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Chapter Text

A storm was coming.

Nature always had a way to warn of impending disasters. The wind and sky would tell you.The first sign was always the heat. It all began on a warm spring day- far warmer than any spring day in London had any right to be. A wet heat that permeated the streets and threatened to drop anyone with its unrelenting fury. Then, there were the dark clouds gathering in the skies, gray clouds that blotted out the sun, leaving London with the kind of ugly, muggy humidity that sank into the muscles and boiled the blood.

Harry could smell moisture in the air. A wetness that prophesized what was to come. The darkening clouds gathered overhead, black and heavy with rain. The wind blew in warm and damp, choking people with each breath.

Three days later the storm hit.

Harry woke to the sounds of rain battering against his townhouse walls, a violent rain that drenched the London streets and forced everyone to take shelter inside. Icy winds buffeted the old buildings, clattering windows and shaking foundations. Thunderheads blackened the lower skies as the clouds above continuously churned in and out of themselves.

The rain fell nonstop for three days. Streets flooded, pubs closed, and roofs leaked as the deluge continued. It was the kind of rain that flooded basements and drowned the rats living there. Undoubtedly, the worst storm England had seen in over a decade.

And it was in the midst of this storm that Harry came upon the murdered body of Neville Longbottom on his front step.

He had found the Boy Who Lived sprawled out on the front steps of his London property, Grimmauld Place, along with the rest of his family. His soaking wet body was twisted in odd, unnatural angles. His lifeless eyes looked upwards, empty and void of any emotion. Lying beside Neville was his wife, Ginny Weasley Longbottom, former Captain of the Holyhead Harpies. She too lay lifelessly still, rain soaked into her flaming red hair, causing it to fan out into rolling waves of crimson. Raindrops dripped down her face, giving the impression of tears flowing from her glazed-over, vacant green eyes..

Even more horrifying than seeing his friends’ dead bodies was what lay between them.

Alice Minerva Longbottom was situated between her parents, cold, unmoving and lifeless.

She had her mother’s hair, only a shade darker than the bright crimson that Ginny Weasley was known for. It was more of a dark auburn, the hue of autumn leaves and redwood trees. She had the same round face and large teeth that her father had in his youth, decorated with a splattering of brown freckles. Harry couldn’t help but notice the resemblance. But, at the same time, she possessed her mother’s gorgeous nose and beautiful chin.

All three were dead and Harry had no idea why or how they had come to be at his front door.

“Damn it all, Neville. What did you do?” Harry said. He hadn’t talked to Neville properly since their graduation day. Even then, they hadn’t said much to each other- there had been too much hurt and anger. Still, Harry had gone these past ten years hoping to make right with Neville, to patch things up and fix their damaged friendship.

Now it would never happen.

Harry watched them lay there and felt his tears mix with the rain. The cold pierced through his skin and sank into his bones. A heating charm would keep the cold at bay, not that it mattered. He didn’t feel much like being warm right now. He wanted the cold to penetrate his body and numb everything that he was feeling, to take away every last bit of shock, anger and sadness.

But he knew that there wasn’t time to mourn or feel sad.

They were coming.

He could feel the ripples of magic tear holes through the fabric of reality as the Aurors apparated around him, four hard and distinct puncturing sounds.

Four.

It was to be expected. Aurors normally worked in teams of two or more. You watched your partner’s back and they watched yours- standard procedure.

“Hands up!” someone called from the left of him. The voice was gruff, with just the slightest hint of Irish. Purcell? Or was it Campbell?

It didn’t matter. They had flanked him. Two on one side, one opposite and one in the middle facing him.

Smart. Spread yourselves wide to avoid any wide reaching curses. Again, standard procedure.

Harry raised his hands without protest.

Another ripple of magic and he suddenly felt cold iron manacles binding his hands together.

“Harry James Potter-Black, you’re under arrest for the murders of Neville Augustus Longbottom, Ginerva Weasley-Longbottom and Alice Minerva Longbottom.”

*****

They had brought him to Langtry Gate, Auror HQ, London. It was hidden underground, beneath an old bakery that sold fresh loaves of bread and smelled of warmth and kindness, a place Harry hadn’t been to in three years.

Not since he had resigned from the Corps.

They had brought him in through the back alley and tapped their badges against the old brick wall, causing it to rearrange itself into a staircase leading down. The descent was longer than Harry remembered. Perhaps it was because this time, he was doing the walk as a suspect rather than as an Auror.

The Auror team that had arrested him walked beside him, surrounding him on all sides. Apparently they thought he was dangerous. Harry Potter-Black, trained Auror and veteran of the Second Wizarding War.

Who would have thought.

The Aurors led him through the empty halls. Not much had changed since he had left. The same dirty brick lining the walls, the same desks crowding the front floor, the same massive holding cell housing drunks, shady looking criminals, and people vocally expressing their innocence.

They had handcuffed him with iron manacles carved with runes designed to suppress the flow of magic, manacles that she had designed. Three different Aurors, rookies judging by the fresh looks on their faces, relieved the team and led him onwards.

A few seasoned Aurors, Finnigan, Verus and Blackmoore, watched him walk by with narrowed eyes. Finnigan had aged since Harry had last seen him. Long strands of white could be seen mingling with his brown hair creating a salt and pepper color atop his head. 

They locked him in a windowless cell, encircled by iron bars. Another anti-magic measure, the circle was meant to block the flow of Magic from the Source while the iron was designed to interfere with any spellcasting from the outside. It was one of her designs, brilliant and practical. Harry didn’t protest. It wouldn’t do him any good. He would have the chance to prove his innocence during interrogation. Nevertheless, he wondered who they would assign. It had to be one of the Senior Aurors: McBride, Tonks, Lupin?

It didn’t matter- he was innocent.

So, he sat there alone, amidst the cold and dirty bricks, leaning against the uncomfortable iron bars. There wasn’t any point in trying to reach for his magic or trying to escape. Any action he took, other than waiting, would be taken as an escape attempt and seen as an admission of guilt. He closed his eyes and wondered how he had gotten himself into this situation.

Like the rest of London, he had spent the past few days avoiding the rain. He had holed himself away in Grimmauld Place, seat of House Black. Sirius hadn’t been back in a while, but that was par for the course.

Sirius Black, Harry’s godfather and adoptive father, was head of House Black and a seated member of the Wizengamot. Therefore, it wasn’t surprising for him to spend weeks if not months away from home, writing legislation, forming alliances, and whatever else it was that politicians did.

To pass the time, Harry had read the Daily Prophet and listened to the radio. The major news that week was the impending election. Minister Scrimgeour had announced his retirement at the end of the year, and the election for next Minister of Magic was expected. 

Lucius Malfoy, the former Death Eater turned innocent bystander turned scumbag politician, had announced his candidacy on behalf of the Magi Party. No opponent from the opposing Arcanum Party had been announced yet, though the Prophet expected them to make an announcement by the end of the week.

He hoped to everything sacred that Lucius Malfoy wouldn’t become Minister. Things were already bad enough as they were. But if the Magi Party couldn’t put forth a worthy contender, then England’s Wizarding World was in for a world of hurt.

All in all, it meant that major changes were on the horizon.

He closed his eyes and felt himself drift into a silent, thoughtless meditation.

She came to him in his thoughts. He thought of her curly brown hair and her disapproving eyes.

“Oh Harry, what have you gotten yourself into this time?” she would say.

He smirked at the thought. How long had it been since she had scolded him for his recklessness? Far too long- nearly a decade based on his own estimation. Hermione had been occupying his thoughts for the past few days now. The time spent indoors had given him plenty of opportunity to think and reflect. It was only natural that he thought of her, even if he hadn’t seen her for five years. The way things had ended between them and the mistakes that he had made, they often kept him up at night. “Potter, get up. It’s time to go.”

The words snapped him back to reality. He had no idea how long it had been since he had drifted off.

He got up and left his thoughts in the cell.

****

They didn’t bring him to any interrogation room. Instead, they took him directly to the Head Auror’s office. Kingsely Shacklebolt, war hero and Head Auror, gave Harry a tired and exasperated look as Harry sat down across from him. Shacklebolt looked every part the role of Head Auror. He was broad shouldered and hard faced, with serious eyes and wrinkles that marred his face. He wore a simple white collared shirt with his wand holstered at his ribs. His hard eyes stared down Harry as he sat down across from him. Harry had been on the receiving end of those eyes many times, but he had also seen the compassion beneath the stone exterior.

Shacklebolt was a man just as much as he was a symbol. Since Voldemort’s death at the Battle of Hogwarts and his subsequent appointment to the office of Head Auror, Shacklebolt had worked tirelessly to reform the Auror department. Under his administration, the Aurors had gone from a muggle-born and half-blood hunting office to keepers of the peace and upholders of justice. Dozens of Death Eaters and Dark Lord supporters had been arrested and charged for crimes against wizardkind, no matter how large or small.

As brutal and relentless as they may have seemed, Shacklebolt’s methods had brought lasting peace to England. Azkaban had been filled with wizards that had supported Voldemort while the worst of the worst had faced the gallows.

Kingsley Shacklebolt wasn’t a man to be trifled with.

“Undo his shackles,” Shacklebolt said to the two Aurors that had brought Harry in.

“Sir! I must protest,” said one of the Aurors, some young faced kid with hair that was way too nice.

“Are you questioning my authority?” Shacklebolt asked. There was a distinct rumble in his voice, a warning.

“No sir, it’s just tha-“

“Then undo his shackles and leave us.”

The two Aurors nodded and quickly banished the heavy manacles with a flourish of their wands. Wand magic, basic, but effective.

“Now leave us,” said the Head Auror.

“Sir…” began the other Auror.

“Leave. Us,” said Shacklebolt, his voice full of quiet authority, the echo of which caused the entire room to tremble.

The two foolish Aurors shook their heads and left in a hurry, allowing Shacklebolt to turn his attention back to Harry.

“I wish we could have reconnected under better circumstances, Harry,” said Kingsley Shacklebolt softly. There was a tired tone to his voice.

Harry nodded. “Sir, me too.” Shacklebolt had once been his commanding officer- old habits die hard.

He held up his unbound hands. “Are you sure you did the right thing?” Harry asked. “I am wanted for murder, you know.”

“Come now, Harry, I know you’re not responsible for that. Neville was your friend.”

Was his friend.

Harry wasn’t sure if he could consider Neville and himself friends after everything that had happened. Not after what he had done during the Battle of Hogwarts.

Shacklebolt’s expression softened and once again Harry saw the man beneath the office. The kind, fatherly man under the stone faced Head Auror who had to keep his officers in check while fending off the ambitions of politicians. “Harry, what happened during the war…the things you did and didn’t do…you have to forgive yourself. You are more than your mistakes.”

Harry smiled and nodded. “Neville…you said that I was innocent…how do you know that I didn’t kill him?”

It was more of a statement than a question.

“I have my methods. The coroner that we placed at the local police precinct sent us a preliminary report.” He pushed forward a manila folder. “Neville Longbottom, Ginerva Weasley-Longbottom and Alice Minerva Longbottom were killed by an unknown curse. No burns, no sign of any spell, no marks…except for one.”

Harry opened the folder, doing his best to keep his eyes as neutral as possible. The first page was a photo of Neville’s lifeless body. The coroner had removed his clothes in order to perform her medical examination. Family life had been good for Neville. He was fit, but bore the kind of chubbiness one expected to see from an active father. Harry assumed that Neville had  At least the coroner had the sense and decency to shut Neville’s eyes. There weren’t any signs of bruising or cuts. No blood or ligature marks. Not even a mole or blemish. But there was a mark. A fresh wound located on Neville’s forearm, a small pence-sized hole, as if something had pierced his skin and flesh with something sharp, such as an ice pick or nail.

“Gunshot wound,” Harry said quietly. His three years in MACUSA New York had given him enough exposure to guns to last a lifetime. “Hollow point.” 

“Indeed. Our coroner found similar wounds on Ginny and Alice, one on the arm, the other on the leg.”

“None of those are fatal shots. Someone killed Neville and his family and used a gun to try to cover up their tracks,” Harry said as he looked through the file.

Shacklebolt smiled a knowing smile. “Anything else?”

“Killer is most likely a pureblood wizard,” Harry replied

“What makes you say that?”

“Most purebloods don’t bother with the muggle world, so they would have no idea how muggle technology works. Whoever killed the Longbottoms likely wants to frame a muggle for their murder. They assumed that guns work the same as killing curses. One hit and instant death. So, likely, their plan was something akin to killing the Longbottoms with a curse and then covering up their tracks with a gun. What they didn’t realize is that you can’t just shoot someone with a gun and expect it to be fatal. Skill and precision are required,” Harry said quietly. “You shoot someone in the arm, they have a decent chance of survival. Whatever it was that killed the Longbottoms…it wasn’t a gun.”

“Very good,” Kingsley said. “We swabbed your hands earlier and found no traces of gunshot residue. Besides, I know you well enough to know that you wouldn't execute such a messy plan.”

Harry closed the folder. “So why are you showing me this file?”

“He was your friend, Harry,” Shacklebolt said quietly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small disk.

It was a simple design, a five pointed star encircled by a thick band of silver. Ancient runes that Harry had never been able to decipher ran along the edges of the circle. At the bottom was a number: 62697. Harry recognized the number immediately- it was his old badge number.

His old badge.

“I want you to find Neville’s killer,” said Shacklebolt. “As an Auror.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” Shacklebolt replied, his voice deadly serious. “A member of Dumbledore’s army, a former member of the Order of the Phoenix, a trained Auror who has worked in both the Kingdom as well as on our behalf for the MACUSA New York division- you are the most qualified individual for this job.”

“This job. Sir, there are far reaching political ramifications here,” Harry said quietly. “People will use Neville’s death to further their careers. They’ll swear to take up his cause, further his work, but then they’ll use his life and legacy to further their own ambitions. The Auror who solves this case will undoubtedly leverage the feat into political capital.”

Harry took a breath. “Whoever solves this case will be the one who succeeds you.”

Shacklebolt smiled, wide and toothy. “All the more reason why you should be the one who takes on this case. You were one of Longbottom’s closest friends. You fought together in the war, went on the run to destroy Voldemort’s Horcruxes. No one would raise an eyebrow about you wanting to avenge his death. You’ve never cared about wizarding politics and I can trust that you would have no other reason to take on this case other than to do the right thing.”

“I’m not an Auror any more, sir. I quit a long time ago,” Harry protested.

Shacklebolt slid the badge across the table, his eyes hard, but understanding. “And I’m offering you a way back in,” he said softly. “I’m offering you redemption. For everything that you’ve done, all the mistakes you’ve made. A chance to finally put down the stone that you’ve been carrying around for the past decade. Take up the shield and stand once again as Auror Harry James Potter-Black.”

Harry stared at the badge. His warped face reflected on the shiny surface stared back at him. Its glimmering surface offered him something that he didn’t even know he desired: redemption. Redemption for everything that he had done, absolution for all of his past mistakes. And beyond that... Alice was just a child, Ginny was his friend, and Neville…

He picked up the badge. Its weight was heavier than any guilt or regret that he had carried since Hogwarts.

Kingsley Shacklebolt’s smile was broad and beaming.

****

Chapter Text

Harry didn’t like the looks that the other Aurors gave him as he strode through the bullpen with his badge on, even with Shacklebolt walking beside him. 

Harry recognized a few Aurors glaring at him from behind their desks in the pen: Finnigan, McBride and Smithson. The rest were new faces, too bright eyed and fresh to be considered seasoned. They had yet to see the horrors the wizarding mind was capable of.

“Gather around and listen up!” called Shacklebolt, his voice reverberating throughout the bullpen. All eyes turned to him. Kingsley Shacklebolt was every much the leader as he was the Auror.  “By my order, Harry James Potter-Black has been reinstated back into his previous role of Auror Special Investigator Second Class. He will be taking on the Longbottom investigation!”

That drew looks of ire from the assembled. Harry wasn’t surprised. He had been gone for so long, only to return and be given the case of the decade. A case that would make the career of any Auror. For rookies, it would launch their careers into the stratosphere. For veterans, it would be the capstone to a career of triumphs, overshadowing any past failures.

McBride and Jameson glared daggers at him, but it was a familiar voice that spoke up.

“And what about the Aurors who’ve toiled day in and day out? Surely they have the experience and knowledge needed to solve the Longbottom case,” said the voice from behind Harry.

A vaguely bossy, but mostly indignant voice. A voice that Harry heard in years. A voice belonging to someone who Harry thought about every day.

Harry turned to face Hermione Granger.

Her looks had matured in the six years since he had last seen her. The cute, somewhat chubby, freckle-faced girl had grown and matured into a woman with sharp eyes and elegant features. A sharp chin and cheekbones that would have made most models jealous. Her normally bushy hair was tied up into a classic bun, leaving a few locks hanging to frame her pretty face. She was dressed like an Auror: a charcoal grey pair of slacks and a crisp white shirt. But where was her badge? 

“Hermione,” Harry said, his voice coming out softer than a whisper.

“Potter,” Hermione said curtly. She wore a gray blazer over a crisp white top and black sacks. Two large, and somewhat gaudy, carved bracelets decorated her wrists.

“You’re an Auror now?”

“Agent Granger here is on loan from the Department of Mysteries. Her official title is Special Liaison for the Department of Mysteries. She handles our more sensitive cases, especially those involving artifacts and things that we haven’t been able to decipher,” Kingsley explained.

He turned to face Hermione. “Auror Potter-Black has been assigned this case directly by me. He was friends with the deceased and has extensive experience as an Auror both in England and in America. Any complaints or concerns are to be brought directly to me.”

He raised his voice and looked around. “Is that clear?”

Silence.

No one was brave or stupid enough to question Shacklebolt’s authority in his own house.

“Good.” Shacklebolt turned back to Harry. “Get to work.” 

***

Harry left Langtry Gate not long afterwards. Outside, the storm continued to rage, so he found himself standing beneath the bakery’s canopy munching on a buttered roll and smelling the fresh-baked bread as he waited for the bus. The wind howled from all around, scooping up rain and hurtling it in one direction and then the next. Cars drove by, spraying water across the empty street. A few shops were still open to the few patrons willing to brave the winds and rains. But for the most part, the streets were mostly deserted save for two people.

“Come out- I can hear you breathing,” Harry said in between bites of his roll. 

Hermione stepped out next to him and they watched the movement of cars together.

“I wasn’t hiding,” she said, her eyes also watching the rain. “And I don’t trust you.”

“Fair enough.” He rolled up the paper the bun came in and placed it in his pocket until he could find a proper trash bin. “I wouldn’t trust me either.”

Hermione turned to face him, her eyes narrowed in anger. “Why did you come back? Why now after all this time?”

“That’s the thing,” Harry said softly. “I’ve actually been back for a few years now. I just never made a big deal about coming home.”

Harry let out a steamy breath and watched it dissipate into the rain and cold. “Neville was my friend. Even after what happened during the war, he was still my friend. Whoever did this, whoever killed him and dumped him on my front door…they’re not going to get away with this.”

“It’s not your job to avenge Neville’s death.”

“The badge clipped to my belt says it is,” Harry said quietly. “Why are you here?”

Hermione stiffened. “Special Liaison means I take on whatever cases I want. I decided on this one.”

“I don’t need any help.”

“Never said you did. Like I said: I don’t trust you. And besides that, Neville was my friend as well.” Hermione said, her voice dripping with quiet venom.

“Fine,” Harry said quietly. He turned his gaze straight ahead and watched as another vehicle sliced through the deluce. 

Hermione looked out into the storm as a flash of lightning blazed through the skies. A few seconds later there was a distant rumble of thunder.“Why are you waiting for the bus, anyways?”

“Don’t like apparating,” Harry replied. It was true. He had never gotten the hang of apparating and after the incident back in Sixth year, he had no interest in learning. Besides, taking the bus kept one honest. There is a special magic that comes with waiting for the bus. Watching the cars pass by gave one time to reflect, to look into your own thoughts. Taking the bus reminded Harry of his roots.

After all, his mother had been muggleborn.

Sirius, a member of a prominent pureblood family, had never tried to shield Harry from the muggle world. He made sure to send Harry to a muggle primary school before Hogwarts.

“Taking the bus keeps me grounded. Reminds me of my mum.”

That seemed to draw a smile from Hermione.

The bus arrived shortly afterwards and the two got on the bus together.

***

They took it to a little shop out in some no name neighborhood filled with stores that looked like they were being operated by the third or fourth generation of family owners. A few pubs, restaurants, and bakeries lined the streets with apartments on the top floors. Harry’s destination was a small trinket shop located between an old tailor’s run by a Ukrainian grandfather and an Indian food spot known for their chicken tikka masala and lamb biryani.

The rain continued to fall so Harry was drenched when he stepped into the shop and greeted Gregory, the owner, with a curt nod. Hermione followed him, not far behind. She had kept herself dry with a simple charm.

Harry flipped Gregory a silver sickle, who quickly caught it and gestured to the back room.

“Where are we?” Hermione asked, her eyes shifty as if she were expecting someone to jump out and rob her.

“Union Trinkets and Wares.” Harry replied. “I’m here to use the portkey in the back, but the shop does have some pretty interesting item. I bought my desk lamp from Gregory.”

“Portkey?”

Harry nodded. “Gregory also runs a portkey hub. I don’t feel like taking the bus to the Longbottom house. It would take too long.”

“Longbottom house?” The two stepped into the back room. “You know where Neville lived?” 

Harry nodded. “He wrote me a few letters before I went to America. I wrote a few back, but somewhere along the way, we just lost touch.” 

Someone had dumped the bodies of the Longbottom family at Harry’s front step. The heavy rain meant that any trace of forensic evidence would’ve been washed away. There was no point in looking for clues at the crime scene. Hopefully, he would be able to find something at the Longbottom estate.

The portkey was an old cracked porcelain vase decorated with gorgeous blue flowers. Gregory claimed that it was an old relic from the Ching Dynasty. One touch sent Harry and Hermione hurtling through the portal and out the other side. They found themselves, dizzy and somewhat queasy, in what looked to be an old attic.

Harry took a few seconds to regather his thoughts and senses before he turned to Hermione.

“You ok?” he asked, standing up and hoping that his voice wasn’t coming off too soft or tender. 

She nodded, but still looked somewhat nauseous. “I’ll never get used to that. Where are we?”

“Attic in a store just outside of Norridge,” Harry replied as he stood up on shaky legs. He took in a breath of air that smelled of dust and mildew before offering  her his hand. She swatted it away before standing up on her own. “Gregory’s brother, Marcus, is the owner.” Harry said.

They climbed down the ladder and Harry flipped another sickle into Marcus’s hands as they left.

The village they were in was small, consisting of a single long street paved with cobblestones and lined with the various buildings that one expected: a postal office that doubled as a library, a few restaurants, a tailor and some pubs that looked older than London. All in all, it took the two former schoolmates approximately 30 minutes to walk through the entirety of the village.

From there, it was a relatively short walk on a dirt-covered road, with sheep and cows grazing on the nearby grass fields, and up a rather steep hill before they reached the Longbottom residence.

It was rather small.

A two-story building built in the same medieval cottage style as the rest of the village. Thatched roofs that looked as though they had been replaced several times. Windows with shutters that looked like they had seen better days.

The last time Harry had been here was during Seventh year when the Order of the Phoenix had planned how to safely extract Neville before he turned eighteen and the protection his mother bestowed upon him wore off. That was ten years ago.

“Have you been here since the Battle?” Hermione asked quietly.

Harry shook his head. “Not since his eighteenth birthday. I came a few times, but couldn’t bring myself to go inside- just stood at the bottom of the hill before leaving. You?”

“Just a few times, to have tea and see Alice,” Hermione said. She brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. “She was sweet. Always wanted me to braid her hair.”

Harry took a deep breath. He wished he hadn’t been such a coward, that he had had the courage to just knock and try to mend the bridge that he had broken during the war.

“Any defensive wards?” Harry asked, pushing the thoughts out of his mind. There was no point in regrets now. There were people who died and people who needed to be brought to justice.

Hermione brought her left arm up to chest level and tapped a rune carved onto her large bracelet. There was a flash of Willpower directed by Hermione’s Intent as the rune became lit with an azure flame. For the briefest of moments, Hermione’s eyes glowed blue as she scanned the building.

“None. It’s a small village and Neville was trusting,” Hermione said as her eyes returned to their natural brown. “He always saw the best in people.”

That wasn’t the kind of magic Hermione had used when Harry had last seen her. Clearly, she had been busy. He wanted to ask if it was Giant Magic mixed with Nordic runes, but thought better. They weren’t on friendly terms with each other at the moment. Instead, he opened the door and stepped into the Longbottom residence. Like other wizarding homes, the inside was far larger than the outside thanks to the expansion charm placed on the house.

The living room smelled clean, like someone had scrubbed it regularly. The furnishings were modest and quaint, decorated for comfort more than style. A small, well-used, green couch and a few comfortable-looking arm chairs surrounded a small coffee table that had a few dirty plates spread out on top of it. The mantelpiece was decorated with various photos, the kind that told you a loving family lived there: Neville and Ginny’s wedding, Ginny holding Alice, Neville showing Alice how to properly plant a small tree.

Harry picked up a picture. Neville, Hermione and himself wearing their Hogwarts robes in front of Honeyduke’s. Harry remembered that day well. He and Neville had bought a large bag of screaming toffees from Hogsmeade and had snuck it into class the next day. When the toffee in their mouths started screaming after the third bite, McGonagall had given the two of them detention and taken 20 points from Gryffindor.

Hermione had tried to explain that it was the toffee, but that had only managed to earn Hermione a detention as well.

“Remember that day?” Harry asked quietly as he showed the photo to Hermione.

“How could I forget? McGonagall said that she was disappointed that I hadn’t stopped you two from bringing the toffee to class. That was worse than any detention she could’ve given me.” 

“It was worth it though. Did you see how high Parvati and Lavender jumped when we let out our first scream?” Harry chuckled. “Who would’ve known that the name ‘screaming toffees’ was literal?”

That brought a smile to Hermione’s face.

Merlin and Le Fay.

It was good to see her smiling.

“Notice anything?”

Harry nodded and pointed to the plates.

“Neville was a clean freak- no way he would leave dirty plates on his table like that for even a minute,” Harry said. “There are no signs of a struggle, so it’s safe to assume that whoever did this caught Ginny and Neville by surprise.”

He tilted his nose slightly upwards. “Smell that?”

Hermione sniffed. “Smells like a laundromat.”

“Exactly. It’s the same smell left behind whenever someone apparates. People don’t tend to apparate in their homes because they don’t want to risk the smell. So, it’s likely that whoever attacked the Longbottoms apparated in and out of here. Can’t figure out where they were attacked though. I’ll have to keep looking around.”

He stepped into the next room- a small kitchen furnished with a small countertop, a standard four burner stove, a sink, and a small round table. Not much to see there. Harry continued his search, walking into the dining room.

It was the kind of house that made a happy home, well-lived and filled with warmth and love, with everything a family should be. A house where one could find children running in and out while their parents playfully scolded them for not wiping their feet. Photos decorated the walls depicting a loving family- Neville and Ginny at the beach dressed in Hawaiian shirts, Alice holding her first teddy bear while riding on Neville’s shoulders, the Longbottoms wearing matching red plaid sweaters sitting in front of a large Christmas tree.

Harry walked up the stairs and entered the study. It was a bit of a mess. Half opened books, piled atop each other, were scattered around the room- on the desk, the floor, and the couch. Various bookmarks were placed in the books, marking important pages that likely would have been revisited sometime in the future. A few posters, mostly herbology, were plastered on the walls along with a rather large Holyhead Harpies banner signed by all the players and coaches that Ginny had played with.

Harry walked over to the desk. It was blanketed with books and papers. He noticed a single notebook surrounded by over a dozen books. Neville had been studying for something. Harry gingerly picked up a book with several pages folded at the corners to mark important spots.

He chuckled.

Hermione would have been horrified to see such a mangled book.

The book was leather bound and felt heavy in his hand. Harry closed it so he could read the cover.

“The Sacred Sixteen and their Rightful Places at the Wizengamot.”

The Wizengamot was the main governing body of the Ministry of Magic. Responsible for passing laws, hearing proposals and making judgements on major criminal cases.

Interesting- Harry had expected a herbology book, not a book on the Wizengamot.

He flipped over another book.

“The Law Making Process, How a Proposal Becomes a Law.”

Another book.

“A History Of the Ministry of Magic.”

Another.

“Major Law Proposals of the Past Century.”

“Political Science: Understanding the Complex Dynamics of Wizard Decision Making.”

“Minister for Magic: The Work of Bringing People Together” by Theresa Carpenter.

“Contentious Choices: Looking At All the Points Before Making a Decision.”

“Unity. Making Compromises and Forming Alliances.”

All books on politics. 

Harry opened the notebook and his eyes instantly recognized Neville’s untidy scrawl. Handwriting had never been Neville’s strong suit. A few of the letters were smudged at the end, one of Neville’s bad habits.

It gives me great pleasure and honor to take up something that has belonged to my family for generations. Far too long has this seat upon this great Council of Wizards remained unclaimed, and I am eager to take up my birthright and serve the people in whatever capacity I can. And so it is my great honor to announce that I, Neville Longbottom, am official announcing my intent to take my rightful place upon this Council of Witches and Wizards. 

Merlin and Le Fay.

Neville was preparing to claim his seat.

“He was making a Wizengamot run,” Harry whispered as the notebook fell from his hands.

Chapter Text

*****

“Are you sure Neville was planning to claim his House Seat?” Hermione asked. She folded her arms, and leaned back against the wall, suddenly looking very worried.

Harry nodded. “As sure as I can be. There wasn’t any other reason for Neville to have been studying politics. That and I found a hand written speech about accepting his Wizengamot Seat.” 

The Wizengamot was the main body of the government that comprised the Ministry of Magic. The other part of the Ministry, the Minister themselves, made major decisions, but the Wizengamot ultimately held the most power. Power, for example, to override the Minister’s decisions, and power to remove an incompetent minister altogether. One could get anything done through the Wizengamot, provided one had the votes. The Minister may have had the most individualized power, but a fully united Wizengamot was a powerful political force.

British Wizarding society was a cesspool of blood purity nonsense and idiocy. Power and status was inherited. Of the 108 seats on the Wizengamot, 23 were House seats, meaning that the seats were reserved for people of notable pureblood houses. The House Black seat, currently occupied by Sirius, could only be sat upon by a member of House Black much like how the House Nott seat could only be occupied by a member of its House. The laws were strictly enforced.

The Longbottom House seat had been vacant for the past 26 years, empty since Voldemort had murdered Frank and Alice Longbottom. Neville’s grandmother was of a different house and had never bothered with politics, while Neville himself had been too young to claim the seat. So, the seat had remained empty while the Wizengamot continued to operate.

It was one of two empty House seats.

The other being the House Potter seat- Harry’s own seat.

The Wizengamot had been at a stalemate for the past few months, a deadlock. Exactly 106 seats were filled, 53 for the Magi Party and 53 for the Arcanum Party. Bills had to be passed with two-thirds majority voting in favor. And as neither party had been able to push their own agenda forward, alliances and concessions had to be made with members of the opposing party. Sirius had been trying to convince Harry for months to take his seat upon the Wizengamot and be a tie breaker.

Neville would have been the tie breaker Sirius needed and Harry knew for exactly which party. There was no way Neville would have declared for the Magi Party, not with the people at its leadership. People like Lucius Malfoy who had supported Voldemort during both his reigns, people who had managed to slither away from prosecution.

So, Neville taking his Seat and declaring for the Arcanum Party would’ve meant that the Party had the votes needed to push through as many laws as possible. Less alliances and concessions would then be needed in order for bills to be passed.

“If this was a politically motivated murder, we need to inform Shacklebolt,” Hermione said quietly. She quickly walked over to the fireplace and grabbed the jar of floo powder on top. “Things are going to get messy very quickly.”

The empty fireplace roared to life as Hermione cast her magic. She took a small handful of floo powder and tossed it into the flames, causing them to blaze with an unnatural green light that set the entire room aglow. Kingsley Shacklebolt’s face formed in the smoldering ashes, a perfect recreation as if molded by the expert hands of a sculptor.

Shacklebolt turned to face the two of them. His eyebrow raised in a questioning manner. “Potter. Granger. Where are you two?”

Hermione stepped forward. “The Longbottom House, sir. Potter may have discovered something.”

Shacklebolt turned to Harry with a somewhat pleased look on his face.

“Neville was studying up on political science and had a book full of hand written speeches,” Harry said. “I have good reason to believe that he intended to claim the Longbottom Seat on the Wizengamot.”

“Do you believe that his murder had something to do with this?” asked Shacklebolt.

“At this point, we can’t rule anything out. It could be a political rival just as much as it could have been a crazed fan or an old Voldemort supporter looking for revenge.”

The last two possibilities didn’t seem as likely though, not when one considered where the Longbottoms’ bodies were placed. There had to be a reason why Neville and his family were dumped in front of Grimmauld Place.

Shacklebolt nodded. “You’re right. If politics are involved, then we’re entering dangerous territory. We keep this information to ourselves. For the time being, you report to me and only to me. You both have my full support. Granger, I need you back at Langtry Gate- we have a developing situation.”

The two old friends nodded and the emerald flames snuffed out.

“What are your plans?” Hermione asked as the flames returned to their natural orange color.

“Gonna keep searching here, see if I can find anything else,” Harry said, pushing his hands into his pockets.

Hermione nodded. “As Special Liaison for the Department of Mysteries and acting on behalf of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement with the full support of Head Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt, I am officially declaring this house a place of major interest for further investigation.”

She traced her fingers across three different runes on her bracelet which instantly became alight with power.

“I am warding this house off. Nobody comes in or comes out without me saying so,” Hermione said, her voice strumming with Intent.

Harry watched as Hermione shaped the very force of creation with her will. At its core, that’s what magic was. The Power of Creation created by people. Everyone contributed to the pool of magic in some way, simply by living. Every smile, every triumph, every breath of frustration, scream of anger, and every cry of laughter created a pool of power.

The power of creation.

Magic.

What made a wizard a wizard was the ability to shape that power with their Willpower and direct it with their Intent to affect the world around them.

Everything else was secondary. Wands, words, incantations, rituals were just ways to help focus Willpower and direct Intent. As children, they were taught flourishes with their wands, incantations to strengthen spells, even astrological patterns, all ways to help them channel magic.

The spells didn’t matter. The wand didn’t matter. What mattered most was the Will.

The will to create change.

The will to act.

Power in its purest form.

Hermione raised her hand into the air and her Will expanded outward. Harry felt a shudder run down his spine as the magic swept throughout the house, extending outward until the ward enveloped the house’s perimeter.

Hermione, eyes glowing with an unnatural electric blue light, turned to Harry and took his hand in hers. Her hands were small, but somewhat firm and muscular. Undoubtedly, earning their roughness from action and field work. So different from the thin, soft hands that he had held as a teenager. Yet, there was still a feel of familiarity in her hands.

A lifetime could pass, a thousand, and he would still remember those hands and how they felt around his own.

“I’m giving you a rune so you can freely come in and out of this house.” Hermione’s words snapped Harry out of his reverie and back to the present.

Harry nodded quietly and pushed his thoughts of the past out of his head.

Hermione’s finger blazed with power as she drew a rudimentary pattern onto the palm of Harry’s hand. “It should last for about a month.”

Hermione’s finger lingered for a moment on Harry’s palm. Their eyes met briefly, green and brown, before Hermione turned to the fireplace. She grabbed a pinch of floo powder, tossed it into the flames.

“Langtry Gate,” said Hermione and she was gone with a blaze of green flames.

The flames snuffed out and Harry was left in the darkness.

****

Harry checked the rest of the home, not finding much.

There was a nursery for Alice, who looked like she was transitioning from crib to a big girl bed. The room was decorated with blue walls and various pictures of the family. Stars and clouds were drawn at the top half of the walls. Toys were scattered everywhere: strewn across the carpet; hanging from the tops of the bookshelf, which was packed full of books; and laid out atop a small, child-sized drawing table.

A large teddy bear with a long shaggy beard and an oversized coat sat on a rocking chair.

Harry smiled.

It was a Hagrid Bear.

He moved on. There was nothing to be found here.

Neville and Ginny’s room was the largest and had its own bathroom. A large bed, a modest, fancy looking wardrobe and a few drawers decorated the room. A wedding photo of Neville and Ginny stood watch over the largest drawer, while the tops of the other drawers were decorated with pictures of Alice, Ginny and Neville. Harry took in a picture of the family smiling and wearing matching Christmas jumpers and smiled. Neville had been able to make a life for himself after Hogwarts.

Good for him. If anyone deserved happiness and normalcy, it would have definitely been the Boy Who Lived.

Neville with a family.

He could have been content with just raising his daughter and living a quiet life away from the constant fame and admiration that Harry knew that he hated in his youth. But instead, Neville had chosen to claim his seat to continue to serve.

And someone had killed him.

Harry realized that he had balled his hands into a tight fist. So tight that his nails had begun to dig into his palm.

Harry took a breath and went back into the study. He gathered all the notebooks that he could find and packed them into his magically expanded coat pocket.

He left the Longbottom home not too long afterwards.

****

The walk back to the village and the evening breeze helped Harry clear his mind. He took a portkey back to London where the rain had begun to die down into a light drizzle leaving the streets littered with puddles. He took the bus alongside the muggles who had ventured out into the storm. Harry got off about two blocks from Grimmauld Place and walked in the rain. The drizzle was actually a bit pleasant and helped Harry calm his mind.

The case still bothered him though.

Neville clearly hadn’t made any public announcement about his intention to claim his seat or else Harry would have heard about it in the paper. Could it be that whoever killed Neville wanted to keep him from claiming his seat? Could someone from the Magi party have killed Neville all just to keep him from claiming what was rightfully his?

That seemed most likely.

Wizard politics were a complicated matter, but Harry knew that those in power would do anything to stay in power. Neville would have threatened change, he would have brought change, just based on his reputation alone. It was what he did, who he was. Neville was the type of person who couldn’t ignore those in need.

It was logical to assume that whoever killed Neville had done it to keep him from the Longbottom Ancestral Seat.

Who knew about Neville’s plans?

But there was another question.

Why were the Longbottoms found outside of Grimmauld Place? Were they killed outside? Or had someone dumped their bodies in front of his home? And why?

Was someone trying to send him a message?

And if so, who? And what was that message?

Harry stepped through Grimmauld Place’s threshold, the house’s ancient magic sank into him like he was diving into a pool of water. Here he was at his strongest.

Kreacher was already waiting for Harry when he walked in through. The old house elf was old, but still moved around better than his younger counterparts. As always, there was a sharp scowl on Kreacher’s leathered face as if he had stepped in something disgusting. He wore a weathered pillowcase that was so old that it had gone yellow. Harry had offered to buy Kreacher some new clothes only to have been rebuffed by Sirius.

“Welcome back, my lord.” Kreacher said.

Odd.

That was the first time that Kreacher had called Harry ‘my lord’. Usually it was ‘young master’ or ‘mudblood’ when he was younger.

“Kreacher, are you hungry?” asked Harry.

Kreacher gruffed and walked away.

Harry smiled, he’d make some food for Kreacher. He always did.

He hung his jacket on the coat rack by the door and headed for the kitchen.

Cooking was one of the few things that Harry thought he truly excelled at. Food was more than just fuel, it was passion, it was love. He thought about all the times he had cooked for himself, simple meals that didn’t take much time or effort. Especially when compared to the meals Harry made when cooking for others. The meals always tasted better.

Thus, Harry had resolved to always cook for someone, to never eat alone: Sirius, Kreacher, anyone. Food was a beacon, a bridge that connected others. Sharing a good meal after a long day built camaraderie and reminded people that there was still some good left in the world.

He first took some chicken out of the refrigerator. The chicken had been marinating in yogurt and various spices for the past day or so. The spices tickled Harry’s nose as he removed the plastic wrap and allowed it to come up to room temperature. He quickly washed some rice and began cooking it in a small pot. Harry then chopped up onions, garlic, ginger and tomatoes with practiced speed before he began to saute them together in a pan filling the room with a warm spicy fragrance.

Chicken Tikka Masala.

Rich, sweet, spicy and delicious.

By this time, Kreacher had come out of his cupboard and taken atop a particularly tall stool at the table. Harry smiled and served him up a hearty portion of rice and chicken, making sure to include plenty of meat. Harry joined Kreacher soon afterwards with a plate of his own.

Kreacher didn’t say much as he ate. But the food was good enough to elicit a small smile from his face.

“Radio.” Kreacher said quietly.

Harry nodded.

Though they didn’t converse much, Harry and Kreacher both enjoyed listening to the radio as they ate. It was better than eating in silence.

Harry snapped his fingers and let out a small pulse of magic. The old radio situated atop of the refrigerator turned onto wizard news. A sharp female voice spoke clear and loud.

The nation is grieving today after the death of Neville Longbottom.

Harry dropped his spoon in shock.

An anonymous source within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has confirmed the death of the Boy Who Lived along with his wife Ginerva Weasley and daughter Alice. The DMLE suspects foul play. Longbottom is best known for defeating the Dark Lord Voldemort as a child putting an end to the First Wizarding War. Neville attended Hogwarts School of WitchCraft and Wizardry where he was sorted into Gryffindor House. During their seventh year Longbottom along with his two classmates, Hermione Granger and Harry Potter, went on the run on a mission to destroy Voldemort once and for all. In his adult life, Longbottom dedicated himself to the study of herbology. According to our sources, the Longbottoms were murdered by a muggle.

We have an expert on muggle studies with us, Rupert Johnston who suspects that this may be a …

Kreacher had already shut off the radio before Harry could hear anymore. Anger surged through Harry unlike any he had felt in years. Neither Shacklebolt nor Hermione would have informed the press about such a monumental matter. Which meant only one thing.

There was a leak within the DMLE.

Chapter Text

May 14, 1987, Charles Abbott Grammar School

Harry Potter sat nervously outside of the headmaster’s office. The chair that he was sitting on was much too tall for someone his size, leaving Harry’s legs to dangle and flutter a few inches off the ground. Across from him sat red-haired Eddie Haynes, nursing a bloody nose. Next to him was Eddie’s mother, Mrs. Haynes, a plump woman with splotchy skin and well-manicured nails, who was giving Harry the stink eye. Harry laced his legs through the straps of his backpack in front of him and perked up his ears hoping to hear a hint of the conversation happening inside.

So far, it sounded like Sirius was having a furious conversation with Headmaster Johnston.

Harry leaned back against the chair and let out an exasperated breath.

Third fight this month.

That meant another week of after school detentions and writing lines on the board during recess.

Great.

It wasn’t his fault though. Or at least, it wasn’t completely his fault... Eddie had been tormenting the new girl, Olivia Jackson, for the better part of a month and Harry had been doing his best to ignore it.

Let the teacher handle it.

That was the advice that Sirius had given him.

And Harry had.

He had tried his best to ignore the way that Eddie had been taking Olivia’s lunch. Or all the times that Eddie had graffitied Olivia’s notebooks and desk with slurs and insults. Or the awful comments Eddie had made about Olivia’s two moms. But what finally broke the camel’s back was Eddie cutting Olivia’s hair during art class. He claimed it was to make her prettier so a dad would want her.

Harry had forgotten what had happened next, only that he had found himself on top of Eddie raining punches onto his covered head until the art teacher pulled him off.

So Harry sat in the office with his bruised knuckles glaring daggers at Eddie. The door opened and Mrs. Haynes was called into Headmaster Johnston’s office. Sirius stepped out of the office and gave Mrs. Hayes a curt nod, a gesture that Mrs. Hayes didn't return. 

“Sirius,” Harry began.

But Sirius shook his head and gave Harry a look that said all it needed to say: ‘Not now. At home.’

Harry leaned his head back, felt it lightly impact the wall, and sighed.

****

Sirius was quiet during the bus ride home. That was probably the worst part. Usually, there would be some sort of conversation about how Harry’s day went. Sirius always wanted to know something about Harry’s day- what he learned, what sports he had played, whether or not he had gotten into trouble.

Well, at least that last question was answered.

The bus was crowded so neither could get a seat. Instead, they were forced to stand and hold onto the rails. Harry wasn’t tall enough to reach the top rails yet, so he was forced to hold onto Sirius’s hand as the bus rattled and rolled through the streets.

“Sirius,” Harry began again.

“Not now, Harry,” Sirius replied, his face was a stonewall, hard and impenetrable. “We’ll talk when we’re home.”

Harry said nothing for the rest of the bus ride home.

Present day, Langtry Gate

Hermione and Shacklebolt were both waiting for Harry when he arrived at Langtry Gate. The other Aurors had let Harry into Shacklebolt’s office without much protest or interference. The holding cells were filled with witches and wizards of various varieties, most looked drunk or disheveled in one way or another. It looked like the DMLE was having one hell of a night. Harry ignored the cells and the aurors walking perps into the crowded cells and opened the door to Shacklebolt's office. 

“What happened?” Harry asked quietly as he closed the door behind him. It was a statement more than a question.

Kingsley Shacklebolt leaned back against his chair and let out an exasperated breath. He had shed his suit jacket, leaving on his white button up with his holstered wand revealed. Judging by the red in his eyes and the throbbing vein at the side of his head, the Head Auror looked like he was having one hell of a day. “A leak.”

“That much is obvious,” Harry said. “I just heard about Neville’s death on the radio. The radio.”

He took a seat next to Hermione. She too looked like she was having one hell of a day. She had let down her hair, allowing it to run free in rolling waves of curled hazel. Harry was instantly reminded of the day they met. He could still remember the day, sitting on the Hogwarts Express across from Ron, talking up a storm, before Hermione had burst in asking if they had seen Neville’s toad.

He could remember the way her curls tousled as she spoke.

“Have you uncovered the leak?” Harry asked, snapping away from his thoughts.

Shacklebolt nodded. “A young Auror, Jasper Wells, leaked the information along with photographs of the Longbottoms to Kingdom Free Press in exchange for half a million galleons for photos of Ginny and Alice, one million for photos of Neville. He’s currently sitting in one of our cells.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “He hasn’t broken any laws.”

The Head Auror gave a wide toothy grin. “No, he didn’t. But since he was stupid enough to leak sensitive information in exchange for money and immediately deposit it into his Gringotts account and he doesn't know the law well enough to talk his way out, so as far as I’m concerned- he doesn’t need to know that.”

Hermione crossed her arms in a disapproving sort of manner. But, the thought of a rookie Auror squirming in a cell because he profited off of Neville’s death was enough to draw a smile to Harry’s face.

“So what now?” Hermione asked turning back to Shacklebolt. 

“We adapt,” Harry replied. “Like I said before, there are political ramifications to Neville’s death.”

“I agree,” Hermione said quietly. “The media is already saying that Neville was killed by a muggle. People are panicking. Your team has already arrested six wizards for attacks on Muggles. This is only the beginning.”

Shacklebolt leaned back onto his chair and pondered for a moment before turning his gaze back to Harry and Hermione. “I’m putting the team on high alert- we need all hands on deck in the coming days.”

A knock on the door interrupted their conversation. All heads turned to a mature looking woman with purple and blue colored hair split down the middle: Andromeda Tonks. “Sir, you’re going to want to turn on the news.”

All eyes in the room met with each other. Shacklebolt gave a quick snap and the large television screen at the opposite side of the room turned on. It was Wizard television, a relatively new innovation. Odd, how much the wizarding world saw themselves as superior, but their technological innovations were decades behind muggles.

A tall man with platinum blonde hair and cold eyes appeared on the screen. Although the years had weathered his features, he still retained the same sharp chin and bony cheekbones as the other members of his family.

Lucius Malfoy.

Seated member of the Wizengamot and one of the few Deatheaters that had eluded Shacklebolt’s takedown.

It looked as if the elder Malfoy was at some sort of political rally.

He stood behind a podium bearing a shield adorned with twenty-eight stars. He wore fine clothes that looked like they cost more than what most made in a year. An immaculately tailored grey suit paired with a silver tie, and a red kerchief from the breast pocket gave the impression of power and authority. Around Malfoy stood other members of the Arcanum party, some Harry recognized -but most he didn’t.

Before Malfoy were dozens, if not hundreds, of wizards of varying ages, all of them loudly cheering.

“I say this now as I have said it countless times before: defending ourselves from muggles is not and should not be a crime. Look at this latest example of muggle savagery. Neville Longbottom, the one who defeated the dark lord, killed by muggles! The time for coexistence has long ended. The muggle race is a one of brutal, xenophobic, savages incapable of appreciating all that wizardkind has done for them, unable to understand that their ferocity has only been allowed because wizardkind has kept ourselves in check!”

The crowd roared in agreement.

“I say the time for coexistence is long over. We cannot trust muggleborns or half-bloods for their blood was tainted from birth nor do we need to coexist with muggles. Longbottom defended them, fought for them, bled for them and how did they give their thanks? By murdering the savior of our world! By killing his wife! His daughter! It is not wrong for us to secure a place for our wives and children. We have the power!”

Shacklebolt muted the television. Good. Harry’s stomach was getting sick just listening to his words. Any longer and Harry would’ve blasted the television.

“Bastard’s practically declaring open season on muggles,” Tonks said. She leaned against the wall and folded her arms.

“Well then, it looks like everyone will be clocking in overtime hours today,” Shacklebolt responded. “Tonks, I want you to pull all of our insiders out of the muggle authorities and reorganize them into teams of two. They’ll be on standby for the next few days. Tell Lupin to take a team of 3 aurors down to that rally to make sure that a riot doesn’t break out.”

“There’s a problem,” Tonks interjected. “Abbott just called from the muggle medical examiner’s office down at the local police station. She says that there’s a new body that’s just been brought in, murdered. Looks magical. From her initial reporting, it’s bad.”

“Tell her to transport it here, she can continue her examination here. We need all hands on deck.” Shacklebolt said. “Granger, you get down to Kingdom Free Press’s offices, find out everything that Wells told them and have them print a retraction about Neville’s death. In exchange, they’ll get exclusive first rights to the actual story of Neville’s death. Potter, you get down to Malfoy’s office and have a talk with him about inciting violence against muggles.”

Hermione nodded and got up to leave. Harry stood to follow her.

“Potter, a word,” said Shacklebolt, getting up from his desk. He stood with the kind of poise and dignity that one expected from their leaders. Proud, confident and assured of their actions. “Neville’s plans to claim his House Seat, the leak, and Malfoy’s speech all happened simultaneously. It’s almost too coincidental.”

“Do you think Malfoy is involved?”

“I don’t know. Find out.”

Harry nodded and turned back to the television where Lucius Malfoy was finishing up his speech. A soundless rouse of applause erupted from the audience on the screen.

He felt his fingers tighten into a fist.

Outside the rain had started to fall again.

May 14 1987, Grimmauld Place

“So what happened?” Sirius asked as they sat down at the kitchen table. Kreacher had reluctantly made a pot of tea for the two before scurrying off to his cupboard while muttering something about filthy mudbloods violating the House Black tea set.

Odd, how Sirius could mistreat Kreacher so much, yet Kreacher always listened to Sirius.

Harry looked down at his bruised knuckles. The joints were now a more subdued purple color compared to the flaring red color a few hours ago. “Headmaster Johnston already told you: I got into a fight with Eddie.”

“Yes, he did tell me that. But I still want to hear your side of the story,” Sirius said as he poured a cup of tea for Harry and himself.

He looked down at the steaming amber color liquid, wishing that he was anywhere else. His thoughts drifted back to the past week, how much he had seen Olivia crying during the day, how Eddie had told the entire class that Olivia was ugly and that’s why no one wanted her mom except another lady, how Olivia was so ugly that she needed two moms to love her.

“Eddie’s been bullying this kid in our class, Olivia, saying really horrible things about her moms,” Harry finally answered. The tea remained steaming in front of him- he didn’t much feel like drinking tea at the moment. Truth be told, the only thing he wanted to do was go back to his room, shut the door and bury himself beneath the covers.

“Headmaster Johnston neglected to mention that,” said Sirius, his expression stern yet somehow also soft. It was the same expression that Sirius gave whenever they practiced their spells together- firm whenever Harry made a mistake, soft when he needed encouragement.

“I did my best to ignore it as best as I could but then Eddie cut up her hair and I snapped.” He thought about Olivia and how lucky she was to have two moms when he, Harry, didn’t even have one. He did... before, but all of his memories of her were in photographs. You couldn’t hug a photograph when you were scared nor could it tuck you in at night or sing songs to you when you were upset.

“And that’s why you attacked him?” asked Sirius.

Harry nodded and looked away, his eyes wet with tears. Sirius was wonderful- he was kind, caring and Harry loved him.

But he wasn’t his father or his mother.

Sirius let out a breath, breaking the silence. “Harry, I’m not mad that you were caught. I’m not even mad that you got into a fight.”

He blinked, surprised. Surely Sirius was mad that he was in trouble, that he had been suspended from school. “You’re not?”

His godfather shook his head, tussling his long curly hair as he did. “I’m not. How can I be? You stood up for someone who was being bullied.”

Harry scoffed, a bitter taste in his mouth. “And I got punished for it. I should have just hexed him or something. I’ve been practicing my Intent. I know I could have done it without being caught.” It was true. Harry spent every free moment he could practicing his spells while Kreacher watched, muttering something about mudbloods and magic.

“I bet I could have set him on fire or something.”

Sirius’s eyes hardened and Harry instantly knew that he had said the wrong thing.

“Had you done that, you would have been no better than the boy you attacked,” Sirius said, a sternness in his voice. “We never use our magic to hurt others.”

Sirius took a sip of his tea. “Far too many people have used their magic to commit terrible acts. Having this power doesn’t mean that we are any better than the muggles, just different. What good is power if all you can use it for is to hurt others? Your mom and dad died because someone abused their power.”

Kreacher walked by and scoffed.

“You did the right thing today, Harry. You defended a girl who was being bullied and you held yourself back. But you have to watch your thoughts. It’s far too easy for our thoughts to become reality.”

Harry looked down at his bruised knuckles, suddenly ashamed.

“I’d rather you use your fists before you use your wand. Fists not sticks, Harry.”

Sirius’s expression softened. “C’mon, let’s get started on dinner. We’ll make your favorite.”

Harry’s heart leapt. “Muggle-style pizza!?”

Present Day, Langtry Gate 

Hermione caught Harry just as he was leaving Shacklebolt’s office.

“Are you OK?” she asked. There was the barest hint of concern in her voice.

Harry nodded. “Yeah, why?” he lied.

Hermione scoffed and gave Harry a look of disapproval. “You’re angry. I can tell,” she said quietly. “Malfoy’s comments, Neville’s death.”

He shrugged. “What if I am?”

“You’re going to do something stupid,” she stated in a matter-of-fact tone that reminded Harry a bit too much of their Hogwarts days. She placed a hand on his upper arm and Harry felt his heart flutter in his chest. She stopped and looked away for a second before turning back to him. “Go home. It’s been a long day.” 

That much was true and Harry was still hungry. Kreacher had placed the rest of the chicken tikka masala into the fridge. “Wanna get some food?” Harry asked as they began to walk.

Hermione stopped dead in her tracks and he instantly regretted his words. But to his surprise, she turned back to him. There was a wavering determination in her brown eyes as if she were hovering between two critical choices. “Food?” 

“Yeah.” Harry said, feeling stupid for replying. “You know, sustenance, something to keep us fueled and healthy.” 

She chuckled and shook her head. “You don’t get it, do you?” She stopped walking and turned to face him. 

“Get what?” 

“You can’t just come back and think that things would be ok between us.” Hermione said quietly. She looked away from him. “You and I haven’t been ok for years. You and I are working together, nothing else.”

She left without saying another word. 

***

Once again Harry stepped out into the rain and took in the smell of moisture in the air. London looked abandoned, its inhabitants once again having fled the torrential showers for the safety of their homes. He breathed in the cold air and watched the rain fall from the sky.

When would this rain end?

The sun had long descended by now, letting darkness and shadows wash over the ground. The water pooled on the streets reflected the street lamps and lights emanating from the buildings. Steam poured out from vents casting clouds into the air that quickly dissipated.

The bakery above Langtry Gate had long closed, leaving the bus stop to smell of moisture and smog. Another quiet night from the look of it. Harry had forgotten how long it had been since he had shared a meal with Hermione- not since before graduation, at the very least. Her coldness was…to be expected. She hadn’t forgiven him for what had happened during the war. And truth be told. He hadn’t forgiven himself either. A flash of red light caught the corner of Harry’s eye, followed by a flash of yellow and then amethyst purple. A pulse of energy followed each flash. Someone was using magic. Harry looked across the street and felt his hands tighten into hard fists.Three men had their wands out and were flinging spells at something. There was another flash of green light followed by drunken hoots and hollers.

“Filthy muggle! Dance!” shouted one of the men to raucous laughter.

That did it. Harry had to step in. Anger flowed through him as he rushed across the street, gathering his Will and focusing his Intent as he moved. He formed it into a solid wall of energy before sending it hurtling in front of him. The shield soared like a battering ram and smashed into the backs of the men in the alleyway, knocking them to the ground.

“DMLE,” Harry said as he slowed to a stop. He moved his jacket to the side revealing the badge clipped to his belt. “Drop your wands and put your hands up.”

The three idiots scrambled up to their feet, fumbling for their wands as they stood.

“DMLE?” growled one of the men, a tall lanky man with limbs that looked too long for his body. “Do you know what these muggles have done? Who they’ve killed? Neville Longbottom! After everything he’s done for us and for them, this filthy muggle killed him.”

Harry stood at the ready. “That muggle looks like an old drunk. He’s got nothing to do with Longbottom. Either way, it doesn’t matter to me- all four of you are in violation of the Muggle Protection Act. Drop your wands and interlace your fingers behind your head.”

The four idiots stood on unsteady legs, red faced and red nosed. Drunk. They gave each other worried looks. One picked up his dropped wand followed by his companions drawing theirs. They slowly approached him. Harry did a quick take of all of them- Tall Man, Scar, Baldy and Fat Man. There wasn’t any need to learn their names.

Harry took a deep breath. “Last chance. Drop your wands and interlace your fingers,” he said quietly, holding up both his hands to show that he wasn’t holding his wand.

Tall Man shook his head, making sure to keep his wand trained on Harry. The others began to move in closer.

Wands were basically twigs used to help focus Willpower and channel magic into something more tangible. The problem with wands was that, at their core, they were meant to be used as long range weapons. Blast your opponent with flames at 30 feet and chances were that your opponent would get burned. Lock their legs together at 10 feet and you’d be good. Get within arm’s length and whatever advantage the wand gave you went out the window. Holding your wand close enough for your target to grab it was stupid.

Wands made you cocky. And cockiness made you dumb.

If you were fast enough and if your opponent was idiotic enough to think that having a wand meant that they were invincible…well, there was a lot that could be done.

Harry’s hand moved like a flash of lightning, grabbing Tall Man’s wrist and pushing it upwards as he fired off his first spell. The spell shot into the sky and the sky briefly glowed with an orange flash before darkening again. A good right hook shattered his nose and Tall Man went down, dropping his wand and hands to his face in an attempt to staunch the bleeding.

The other three fired off spells at the same time that Harry activated a shield spell. It was rudimentary and crude, but quick, and it would protect against most curses. The spells bounced off his shield and hit a nearby trash bin, turning it into a mass of melted mush. He didn’t wait for them to fire again. He grabbed Fat Man’s wrist, twisted and pulled, causing the wand to drop in the process. Harry drove a hard palm into the hyper extended arm. A sickening crack resounded throughout the alley as the arm broke.

Fat Man screamed in pain and Harry didn’t give him time to recover. He quickly shoved him into Baldy and both went down hard. A basic jab-cross combo stunned Scar enough for Harry to clothesline him, hurtling both Harry and Scar towards a recovering Tall Man. Harry used the momentum to deliver a hard kick to his temple. Tall Man went down and would stay down. Scar was dazed, but Harry knew he wouldn’t stay that way for long. Harry grabbed his collar, pulled Scar towards him and slammed his head forward. Forehead met nose and nose shattered upon impact.

All that was left was Baldy who was shoving a groaning Fat Man off of him. Harry didn’t let him get up as he ran forward and brought his heel down onto the side of his jaw. The jaw broke with a satisfying pop and Baldy went unconscious.

Harry held out his hand. “Accio wands,” he said quietly and four wands flew into his grip as if pulled by invisible strings. He took all four and snapped them in half, a rush of magical power bursting forth from the wands before dissipating into the atmosphere.

Fists not sticks.

He looked at the mess of unconscious bleeding men before him before turning towards the stunned and terrified muggle, an elderly man with gray liver spots dotting his scalp.

Harry raised a finger. “Obliviate,” he said with a flick.

A flash of blinding white light burst out from the wizard and the muggle’s eyes went hazy for a second before he collapsed into the concrete floor, out as a light. It would be a few hours before he woke with a massive headache and the memories of the past three hours erased from his mind.

He took a quick scan of the scene before him, four unconscious wizards and one unconscious muggle. What a sight. Undoubtedly, Harry would call for support from Langtry Gate, across the street and those idiots would be arrested. But that didn’t matter much to Harry. He would make the call to Shacklebolt informing him of what happened. Shacklebolt would raise an eyebrow about the state of the perps, but he probably wouldn’t care too much. Let one of the younger recruits arrest them, take the collar and do the paperwork. Harry had more important affairs to attend to.

He let out a breath of relief. His mind was still alight with the rush of adrenaline and endorphins that had coursed through his body during the fight, his heartbeat slowly returning to a more subdued, normal pace. A lightness had washed over his body, a feeling that he hadn’t felt in years and suddenly Harry realized that he was looking forward to having dinner with Hermione.

Sometimes all you really need is a way to release your anger.

Chapter Text

Present Day, Grimmauld Place

Kreacher was waiting for Harry when he returned to Grimmauld Place. Harry found him sitting patiently on the couch, watching television when he walked in. 

“You’re still awake,” Harry said quietly. 

Kreacher nodded. He wore an old, black Led Zeppelin t-shirt that had seen better days. The shirt was tattered and came down past his knees, but it was still Kreacher’s favorite. “I wanted to make sure my Lord reached home safely.” His voice was distracted and his eyes didn’t bother leaving the television screen. 

My Lord again. 

Odd. 

“You called me, ‘my Lord’ again,” Harry commented. Kreacher normally called Sirius ‘my Lord’ and Harry had always been ‘young master.’ So why was he suddenly addressing Harry by a title that was normally reserved for Sirius? “Why are you suddenly calling me ‘my Lord’?” 

“That is what you are.” Kreacher gave him an offhand look before turning back to his show. It was some old American sitcom from the 70’s about a clumsy man sharing an apartment with a blonde and a brunette. 

This brought a smile to Harry’s face. It looked like all the meals that they had shared together were finally paying off. “I’m heading out for a late dinner.  Don’t stay up too late,” he said before heading to his room to change. The lights were illuminated and bright when he reached the third floor landing. Without them, Grimmauld Place seemed a grim and ghastly place, as if it held a dark secret hidden within its depths. 

Considering who the previous owners were, it wasn’t the craziest notion. The Black family, save for one or two members, were a brood of backwards fools still riding the coattails of their ancestors' accomplishments. 

For the longest time, this was Harry’s impression of home: a grim, old house with somber rooms and dark hallways decorated with paintings of men and women screaming insults about ‘filthy mudbloods.’ That was until the paintings had been taken down and the curtains were opened wide, allowing light to spill through into the many spaces and floors of the home. These actions alone changed how Harry saw Grimmauld.  It was the year before Harry left for Hogwarts. 

The following summer vacation, Harry and Sirius had repainted the hallway, from a drab gray to a bright canary yellow. 

It had soon become a summer holiday tradition for Harry and Sirius to spend a few weeks fixing up the old building. 

There was always something to be done: giving the mounted heads of the previous house elves proper burials, exchanging the old, tacky furniture for modern furnishings, or putting up pictures of Sirius and Harry in place of the old paintings, along with many other things. During the summer between his third and fourth years, Sirius and Harry had cleaned out the contents of the cellar but had only managed to safely dispose of half of the unwanted or useless materials they found there, some of which could have been considered dark artifacts. The rest were removed during the next Christmas holiday.  The next summer, they had tackled old Walburga Black’s portrait in the foyer.  A very powerful sticking charm had been placed on it to prevent removal.  In the end, they had to resort to demolishing a portion of the entire first story wall to get her out.  A rather troublesome boggart that had made its home in the attic wasn’t taken care of until the summer before Harry’s final year because Harry had insisted he wanted to be there.  Indeed, Harry had wanted to do all the refurbishments with his godfather, as a team, and Sirius was all for it. 

They had finally managed to finish their renovations the summer after Harry’s graduation from Hogwarts. It had taken a few years of hard work but Grimmauld Place had finally become a true home. 

Harry’s room was located on the third floor right across from Sirius’s master bedroom. He hadn’t seen his father in a few days, but that was par for the course. Sirius had been known to spend weeks away from home, especially while the Wizengamot was in session. When it wasn’t, Sirius had been known to take meetings with Wizengamot members and families, labor force leaders, and various other groups. 

There wasn’t much to be said of his room. A few bookshelves, the tallest one packed full of his old school books stood against the far wall, an oval throw rug that had seen better days lay in the middle of the floor, and a small desk for writing and a modest bed were pushed up adjacent to each other against the corner. It wasn’t much, but it was comfortable, and it was his. Surprisingly, his room was one of the few that had its own bathroom. Harry took a quick shower, washing away the day’s sweat and grime with hot water and soap. He changed into a tan long sleeve, a fresh pair of jeans, and his father’s black bomber jacket. 

He gave himself a once over in the mirror. His hair was still a mess of tangled black curls and dark bags drooped beneath his red-tinged eyes. His stomach rumbled in protest. A reminder that he hadn’t finished his dinner. 

****

August 2nd 1991, King’s Cross Station 

 Harry looked on in awe at the massive scarlet Hogwarts Express. Huge and imposing, the crimson steam engine seemed to exude strength and power. Platform 9¾ of King’s Cross station was larger and busier than any train station that Harry had ever seen before. Dozens, no hundreds, of people, students and parents alike, rushed past him in their mad dash to pack their luggage into the train’s compartments and claim seats. 

Older-looking upperclassmen, standing at the cusp of adulthood, ran past bright-eyed First Years like himself. Friends walked alongside each other, cracking jokes and sharing stories. 

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Sirius asked, stepping up so he was standing beside Harry.

Harry nodded, a knot twisting itself in his stomach as everyone rushed past him. From the corner of his eye, he noticed two twin girls with rich brown skin and ash black hair giggling as they kissed their mother and father goodbye. 

“Everyone who attends Hogwarts- pureblood, half-blood, muggle-born- all ride the train to the school. The First Years all ride the boats across the lake when they first arrive and the Seventh Years all ride back after they graduate,” Sirius said as he looked at the steaming train. His eyes twinkled with nostalgia and remembrance. 

Harry looked down at his feet, the knot in his stomach growing larger and more twisted with every passing second. 

A family of red-headed children all laughed raucously as they too boarded the train. “Harry, what’s wrong?”

“What if I’m not chosen?” Harry asked, desperate to uncoil his stomach, lest he vomit on the spot. 

“Not chosen?”

“For any house!” Harry said. He had heard Sirius’s stories of Hogwarts growing up. He had known about the moving staircases, the talking paintings, the many ghosts, and secret passageways since before he could read or write. Hogwarts wouldn’t hold any secrets from him. But now, as he stood on the precipice of his first year, Harry couldn’t help but feel nervous. “What if I don’t get into any of the houses?”  

Would he be able to live up to the standards set by his parents, James and Lily Potter? Head Boy and Head Girl, Quidditch captain and brilliant-beyond-her-years potions expert. 

“Impossible,” Sirius said with a grin. “The sorting hat never fails and the sorting hat doesn’t make mistakes.”

“But what if I don’t do as well as my mum and dad? Everyone always talks about how amazing they were and how they-“ 

“-started off as first years as well,” Sirius interjected. He knelt down so he was level with Harry. 

From this close, Harry could see how much Sirius had aged over the years. The slightest hints of wrinkles had started to pull at his face while his long black hair had started to grow streaked with white, giving it a salt and pepper-type of look. 

“Harry, don’t worry about what your parents did or didn’t do at Hogwarts. Just focus on forging your own path forward,” Sirius said with a warm smile.

“How do I do that?”

“Why don’t you start by making some friends?” He tussled Harry’s messy hair. “The rest will flow from there.” 

Harry grinned. 

“Alright, you’d better hurry and get a good spot on the train,” Sirius said, turning back to the express. A chubby-faced boy with a toad boarded after fielding a long hug from an elderly woman. 

Harry looked up as the train let out a loud howl. 

It was time. 

Harry hugged Sirius tight, climbed the steps onto the train, and started his first great adventure. 

Present Day, Grimmauld Place 

  Harry walked downstairs to the smell of spices tickling his nose and tempting his stomach. Kreacher had turned off the television and had migrated over to the kitchen. Two pans sat on the fire. One was busy reheating the chicken tikka masala from earlier. While the other looked to be cooking a flatbread of some kind. 

“Are you hungry, my Lord?” asked Kreacher. He didn’t bother turning to face him. 

“Starving.” Harry admitted as he sat down. It was odd that Kreacher was calling him Lord now. But he supposed that the elderly house elf was finally accepting Harry as a member of the family after all these years.

“Good,” Kreacher said. He snapped his fingers and two plates flew from the cabinets followed by silver utensils. 

Harry watched as Kreacher effortlessly directed the plates to fill with food before setting them atop of the table. Another snap of his fingers and the flatbread in the second pan joined it’s compatriots on a small woven basket and also flew over to the table. 

“Where did you learn how to make naan?” asked Harry as he sat down. 

Kreacher gave a small shrug as he sat down. “Cooking shows,” he casually replied. “I have a lot of time during the day.” 

That was true, Harry liked cooking and always made portions for both Sirius and Kreacher. Sirius hadn’t been back in a while, but that was to be expected. Politicians tended to have busy schedules. 

Harry grabbed a piece of steaming naan. The hot surface burned his fingers as he ripped off a piece. The naan was flaky and crisp and smelled of butter and garlic. 

“Delicious!” Harry said with an approving nod. “You’ll have to teach me sometime so I can make it for you.”

Kreacher smiled.

They ate in silence, but it was enough to lift Harry’s spirits after all that happened today. There’s a reason why eating together is an important part of any society. Eating together deepens bonds and builds camaraderie. Back when humans feared the dark and cold, sitting together by the fire to partake in the day’s bounties was a way to know that you didn’t have to face the things that lurked in the shadows alone. Long after humans had foolishly forgotten the fear of the dark and began constructing houses, they continued to eat together. Think about the best meal you’ve ever had, chances are they were with someone you cared about. 

“The chicken is great.” Kreacher said. He took another spoonful and eagerly ate.

“High praise coming from you.”  Harry said with a soft smile. 

**** 

Grimmauld Place, June 3rd 1996 

Harry’s insides churned. He could hear his every heartbeat, feel his blood pumping through his veins as his thoughts scrambled about in his head. Sirius sat across from him. His face was a stone wall of calm fury. But Harry knew that look. He had seen it dozens of times and had long learned to look for the signs: the twitch above Sirius’s right eyebrow, the tension in his shoulders, the way he sat, leaning forward with his hands clasped together. 

He was pondering his next move. 

Downstairs, the Order of the Phoenix planned their next move, their voices smothered by the silencing spell cast by Kingsley Shacklebolt. In the study next to them, Harry could hear both Weasley parents and Augusta Longbottom screaming at Neville, Hermione, Ron and Ginny.

But between Harry and Sirius? Silence, complete and deafening silence. 

“So,” Harry said.  

“So,” Sirius echoed, “do you have anything you want to say?” 

“About what?” 

“About what? Harry, you and your friends escaped from school and snuck into the Department of Mysteries. And for what?” 

“To get our hands on the prophecy about Neville!” 

“That’s not the point!” Sirius almost shouted, his voice coming out loud and angry. “Harry, you’ve been getting yourself into dangerous situations since your first year at Hogwarts! Twice you’ve gone into the Forbidden Forest, once only with Neville and Ron! Not to mention the werewolf incident with Uncle Remus! But this was undoubtedly the most reckless and idiotic thing you’ve ever done!” 

Harry frowned. He had explanations for all of those- detention for being caught out at night, following the spiders to figure out what the monster lurking in the Chamber of Secrets was, making sure that Professor Lupin had drunk his wolfsbane. All good reasons for his rule breaking. 

He felt his fingernails dig into his palm. The dull pain was enough to distract him, keep his anger in check. “I had a good reason for all of those,” Harry said quietly.   

“Not the point, Harry. Not even close to the point!” Sirius exclaimed. “You fought Death Eaters, Harry. Your friend was nearly killed! We lost members of the Order saving you!” 

A horrible memory returned to him: Hermione lying unmoving on the floor, a smoking wound slashed diagonally across her chest, with Harry kneeling there beside her praying to whoever would listen. 

“Don’t let her be dead, don’t let her be dead, it’s my fault if she’s dead.” 

“We had to,” he whispered. Neville was putting himself into danger- how could Harry call himself a founder of Dumbledore’s Army and then stand by while the rest of them did nothing? 

“No you didn’t, Harry.” Sirius’s voice was tired, exasperated.  “Harry, we’re at war. People have died and more people are going to die. It’s my job to keep you safe, but I can’t do that when you keep putting yourself in danger!” 

Harry stood up, his anger finally boiled over. “I didn’t ask for you to keep me safe!” he growled. “You’re not my father and it’s not your job to watch over me!” 

And suddenly, silence.

Harry sat back down.  The two sat frozen to their seats as the full weight of Harry’s words sank in and a deep shame washed over Harry. 

Sirius didn’t say anything to Harry for the next three days.

****

  Present Day Grimmauld Place  

As always, Harry woke with the dawn. And as always, he made his bed with meticulous care, straightening out the corners of the covers and taking care to ensure that they were tight and even.  

Harry stepped out into the crisp, cold air. The sun was just beginning to rise in the east, casting its warm, orange light over the wet grounds. Puddles of water had formed from the rain, reflecting the sunlight that was growing brighter with each passing second. 

He breathed in the fog and cold before he set off. 

He ran down the streets at a brisk pace, his feet pounding the pavement and splashing water from the puddles up onto his socks as he ran. There was a simple beauty in early morning runs. The feeling of blood pumping through his veins invigorated him as he made his way through a city that had yet to wake. The street’s emptiness was a silent comfort that peace could prevail even during the darkest of times, that no matter how bad the storm or how dark the night, the sun would rise. 

London was just starting to wake. 

Around him, stores were opening up, automobiles were slowly beginning to appear, and people began to fill the sidewalks and pathways. Harry ran past all of them, keeping pace as his blood surged through his veins and his heart beat in his chest. Sweat matted his skin and heat rose into his brain, burning away any anger, uncertainty, or doubts. 

Now, he could think. 

The timing of Lucius Malfoy’s speech and the leaking of Neville’s death were far too close together to be considered a coincidence. Malfoy was involved in this, either knowing about the plot, or directly having a hand in it. But why would Malfoy want Neville dead?

Harry’s thoughts drifted back to his second year at Hogwarts, when the Chamber of Secrets had been opened. Harry, Neville and Ron had discovered the entrance to the Chamber and had descended into its depths to defeat the monster within, a monster unleashed by Ginny Weasley under the thrall of Tom Riddle, Voldemort’s living memory preserved within the pages of a diary. But that was only half the story. The other half was how Ginny came across Tom Riddle’s diary. 

It was Harry who had realized that Lucius Malfoy himself had put the diary in Ginny Weasley’s school bag during an altercation in Diagon Alley. But that begged the question of why- why go through the trouble of planting the diary on Ginny, the daughter of one of Malfoy’s most hated rivals, when he could have just given it to his son Draco? Draco Malfoy could have activated the diary and opened the Chamber just as easily as Ginny had. It was a dangerous artifact considering what had happened to Ginny, but it was unclear if Malfoy had known exactly what the diary would do to its user. Maybe this was why the diary had been planted on Ginny, but in the end, it wasn’t the reason at all.  Hermione was the one who had ultimately deduced that the elder Malfoy needed Ginny to have it because neither Ginny nor the school’s muggle-borns were actually his target. 

Arthur Weasley was. 

Arthur was the author of the Muggle Protection Act, an act that made any attacks, spells, or potions used on/against muggles illegal, an act that Malfoy had been attempting to repeal for well over a decade. If it had gotten out that Arthur Weasley’s daughter had been responsible for the attacks on muggle-borns throughout the year, he would have undoubtedly lost all credibility. He would have had to resign from his Wizengamot seat in disgrace. 

All thanks to a diary and a naive girl. 

Malfoy was a snake, but his actions were more subtle and calculated than just outright murder. He didn’t work on his own. Instead, he would have others do his dirty work for him while he reaped the benefits and protection of plausible deniability.  It had always been that way. The Diary. Voldemort. They were all tools 

There had to be someone else. 

Someone for Malfoy to work through.

But who? 

There was no shortage of thugs and murderers in London’s muggle underworld, but Malfoy wouldn’t use any of them, not when he saw himself as better than muggles. That meant the killer was a wizard. But even the worst of worst would have some reservations about killing the Boy Who Lived. No criminal would take a hit job knowing that the results would give them an unprecedented amount of heat and attention. 

That meant whoever killed Neville hated him with murderous intent. 

A Death Eaters, perhaps? 

Malfoy was one of Voldemort’s lieutenants and had only managed to escape prosecution thanks to his wife’s actions during the Final Battle. But he still had Death Eater buddies and some of them managed to dodge Shacklebolt’s mass arrests. 

So he would need a list of former Death Eaters who weren’t serving prison time. 

After he had his talk with Malfoy. 

Harry picked up his speed and ran harder, his legs barely felt the burn. 

 ****

Archimedes Tower

Unlike Langtry Gate, which was hidden under a bakery and spanned miles underground, Archimedes Tower, the Wizengamot seat, was a towering spire of steel and glass that stood high in the London skyline amongst office buildings, broadcast towers, and expensive apartments. 

Hidden in plain sight. 

The interior was gaudy, to say the least. A massive copper fountain depicting a wizard looming over goblins, centaurs and other magical creatures decorated the lobby. Gold Grecian-style pillars were carved onto pure white walls that held paintings of past Ministers of Magic and prominent contributors to British Wizarding society. 

Harry had been in the Tower a couple of times, once to accompany Sirius and Neville at Neville’s trial before the Wizengamot for using a patronus charm during the summer before fifth year, and the other to attack the Department of Mysteries, located in the depths of the Tower’s basement floors. When he was young, he had been enchanted by the building’s furnishings and grandeur. But now, they seemed excessive. Was there really a need for a crystal chandelier the size of a bedsheet? Or the ridiculous depiction of wizardkind lording over other species? It didn’t matter much to Harry. The sparkle and glow hid the dirtiness beneath: the prejudice, the xenophobia, and the desperate clinging to traditional wizarding values in a rapidly changing and evolving world. 

Fools. 

Harry took the elevator up, leaving his thoughts in the lobby. 

He had a mission to accomplish. 

Lucius Malfoy, being a pureblood as well as a senior member of the Wizengamot, had his offices located in the very top floors of Archimedes Tower. Harry took the glass elevator up, which gave him a spiring view of London. From here, he could see towering Big Ben and the always magnificent Buckingham Palace.

He stepped out into a rush of sound and people. 

Harry had never been in the offices of a Wizengamot member before. Chaotic seemed to be the appropriate way to describe the scene unfolding before him. People rushed back and forth, hurriedly pushing past Harry. Documents soared through the air, traveling from one desk to the next as interns with dark bags under their eyes as they wrote and proofread speeches and proposals.

It seemed that, after announcing his candidacy for Minister of Magic, Lucius Malfoy’s offices had been converted into a campaign war room. Posters lined the wall with various pictures of Malfoy bearing slogans such as “Malfoy for a Pure Future” and “Keep Our Society Pure! Minister Malfoy!” Several televisions were mounted on the walls displaying a variety of news programs both muggle and wizard. CNN, BBC, and the Prophet Network were all playing. 

Odd, how a pureblood supremacist like Malfoy would use muggle technology or even care about things such as muggle news. But then again, Malfoy had always been a hypocrite.  

Harry grabbed the arm of an important-looking worker, one with an expensive looking shirt and tie, lacking food stains. He was an older gentleman with thick glasses, wispy gray hair, and thick lines running through his leathery face. 

“I need to speak to Malfoy,” Harry said softly.

The man gave Harry an undignified look, as if he were looking at a vagrant begging for spare change on the street, before turning to leave. 

Harry’s hand shot out, grabbed him by the scruff of his collar, and pulled him back. 

“I’ll say it again,” Harry said with more force in his voice, “I need to speak with Lucius Malfoy.”

“Get your filthy half-blood hands off of me,” the man snarled, an indignant expression twisted on his features. His voice had that haughty tone that came with the belief that he was above those he spoke to. “Lord Malfoy is extremely busy- he’s been booked up for the next three weeks. Come back some other time. Or don't. Lord Malfoy only works with Purebloods.”

Harry opened his leather jacket, exposing the badge clipped to his belt. The man’s dull grey eyes widened in horror. “Tell him to make time. I’ve come on direct orders from Head Auror Shacklebolt. Either I see him now or I start looking closer at your operations- I’m sure I’ll find something that the Daily Prophet would just love.”

The worker grit his teeth, but nodded quietly. “Follow me,” he said quietly and led the way through the maze of desks, people, and paperwork to a small room at the back. 

He gave the door a soft knock before opening it and announcing himself. 

“Lord Malfoy, you have a visitor from the DMLE. An Auror... ” The man turned to Harry and gave him a look. 

“Potter-Black.” 

“An Auror Potter is here to speak with you.” 

Lucius Malfoy turned from the stack of papers, his eyes darkening when they fell upon Harry. 

Harry walked in and sat down across from the devil made flesh. 

Lucius Malfoy, head of House Malfoy, had sat on the Wizengamot for as long as Harry could remember. Having risen out of the ashes of Voldemort’s failed takeover of the Ministry of Magic, he was the new face of pureblood politics. Malfoy claimed that his actions during the Second Wizarding War had been performed under coercion, out of fear for the safety of his son and wife, who had been taken hostage by Voldemort within his own home. Spinning a tale of terror for his family’s well-being and regretting his cowardice and inability to do the right thing while sitting in Azkaban prison, Lucius Malfoy had gathered an immense amount of public support and managed to escape Shacklebolt’s prosecution. 

Hogwash. All hogwash.

It was through this machination that Malfoy had managed to leverage a political career. After the war, Malfoy had reclaimed his family Seat and rapidly climbed to the top of the Magi Party. He was credited with authoring half a dozen pro-pureblood and anti-muggle bills. The Pureblood Protections Act, the Legacy Act, and similar legislation were all created in the aftermath of Voldemort’s regime. All such laws raised the status of purebloods within England’s Wizarding society.

Undoubtedly, that speech from yesterday was the opening salvo in his campaign to become Minister of Magic. 

He wore a fine black suit, with a poison green tie and a matching kerchief jutting out from the breast pocket. His platinum silver hair, once long, had been cut short and slicked back, giving him a look not unlike many lords or kings. He wore gaudy jewelry- a large silver signet ring adorned with a sinuous looking ‘M’ on his left hand, and snake with blood-red eyes coiled on a gold band on his right pointer finger. 

Harry sat across from him, glaring daggers at the man who Sirius had called ‘the scum of the Earth’. 

“And how may I help you, Mr. Potter?” asked Malfoy. “I am rather busy.” 

Harry leaned back against his chair, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his badge. “Auror Potter-Black.” 

A twitch passed through his eyebrows. “Do you plan to waste my time with trivial formalities such as titles and names?” 

“If those things didn’t matter to you, then you wouldn’t mind if I called you Lucius, rather than Lord Malfoy,” Harry replied. 

Another twitch. Good, he was annoyed. “Very well, Auror Potter-Black- how may I help you?” 

“I come on behalf of Head Auror Shacklebolt and speak on behalf of the DMLE,” Harry said quietly.

Lucius Malfoy leaned forward. “And what message does Shacklebolt have for me?” 

“That speech you gave yesterday... ”

“Undoubtedly one of my finest,” Malfoy interjected with an arrogant smirk.

“Debatable,” Harry replied. “Nevertheless, the DMLE would greatly appreciate you not using such inflammatory language in your future speeches.” 

Malfoy placed a hand to his chest as if feigning shock and outrage. “Inflammatory? Why Auror, I would never. I simply voiced my opinion and promises to the people. What the people choose to do is beyond my control.”  His voice dripped with false outrage while he continued to wear that arrogant, shit-eating smirk on his face. “I simply can’t be held responsible for the actions of my supporters.” 

“An inability to take responsibility seems to be a common trait found in the Malfoys,” Harry said.  He sat up so he was eye level with the elder Malfoy.  “I recall your son being of a similar mindset. Tell me, are all the members of the Malfoy family spineless? Or just the men?” 

His lip quivered, another sign of anger. Good, he was rattled. “Is there anything else?” 

Harry nodded. “Yes, one more thing- the timing of the rally yesterday.” 

“What of it?” 

“Seems a bit too coincidental, doesn’t it? Neville’s death was reported by the Kingdom Free Press at 5:00 PM. Less than two hours later, you had an entire political rally up and running with a speech prepared?”   

Malfoy raised a silver-blonde eyebrow. “What exactly are you accusing me of, Auror Potter?” 

Harry stood up to leave. “Potter-Black. And I’m accusing you of nothing, Lord Malfoy, not without evidence at least.” He zipped up his leather jacket. “Just a warning.”

“Warning?” Lucius Malfoy’s hands went to tighten the green and silver tie around his neck. “Auror Potter, before you speak any further, let me tell you that I shall not be threatened in my place of work and business. Choose your next words carefully because I have the power to be a blight upon your life.” 

“Noted,” Harry said with an unflinching smile as he leaned in close so the two were eye to eye. Malfoy’s poker face was impeccable, but even he couldn’t hide the angry quiver in his pupils. “If I find out that you’re responsible for Neville’s death in any way, I’ll come after you, right through your secretaries and guards. Your family name, your money and contacts, none of them will be enough to keep you safe from me, badge or no badge.” 

Lucius Malfoy gave Harry a sinister toothy smile. “Very well. But know this Auror Potter-Black: I intend to build a new world atop the ashes of the old one, one where the pure may take their rightful place over the impure. I will not tolerate any interference or obstacles. Based solely on the power of your two names, I give you a choice- you can stand with me or you can be the mortar in the foundation of my new world."

Harry turned to leave. “Just as long as both of our intentions are clear.” 

Chapter Text

June 3rd 1999, Hogwarts Grounds

The trip back across the lake was a sobering affair. Harry had spent most of it watching Hogwarts slowly grow smaller and smaller in the distance as the boats crossed the lake. The castle was still in ruins after the battle, a massive hole had been blown through one of the towers while the bridge connecting the castle to the land had been completely obliterated. Every window had been shattered and the Great Hall was still a mess after the party that had lasted three straight days.

House elf, muggleborn, half-blood, pureblood, adult, teenager, children, it didn’t matter- everyone had joined in the festivities. There had been so much for everyone to celebrate.

Headmistress McGonagall had assured the students and parents that the school would indeed be repaired and opened for the fall semester. And as if determined to keep true to her words, McGonagall had already begun contacting magical carpenters and magical stonemasons with plans to expand and update the ancient Hogwarts structure.

Harry had taken the same boat as Hargrid, Neville, Ron and Hermione. The ride had been a mournful affair, Neville and Ron’s conversations and reminiscences with Harry had been a welcome distraction from his thoughts of the battle and the losses that they had taken. He had tried to talk to Hermione, but their conversations were, at best, cordial- not like the deep conversations they had had just months before.

Harry could still remember the way her body felt curled up against his own as their fingers entwined and they bared their souls to each other.

No.

That was the past. He shook his head. He had made his choice during the battle and he had done what he thought was right. They were at war and war meant that difficult choices had to be made.

Even if those choices meant losing the girl he loved.

The loud thud of the boats reaching land broke through Harry’s reverie. They had reached the other side which meant that Harry had officially graduated. The others had already begun climbing off the boats and running off to their families, leaving only Harry and Hagrid in the lead boat.

“Harry,” Hagrid said in his gruff, but warm voice. “It’s time.” He gave Harry the kind of encouraging, patient smile that parents gave their children on their first day of school.

Harry nodded and climbed out as well.

Seventh Year families were allowed on the castle grounds to watch their students graduate. So naturally, Sirius, Uncle Remus, and Kreacher were already there waiting for Harry to arrive. Remus had put on his best suit, while Kreacher wore what looked to be a black t-shirt depicting 5 cartoon robot lions and a pair of blue shorts. Meanwhile, Sirius stood as tall and as dignified as he could, putting as little weight as possible on the cane supporting his right side. The Battle of Hogwarts had been injurious for Sirius. Harry found himself running into his father’s arms. Sirius gave him a tight, back-breaking hug that was strengthened by Remus and Kreacher joining in.

“You did it,” Sirius said, a swell of pride in his voice. Tears were beginning to well up in his eyes.

Harry nodded. Even though Harry had seen Sirius during the celebrations, it still felt like forever since he had seen his father, especially with all that had happened.

All around them, graduates were reuniting with their families. Ron with his entire clan of red heads, Neville with his grandmother, the Patil twins with their parents and grandparents. But there were also students who had arrived to find no one. Susan Bones sobbed with Hannah Abbott- both had lost their parents during the war.

Theo Nott and Gregory Goyle quietly left without saying much of a word to anyone. Their families had all either been killed during the war or arrested in its aftermath. The only family of Voldemort’s supporters that still seemed intact were the Malfoys. Both Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had come to congratulate their son amongst the dirty looks and hateful sneers from people all around them.

“Leave them be Harry,” Remus said in a quiet tone. “Today isn’t about them. It’s about you and your friends.”

Harry nodded and he turned to see Neville running towards him. The two embraced in a tight hug.

“We did it, Harry!” Neville exclaimed.

“We did,” Harry agreed. “Can you believe it?”

Neville shook his head as they broke the embrace. “No! I thought we were goners for sure when we went into the Forbidden Forest!”

“Which time?” Harry asked and the two friends broke out into a hearty laugh.

“So are you really going into the Auror Academy?” Neville asked.

Harry nodded. “Tonks and Kingsley put in a good word for me- I’ve already received early admission. You’re always welcome to join me. I’m sure the academy would accept you with no questions asked.”

Neville shook his head. “I’ve had enough of dark wizards and the like for one lifetime. I think I’d want something more quiet- maybe become a farmer or an herbalist. I think I’d like to try cross breeding some plants to see if I can create a new herb for potions.”

Harry smiled. That sounded on point for Neville.

“Neville!” called Ron from behind them. “Come and get a picture with the family!”

The Boy Who Lived looked over to see the entire Weasley family all gathered together. Mr and Mrs. Weasley, a dark-eyed Percy, a sullen George, and Ginny, who had braided her hair into a flaming rope and wore a pretty yellow sundress. She seemed especially happy to see Neville. It made Harry somewhat happy to see that the Weasleys were doing well, despite their immense loss.“Be seeing you, Harry,” Neville said with a smile as he turned and headed off.

Harry returned the gesture as he watched his best friend walk away. “Be seeing you.”

“Seems like you two have made up after everything that’s happened,” Sirius said. He placed a comforting hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“I’m not so sure about the other one,” Harry quietly replied. His gaze turned towards Hermione, who was standing alone.

His heart broke for her. Hermione, who had obliviated her parent’s memories of her in order to keep them safe during the war. With all that had happened, she hadn’t gotten a chance to find them and hopefully restore what had been erased.

There was a sadness in her eyes that tortured Harry’s soul. Hermione, who had stayed strong throughout the entire war, who had made plans for the journey to destroy the Horcruxes. And in the end, what did she have to show for it? Nothing. Not even her family.

“You should go talk to her,” Sirius said. Even without Harry telling him, he knew what was occupying his mind.

“I’m not sure if she’s forgiven me,” Harry replied, surprised at the bitterness in his voice.

“You’ll regret it if you don’t,” Sirius said. He gave Harry a soft push in Hermione’s direction.

Harry stumbled, and walked over to her with a nervous step in his gait. Hermione was just turning to leave when he caught her.

“Hermione! Wait up,” he called out.

Hermione stopped and gave him a curt nod. “Harry,” she said. Her voice was distant and lacked the usual warmth and joy that Harry had grown accustomed to hearing.

“Do you have any plans?”

“For the rest of my life?” Hermione asked.

He chuckled and shook his head. “No, just for the next year or so.”

“Find my parents, try to restore their memory,” she replied. “But I don’t know where I’d even start looking. They could be anywhere.”

“Do you need somewhere to stay?” Harry blurted out.

The offer seemed to stun Hermione.

“It’s just that... Grimmauld Place has a lot of extra rooms and Sirius only needs one office. And I’ll be at Auror Academy and the house will be empty so he could use the company.”

A sad happiness shimmered in Hermione’s eyes before she shook her head. “No, thank you for the offer, but no,” Hermione said. “I’ve already booked a room at the Leaky Cauldron for the next three months. That’s going to be my home base during my search.”

Oh. He supposed this was it.

Hermione smiled at him, a slight, barely there smile. The kind of smile one gave a friend to reassure them that they were okay, when they were anything but. The kind of smile that Harry returned.

“I’ll see you around Hermione,” Harry said, smiling even though he wanted to cry.

Hermione nodded and returned the smile. “I’ll see you around, Harry.”

****

Present Day, Langtry Gate

Harry returned to Langtry Gate not too long after his meeting with Malfoy. By now, London was in full bloom, a city alight with life, always moving, always hungry. People moved in hurried crowds to their destinations. Businesses of every kind opened up, hoping to draw clientele into their storefronts.

Langtry Gate was a pit of controlled chaos as Aurors interviewed victims, took statements and hauled suspects into holding cells. Harry walked past a cell filled with angry looking drunks banging on the bars and scared young men sitting on the benches in solemn contemplative silence.

“Rough night?” Harry asked as he approached a man with thinning brown hair slicked back across his head. His face was covered in faded scars that sliced their way across his handsome features. Wrinkles lined the same face that had missed many a night of sleep. But despite the scars, there was a brightness in his eyes that Harry hadn’t seen in years. Clearly, fatherhood had done wonders for Senior Auror Remus Lupin.

Lupin nodded as Harry reached him. “Rough night,” he agreed. Lupin had traded the ragged and patched professor robes to fine tailored suits and comfortable leather loafers. At the moment, he was dressed in stylish gray slacks along with a matching grey vest over a crisp white collared shirt. “Are you back?”

Harry nodded as well. “I am. At least until I find out who killed Neville.”

Lupin sat down at his seat, opened a manilla envelope and began to fill out an incident report. “And then what?”

Harry narrowed his eyes and shrugged. “Justice, I suppose.”

“And what is justice to you?” Lupin asked.

Harry didn’t have much to say to that, not after he had just threatened a seated Wizengamot member a few hours prior.

“You know, we could use people like you,” Lupin said as he dipped his quill into his ink pot and began writing his report.

“Aurors?” Harry asked, taking a seat. Lupin’s desk was organized chaos- stacks of manilla folders created towers while three different cups, all filled with varying levels of cold coffee, were situated on precarious positions all over.

“People who fight for what’s right. People who care,” Lupin replied, looking up. He motioned his head to his surroundings and only then did Harry notice how tired everyone in the bullpen looked. Aurors normally looked the part: dressing in fine suits and long coats, being alert and engaged with whatever tasks they were involved in, just simply always being focused. But now, everyone just looked... exhausted, like miners who had just spent the last 12 hours digging with their bare hands. “Rourke and Finnigan prevented a riot last night, and Verus and Blackmoore broke up a smuggling ring.”

“And they’re back here after a long night?” Harry asked.

Lupin shrugged his shoulders. “I tried sending them home, but they insisted on working. I’m gonna give them another half-hour before ordering them to go home.”

The middle-aged werewolf turned and gave Harry a stern look that reminded him of the teacher who had reprimanded him repeatedly back in Third Year for his reckless behavior. “We’re understaffed and overworked, Harry. Our world is on the brink, even before Neville’s death. Years of anger and resentment building up the tinder to a massive fire that will swallow everything whole and leave only ash and cinders.”

“We arrest the perpetrators,” Harry said after a pause.

“Is that enough?” Lupin asked. “Are we treating the problem or just treating the symptoms?”

“What?”

A gentle smile formed on Lupin’s scarred face. “It’s not enough to just arrest the criminals. More has to be done.”

***

August 1, 1996, Grimmauld Place

Harry had always hated walking through the second floor hallway. According to Sirius, the rest of the Black family were proud pureblooded fools who were still living off the glory of their ancestors. The walls of the hallway were once decorated with old paintings of dignified-looking members of House Black. Their attire ranged from ancient tunics and cloaks to more modern suits. All of them had watched Harry with a look of sickened disdain, as though smelling something foul and dirty. Harry ignored them, something he had learned to do long ago.

But Sirius and Harry had taken down those old paintings and put them in the cellar, where they could rant and scream about their pure blood values to the Christmas decorations and firewood. In their place, Sirius had put up photographs of Harry and himself through the years.

Some of his favorites included Harry and Sirius wearing matching jerseys and caps at a Falmouth Falcons game, Sirius and Harry standing in front of the blazing red Hogwarts Express before Harry left for his first year, as well as a photograph of Sirius with Harry’s mum and dad on their wedding day. The photographs never failed to put a smile on Harry’s face.

Sirius was busy scribbling away at something in the study, one of the few times Harry had ever seen Sirius work. There was a fire and an almost mad passion in Sirius’s eyes as his quill danced across the page.

“Sirius.”

“Harry,” Sirius replied.

“What are you working on?”

Sirius turned from his document to smile at Harry. “Not much, just finalizing some legal documents that need my seal and signature.”

“What kind of documents?”

“I’ll tell you when it’s time,” he said, hastily rolling up the papers and putting them into his desk drawer. “Did you need to talk to me about something?”

Harry nodded and handed Sirius a manila envelope.

“What is this?” Sirius asked as he opened the cover and quickly skimmed the contents. His eyes widened as he realized what it was he was holding.

“Harry,” he said quietly, tears welling up in his eyes. “Are you sure?”

Harry nodded. “You fed me, you taught me, guided me and loved me. This just makes it... legal in the eyes of muggle law.”

It had taken weeks of communication between Harry and Mr. Chatha, the lawyer that Hermione’s parents had suggested, before the adoption papers had been drawn up.

Sirius pulled Harry into a tight embrace. His godfather’s arms held him firm against his body, evoking memories long buried within him. It was the same hug that Sirius had given him the first night Harry had come to him, the same hug that Sirius had given him on his first day of primary school, the same hug before Harry had left for Hogwarts. Sirius was Harry’s godfather, but he had loved Harry with the same firm, gentle love as any father.

And so when Sirius released Harry from the hug, he did so as Harry’s father.

Sirius brushed a tear away from his eye. It was an odd sight. The only time Harry had ever seen Sirius cry was whenever they laid flowers for his parents.

Harry would place flowers on their graves, but Sirius would lay them down and spend some time looking at their headstones, lost in thought, in memory. Memories of friendship, love, anger, hate, deep sadness and boundless joy. Memories of silent regrets that still haunted him to this day. Sirius was an unyielding tree, a lighthouse in the darkness, standing strong against a storm of memories as he silently spoke to his best friend from the other side of the veil.

He took Harry’s hands and squeezed them tight. Once they had been big enough to completely envelop his own, rough and calloused, but ever since he had traded in manual labor for politics, they had become soft and wrinkly.

“I knew I could never be a replacement for Prongs or Lily and I never wanted to be. That’s why I never wanted you to call me father,” Sirius said with his gaze down. “But that never meant that I don’t love you like you’re my own.”

He opened the desk drawer and pulled out a rolled piece of parchment bound with a wax seal. The symbol imprinted on the wax was one Harry had seen dozens of times- a ‘B’ enshrined within a round shield before a crossed pair of swords, the symbol of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black.

Nothing but a bunch of pretentious ballbags.

“Open it,” Sirius said, handing the roll to Harry.

Harry took the parchment before giving Sirius a suspicious look. He broke the seal and unrolled the document.

I, Sirius Black, Lord of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, do name Harry James Potter as my heir apparent on this Eighth Day of the Seventh Month of the year 1996. Upon the signing and verification of this document, Harry James Potter shall have all the rights, privileges and protections afforded to any and all members of House Black including, but not limited to, House Black’s Wizengamot Seat, access to the House Black Vault within Gringotts bank and ownership of 12 Grimmauld Place, Islington, London, Seat of House Black.

Should Harry James Potter wish, he may take the surname Black as his own, thus becoming Harry James Potter-Black.

Regardless of his choice, henceforth, Harry James Potter is the heir apparent of House Black.

Signed on this day and witnessed by Auror Remus Lupin and Professor Minerva McGonagall.

Sirius Black III
Lord of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black
8th, July 1996

“All those years together,” Sirius said softly. “I may not have always been your father, but you were always my son.”

It was Harry’s turn to blink back tears and he found himself in his father’s arms, holding him tight and not wanting to let go.

***

Present Day, Langtry Gate

Nymphedora Tonks was not what most people pictured an auror to be. While most aurors expressed an almost regal demeanor with their auror coats and impeccable grooming, Tonks was more casual in the way she dressed. At the moment, she wore a black Ramones t-shirt emblazoned with their symbol, an eagle holding a baseball bat in one talon and an apple tree branch in the other. She wore the shirt under a brown leather jacket with torn blue jeans. Her hair had been split down the middle into two colors- a shock of hot pink and a shade of sky blue. Her ears had sharp elf-like points at the top and were heavily pierced. Dark eyeliner and heavy make-up completed her punk-rock look.

“Harry,” she said with a curt nod.

“Tonks,” Harry replied. “Shacklebolt give you a new assignment?”

Tonks nodded and tapped her forehead. Almost instantaneously, her face and features transformed. The bright, multicolored hair was replaced with radiant, platinum-blonde locks, while her homely features became more sharp and angular. Dark almond-shaped eyes became sharp sapphire blue. Her normally tanned skin became almost impossibly pale while her elven ears shifted back to a more subdued, human look. Her full cheeks sharpened giving her face the kind of features that women starved themselves for.

The punk-rock style clothes seemed almost jarring on such a classically beautiful face. “The hardest part is the accent,” Tonks said in her usual tone of voice. “A face like this needs to sound more posh. Something like...”

She gave a few coughs and took a deep breath before speaking. “I had a terribly marvelous time at last week’s gala- shame about the food though,” she said, her voice coming out haughty and somewhat high-pitched, so different from the rough style of speaking that Harry was used to. “Now Auror Potter, what brings you to this dreadful place?” She looked around as if worried that the bullpen would give her an infection.

Harry choked back a laugh. “Gotta report to Kingsley.”

“Ah yes, Head Auror Shacklebolt, as fine a gentleman as I have ever met.” She glanced at her watch, a well worn piece with a frayed leather band. “I suppose I should leave you to it then.”

She placed a hand in front of her face and suddenly the real Tonks was back, the same pug nose, multicolored hair and dark eyes that Harry had grown accustomed to seeing. “I need to change my clothes anyways.”

Tonks let out an exasperated breath. “I hate walking in heels.”

“How long will you be in?” asked Harry.

“As long as it takes,” Tonks said. There was a hint of sad bitterness in her voice that surprised Harry.

The sacrifice made by aurors was one Harry was all too familiar with. How many nights with Teddy had Tonks and Lupin missed? How many milestones, birthday parties, bedtime stories? Lupin and Tonks would never admit it. Even if Lupin was Shacklebolt’s second in command, the cost of being an auror seemed to be too high.

Harry took a deep breath. “Maybe you should take some time off?”

Tonks scoffed at the idea. “There’s still too much that needs to be done,” she said as she turned to leave. “Good luck on your investigation. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

Harry watched her leave before turning towards Kingsley’s office. He made a mental note to take Teddy out for burgers and a concert sometime when this was all over.

July 9th 1996, Grimmauld Place Backyard

Harry gathered his Will and focused his Intent. Energy from the Source flowed through his body, wild uncontrolled magical energy that Harry shaped and focused into the wand he held in his right hand. Harry felt a sudden urge to move, to do something with this energy that was coursing through his veins.

Taking a breath to calm himself, Harry focused on his target: three soda cans in a row atop two stacked crates. He just needed to knock one off the crate. He let loose with a flick of his wrist. “Impactus!” he cried out as a blast of blue energy launched from his wand.

The bolt soared through the air and struck the leftmost can, sending it flying into the wooden fence beyond.

Harry felt his lips curl upwards into a smile. He did it! The spell was a crude, kinetic energy spell, meant only to hit your opponent and stun them momentarily. Nevertheless, it was the first time he had managed to properly use a force spell.

He gathered his Will again and let loose with two more blasts- one hit and the other left a nasty looking dent on the fence.

Better. Far better than last time or the time before that.

“You’re improving,” Sirius commented as he placed a hand upon Harry’s shoulder. He had dressed in a pair of camouflage green military fatigues and a white shirt, an odd contrast to his slicked-back hair and well-trimmed goatee. Sirius’s wardrobe mostly consisted of jeans and t-shirt depicting his favorite bands. Seeing him in attire more suited for the military was vexing to say the least. It was as if Voldemort’s return had signaled a change in Sirius’s demeanor.

He was preparing for war.

“Your tutelage has helped a lot,” Harry replied with a grin. The two had been practicing every day since Harry had started his summer vacation. Harry relished in Sirius’s daily lessons. His godfather and uncle Lupin had drilled his spellwork into Harry. Harry supposed that after the incident at the Ministry, the two had realized that they couldn’t stop him or the other students from fighting. What they could do, instead, was ensure that they were combat ready.

Sirius nodded. “There’s still a lot to work on though.”

“Like what?” Harry asked. He gathered his Will and focused his Intent defensively this time, knowing what was coming.

His godfather smiled at him before he thrust his hand forward, letting loose with a nonverbal spell. A flare of blue energy, much like Harry’s own, but monumentally more powerful, exploded from Sirius’s palm.

Harry had expected it and immediately raised his wand in a defensive motion, creating a shield before him.

Sirius’s spell smashed through his shield and sent Harry flying to the ground. He landed hard on the grass behind him and felt the air escape his lungs. He lay on the ground for a second as stars danced in his vision. He let out a breath of air and a giggle escaped his lips before quickly becoming a loud uncontrolled laugh. Sirius laughed too as he offered Harry his hand.

“You’re getting better,” Sirius said with a wide grin. “You were able to create a shield nonverbally. Not bad for someone who just finished his 4th year.”

Harry coughed as he stood up and dusted the dirt off of his blue jeans and gray ‘Liverpool United FC” sweatshirt. “Uncle Remus was a big help.” His sides still hurt from laughing... or was it from the impact? “Not much help though- you still smashed through it.”

Sirius smiled. “That’s why we practice. The more you do it, the easier it becomes and the better you get.”

“Guess that means you’ve practiced that particular spell a million times,” Harry said, turning his head towards Grimmauld Place. Kreacher was watching them quietly from the kitchen window, a solemn expression on his face.

“Two million,” Sirius grinned. His voice was laced with his usual teasing tone and he tussled Harry’s hair as he spoke. “Should we call it a day?”

Harry nodded.

“Good, I’m hungry.” Sirius turned to walk inside.

“Sirius, wait,” Harry called out as he ran to catch up with him. Kreacher had already retreated inside, no doubt worried about whatever insult or treatment Sirius had in store for him. Harry’s thoughts drifted to Hermione and her horridly-named Society for the Protection of Elvish Welfare, (SPEW for short). “Can we talk about something?”

Sirius stopped, his brown eyes becoming hard and solemn. It was a look that Harry knew well. It was the look that Sirius gave when he learned about the fist fights Harry had gotten into at school, the same look that Sirius gave whenever Harry talked about how horrible Snape’s bullying of the Gryffindors was.

“What is it?” asked Sirius. He sat down on one of the steps leading back to the house and patted the space next to him.

“Kreacher,” Harry said quietly after sitting down next to his father.

“What about him?”

“He’s a house elf, right?” Sirius nodded. “He can use magic, but he’s also aware of what he is. He does chores and works for no pay and dresses in rags.”

“Harry, what are you getting at?” Sirius gently asked. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pewter lighter and a pack of cigarettes. After putting one in his mouth and lighting it, he took a large drag.

“SPEW.”

Sirius coughed hard and nearly dropped his cigarette. “What?”

“It’s a club that Hermione started at Hogwarts this past year. It stands for the Society for the Protection of Elvish Welfare. She forced Ron, Neville and I to join.” Harry felt a smile creep up on his lips. It was a horrible name. It was one of the few times that Hermione hadn’t been exceptional.

Sirius grinned and snuffed out the rest of the foul-smelling cigarette on the steps. “And what does SPEW do?”

Harry shrugged. “Hermione found out that Hogwarts is maintained by a large number of house elves and she wants them to have equal rights to human workers, like pay and vacation days.”

“I see. So SPEW...”

Harry nodded.

Sirius chuckled. “Hermione really needs to think of a better name.”

“Ron suggested the Elvish Liberation Front.”

“A bit extreme don’t you think?” Sirius asked. “But we’re digressing. What I’m hearing you say is that you think that Kreacher should be paid and given vacation days? Treated as though he was a servant or butler, right?”

Harry nodded, his eyes focused on the ground, watching a black ant scamper across the pavement in search of food. He felt Sirius place a comforting hand onto his back. “Or at the very least, we could treat him better.”

“Kreacher is rude, crass, and disrespectful. He doesn’t seem to care for anything other than the Black family values.”

“‘Pureblood, above all else,’” Harry quoted quietly.

Sirius nodded. “And that’s Kreacher’s choice. We can’t control the actions of others, just our own.” He turned to face Harry and gave him a soft smile. “Kreacher is a house elf and that’s what he wants. It’s in their nature to serve. We can’t change other people, only ourselves.”

“Having this power doesn’t mean we’re any better, just different,” Harry said, reciting a line that Sirius had used on him back in grade school.

The words seemed to shake Sirius to his core, as his eyes went from prideful stubbornness to shamed realization.

“We should be treating him better,” he said quietly.

Harry looked upwards towards the windows belonging to their neighbors. He had always wondered how they could be so oblivious to the things that he and Sirius got up to. Sirius said it had something to do with the Black family magic, magic that was so ancient and readily available that it had taken root within the very foundations of Grimmauld Place. According to Sirius, here was where they were the most powerful, at the seat of House Black.

He supposed that it was lucky that the Black family magic shielded them from their neighbor’s prying eyes. Any neighbors or passersby would see Sirius and Harry as a typical muggle father and son playing a game of catch. rather than two wizards training in combat magic.

“I’m not sure where to begin,” Harry said after a while. “Kreacher does so much for us- he cleans and cooks and does a lot of other things. We eat at a table while he eats away from us. We sleep in rooms while he sleeps in cupboards. I think we could start somewhere there.”

Sirius nodded, his eyes deep in solemn thought. “Well, how about we start by making some food for Kreacher and having him join us for dinner?”

Harry smiled as he felt a cool breeze wash over him from the east.

Change was on the horizon.

***

Present Day, Langtry Gate

Harry stepped into Shacklebolt’s office where Hermione was already waiting. As always, Shacklebolt wore a white shirt, black tie, and suspenders. And, as always, his wand was holstered at his side. Hermione had taken one of the two seats in front of his desk, so Harry took the other. Shacklebolt

“So where are we?” Shacklebolt asked.

“Lucius Malfoy said that he isn’t responsible for the actions of his followers,” Harry said, twirling a pen in his hand. “Nevertheless, I told him that the DMLE would appreciate him keeping the rhetoric to a minimum.”

“Did you threaten him?” Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow.

Harry shrugged. “You know me better than that, Head Auror Shacklebolt.” He crossed his arms. “Of course I did.”

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that,” Shacklebolt replied. His tone was all business, but a hint of a smile crept up his dark features.

The Head Auror may have played by the rules, but he was also okay with his aurors bending them.

Shacklebolt turned to Hermione. “What about Kingdom Free Press?”

“All they know is that Neville was killed by a muggle weapon. I spoke to their editor and he practically salivated at the thought of an exclusive on this story,” Hermione replied., She tucked a strand of curled russet hair behind her ear. “They’ll have a retraction in tomorrow’s edition, but they want something to print now.”

“We don’t have anything to give them now,” Shacklebolt said, his hands going up to rub his temples.

“We do,” Harry said and two sets of brown eyes turned to him. “We know of Neville’s plans before his death. We know that he had political aspirations. We can tell them that Neville was planning to claim his House Seat, give them proof from a few pages of his journal.”

Shacklebolt’s eyes lit up from behind his scarred hand. “Perfect,” he said. “That will be enough to throw the news cycle to Neville’s planned political career from his murder.”

“What do you want us to do?” Hermione asked, leaning forward.

“Follow up on Neville’s journal,” Shacklebolt replied. He stood up and walked over to his window. Despite being half a mile underground, Langtry Gate projected an image of London. As far as Harry knew, the view was an accurate real time image. Harry had never quite figured out how they managed to do that. “Neville must have been gathering allies for his political run. I want to know who they were and what they know.”

Harry nodded and turned to Hermione. “I’ll take that one. Sirius is a seated Wizengamot member and has connections already.” Thoughts of his earlier encounter with Malfoy’s staff ran through his mind. “He can make introductions so we can leapfrog over staff blockades and meet directly with individuals.”

Hermione nodded in agreement and turned to face Shacklebolt. “What do you want me to do?”

Before Shacklebolt could answer, the door burst open and a young woman Harry had never seen before came through. She was young, so young that Harry briefly wondered if she was in the right place. Braided blonde hair crowned a skinny face with dark bags under the eyes. She wore a long white lab coat that came down past her knees over a pair of sky blue scrubs that looked like they had seen better days.

“Hannah,” said Shacklebolt. It seemed more of an acknowledgement of her presence than a greeting. “You seem to have pressing news.”

He turned to Harry and Hermione. “Auror Potter-Black, Unspeakable Granger, our medical examiner, Dr. Hannah Abbott. She normally works within the local precincts identifying any dead witches and wizards and discreetly moving the bodies to our facilities.”

Harry chuckled. Anything to maintain the separation of wizard and muggle.

Hannah gave them a curt nod before turning back to Shacklebolt. “It’s about the latest body we took from the muggle morgue.”

“Yes, I recall you alerting Auror Tonks about this.”

She nodded. “It’s more dire than I thought.”

Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow. “Hannah, my aurors just prevented a potential riot last night. The newscycle is completely focused on Boy Who Lived Neville Longbottom’s murder. Purebloods suspect muggles. Half-bloods and muggleborns suspect purebloods. Our world is on the verge of imploding. How much more dire could it get?”

“Much,” Hannah said. “It took me approximately twelve hours, but I finally managed to identify the body.”

“It took you twelve hours to identify one body?” Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow.

Hannah nodded again, causing a few strands of hair to escape her badly tied braid. “The body was so badly burned that I had to use a variety of methods, both medical and magical, to identify it. Even then, the body was nearly cursed beyond recognition. Undoing the burn curse took me hours. Then there were other curses too: slashing, twisting, and bludgeoning curses, all cast post-mortem. Whoever did this hated the victim.”

“Fine, but what about this is so pressing?” asked Kingsley, folding his arms.

She opened a manilla folder. “Well for one thing, I identified the cause of death as a gunshot wound- same as Neville Longbottom.”

Shacklebolt’s eyes widened. Harry and Hermione gave each other alarmed looks.

“Doesn’t mean that it’s the same killer as Neville’s,” Hermione said after a moment. “Whoever this person is could have been the victim of a mugging.”

Hannah nodded.

“The only thing that’s recognizable about this victim is part of the tattoo on his forearm,” said Hannah.

“Tattoo?” asked Shacklebolt.

She nodded again. “Yeah, a bunch of animals before a crescent moon: a rat, a dog and a st-“

Harry grabbed the folder before she could finish speaking, his eyes desperately scanning the pages. His mind silently prayed, begged, that his suspicions were wrong. The first document in the file was a photograph. It was a grotesque picture of a body twisted and contorted in unnatural angles. The body was charred beyond recognition leaving nearly no remnant of skin or flesh, save for a somewhat large piece of integument on the forearm that had somehow remained unharmed. The patch of skin was somewhat pale and covered by an elaborate tattoo.

“He fought back,” Harry said, his blood surging through his veins as he read through the reports. His head pulsed with burning thoughts as he continued to look over the file. “That’s why he didn’t have any injuries other than the gunshot wound. The rest were caused post-mortem. He was combat trained and fought in both Wizarding Wars. He used the standard auror counter curses and defensive spells because he helped develop them. He was too used to combating wizards, never expecting his assailant to use a muggle weapon. That’s why he didn’t know how to defend against a bullet. Energy shields have no effect on kinetic weapons. The shoulder injury was sustained in an encounter in the woods during the first war, where he tumbled into a ravine. It never healed properly and bothered him for the rest of his life. His leg injury was a result of a stray spell that struck him during the Battle Of Hogwarts causing him to develop a limp. He had to retire from the Aurors afterwards and eventually claimed his Wizengamot seat.” 

Shacklebolt’s eyes widened. “No!”

“The tattoo-” Harry’s voice came out in a quiver, so soft that he could barely hear it through the ringing in his ears. He turned to face Shacklebolt and Hermione. “He got it during his seventh year at Hogwarts to commemorate his best friend’s engagement, the same tattoo as my father and Auror Lupin.”

A terrible realization had crept into his mind. His conversation with Kreacher last night...

“Why are you suddenly calling me ‘my Lord’?”

“That is what you are.”

Stupid. He had been so fucking stupid.

He turned to Hermione who had a hand clasped over her mouth, a look of utter shock and horror on her face. She already knew who it was even before Harry uttered his name.

“Sirius.”

Chapter Text

Present Day, London 

“Harry- Harry! Stop!” 

Harry slowed his angry stride to turn and face Hermione. An idiot- he was a bloody idiot! Sirius was the leading member of the Arcanum Party, Malfoy’s political opposition. Of course Malfoy would go after Sirius. If he was willing to go after the Boy-Who-Lived, killing a mere political rival meant nothing to someone like him. The streets were just beginning to empty as people finished their work commutes. There were a few stragglers here and there, a few passing vehicles, but nothing out of the ordinary. The roads lingered in that odd gray that stood between the morning commute and the noon lunch rush. 

“What?!” he snarled, turning, the anger and venom in his voice surprising even himself. Fire surged through his veins. 

Hermione stopped beside him. The shadows created by the tall buildings were cast over her pretty face, shrouding her in a bright gloom. “You’re gonna do something stupid- don’t.”

“And what do you think I’m going to do?”

Hermione took a step forward, as if sizing him up. It was amazing how she could make herself seem so tall despite being shorter than him by a good 7 inches- tiny, fierce, and unafraid.

“I don’t know, but if I had to guess, I’d say something along the lines of ‘march your way into Malfoy’s office and break his fingers one by one until he tells you everything he knows about Sirius’s murder,’” Hermione said. 

“Yeah... something like that,” Harry said, cocking his head. He closed the distance between them. 

Hermione stood her ground and shook her head, causing a few locks of her chestnut hair to tremble.“Then you’re a bloody idiot and the only thing you’ll be finding out is what spending the night in a jail cell will be like.” 

Harry looked away. 

“We need to be smart about this. Malfoy’s a sneaky bastard and not the type to carry out something like this on his own. You know this! If he’s involved, he would have worked through someone else. Anything to give himself as much cover as possible.” 

Putting aside their issues, she tentatively placed a hand on his face. Her hand felt cold against his heated cheek. Her thumb stroked his cheek and her lilac scent filled his nostrils. Harry took her hand in his. They had been friends first. Before the love, before the romance, before the falling out, they had been friends. It was good to know that she could at least be that for him. 

Even if he wanted them to be more. 

“I know you’re angry and want to avenge Sirius. I do too, but we can’t go rushing in. We have to have a plan.”

Harry broke away from her touch unwillingly. Hermione was right. Damn everything to hell, she was right! What good would hurting Malfoy do? 

He needed evidence. 

Then, no one would bat an eye if he went after Malfoy. No one would care if he brought him in battered and bruised. 

“He was my father, Hermione. He was all I had,” Harry said, doing all he could to keep his voice from breaking and the tears in. 

“I know,” Hermione whispered. “But he’s not all that you had, you have me. You have Kingsley, Lupin, Tonks. You’re not alone Harry,” she added as Harry fell into her arms and cried. 

The rain started to fall again. 

“He was my father.” 

*** 

December 20th 1996, Hogwarts Castle 

Harry had found Hermione sobbing alone on the stairs. A halo of birds danced above her head, chirping and singing, while Hermione cried.  

“Hermione,” Harry said, taking a seat beside her.  

“Hi Harry,” she replied as she wiped a tear from her eye.

“Is it Ron?” he asked. 

She nodded quietly. Ron had kissed Lavender in front of the entire Gryffindor dorm after their successful quidditch victory over Ravenclaw while everyone cheered. Harry was the only one who noticed Hermione leaving in tears. 

He reached into his robes and offered her a handkerchief. 

She took it with a small smile. “Have you ever felt... invisible?” she asked, taking the handkerchief and dabbing the corners of her eyes. 

Harry nodded. He felt invisible right now, had felt invisible for his entire Hogwarts career. It was hard not to feel that way when your best friend was the Boy Who Lived. It didn’t matter who his parents were or what his name was. Sure, he might have been a decent quidditch player, but the light from a candle could hardly compare to the brilliance of the sun. And Neville shone like the sun. He had stopped Voldemort from stealing the Philosopher’s Stone. He had rescued Ginny Weasley from the Chamber of Secrets. He had taken second place in the TriWizard Tournament. Of course Harry would feel... less. 

“I have,” he said softly. 

“It’s Ginny, isn’t it?” asked Hermione. 

“What?”

“You like her, don’t you?” Hermione continued. “Who wouldn’t? She’s pretty and outgoing.” 

Ginny? He didn’t like Ginny. Ginny was his teammate and fellow Gryffindor, but he didn’t like her. Not in that way. 

“Ginny?” Harry asked, chuckling and shaking his head. “I don’t, not in that way.” 

“You don’t?” 

Harry shook his head again. 

“Then who do you like?” Hermione asked. 

You. 

Harry said nothing and instead pulled Hermione close to him. She leaned in and rested her head on his shoulder and Harry planted a chaste kiss on the top of her head. He breathed in her scent- lilacs, the same smell of the Amortentia that Professor Slughorn had brewed three days ago. 

He would tell her someday- but not today. Not when she was crying over someone else, not when she needed a friend. Hermione sighed as Harry wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. 

For now, this would have to do. 

****

Present Day, Langtry Gate, London

Shacklebolt was waiting for Harry and Hermione when they returned, as was Hannah Abbott. 

“Ready to talk now?” Shacklebolt asked as the two stepped into his office, closing the door behind them. 

Harry nodded, but chose to say nothing. Hermione had taken a seat, but he preferred to stay standing for now. He leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. Hannah also remained standing near one of the windows, her arms crossed in front of her. She held a manilla envelope tight against her chest. 

“Does anyone else know?” Kingsley asked. 

Hannah shook her head. “I came here as soon as I realized who it was.” 

“Good, then this information doesn’t leave the room. The last thing we want is to cause another panic. Longbottom’s death already set everyone on edge.  The world’s doused in gasoline and this getting out will be the spark that ignites it.” Shacklebolt turned to Harry. “We need to control the narrative. Luckily, we have you, Harry- you’re Lord Black now. Can you draft an announcement declaring Sirius’s death?” 

Harry nodded. Now that he was the head of House Black, it was his duty to inform the public. The thought of lying about Sirius’s death sickened him to no end. But Shacklebolt was right. Neville’s death was bad enough, but a Wizengamot member dying the same way was enough to start a society-wide panic. 

Everyone would assume the killer was a muggle or muggle born. Lucius Malfoy’s speech would become a rousing call to action. The prejudiced, the supremacists and the scared alike would be called into action, united under the banner of ‘safety and fear.’ Powerful agents, they. Chaos would erupt, a tide that would sweep away the separation between wizard and muggle. 

“Sirius died by gunshot wound, same as Neville,” Hermione said quietly. “Did you do a ballistics analysis?” 

Hannah nodded. “Same caliber gun, same bullet type. Hollow point. No exit wound.” 

“We have to assume that it’s the same killer then,” Harry said. “Sirius was a prominent muggle and half-blood rights activist. He sat on the Wizengamot and authored over a dozen muggle rights and protections bills. Neville defeated Voldemort and ended his genocide against muggle borns and halfbloods. Both were killed by gunshot. Neville’s wound showed an unfamiliarity with how guns work. The killer has to be a pureblood supremacist or one of Voldemort’s leftovers. 

“Like Malfoy,” Harry concluded, turning to Shacklebolt. 

The Head Auror shook his head. “We can’t point fingers at him... not without hard evidence. It could be any number of people. Pureblood supremacy sentiments have been on the rise. It’s why Malfoy has gotten so much support for his Minister bid.” 

“Neville was responsible for defeating Voldemort and Sirius has been Malfoy’s main opposition for the better part of a decade,” Hermione interjected, stepping up next to Harry and placing a reassuring hand on his arm. “There was also Malfoy’s well timed speech. We can’t discard the idea that he might be involved.” 

The room nodded in agreement. 

“Sirius’s wound was a headshot, correct?” Harry asked, turning to Hannah. 

Hannah nodded meekly. 

“Neville’s injury was in his arm- he was killed by a curse. It’s safe to assume that Sirius’s death was due to his gunshot wound, but we can’t rule out a curse either. We may have to assume two killers. Either that or the killer’s skill and understanding of firearms is improving.” Hermione said, a twinkle of horrified realization in her eyes. 

A grave silence hung in the room. Two killers targeting prominent wizards with muggle firearms was a nightmare no one had considered.

“Whoever it was knows guns, but they don’t have enough knowledge about how they work. The Longbottom’s wounds were in superficial areas. Any muggleborn or half-blood wizard would know that bullet wounds to arms don’t kill. Sirius’s wound was in the head. We have to assume that our killer is learning and improving.” 

“Or our perpetrators could be working in conjunction with each other, a half-blood or a muggle born along with a pure-blooded wizard. More disturbingly, it’s also possible that someone hired a muggle assassin, ” Hermione suggested. “Neville had political aspirations, while Sirius was a seated Wizengamot member. Their deaths have to be connected somehow.” 

“Malfoy,” Harry said again. All eyes turned to him.  “Sirius was Malfoy’s main opposition. Neville claiming his seat would mean more opposition both politically and publicly. Nobody wants to be the person who goes against the one who defeated Voldemort. Neville had enough public and private support to shift the direction of Wizengamot votes.”  Hannah put a horrified hand to her mouth.

He turned to Shacklebolt. “So, what now?” 

Shacklebolt took a second to ponder. “We need to know Sirius’s movements for the past few weeks. I assume that you can take care of that?” 

Harry nodded. “Kreacher helps Sirius with his scheduling. I’ll find out.” 

“I want Granger with you on this one,” Shacklebolt said. “You need someone impartial to keep you from doing anything rash.” 

Such as heading over to Malfoy’s offices to beat him senseless. 

“Fine,” Harry said, turning to Hermione. “You OK with this?” 

Hermione nodded as well. “Someone has to remind you to keep the stupid under control.” 

“I’m fine with all of that,” Harry said quietly, “but I want to see Sirius first.” 

All eyes fell upon Hannah, who had remained mostly quiet the entire time. “Ms. Abbott?” 

Hannah nodded. “I can arrange that,” she said. “But I want to stay out of whatever it is you are planning. I’m not an auror or an Unspeakable, nor do I have the level of combat experience that you three have. I can remain quiet about Lord Black’s death and delay the release of my medical report, but that will be the full extent of my involvement in any of this. The less I know, the better.” 

“That’s fine with me,” Shacklebolt said. “I can approve a period of absence for you, effective immediately after you finish your preliminary report.” 

Another nod from Hannah. 

“Good, we have a lot of work to do,” Shacklebolt said. “But remember, none of this leaves this room- we have to work quickly and quietly!” 

**** 

The way to the morgue was down a dark hallway, a cold ghastly path towards a room that housed the dead, the lost, and the forgotten. The lucky ones were buried by their loved ones. The rest would be buried together and abandoned by the ravages of time. Magic in the wrong hands was deadly. The ability to shoot flames, freeze blood, or turn air into nerve gas was just as dangerous as being able to invade someone’s mind or erase their memories. A properly trained wizard was capable of terrible evil. Aurors did more than just stop wizard crimes- it was their job to identify the victims of magic, wizard or not. 

And far too often, it was not. 

Harry had seen his fair share of horrors. Muggle minds twisted and thralled into servitude. Gaping wounds blasted through bodies after angry disagreements. Muggles used as lab rats for dangerous new potions. Horrors that he’d rather forget. 

Hannah led the way while Harry and Hermione quietly followed. 

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Hermione said softly to Harry. She placed a hand on his arm.

“He was my father,” Harry replied, keeping his eyes forward. 

He was his father. 

Hannah unlocked the doors to the morgue and stepped inside. It looked like any medical office: a large stainless steel operating table, a rolling tray filled with tools and instruments, and a large wall housing the cadavers. Hannah opened a drawer marked 3A and pulled out a body covered in a blanket. Visible condensed cold trailed in its wake. 

Harry walked over, his heart beating, his head throbbing. Each step felt light as if he were floating in a waking dream. Hands that couldn’t have been his own reached out and pulled off the thin blue blanket covering the body’s face. He felt his breath catch in his throat. 

And it all came rushing back to him. Suddenly, his feet felt heavy, glued to the floor, making it impossible for him to flee. His heart beat erratically, almost painfully, against his chest, his hands shaking from something, perhaps grief or anger, he couldn't say. It was the warmth of Hermione's hand on his shoulder that jolted him from this living nightmare so he could look into Sirius's now lifeless eyes, eyes that were once brimming with joy, mischief and fatherly love.

Christmas mornings spent with Sirius laughing over inane gifts of Quidditch supplies and old rock albums. Family dinners with Sirius laughing madly while Kreacher scoffed and tried his best to hide his small approving smiles. Sirius scolding Harry for his reckless actions with Neville. Sirius giving him girl advice about Hermione. Sirius pushing him to join the Aurors, to make something of himself, to forgive himself. 

Sirius. 

Harry felt himself fall to his knees, tears in his eyes.

It was real. It was all too real. 

“Sirius,” Harry sobbed. 

Somehow, Hermione’s arms had wound their way around Harry’s body and Harry found himself clutching her tight as he fought a losing battle against his grief. 

“Dad...” 

Hermione held him tightly. “Can you do this?” she asked, “You don’t have to see...” 

Harry shook his head. “No, he was my father.” 

He stood up and wiped his tears away. He couldn’t afford to be upset. He had to be calm, had to have a plan. He walked back over to where Sirius lay. He looked quiet, at peace. That brought some comfort. Raised by the Black Family, fighting in the First War, losing his best friend, having to raise Harry, taking up his Wizengamot Seat, fighting for Muggle rights- Sirius had seen so much, struggled so much. And yet despite that, he never stopped trying to help. First as an Auror and father, then as a politician. 

At least he could rest now. 

And Harry would make sure that he would be honored and remembered. 

“What will you do now?” Hermione asked from behind him. 

He took the sheet and softly pulled it back over his father’s face. He turned to face her, not as Auror Harry Potter-Black, officer of the law, nor as Lord Black, nobleman and head of House Black, but as Harry.  Harry, the son of James and Lily Potter, adopted and raised by Sirius Black. Harry, the man who had just discovered that his father was murdered. “I’m going to go back home and find out everything Kreacher knows.”

“And then?”

Harry said nothing as he got up and turned to leave. Hermione followed him, taking three steps for every one that Harry took. 

“Harry?” asked Hermione. “What will you do after talking to Kreacher?” 

“I’m going to find everyone involved in my father’s murder and then... I’m going to kill every last one of them.”

He clenched his fingers into a tight fist. 

****

December 14, 1994, Great Hall

Today was the day he would finally do it. 

The Great Hall bustled with activity as students sat down next to their friends and housemates for lunch. Today’s lunch consisted of salad and a wide selection of sandwiches. Harry had opted to grab a small salad with a ham and cheese sandwich cut into two triangle shapes. But he didn’t feel very hungry. It was hard to be hungry when your nerves were firing on all cylinders. 

Calm down. 

She’s a friend. 

He was just going to ask her as a friend. 

After all, no one wanted to be dateless on the night of the Yule Ball. Neville had secured a date with Ginny Weasley of all people, while Harry had heard rumors of about a dozen boys from various houses, as well as from both Beauxbaton and Durmstrang failing to ask out Fleur DeLacour. Hell, some girls still followed Viktor Krum around the school, giggling like mad and hoping to catch his eye. 

But none of that mattered to Harry. 

He had his eyes on one girl. 

Hermione Granger. 

One of his closest friends and undoubtedly the reason why he hadn’t been kicked out of Hogwarts so far. Hermione was wonderful, she was brilliant, passionate and driven. Outside of Quidditch practice, Harry, Neville and Hermione had spent nearly all their time together. Which raised the question: why was this so difficult?! 

He should have been comfortable around her. 

But lately, he had begun to notice how lovely her hair was or how her eyes seemed to light up every time she read something interesting. Perhaps something could happen between the two of them. Perhaps the Yule Ball would be the start of their great love story? 

He took a breath and took a half bite of his salad, iceberg lettuce dressed with a simple red vinaigrette sauce as Hermione took a seat next to him. 

“Hermione! I’ve been wanting to ask you something.” 

“Can you believe it Harry?” Hermione said, placing her bag onto the ground. It didn’t seem like she had heard his statement. 

He tilted his head, fork still in his mouth. 

“House elves! We use house elves,” Hermione said. “This place uses slave labor to feed students and clean rooms.” 

“Oh right,” Harry replied. Hermione was appalled to discover that fact at the beginning of the year.  Her vocal displeasure appeared to have died down some lately, but something must have set her off. 

“Something has to be done about this!” Hermione said, “This is preposterous! The finest institution for magical education and they are utilizing slave labor!”

Harry shrugged. “We have a house elf at home,” he said offhandedly. 

“What?!” 

“Yeah, Kreacher.” 

“And do you pay him?” Hermione asked, her brown eyes wide with shock. 

“Well... no.  Well, we do give him a cupboard to sleep in.” 

“Do you, at least, treat him well?” 

“Well, I try to stay out of his way, but Sirius insults him all the time,” Harry said. His head felt ticklish and his face burned with embarrassed shame. “But, Kreacher is also pretty horrible. He calls me a half-blood disgrace and is always complaining about how I am desecrating House Black’s property.” 

“Harry, despite all that, I’m sure that Kreacher still cooks and cleans for you and Sirius, correct?” 

Harry nodded. 

“He doesn’t have to, he shouldn’t have to!  But he does. Despite the fact that he clearly hates you, he still cooks and cleans, right? The least you can do is treat him better,” Hermione said. There was a hint of that haughty bossy tone that she had discarded back in fourth grade. “We can’t expect others to change. When we change, the world around us changes. We have to be the change we want to see in the world.”

Harry looked away, ashamed. He put down his fork. He wasn’t hungry before, but now he felt like was going to be sick. “I’ll try to,” Harry said. 

“That’s all I can ask,” Hermione replied. “Anyways, you said you wanted to talk to me about something?” 

Harry blinked. “The Yule Ball...” 

“Oh that’s right,” Hermione said. She reached for a sandwich and poured herself a cup of apple juice. “Can you believe that it’s coming? I haven’t even had a chance to choose a proper dress.” 

“Do you have a date?” Harry asked, his face burning hot. “Because if you don’t, I was wondering if we could go together.” 

Hermione nearly dropped her pitcher. “Harry... are you asking to be your date?” 

He nodded, blushing furiously as he did. “Not like a date date! More like... a friend date! You know, so we don’t have to go alone.” 

“Oh Harry,” Hermione said softly. “I really wish you had asked me earlier.” 

Harry felt his heart drop. 

“It’s just that... someone’s already asked me to be their date, and I said yes…” 

His heart sunk into the pit of his stomach. 

“I’m really sorry,” Hermione said, looking away, her cheeks flustered. 

Harry put on a small smile despite the stabbing feeling in his heart and the pit in his stomach. “No worries,” he said. 

Present Day, Grimmauld Place 

“Kreacher!” Harry called, “Kreacher, come down here right now!” 

Hermione stepped behind him and took a breath. The two had headed straight over from the morgue. How could they not? There were too many questions that needed answers. Harry didn’t like the situation they were in. Too much was unfolding without his knowledge, too many new twists and turns. They had been playing at defense for far too long- they needed to be more aggressive with their investigation. 

Kreacher bounded down the stairs wearing a faded black Pink Floyd t-shirt. That shirt had been one of Sirius’s favorites and he had given it to Kreacher. A house elf receiving a gift of clothing meant freedom from their servitude, but Kreacher had opted to stay as Grimmauld Place’s steward. A torrent of mixed emotions surged through Harry at the sight of the elder house elf: anger, hurt, betrayal. Kreacher had known all along. He had known all along! 

“My Lord,” Kreacher said. He turned to Hermione. “Lady Granger.” 

There was a silence before Kreacher spoke again. “So you know.” 

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “I do.” 

“Then we should talk,” Kreacher said. He turned and started for the kitchen. Harry and Hermione followed suit. 

“How long have you known about Sirius?” asked Harry.

“Three days.” Kreacher replied as he stepped into the kitchen. He snapped his fingers and a kettle went flying out of the cupboard and into the sink. The faucet was turned on and the kettle was quickly filled before it floated over to the stove where it began heating. 

“And you said nothing.” Harry said, he took a seat. That was probably the worst part. Kreacher was like family to him, and for him to keep such a secret...

“It wasn’t my place to tell you,” Kreacher said softly. He took the seat perpendicular to Harry. “How would you have reacted if I had been the one to inform you? I couldn’t bear to be the one to give you that pain.” 

Kreacher took a breath and then continued, as if Harry had instructed him to explain further. “The loss of the old Lord caused a ripple in my bond with House Black.  I felt it through the bond and I began preparations immediately.”

A day in between the murders. Neville had died roughly two days ago. This couldn’t have been a coincidence. There had to be more going on. 

“What preparations?” asked Hermione, leaning forward and clasping her hands together.  She had remained standing while perched against the countertop. 

“For the funeral. Lord Sirius Black had long requested that he be buried next to James and Lily Potter, rather than be put to rest with the other members of his house,” Kreacher replied. 

“Do you know how he died?”

Kreacher shook his head. “No, I could only sense his passing. It was the worst morning of my life.” 

“How about where he died?”

Another shake. “As his house elf, I was given the responsibility of managing his schedule, so I know where he generally was, but I am unable to give an exact location.” 

“Can you give us that information?” Harry asked. That was data that he could use.

Kreacher nodded and gave his fingers another snap. An old leather bound ledger dropped onto the table with a loud thud. The brown leather looked to be of high quality material and lovingly maintained with nary a crease on its spine nor a bit of discoloration on its surface. The Black crest was on the ledger’s cover: a large shield adorned with a large ‘B’ with an ornate longsword behind it. The phrase Honor and Duty had been imprinted onto its surface. 

Honor and Duty.

Those were the words of House Black. Once they had been Toujours Pur, before Sirius had changed them, much to the scorn and disgust of other Noble pureblood families. It was just one of the many ways Sirius had sought to upend the ancient customs so ingrained in wizarding society, a society obsessed with tradition, blood purity, and superiority. Yet despite their supposed supremacy over muggles, wizards still bled red. 

Harry took the ledger. It was of a comfortable weight. What had Sirius been up to? He knew that the life of a Wizengamot member was busy. Meeting with constituents, forming house alliances, brokering deals and creating compromises were all duties of a good politician. But Harry didn’t know the exact details of those responsibilities, and didn’t want to.  How one was supposed to interact with people and appease them, to make concessions in exchange for favors down the line- these things were never Harry’s strong suit. 

“I know that Lord Sirius had been making frequent visits to House Bones in recent weeks,” Kreacher stated. 

“Any reason why?” 

Kreacher shook his head. 

“He’s always been close with Aunt Amelia,” Harry said quietly. “Since she’s a seated member too, it’s entirely possible that he was making plans on writing a bill or something with her.” 

Hermione nodded. “I think our first step should be to visit Lady Bones. We should see if she knows what Sirius was up to.” 

“Agreed,” Harry said. “We’ll need to spend a few hours going through Sirius’s schedule and see if there are any leads we can discern from it.” 

“There are other things you must attend to as well, my Lord,” interrupted Kreacher. Four eyes turned to him. “You are now Lord Black and new responsibilities have fallen onto your lap. These duties cannot be ignored.”

Harry gave Hermione a look. It was true, Sirius had been responsible for maintaining House Black’s finances, along with building political alliances with other houses. But the duties of House Black couldn’t take precedent over his investigation. Not now, not with so much happening.

“Kreacher, how long would I be able to put it off?” asked Harry. 

“A week, perhaps a few days more,” Kreacher answered. “You can mask it as preparation for Lord Sirius’s funeral.”

Harry nodded.

They had a week. 

That would be enough. 

*****

Hermione spent the next few hours going through Sirius’s schedule, taking notes and muttering quietly to herself. Harry, on the other hand, had begun drafting a letter to the press and the Wizengamot, announcing Sirius’s death. The content and wording of the letter had proven to be more difficult than Harry had expected. How did one quantify the life of someone like Sirius into a single letter? 

A politician. 

A veteran. 

A prankster. 

A father. 

After half a dozen drafts, Harry finally settled on:  

Lord Sirius Orion Black, Head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, passed earlier today. He will be greatly missed. He has been succeeded by his heir apparent, Harry James Potter-Black. For now, House Black asks that their privacy be respected in this time of mourning. 

It was, perhaps, too simple, but considering the circumstances, it would have to suffice. Harry had no doubt that news outlets would publish articles and opinions highlighting Sirius’s life and works. The validity of the articles would undoubtedly vary depending on the publisher. It was strange knowing how there were so many different versions of Sirius. But Harry was one of few who knew the real Sirius- the one who watched muggle football, but complained about the rules, the one who loved Indian food, but could barely handle the spice that came with it, the one who was an infamous womanizer in his youth, but grew to become a homebody in his middle age. 

Harry took the old House Black seal signet that had been passed down through generations, dipped it in warm liquid wax, and set the seal into the rolled parchment with House Black’s sigil. 

Most people believed that death was the end of the journey and for some, it may have been true. But not always. There were good reasons why people laid flowers on graves, why people kept photographs of departed loved ones on mantles. To remember. People only ever truly died when they were forgotten by the ones they left behind. Do a good enough job, help enough people, be kind enough or do a terrible enough act and you’d be remembered by everyone. 

Nothing truly died as long as it was remembered. 

Harry’s thoughts turned back to Voldemort who had desperately sought immortality to the point that he was willing to fracture his own soul in order to delay his inevitable end. But what good was such a life? One where you were hated and feared by most, while your only companions were the power hungry and the sycophantic, a life of being hated and feared. It was better that Voldemort had died and would stay dead. 

Sirius would be remembered, if not by the public, then by Harry as a firm, but kind man. A man who stood for his beliefs and championed the downtrodden. A better memoriam than most got. He handed the rolled up letter to Zeppelin, the family’s owl, who eagerly took it in his beak and flew off towards Archimedes Tower. 

There. 

It was official. 

He leaned back against the chair and stretched his arms skyward, feeling his joints pop as they realigned themselves. Outside, the sun had begun to descend, scattering a crimson corona across the skies. Night was coming and he had worked through lunch. The emotional side of him didn’t feel much like eating. Meals were celebrations of life, unity and bonds. But his logical side, the one that only cared about his survival, demanded sustenance to continue. 

Thus, Harry found himself wandering into the kitchen where Hermione was working. She had half a dozen different notebooks and manilla folders opened and scattered atop the dining room table. Controlled chaos, that had always been Hermione’s preferred methodology of learning. Hermione was so deep in thought that it took her a good minute before she realized that Harry was watching her. 

“What?” she asked, looking up from her work and glowering at him. 

Harry leaned against the wall, folded his arms, and grinned. “Nothing. I was just reminded of how much I like watching you work.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “If I recall correctly, you wasted so much time in the Hogwarts library doing that.”

“Nearly failed a few exams too,” Harry said with a chuckle. “But it was worth it.” 

She smiled at the comment. “Are you done drafting the announcement?” 

Harry nodded solemnly. “I decided to keep it simple and formal. No need to release any major details just yet.”

“You know that you’ll have to arrange a funeral,” Hermione said. She turned back to her work and started jotting down notes into one of her notebooks once again.

“I do, it’s the least of my worries at the moment,” Harry said. He looked outside. The rain didn’t show any signs of letting up. When would this storm end? “Did you find anything?”

Hermione nodded. “Sirius has been meeting with several leaders of prominent Houses and seated members of the Wizengamot.” 

“Sounds normal- he was a politician,” Harry said, walking over and taking a seat at the table perpendicular to Hermione. He pulled one of the many papers into his hand, ignoring the dirty look from Hermione. 

He recognized Sirius’s untidy scrawl. It had been written down in a rush. Typical Sirius- taking on more than he could handle and trying to do a dozen things at once. 

Meeting with Amelia Bones 9:30am 

Meeting with Gareth Greengrass 1:30pm 

Meeting with Arcanum Party Leadership 4:30 

“That’s odd,” Harry said. 

“What is?” Hermione asked. 

He placed a finger on the page he was reading from. “He has meetings with Wizengamot members all day on this day.” He flipped the page. “This one and this one as well.” 

Hermione shrugged, but didn’t bother to look up from her papers. “It’s like you said,” she replied. “He’s a Wizengamot member. He must have been planning something.” 

“I agree, but there isn’t a single meeting with anyone else.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Sirius was a politician. His work wasn’t just meeting with other politicians. I’ve watched him work since graduating, even helped him sort and organize his meeting schedules. I can say that most of his meetings have been with labor unions and other organized worker groups. He’s rarely ever met with just politicians.”

Hermione put down her pen and tore her eyes away from her stack. “Holy shit- he was planning to run for Minister of Magic!”

The page very nearly dropped out of his hands. “What?!”

“Think about it,” Hermione said. “He was meeting with other Wizengamot members to shore up support for his run. You said it yourself, most of his meetings in the past have been with stakeholder groups-.he’s definitely got their support. He just needed endorsements from other Wizengamot members to solidify his run.”

Harry blinked. It made sense. Sirius had been out traveling for the past few weeks, but Harry hadn’t paid much attention to Sirius’s meetings since he had gotten back from America. They needed more support. “We need more proof,” Harry said quietly after a moment had passed. “I know someone we could talk to.”

“Kreacher?”

He shook his head. “We need someone on the inside, someone who had actually met with him.” He thought for a moment. “Aunt Amelia of House Bones. The two have been close since Hogwarts- she’ll tell me everything.” 

*****

The sun had long completed its descent by the time Harry and Hermione stepped out of Grimmauld Place. A hushed silence had fallen amongst the streets. Quiet and dark. Two words that were rarely ever used to describe London. Ancient street lamps and lights from closed windows were the only things that lit up the gloom. Hermione had walked out beside Harry, quiet and somber. That was fine with him. He didn’t much feel like talking to anyone, at least not until he sorted out his thoughts. 

Sirius had been planning to run for Minister of Magic or at least that was the current working theory. That raised a whole new slew of questions. Why? Who else knew? Was that the reason for his murder? Malfoy declaring his candidacy for Minister of Magic, Neville’s plans to claim his House Seat, and Sirius’s plans to become Minister- they all had to be connected in some way.  

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Hermione said quietly from beside him. Her voice broke through his thoughts. 

Harry narrowed his eyes. “No, I do,” he said quietly. “I need to know what Sirius was planning before I make any decisions.” 

Hermione laughed. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” she said, “I just never expected you to collect all the information before making a decision. You’ve always been a ‘do-first, think-later type.’” 

His thoughts drifted back to his fist fight with the drunks the night prior. “I still am,” Harry said with a chuckle. “Just not as much as I used to be.” 

“Know what you’re going to ask Lady Bones?” 

Harry shook his head. “I was just gonna ask her what she knows about Sirius’s actions over the past few weeks.” 

“What about his potential plans to become Minister of Magic?” 

“We can’t confirm that yet, though I imagine Aunt Amelia should be able to,” Harry said. “We need to know everything about Sirius’s plans and who he was involved with.”

That seemed to relax Hermione a bit. “Are you doing ok?”

The question gave him pause. The simple answer was, yes, he was ok. He supposed that he should have been hurting. But pain was just that- pain. It was what you did with the pain, how you converted it into drive, into purpose and understanding, that was what was most important. Pain could be a hindrance, but it should never have been what defined you as a person. 

Harry took a breath before he answered. “I’m as ok as I can be,” he said quietly. “Considering the circumstances.” 

Hermione grinned. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about those,” Harry said, pointing to Hermione’s bracelets. “When did you trade in your wand for bracelets?” 

“Who says I did?” asked Hermione, a twinkle in her eyes. 

“Hm, ok, and those runes drawn on them... are they Giant in origin?” Harry asked. 

“Some are,” Hermione answered. “Others are related to the Vanir, the Aesir, and the Tuatha De Naan.” 

“You’ve been busy,” Harry said. 

Hermione smiled. 

Sudden movement caught Harry’s eye and he turned to see someone approaching them from down the block. From this far away, Harry couldn’t make out anything other than their silhouette, which seemed male in appearance. The figure shambled with every step, yet walked with purposeful intent and speed. There was something unnatural about it. Shadows gathered from the corners of houses, snuffing out lights as they passed, and molded onto the man until he was completely covered in a cloak of darkness that flickered on and off of his body like a living river of blackness. 

“Harry,” Hermione said quietly. She pulled her sleeves up, exposing her bracelets. A subdued cerulean glow lit up the runes carved upon their surface.

“I know,” Harry replied, his Intent already prepared. Flares of energy gathered within his palms, two different spells ready to be unleashed. Another flare appeared around his legs so that he could move at a moment’s notice.  

“You got my back?” asked Hermione. 

“Yep, you got mine?” 

“Do you even need to ask?” 

The two huddled together as the last of the lights went out, leaving the streetlamp above them as the only source of illumination. 

Here it came.

The Shadow Man raised a hand and unleashed a barrage of burning shadows that shot from his palm like a dozen flying javelins. Harry raised his left hand immediately and unleashed his first spell. “Protego!” Harry shouted, reinforcing his Intent with his words to create a more potent spell. A glowing shield of blue energy immediately formed before them just as the water from a nearby hydrant exploded out and froze into a wall of clear ice in front of Harry’s shield.  

The ice wall was enough to stop most of the javelins, but a few managed to crack through and were stopped by Harry’s spell. The spears bounced off of Harry’s shield before falling to the ground and dispersing back into the ether. Hermione didn’t let up and tapped another rune on her bracelet. The remnants of the wall instantly melted into water and reformed themselves into countless icy arrows that were immediately launched at the Shadow Man. 

Their adversary immediately raised his arms in a feeble attempt to block the arrows as Harry raced outwards from the shield and charged forward, flanking him. The arrows ripped through bits of the shadow cloak, exposing parts of the person beneath. Harry spied pale skin and tattered clothes as he unleashed the strength enhancing spell within his legs. 

Harry leapt, soaring into the air far above the street.  He angled himself downwards as he reached the height of his arc and verbalized another shield spell. “Protego!” Harry yelled, before launching the new shield forward like a battering ram. The shield smashed into Shadow Man like a runaway car, causing him to stumble, and allowing Hermione to unleash another rune spell. A lance of white hot flames that briefly lit up the streets shot into the attacker. Shadow Man screamed as Hermione’s spell burned away the rest of his cloak, revealing the body hidden underneath. 

Features that were human-like, but twisted and distorted in a way that could barely be considered human- a ghastly pale face; blood-red eyes that were spaced too far apart; bony, emaciated cheeks; sharp, pointed ears; a flattened nose; and a mouth that opened far too wide and housed rows upon rows of serrated teeth. The being’s bald head seemed to be the only thing that looked remotely human. He stood thin and frail, leathery skin pulled tight against thick bones. The chest of this creature was caved in and a glowing black crystal had been pushed inside. The crystal seemed to suck in light from all around it as pulsed within the chest cavity. 

What the hell.

“Knuckle up,” Harry growled as he landed hard, the effects of the durability spell taking effect just in time for him to land on the ground before the creature. 

The monster took one look at Harry and unleashed a horrific snarl. Its cheeks and lower jaw split apart and unfolded into six distinctive portions, revealing tentacle-like mandibles hidden within. Harry rushed towards the creature and unleashed a left hook onto its temple, followed by an uppercut into its solar plexus and a hard kick to its knee. 

The creature crumbled to the ground. 

Hermione, in the meantime, unleashed another spell- a halo of pure light, bright and warm, surrounded her and formed into five glowing orbs. Glowing orange light spheres shot out towards the creature as if launched from a high powered cannon. It didn’t even bother to dodge them as the projectiles struck and exploded with a sound like balloons bursting. The creature was sent flying 10 feet into the air as an arm and part of his shoulder blew off of him and flew in a dozen different directions. It hit the ground with a sickening impact that Harry could feel reverberate through his own body. Harry turned to Hermione who had the same questioning look plastered upon her face. Was it over? Nothing could have survived something like that. 

They approached cautiously, Harry first from the front, Hermione from the flank. Hermione’s pointer finger was ablaze with an orange fire while her other hand held her wrist like a child holding a make-believe gun. Harry’s shields had been activated and another spell was ready to go, one that he had developed back in America, a nasty little surprise. This was what his training demanded: stay slow and cautious, have a spell and your Intent ready at a moment’s notice, until you were absolutely sure the fight was over. 

The shadows were dissipating off of the creature and evaporating into the ether. Harry stepped over the creature and couldn’t believe his eyes. 

It was crying. 

It lay stone-still as tears flowed from its eyes, its mouth hung open as if it were in terrible pain. The wounds that Hermione had inflicted upon it looked agonizing. Its shoulder had been completely blown off, leaving exposed bone and a gaping wound still smoking from where the spell had detonated.  

“K-kuh...” gasped the creature. 

It spoke? 

“K-Kill...me...” said the creature after a few desperate huffs of air. Its eyes looked towards Harry, sad and pleading. 

“Harry, over there,” Hermione said quietly, nudging her head to the right.

He turned his head and nearly lost focus for a second. The scattered bits of flesh, blood, bone, viscera, and other bodily parts had started to gather and sort themselves together until they resembled something vaguely like an arm. The broken and mangled limb then began to crawl over to the body, its fingers scuttering against the ground and slowly dragging the rest of the arm and shoulder with it. 

“No fucking way,” Harry muttered. He turned his attention back to the creature who was laying flat and unmoving. 

“There’s no way this is natural,” Hermione said softly. “Someone did this to him. Someone gave him this regeneration.” 

Harry nodded and he pointed his finger at the gem housed within the creature's chest. “What’s your name?” Harry asked softly. 

“Mediphias,” it whispered. 

“It’s the crystal, isn’t it?” Harry asked. 

A nod.

“You sure?” 

Another nod and the creature closed his eyes to prepare himself for what came next. Harry turned back to Hermione who gave him a solemn nod of her own. Harry looked down upon the black crystal. Shadows danced around it like flickering flames. This stone wasn’t natural. It looked like it had been created through the use of alchemy and rituals, and a lot of time and preparation had gone into creating it, even more into implanting it into this creature. Was the crystal responsible for keeping this thing alive? The shadow cloak? The regeneration? So much preparation, so much time would be needed to produce such an item.

But to undo it? 

That was easy- all it took was a little disturbance. Rituals were delicate, structured work, but chaos was easy. Harry reached in, grabbed the crystal, and yanked it out in one smooth motion. The creature took in breath with a deep hiss before it fell still. 

Harry examined the crystal in his hand before handing it to Hermione. “Looks like we have something else that we’ll need to deal with.” 

Hermione nodded and tapped a few runes on her bracelet. “We’ll need to call Hannah. I want a full autopsy of the body.” 

“And this?” Harry asked, motioning to the crystal. Just holding the thing made him feel sick to the stomach. 

“Put it somewhere safe and seal it away until we figure out what it is.” Hermione said quietly. “Looks like it’s going to be a long night for us.”