy peck on Lavender’s lips. “You did wonderfully.”

“They looked bloody seductive,” Padma agrees, admiration in her voice. Lavender laughs, clearly pleased with herself. Parvati kisses her again, properly this time, and then they wait for their friends to find them. 

Ginny is excited to return to Hogwarts. She wants to catch up with her friends, learn new magic, join the twins in whatever mischief they allow her to help with, and get caught up in the trouble that Harry will inevitably land himself in. 

Above that, however, is the true essence of her eagerness. They’ve been at Grimmauld Place all summer, the Burrow left empty. Her access to her childhood home was restricted, for obvious safety-related reasons, and Ginny respects that, but the house wasn’t the only thing taken from her this summer. 

Luna lives barely a mile away from the Burrow. They usually spend their summers wrapped up in each other, with no one but Ginny’s brothers to disturb them. Two months of separation with nothing but the occasional letter to connect them is a loss Ginny has felt keenly. She’s about ready to combust with the anticipation of seeing her dearest friend again. 

Ron eyes her bouncing leg and twisting fingers with mild concern, but he leaves her alone after she waves him off. The lot of them are squished into the compartment Lavender and her twins found. It was a tight squeeze to fit everyone in, but only one wrestling match broke during the close-quarter maneuvering so Ginny is calling it a win. 

She catches the light scent of peppermint and seafoam before she sees her. Ginny’s smile stretches wide and delighted as Luna comes into view. Her airy, absentminded skip drawing the Ravenclaw ever nearer to Ginny’s arms. Ginny strides from the compartment, gathering Luna up in a sweeping embrace. 

“Hello, sunbeam,” Luna says, her beloved voice as refreshing as springtime showers. 

“Hello, moonflower,” Ginny whispers back, feeling settled for the first time since they parted ways in June. In the back of her mind, Ginny admits to herself that this miracle of a girl might be more than a friend. 

“Why hello there,” comes Fred’s aggravating drawl. 

“If it isn’t the little moon,” George continues, peering gleefully at the embracing girls before him. Ginny suppresses a miserable groan. 

“How wonderful it is to see you again, Miss Lovegood,” Fred carries on, bowing gallantly. 

“Looking as sublime as ever,” George exclaims, winking at her. Luna giggles, as taken as she always is with this pair of Ginny’s nosy brothers. 

“What brings you to our humble abode?” Fred inquires, smiling his most charming smile. 

“Oh, well, my Ginny, of course,” Luna answers promptly, the swirling mass of her silver-blue-gray eyes flitting about. Ginny blushes at the possessive phrasing and determinedly ignores the smirk Fred shoots at her when he notices. “And to pledge myself to our lord, and to make some new friends, I suppose.” 

“Noble pursuits,” George affirms, offering Luna his arm. She curves her hand over his elbow happily and they wander off to ambush Harry. 

Ginny’s eyes catch on Luna’s swaying hips as they walk away. Fred grins at her and Ginny punches him in the stomach without missing a beat. 

“Not a word,” she tells him pleasantly. 

“My lips are sealed,” Fred wheezes, bent over the middle. 

They return to the compartment just in time to watch Luna kneel before Harry, her wand braced against her forehead. Harry realizes her intentions far too late to do much more than gape as another soul swears fidelity to him. Ginny shudders at the feel of Luna’s sweet, inquisitive magic as it rises to the surface to intertwine with Harry’s.

This time it’s George who flashes a suggestive smirk her way. He pales a little at the scathing glare Ginny levels at him. Out of the corner of her eye, Ginny spots Fred making frantic abort motions at his twin, soothing the ache in his stomach absently.

Ginny moves to help Luna back to her feet once the vow settles into place. She leans comfortably into Ginny’s side. 

“You must be Luna,” Harry says, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. Ginny snorts at the realization that Luna didn’t even introduce herself before swearing fidelity to the Lord. 

“Nice to meet you,” Luna tells him dreamily, her radish earnings a fitting match to her soft smile. Ginny is swept away by the well of fondness it inspires. 

Draco is pressed up against the far wall of the compartment, staring moodily out the window, when his housemates make their appearance. There’s a polite knock on the compartment door and then Pansy Parkinson is pulling it open. She eyes the unlikely crew of seven lions, two eagles, and a snake, visibly befuddled. 

She’s cut her hair again, Draco notices. This time she has it styled in a sharp, classy bob that ends just at her jawline. It suits her. Blaze, Theo, Vincent, and Gregory peer at him over her shoulder. Blaze wiggles his fingers in a cheeky wave. 

“Draco,” Pansy calls, her eyes razor-sharp, “Can we have a word, please?” 

Draco looks to Granger, an action Blaze takes note of. “Don’t worry, Granger,” he purrs, gaze half-lidded, “We’ll return him just as we found him. No harm done.” 

“Go,” Granger dismisses, eyeing the gathered Slytherins warily. “I’ll speak with you later.” 

Draco navigates the tangled maze of limbs in the congested compartment with as much grace as he can manage and follows his friends gratefully into their own. 

They turn on him like feasting piranhas as soon as they are all comfortably situated. 

Pansy begins the interrogation with, “What the hell, Draco?!” 

“Are we on the side of the angels now?” Blaze wonders.

“Where is your father?” Theo asks concernedly, “I didn’t see him on the platform.” 

“Speaking of,” Blaze interjects, “What an entrance! I commend your sense of drama, Malfoy.” 

“Does this mean we have to listen to Dumbledore now?” Vincent wants to know, sounding aggrieved by the very notion. 

“What’s going on, Draco?” Gregory demands. 

“Did we switch sides?” Pansy asks, narrowing her eyes at him, “Because if we switched sides and you didn’t bother to inform anyone I’m going to skin you alive.” 

“You have to tell us these things, Malfoy,” Blaze scolds, shaking his finger at Draco like he’s a misbehaving crup pup. “We aren’t mind readers, you know.” 

And Draco, he laughs, a hysterical edge to it. He’s just so relieved to be surrounded by people who care for him, people who actually enjoy his company and he theirs. He’s had a terrible couple of months and the relief of his friend’s worried questions is a balm to his weathered soul. 

He calls a halt to their probing and begins to tell them of his hellish summer. 

Remus follows the alluring sounds of flowing music to the third floor of Grimmauld Place. It’s the family wing of the manor, with the master bedrooms and comfortable communal spaces. Kreacher finished refurbishing the music room just this morning and already Sirius has taken advantage. 

Remus finds him sitting before the grand piano, his long, elegant fingers dancing nimbly over the keys. He just watches the graceful movements of those talented hands for a moment, listening to the art they bring to life so beautifully. Sirius has always enjoyed music, in all its many forms. From rock bands to classical composers, his record collection has it all. 

Remus joins him on the piano bench, leaning forward to hook his chin over Sirius’ shoulder. 

“You’re pouting,” Remus accuses, watching those fingers fly and skip from note to note. 

“I miss them already,” Sirius concedes with a heavy sigh, switching effortlessly into a more somber song to match his words. 

Remus huffs a laugh, nuzzling into his neck. “The cubs have been gone for less than an hour and they will return tomorrow morning for training.” 

“It’s not the same,” Sirius insists stubbornly. Remus hums agreeably, pressing a kiss to the edge of his collarbone. The music stutters to a halt. 

“Remus?” 

“Hmm?” 

“What are you doing?” 

“Don’t you think it’s time we stopped skirting around the issue?” Remus asks in between the kisses he trails over Sirius’ neck and jaw. 

“I-” 

“Unless you don’t want to,” Remus says, pulling away. At once, Sirius scrambles to stop him, hands reaching up to hold Remus in place. 

“No, please, I do.” 

“Good,” Remus murmurs, continuing his path. Sirius turns slowly to meet him, and they share a heated look before Remus presses their lips together. 

“I want every part of you, Sirius Black,” Remus admits when they are forced to break apart for breath. Sirius stares at him, eyes wide and glistening. 

“You can have me,” he whispers, and Remus doesn’t need any more prompting than that. 

Hogwarts emerges proud and stunning from the Scotland fog. Harry gazes up at her lofty towers, ignoring the whispers and stares he’s receiving from the other students. 

The wards around Hogwarts, strong and powerful, circle him, welcoming him back into their embrace. Though he has grown fond of Grimmauld Place, this castle will always have a special place in his heart; it's nice to be home. 

The Great Hall doors are open wide, ushering the students into the new term cheerfully. The happy greetings of reunited friends pause, just for a moment, as Harry and his group enter the Hall. The commotion picks up again a second later, several decibels louder. 

Harry allows a brief smirk to flit across his lips as the eagles in their group break off to sit at their table. With Ron and Hermione on either side of him, Harry can confidently meet the eyes boring into him from all directions. 

They better brace themselves, Harry thinks. They have no idea what’s coming.