Chapter Text
“Hiya, Harry! Excited for the holidays?”
“Hello, Luna,” Harry greeted the girl as she plopped into the seat beside him in the library. “I suppose so. You?”
“I suppose so too,” Luna sighed. “It will be nice to see Daddy again, though I hear it will be quite foggy over Christmas.”
“Is that so?” Harry frowned. He had heard no such weather reports, and wondered if Luna meant this in a literal sense, or a more metaphorical one – it was often difficult to tell with her. “Well, it’s always good to be with family in uncertain times.”
“Absolutely,” said Luna. “Though Daddy said he may be busy over the break. He is working on a big story that is due to release early next year.”
“Well, I wish him the best of luck on it,” said Harry. He was sure Xenophilius was hard at work concocting some new conspiracy theory revolving around magical creatures, which his readers at The Quibbler would lap up without critical thought. He remained grateful to the man for supporting him in the past, even if his outlandish beliefs continued to confound him.
Harry’s own holiday was bound to be stressful as well. He had a lot of planning to do, and experimenting with the Sorting Hat to try and get the Sword of Gryffindor. He also planned to speak with Amelia Bones to feel her out as a potential ally, and hopefully meet with Fleur once she returned from abroad to see what she learned. It would be far from the care-free quality time with family he’d come to associate with Christmas in years past.
He was also nervous about what fallout might result from his recent conversation with Snape. The Headmaster had been deliberately avoiding Harry since that night, acting as though he was invisible whenever they crossed paths. Normally Harry would find this to be an improvement from Snape’s usual treatment of him, but now it was worrisome. Had Snape come to regret his decision to help Harry? Would he change his mind and use the information Harry gave him to curry favor with Voldemort?
Harry did not interact with Snape again until the final evening of term, the night before the Hogwarts Express was due to depart for London. Harry finished his dinner and exited the Great Hall for his dorm to pack. Snape exited a moment behind him, seemingly in a hurry; he bumped shoulders with Harry as he brushed past, knocking him askance.
“Watch where you’re walking, Potter,” Snape snapped as he hurried on ahead and up the stairs.
Harry righted himself, prepared to tell Snape off for his carelessness. But then he saw a small booklet sitting on the stone floor, seemingly left behind in Snape’s haste. “Sir, you dropped—” Harry called after him, but Snape was already up the stairs and around a corner, out of sight.
Harry bent down to pick up the booklet. It looked like a miniature journal, similar to one he’d seen Snape consult during Potions lessons in years past.He opened the journal, fully expecting to see some random potion recipes and jumbled lesson plans. Instead, he was shocked to read the name written atop the first page: ‘LUCIUS MALFOY’. He quickly slammed the journal shut and pocketed it, planning to read more in private.
He waited until Daphne went to bed that night to pull out the journal again and study it under wand-light at his desk. Beneath Lucius’ name was a jumble of information about the man, seemingly compiled over years or decades. It included observations about his declining standing with Voldemort, his tenuous personal relationship with the man, and other Death Eaters that Lucius appeared closest with.
And Lucius was not the only name in the journal. There were DOZENS of Death Eaters listed within, each with pages and pages of notes detailing Snape’s observations and interactions with them. It was a gold mine of information, providing insight into names that Harry knew virtually nothing about, all laid out in an easily-accessible format. It was far more information than Harry could take in a single sitting, so he stowed it away with plans to consult it further over the break.
It was a sign that Harry had made the right decision in approaching Snape for help. Not only had the man not turned him over to Voldemort immediately, he gave Harry a copy of his own personal dossier, chock-full of information he might be able to use against his enemies. If that wasn’t a show of confidence, Harry didn’t know what was. Now he just had to make sure to repay the favor – namely, by not getting caught in his schemes.
The next morning on the train, he told Dahlia and Damian about the alcove that would allow them to Apparate or Portkey away from the castle. “But don’t abuse it,” he warned them, looking to Dahlia in particular, as she enjoyed sneaking off to Raven House as she pleased. “Keep using the one-eyed witch’s passageway unless it’s an emergency. Voldemort knows about the alcove too, and it wouldn’t be good if you crossed paths with him.”
“Yeah, I’ll pass on that,” Damian grimaced. He was fortunate enough to have never seen Voldemort in person before, and clearly had no plans to seek him out.
“We need to spend some more time practicing Apparation over the break,” said Harry, to Dahlia and Damian’s dismay. “Hey, no whining! You both made good progress last time.”
“Sure, if you count losing half of a hand as progress,” Dahlia grimaced.
“Just because you managed to Apparate at fourteen doesn’t mean it comes easy to the rest of us,” Damian grumbled. Harry and Dahlia shared a look at this – she alone knew that Harry hadn’t truly been fourteen at the time. But she kept her silence, respecting her brother’s wish to keep that aspect of his life a secret for the time being. Only Dahlia and Fleur (and now Snape, Harry realized) knew that he was a time traveler.
Andromeda Black was waiting for the three of them when they arrived at King’s Cross that evening. Harry assumed this was an optics decision – she was soon to become their step-mother, after all, and they had to maintain that public guise to keep themselves safe. They took a Portkey back to Grimmauld Place, where Aunt Petunia was waiting in the living room, looking anxious.
“Damian dear,” she said, engulfing her son in a hug. “I’ve been so worried about you...how have you been?”
“Fine, Mum,” said Damian, squirming out of his mother’s grasp. “What are you doing here? I thought you were staying at the Godric’s Hollow house.”
“Yes, well,” Petunia grimaced. “Your uncle believes it will be safer for me to stay here, with him and Andromeda. Just as a precaution.”
“Has something happened?” Dahlia frowned. “Are you not safe at Godric’s Hollow?”
Petunia shifted uncomfortably, as if not wanting to answer the question. “It’s, well, not the most pleasant atmosphere in Godric’s Hollow as of late,” she admitted. “Some of the magical population there have begun harassing the non-magical folk living there. A couple recognized me at the bus stop returning home from work one night and shouted insults at me.”
“Who was it?” Damian growled angrily. “Take me to them, and I’ll show them how to fight the Muggle way—”
“No, dear, don’t make a big deal out of it,” said Petunia quickly. “I am fine. The last thing I want is for you to get hurt on my behalf.”
“They can’t get away with that,” Damian huffed. “It’s not fair! It’s—”
“It’s war, Damian,” Harry said grimly, resting a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “People are getting away with far worse. We just have to protect ourselves and each other as best we can.”
Damian looked annoyed by this response. He shook off Harry’s hand and stalked upstairs, slamming his bedroom door shut. Harry knew how frustrated Damian was with how the war was going – he too was facing his share of discrimination at Hogwarts, even if it wasn’t as overt as verbal harassment. Damian was an action-oriented person who clearly wanted to fight back, but didn’t have a good outlet to do so.
“Will you be here for Christmas, Aunt Petunia?” asked Dahlia.
“Naturally,” said Petunia. “I am expected to attend the banquet that evening.”
“What banquet?” Harry frowned.
Petunia glanced nervously across the room to Andromeda, who answered on her behalf. “To celebrate your father and I getting married,” Andromeda sighed. “It’s meant to be a big Christmas spectacle for the Prophet.”
Of course, Harry thought bitterly. Voldemort did say he wanted James and Andromeda’s union to be a celebratory event for Britain, both as a distraction tactic and a humiliation ritual. And of course Petunia would be forced to attend...she was now posing as James’ Squib sister, after all.
Harry wondered if there was another trap waiting for them at the banquet. For all he knew, it would be the moment Voldemort decided to come out of the shadows and declare the start of his reign by killing the Potters on a public stage. His Dark Mark had been prickled uncomfortably for the past few days, evoking some emotion Harry couldn’t quite place. Anticipation? Excitement? Something was brewing on the horizon, and he hated being in the dark.
So he dedicated himself that week to poring over Snape’s notes and learning what he could about the Death Eater hierarchy. Snape’s note-taking was meticulous, and reading through the journal felt like watching Voldemort’s army grow in real time. He witnessed the rise of Lucius Malfoy as Voldemort’s top cadet before falling from grace; the saga of Wormtail repeatedly failing his master but redeeming himself with great acts of loyalty; and the vying for control between all of Voldemort’s lieutenants, all seeking to curry the Dark Lord’s favor for themselves.
But Harry quickly noticed a trend in each of the profiles. Voldemort was seemingly dissatisfied with all of his followers, constantly berating them for their slip-ups and incompetencies. Despite everyone’s efforts to appease their master, he found them all inadequate and lacking in terms of skill and dedication. ‘It is a small wonder that the Dark Lord seeks blood purity in Britain, when he constantly tells his pure-blood followers how inept they are,’ Snape wrote in one entry after Lucius’ failure to capture Neville in the Department of Mysteries.
There was one glaring exception to this rule, however: Bellatrix Lestrange. Her page was full of glowing praise, as Voldemort seemingly told every one of his followers that she was the gold standard. ‘Bellatrix is undoubtedly his most loyal devotee,’ Snape wrote. ‘He puts her in charge of nearly every mission he can. He wishes that all of us would be more like her.’
Bellatrix’s entry even continued after her death. ‘Dark Lord is devastated by her murder,’ Snape recounted. ‘He is more temperamental now and harder to please. Losing her was a great loss, and he does not trust anyone nearly as much as he trusted her.’
Harry found this peculiar. He hadn’t realized just how important Bellatrix was to Voldemort, to the point that he was ‘devastated’ by her loss. That might be just the clue he was looking for...if he was going to trust anybody in his ranks with an important task – or object – it would be her.
Out of curiosity, he flipped next to Rodolphus Lestrange’s profile. Much of it was filled with reports on his disappointing performance and subpar talent at everything. ‘The Dark Lord seems to believe him to be a poor match for Bellatrix,’ Snape commented once. But then, out of nowhere, Voldemort seemed to fixate on Rodolphus, shortly after his wife’s death.
‘Another meeting with R.L. and Dark Lord today,’ wrote Snape. ‘Dark Lord asking specific questions about marriage contract with B. Demanding oaths of loyalty from R. Appears anxious about something and wants to keep R. close. Promises him a new wife and other rewards if he performs well by his side.’
That was even more curious than Bellatrix’s profile. Why had Voldemort brought Rodolphus in close after her death? If anything, he would have assumed the opposite – with her gone, the Dark Lord would have seen no further use for the man, whom he clearly found to be incompetent and dead weight. And yet, he sought to keep him nearby, to keep him happy...for what purpose?
A theory was beginning to form in Harry’s mind. One that made more sense the more he mulled it over. Normally, there would have been no way to verify his theory. Only two people would know the truth – one was Voldemort, and the other was dead. Luckily, death was no longer an obstacle in Harry’s pursuit of the truth.
He drew his wand and cast Muffling Charms on his door and every wall of his bedroom. He then pulled out the Resurrection Stone and took a deep breath. He turned it over three times in his palm, then whispered, “Bellatrix Lestrange.”
The effect was immediate. A spectral version of Bellatrix popped into being before him, though younger and less manic-looking than the one he’d killed. She looked briefly disoriented, but when she spotted Harry across the room, a look of rage overcame her features.
“You!” she bellowed. Her hands plunged into her immaterial robes, as if to grab a wand and hex him, but she had none. She then lunged at Harry angrily, but she passed straight through him, her attempts to hit and claw at him resulting in nothing more than swipes of empty air.
“Evening, Bellatrix,” said Harry calmly. “I have a couple questions for you.”
“Go to hell, Potter!” she spat. “I’m not answering a damn thing for you!”
“Suit yourself,” Harry shrugged, as he reached into his own robes. “I was just going to ask if you recognized this, but you’re entitled to silence, I suppose.”
Bellatrix’s eyes bulged out of her head when she saw Harry withdraw a small goblet from his robes, made of pure gold and inscribed with the outline of a badger. “Where did you get that?!” she demanded.
“Oh, so you do recognize it?” Harry asked, arching an eyebrow.
Bellatrix’s face twitched madly, torn between her burning curiosity and her hatred of Harry. “I didn’t say I did,” she muttered.
“Fair enough,” Harry shrugged. “I think I’ll just keep it, then. Maybe pour myself a glass of Butterbeer, or share it with my mother—”
“Don’t let that filthy Mudblood’s lips touch it!” Bellatrix bellowed. “That’s a priceless House artifact, belonging to Helga Hufflepuff herself!”
“I thought you said you didn’t recognize it?” said Harry.
“Never mind that!” Bellatrix huffed. “How did you get it from my vault? My master instructed me to tell no one of its existence, not even my fool of a husband!”
“Who said I got it from your vault?” Harry said innocently. “In fact, who said I owned the Cup at all?”
Harry snapped his fingers, and Hufflepuff’s Cup disappeared into thin air, the illusion ended. Bellatrix’s eyes went wide once more, this time with fury at being fooled.
“I said nothing!” she shrieked. “You lied to me, you filthy half-blood, Muggle-loving son of a whore! My master will flay you alive, and I will torment you for all of eternity—”
“No, you won’t,” Harry said casually. And he pocketed the Resurrection Stone, causing the shade of Bellatrix to disappear. Despite her absence, a malevolent energy lingered in the air...perhaps she truly was making good on her promise to haunt him from the other side. But she could not truly hurt him or his family. Not anymore.
That confirmed his theory: the Cup resided in Bellatrix’s vault at Gringotts. Or at least, it did, prior to her death...the question was, did it remain there after? Harry suspected it did, or else Voldemort would not have bothered to focus his attention on Rodolphus. He would not want the man to know about the Cup, as he did not trust him, but he did want to ensure the Cup remained safe in their shared vault upon her death. Harry was willing to bet his life savings that the Cup was still in the Lestrange vault, with only Voldemort himself aware of its existence.
He would have to share his findings with Fleur at the next possible opportunity. Unfortunately, that would be a while, as she was currently in France, spending the holidays with her family and collecting information from the continent. She had left her enchanted diary at Raven House, out of fear that it could fall into enemy hands while passing through the rigorous Ministry checkpoint. Hopefully he would be able to meet with her before returning to Hogwarts for the winter term, as it was too risky to send an international owl with such critical news.
In the meantime, he decided to devote his attention elsewhere, hoping to solve multiple issues in one fell swoop. Two days before Christmas, with the adults all out of the house at work, Harry rounded up Dahlia and Damian and brought them to Raven House for more Apparation practice. Dahlia was improving drastically; she succeeded in Apparating into her hoop once more, only Splinching a single fingernail this time. Damian still hadn’t managed to perform the difficult maneuver yet, but he did flicker a couple of times and make a loud popping noise before falling to the grass yet again.
“You’re nearly there, Damian, I promise,” Harry encouraged the boy as he trudged into the living room, muddied and dispirited. “You’ve nearly got the disappearing part down...you’re just one attempt away from getting the reappearing part as well.”
“Yeah, and I’m one pickup line away from getting Demelza Robins to go out with me,” Damian deadpanned, earning a giggle from Dahlia. “Don’t patronize me, Potter.”
“I’m not!” Harry protested. “It wasn’t exactly easy for me to learn, either – you haven’t cut yourself in half like I did in my fourth year.”
“Mum will never forgive you for that, by the way,” Dahlia grimaced, as she took off her sock and wrung the mud and melted snow from it. “Can we go back to Grimmauld now? I would like a bath, and I don’t trust the plumbing in this shack.”
“In a minute,” said Harry. “I actually need your help with something else.”
He walked across the room to the kitchen, reaching up to one of the high cupboards that was rarely used. He pulled out the Sorting Hat, which he’d stored there days earlier, and brought it back to the living room.
“Is that what I think it is?” Damian frowned.
“What the hell is the bloody Sorting Hat doing here?” Dahlia demanded.
“I borrowed it,” Harry said simply. “But you can’t speak a word about this to anyone, got it?”
“Why would you need to borrow the Sorting Hat?” asked Damian. “Trying to get out of being a Ravenclaw?”
Harry sighed, determining how much he ought to share with the two. “I need to find the Sword of Gryffindor,” he said. “And only a Gryffindor can pull it out from the Hat in a time of need.”
“But the Sword of Gryffindor is just a myth,” Dahlia frowned. “It hasn’t been seen in centuries.”
“That’s not true,” said Harry. “I’ve seen it. And you have too.”
Dahlia looked perplexed, not understanding what he meant. Then, her eyes widened as she remembered the memories Harry had shown her in the Pensieve, slaying the basilisk with the Sword in his original second year. Damian too looked puzzled, as he did not yet knew Harry’s background as a time traveler.
“You’re not a Gryffindor anymore,” Dahlia muttered thoughtfully, which only made Damian look more confused.
“But you are,” Harry pointed out. “Can you please try for me? Ask the Hat for it.”
He handed her the Hat. She tentatively held it upright, peering at it nervously, before raising it over her head and slipping it on. Harry and Damian watched on with bated breath as Dahlia sat quietly, the brim of the Hat covering her eyes, having a mental conversation with the thing.
After several minutes of silence, Dahlia removed the Hat again, looking disgruntled. “It won’t give it to me,” she grumbled. “Keeps saying that my need isn’t great enough or something.”
“Tell it the Sword is necessary for defeating Voldemort,” Harry insisted. “And that it’s urgent. C’mon, please, try again.”
Dahlia sighed and slipped the Hat on again. This time she only remained under its brim for less than a minute before taking it off again.
“Bloody thing’s useless,” she huffed, chucking the Hat to the ground. “It told me that I’m worthy, but my cause is not. Then it just stopped talking to me altogether.”
Harry sighed as he picked up the Hat to return it to its hiding spot. He was disappointed, but not surprised...the Hat had told him as much the last time he inquired about the Sword. Dahlia may be fit to wield the Sword, but clearly the circumstances didn’t qualify her to retrieve it in that moment. Harry would have to think of a way to manufacture such a circumstance in the future, though he had no intention of chucking his sister in the path of a basilisk any time soon.
“We’ll find a way,” Harry muttered, more to himself than the other two. “We have to.” Dahlia and Damian exchanged a concerned look at his dire words, but thankfully did not ask further questions about the Sword of Gryffindor. The horcrux situation was not a conversation he was ready to have with the two teens, as it would only cause them to worry.
Harry forced himself to set aside his scheming for a day or two as Christmas Eve came around and his loved ones began to congregate at Grimmauld Place for the holiday. They shared a nice dinner together that evening, as Sirius and Amelia came to join James, Andromeda, Petunia and the teens in the townhouse. The conversation was more muted than in years past, but it was still a pleasant evening shared among the people he cared most about. He knew he would have to savor such moments to get through the dark days ahead...he only lamented that his mother, Remus and Alessia could not be there to join them.
Harry watched Amelia from afar, as she conversed alongside Sirius while cradling her growing baby bump. He knew he wanted to talk with her at some point during the break – it was just a matter of finding a moment alone with her. He could not tip off Sirius about the conversation, either, as he was still under Lockhart’s watchful eye. Unfortunately, Sirius was sticking by his new wife’s side like glue, giving Harry no opportunity to pull her aside. No matter – he would find an excuse one way or another.
That night, the group exchanged gifts with one another, since they wouldn’t have time the following day with the banquet preparations monopolizing their time. James gifted Harry with a golden watch – “a rite of passage for every wizard when he comes of-age,” he explained. “I wanted to give it to you on your birthday, but, well...things got a bit crazy.”
“That’s okay,” Harry nodded. “Thanks, Dad.” His seventeenth birthday had been a scary time for all of them, with Voldemort freshly lording over them after the Battle of London. It was a nice watch, but Harry valued it more for the gesture than the quality, vowing to keep it safe through the war.
Sirius gifted him a specialized wand holster, woven from acromantula silk, which allowed Harry to keep his Kneazle wand up his sleeve without even feeling it. Petunia got him a nice set of silver dishware – “For you and your wife,” she explained, as Harry suppressed a grimace at the reminder of his marital status. Meanwhile, Harry gifted his sister and cousin a self-study course planning kit (“Leave it to a bloody Ravenclaw,” Damian grumbled), and gave Sirius a novelty Muggle t-shirt he’d spotted in a London storefront near Diagon Alley. Sirius roared with laughter as he held up the shirt for all to see: it featured a puppy dog in a tuxedo, with the caption: ‘The Dogfather’.
“I’m going to wear this every day once my son is born!” he announced gleefully.
“Or daughter,” Amelia said quietly, though she too smiled at the tongue-in-cheek gift.
Harry saved his gift to his father for last: a silver ring, inset with small red gems, which he’d custom-ordered from a Muggle jewelry shop. James went silent when he unboxed the ring, holding it in trembling hands.
“It’s red, for Gryffindor,” Harry offered. “I thought it would look stylish on your hand.”
James slipped on the ring, examining it in the light. “Thank you, Harry,” he said in a choked voice.
Dahlia excused herself quickly to the bathroom, hiding her own tears. She too understood the hidden meaning that only the Potters knew, which Lockhart would never understand when he viewed the memory. The gems were garnets – Lily’s birthstone – a representation of the fourth family member that could not be with them this year. James slipped it onto his now-empty ring finger, fighting to keep his emotions in check as the rest of the family watched on in confusion.
The rest of the night was spent sitting beside the fire, swapping stories and enjoying one another’s company. It was a pleasant time of laughter and merriment, a welcome reprieve from the darkness surrounding them. Harry only wished that Lily, Remus and Alessia could have been with them...hopefully next Christmas they would all be together again without the specter of war hanging over their heads.
Harry couldn’t help but feel optimistic as he went to bed that night. For the first time in ages, he felt that he was finally making progress on destroying the remaining horcruxes. He now had a strong lead on where the Cup of Hufflepuff was located, and just needed to craft a plan to pull the Sword of Gryffindor out of the Sorting Hat and hunt down Nagini. That, on top of the pleasant evening with his family, left him filled with hope for the future for the first time in many months.
That feeling persisted into the next morning, as Harry awoke to clear and sunny skies to herald the Christmas holiday. He walked downstairs in a good mood, only to find that much of the house was already awake around the breakfast table. Sirius was wearing a goofy red hat and prancing about the kitchen, attempting to dance with his wife as she helped the other adults cook breakfast, all while Dahlia and Damian watched on from the table, bemused.
“Look what the Kneazle dragged in!” Sirius laughed at the sight of Harry, wrapping his godson in a tight hug. “Happy Christmas, Harry.”
“Happy Christmas,” Harry agreed, looking around the room – everyone appeared to be in high spirits, even higher than yesterday. “What’s going on?”
“An unexpected Christmas gift arrived this morning,” said James, approaching with a tired smile on his face. Harry hadn’t seen him look so happy in months. “The world lost a Dark Lord today.”
“What!?” Harry exclaimed, his heart leaping at the news. For the briefest of moments, he envisioned a world where Voldemort had actually died, Neville having slain him and ended the war overnight. James handed Harry that morning’s edition of The Daily Prophet, and when Harry read the headline, his heart leapt into his throat:
GELLERT GRINDELWALD FOUND DEAD IN PRISON CELL!
By Regina Hornsby, The Daily Prophet
“Last night, ICW forces on patrol at Nurmengard Prison performed a cell check and discovered that Gellert Grindelwald, infamous Dark wizard and perpetrator of countless crimes during the Great Wizarding War of the 1940’s, had died in his sleep. Grindelwald, aged 115, had reportedly been in poor health in the final months of his life, having spent over 50 years in his cell with no access to magic.
‘The wizarding world can breathe easier knowing that a man as dangerous as Gellert Grindelwald is no more,’ said Supreme Mugwump Tariq Onai in a statement to the international press. ‘His remains were cremated shortly after his body was discovered, as his home nation of Austria rejected our offers to return the body to its country of origin.’
Onai also mention ed ongoing plans to convert Nurmengard Prison into a museum and tourist destination, to ensure future generations remember his terrible crimes and the victims who lost their lives opposing him. The prison was built by Grindelwald himself in the 1930’s to house political prisoners who opposed him during the war, before he was ironically imprisoned there himself in 1945 until his death. No timeline has been announced regarding the opening of this museum.
Minister James Potter could not be reached for comment. He is due to be married later today to Andromeda Black, as per his promise to adhere to the new marriage laws. The Prophet can only assume that this news comes as an unexpected but welcomed wedding present for the newlyweds.”
“For once, the Prophet is correct!” James laughed, giving Harry a hug. “The world just got a little bit safer today...can you imagine better news?”
Harry forced a smile to his face as he sat at the breakfast table. But internally, his mind was racing, trying to process what this meant. Grindelwald was dead? The Prophet made it sound like natural causes, but he had a hard time believing that. The man had been in perfectly good health when Harry saw him back in June, and somehow, dying in his sleep to a Muggle illness didn’t strike Harry as the most likely outcome for a wizard of his caliber. There had to be more to the story.
Harry remembered Snape’s dire warning after their conversation in his office weeks prior. Voldemort actively sought the Elder Wand...had he followed the trail to Grindelwald? Had he paid the man a visit in his cell as Harry did? That was a terrifying prospect, because Grindelwald knew far too much about Harry that could ruin everything he’d been working on. And Grindelwald clearly sympathized with Voldemort’s mission of blood purity...he would have every incentive to tell the Dark Lord exactly what kind of threat Harry posed to him.
Suddenly Harry was gripped by a sense of panic as he realized that Voldemort could be on his way to kill him right this very second. Perhaps he had learned the truth before killing Grindelwald...he knew Harry was working against him...he was en route to Britain from Switzerland, prepared to strike down the Potters once and for all…
Calm down, Harry told himself. If the papers are already reporting it, he’s been dead for a while now. If Voldemort WAS after the Potters, he would have been here by now, and surely Harry’s Dark Mark would be going haywire as he sought to locate him. The Mark lay curiously dormant at the moment, giving Harry no indication as to what frame of mind Voldemort might be in. He forced himself to slow his thoughts and think about this rationally.
There were three possibilities that he could think of. One, Voldemort hadn’t been involved in the man’s death at all – Harry found that unlikely, as the timing was too suspicious. Two, Voldemort had attempted to extract information from Grindelwald and killed him when he refused to cooperate. The man had resisted Harry’s attempts to Obliviate him, after all, so perhaps he was able to evade Voldemort’s brutal Legilimency methods.
The third possibility is what scared Harry the most. Voldemort may have found exactly what he was looking for before killing Grindelwald to hide the evidence. He knew of Harry’s treachery and was plotting a trap of some kind...perhaps at tonight’s banquet. All of the Dark Lord’s enemies would be in attendance, after all – it would be the perfect opportunity to draw them out of hiding and take them out in one fell swoop.
Luckily, the room was in such a jovial mood that nobody seemed to sense Harry’s internal turmoil. Nobody but Dahlia, that is – she gave Harry an odd look, as if sensing that something was wrong. Damian too was watching Harry closely, having picked up on his body language to realize there was more to the story than anyone else knew. Harry just gave them reassuring nods as breakfast was served, not wanting to spoil the festive atmosphere.
The adults all left soon after the meal was done to begin preparing for the banquet. Harry wanted to warn them, to give them all a heads-up that Voldemort might be plotting something, but knew it was too risky. If he was wrong, and Lockhart viewed the memory of his warning, it would tip Voldemort off that Harry had done something to displease him. He would simply have to be on his guard throughout the banquet and do his best to protect his loved ones if the worst were to happen.
Harry excused himself after the meal to take a shower, dousing himself in icy cold water in an attempt to drown his fears. Both Dahlia and Damian were waiting for him when he emerged from the bathroom, looking concerned. “What’s going on?” Dahlia demanded in an undertone. “Is something wrong?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Harry muttered. “Nothing to worry about right now.” He brushed past them towards his room to change, but they followed him.
“You look like you saw a ghost in there,” Damian remarked. “Did it have something to do with that Grindelwald bloke?”
“It might’ve,” Harry said evasively. “Listen, just be on your guards tonight, okay? Keep those Portkeys I gave you close by at the banquet. If I give the signal, you two get yourselves to safety, no matter what. Understood?”
Both looked like they wanted to argue, but fell silent at Harry’s stern look. “Alright,” Dahlia sighed. “You aren’t involved in this somehow, are you?”
“I don’t know,” Harry said honestly. “But I’m keeping my head low in the meantime, and you should do the same.” The two teens looked at each other nervously before nodding in agreement.
Harry tried to put his worries aside as he prepared for the banquet along with his family. The house was a whirlwind of activity as everyone got dressed and bustled around preparing for the big event. It was to be held at Sirius’ manor in the countryside, and according to his godfather, it had quite the extensive guest list, requiring months’ worth of preparation in only a few short weeks.
“Ready to go?” Harry asked Dahlia as she descended the stairs in an elegant green gown.
Dahlia gave Harry an odd look. “Yes,” she said slowly. “But why are you asking me that, and not your wife?”
“Damn,” Harry groaned. He’d once again forgotten his responsibility to Daphne, realizing that he would be expected to make a public show of support for his father alongside her. He Apparated to the Greengrass safe house, where thankfully Daphne was still getting ready...it would have been awkward if he had to explain he almost forgot he was married, again, today of all days.
He and Daphne took the Floo to Sirius’ manor, which was lavishly decorated for the occasion. A string quartet played soothing music; guests mingled in their finest apparel; house-elves glided around the room with trays of appetizers and drinks. Harry recognized Ministry officials, Wizengamot members, prominent citizens, and even some reporters milling about the space...it helped him to marginally relax, figuring that Voldemort surely wouldn’t cause a panic at such a high-profile event.
Harry had no clue how to behave in a setting like this, but thankfully, Daphne did. She took his arm and glided gracefully around the manor with him, greeting guests and engaging them in conversation. Harry did his best to be polite and cordial with every smiling face who offered their hand to him. Fortunately, Daphne did not allow them to linger too long in each social circle, making convenient excuses to move along after a minute or two of conversation. She was an expert in these social settings, and he was grateful to have her leading the charge on his behalf.
He kept an eye on the Death Eaters that were ever-present at the event, mingling with the rest of the guests as though nothing were out of the ordinary. They stuck mostly to themselves, but Harry thought they looked bored more than anything. If they had something planned – if Voldemort had conscripted them for an ambush – they sure weren’t showing signs of it right now. In fact, most of them appeared preoccupied with entertaining their young new brides, dolled up in conservative dresses, who mostly looked like they wanted nothing to do with their husbands.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the ceremony is about to begin!” someone announced. They were ushered into the main ballroom, where guests were seated around a number of tables as the main delegation took to the stage. The setup was reminiscent of the Minister’s Ball not long ago, causing Harry to worry, but so far everything seemed to be normal. Perhaps he was over-reacting to the Grindelwald news after all…
Adding to Harry’s growing comfort was that Voldemort did not appear to be present at the banquet at all. The proceedings were led by a portly Ministry official, who took to the stage and began to speak eloquently about the new marriage laws and the Minister’s commitment to them. Harry kept one eye on the crowd all throughout the speech, still half-expecting some kind of reprisal or twist, but none ever came. It seemed the banquet was purely for public enjoyment after all.
The wedding ceremony itself was mercifully short. James and Andromeda were invited on stage to clasp hands as the Ministry official had them exchange vows. He waved his wand over the pair, causing a ripple of magic to bond the two, and he declared them man and wife, to polite applause from the crowd.
From there, the night transitioned to a social event, as guests mingled and conversed with one another. Harry was approached by all sorts of people, each seeking to introduce themselves, to offer their support. “Let me know if you decide to run for a seat on the Wizengamot after graduation,” one elderly wizard told Harry. “I’m certain you could win, and I can help mold you into a perfect politician, believe you me!”
“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks,” Harry said politely, before Daphne steered him away.
“Lord Bancroft wouldn’t know what a good politician looked like if one stabbed him in the back,” Daphne muttered as they walked away. “He’s been on the court for ten years and hasn’t passed a single piece of useful legislation.”
“He seemed well-meaning enough,” Harry shrugged. He had no intention of joining the Wizengamot anyway – if he survived this war, he wanted to stay as far away from politics as possible for the rest of his life.
He and Daphne continued to court guests around the ballroom throughout the evening, as Harry mentally counted down the hours until he could finally go home. Eventually Daphne was pulled away to help Astoria after a drunken guest spilled champagne all over her dress. Harry wandered around the space listlessly, unsure where to be, who to talk to. He began to seek out a friendly face in the crowd when a less-than-friendly voice called out from behind him:
“Evening, Heir Potter.”
Harry turned, his heart stopping as Rodolphus Lestrange approached him. Is this the trap? he wondered. Has he been tasked to kill me? To lure me somewhere Voldemort can deal with me personally? But Rodolphus didn’t appear threatening; he had one hand casually folded behind his back, the other clutching a half-full glass of champagne.
“Lord Lestrange,” Harry said nervously, inclining his head. They stood there awkwardly for a moment, sizing each other up.
“I guess you must think I want to hurt you,” said Rodolphus. “On account of you murdering my wife.”
“The thought did cross my mind, yeah,” Harry muttered. Rodolphus leered at him for another tense moment of silence, before a broad smile crossed his features.
“What’s past is past, Potter,” he guffawed, clapping Harry on the back. “Truth be told, Bellatrix was a bit of a handful. More dedicated to her master than her husband, if you know what I mean...didn’t get any action in my thirties. Not much of a looker by the end, either...but Merlin, you should have seen her at Hogwarts! Everyone wanted a taste of the poisoned apple back then.”
Harry was perplexed as the man rambled on. It took him a moment to realize that Rodolphus meant him no harm – he appeared to be currying favor with the Minister’s son, as though they were simply two colleagues schmoozing at a work function together.
“I oughtta thank you if anything,” Rodolphus grinned. “If you hadn’ta done it, I wouldn’t have gotten my hands on two fine broads at once.” And he gestured over towards his seat, where Flora and Hestia Carrow sat sullenly together, while Rabastan chatted amicably with Barty Crouch Jr. beside them.
“I didn’t realize they were of-age yet,” Harry muttered, half to himself – the twins were a year below him at Hogwarts, and hadn’t been pulled from the school yet.
“Not ‘til April,” Rodolphus said with a twinge of regret. “But I suppose a few months is worth the wait for the ripest fruit, eh? That’s the best part of being a man, of course: as you get older, the pretty witches stay the same age!”
Harry very badly wanted to draw his wand and hex Rodolphus into next week. It took every ounce of willpower not to flay the man alive for his disgusting comments, knowing what kind of problems it would cause. Luckily, Rodolphus misinterpreted his silence as confusion.
“Ah, but who m’I kidding? You’re too young to understand that yet,” he chuckled, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Enjoy your wife now, while her good bits are all still in the right places. And say, if you ever feel like sharing, I wouldn’t mind sampling from other people’s platters...I’d happily return the favor with my own.”
“I’ll pass on that, thanks,” Harry muttered. He excused himself soon after, not able to put enough distance between himself and Rodolphus for his liking. His hit list of people whom he would not allow to survive the war was growing rapidly, and now his only regret was not casting more Killing Curses atop the Astronomy Tower six months prior.
Rodolphus was not the only Death Eater to approach Harry that night, either. A few more low-level foot soldiers came up to offer their congratulations, acting cordial and even reverent towards him. It was more evidence that tonight was not any kind of trap – it was merely an excuse for the pure-bloods to let loose and enjoy the spoils of their victory. Everyone looked relaxed, even bored, as they mingled with the rest of high society. To them, the war was already over, and they were now focused on climbing the social ladder in Voldemort’s new regime.
Harry spotted Amelia across the room, sitting at an empty table with a large exhale. Sirius was elsewhere, stuck in conversation with a couple of wealthy pure-bloods that no doubt sought his investment in some shady deal. It was the perfect opportunity for Harry to speak with Amelia in private, so he made his way through the crowd towards her.
“Doing alright, Amelia?” Harry asked her as he sat beside her.
“Just fine, thanks Harry,” she grimaced as she massaged her baby bump. “Little tyke is just kicking up a storm in there...he’s desperate for attention, I think.”
“He?” Harry repeated, arching an eyebrow. “Not she?”
Amelia sighed, glancing towards Sirius. “I can already tell I’m producing another troublemaker like his father,” she lamented. “No daughter of mine would dare behave so improperly.”
Harry chuckled at this...if she was bearing another mini-Sirius, she was going to have her hands full as a mother. “Do you have a minute to talk?” he asked her.
“Of course,” said Amelia, turning to give him her full attention. “Is everything alright?”
Harry glanced around the room to see if anyone was nearby listening in. He drew his wand and cast Muffling Charms and Notice-Me-Not Wards around their table, causing Amelia to arch an eyebrow.
“I need your help,” he said in an undertone. “Can you keep this confidential?”
“Er...I suppose,” Amelia muttered. “Are you in some kind of trouble, Harry?”
“Can you keep it from Sirius, too?” Harry asked pointedly. “And my father? I don’t want this getting back to Lockhart somehow.”
“You have my word,” Amelia said.
Harry considered what exactly to say. He didn’t want to reveal too much, lest Amelia were to give birth and Lockhart resumed his memory invasions on her. But he needed specific information, and he couldn’t afford to beat around the bush too much.
“You’ve worked with Sirius in the past on Gringotts affairs,” he said. “So you must know a bit about how the Black family finances work.”
“I’d say so,” Amelia nodded. “They are complex, built from centuries of shady deals and bribes, but I’ve learned a good amount.”
“How much control does Sirius have over his relatives, as the Lord Black?”” Harry asked. “Say, his cousins?”
Amelia blinked in surprise at the question. “It depends,” she muttered. “Andromeda was brought back into the family by Sirius after Ted’s death, though now I suppose she’ll be tied to your father’s accounts. Bellatrix and Narcissa married into other families, so they fall under the Lestrange and Malfoy guidelines, which I’m less familiar with.”
“So because Bellatrix was a Lestrange,” Harry said slowly, “her assets would have been passed on to her husband after her death, correct? And Sirius would have no claim over them?”
“I assume so,” said Amelia.
“So there’s no way he could figure a way to get into the Lestrange vault?” Harry asked. “If he needed something that once belonged to Bellatrix?”
Amelia frowned at him. “Why are you asking these things, Harry?” she asked. “What does this have to do with you?”
“I’m afraid it’s important,” Harry sighed. “There’s something in that vault that I need. And if I can get it without breaking in, I’d prefer that option.”
Amelia’s eyes widened at this statement. “Surely you’re joking?” she gasped. “What have you gotten yourself into that you’re contemplating breaking into a Gringotts vault?”
“I think it would be too dangerous to tell you that,” Harry said evasively. “The fewer people that know about this, the better. Is there any way you can help me, without tipping off Sirius?”
Amelia clearly did not like this answer. She pondered his question in silence, studying his face with a look of deep concern.
“I’m afraid that’s a bit beyond my purview,” she sighed. “Every pure-blood family handles their finances differently, and what you’re asking depends on how House Lestrange has structured things.”
“I see,” said Harry, disappointed. “Well, thanks anyway, I guess.”
He and Amelia sat in silence for a moment, watching attendees waft by their table. James and Andromeda were nearby, accepting well-wishes from guests while trying to find a quiet place to sit.
“Maybe she can help,” Harry muttered.
“Who?” asked Amelia.
“Andromeda. She’s Bellatrix’s sister – if anyone would know these things, it would be her.”
“She is still subject to weekly memory scans from Lockhart,” said Amelia. “She’s not exempt like I am, since she is not pregnant.”
“No,” said Harry thoughtfully. “Not yet, anyway.”
Amelia gave him an exasperated look. “Harry, I know you probably don’t want to hear about your parents’ intimate lives, but I can assure you your father has no intention of procreating with Andromeda,” she said.
“I know that,” said Harry. “But they would be expected to, right? And if she said she was pregnant, people would have to believe it? Including Lockhart?”
Amelia blinked once more in surprise. “In theory, yes,” she said. “But the ruse would only work for so long, as I’m sure you realize. You can’t fake a pregnancy for very long before someone notices.”
“I know,” said Harry. “But we’re running out of time anyway. With luck, the war would be over before that becomes a problem.”
“What are you planning, Harry?” said Amelia. “This is extremely dangerous.”
“I don’t know how much I should tell you,” said Harry. “But I’m working on something to help us win the war, and I need what’s in that vault to do it. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. Do you think you can help me?”
Amelia massaged her temple, hands shaking – she was clearly stressed out about this prospect. “I will speak to Andromeda about it, when things have calmed down a little,” she said. “It will have to be weeks from now, or else a pregnancy would be implausible. And I cannot guarantee that she will agree...in fact, I may have to Obliviate her if she decides that it would put her in too great of danger.”
“She’s already in great danger,” Harry pointed out. “This arrangement will only last until Voldemort has no more use for us, then we’ll all be killed. I promise that this is our best chance of avoiding that outcome.”
“I will relay that message,” said Amelia. “Please tell me that you know what you’re doing?”
“I hope so,” Harry said honestly. “Write to me if she’s willing to meet. I can sneak out of the castle pretty easily to talk to her about all this.”
Amelia gave Harry a look that was hard to place. A mixture of worry, sorrow, and fear, recognizing the danger he was putting himself in. “Anything else you need help with?” she sighed.
“Not at the moment,” said Harry. “Wait...you weren’t in Gryffindor at Hogwarts, were you?”
“Ravenclaw,” said Amelia. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” Harry muttered. He had considered asking her for help with the Sorting Hat, but she would not be able to procure the Sword herself. He would just have to keep brainstorming ways to generate the right ‘need’ to satisfy its requirements.
Amelia looked like she was going to say more, but a commotion across the room interrupted their conversation. Harry looked up to see his father and Sirius engaged in some kind of altercation near the center of the room, as guests and reporters alike looked on. Harry quickly canceled his enchantments and rushed across the room towards them.
James and Sirius both seemed to be attempting to assault a shorter man, dressed in a hideous corduroy suit. Sirius reared back as if to punch the man in the head, but Harry caught his arm, preventing the blow from landing.
“Let me at him!” Sirius growled, as the intended target slipped and slid across the floor to escape his assailants. Harry realized that it was Peter Pettigrew.
“What’s going on?” Harry demanded, as he was forced to also grab his father to hold him back.
“I’m not letting this sonuvabitch near my daughter,” James snarled, glaring daggers at Peter. Harry turned; Peter got to his feet, dusting himself off indignantly.
“I simply wished for a dance with my new fiancee,” Peter grumbled.
“She’s sixteen, you twat!” Sirius roared. “You stay away from her!”
“You can’t keep me from her forever!” Peter said petulantly. “She’s mine as soon as she comes of-age...you might as well get used to that fact now!”
“Peter, leave,” Harry said pointedly to the man. Peter looked like he wanted to retort, but saw the look in Harry’s eye, promising extreme retribution, and backed off. He scurried away towards the exit and out of sight.
Harry finally let James and Sirius go. “What’s that matter with you two?” he demanded in an undertone. “Causing a scene in public like that?”
But James was barely paying attention to his son, still watching Peter retreat. “Never in a million years…” he was muttering angrily. “One of my oldest friends...my only daughter...over my dead body…”
Harry glanced around; people were gawking at them from the crowd. A reporter raised his camera to snap a shot for the press; Harry quietly flicked his wand from within his sleeve, causing the film in the canister to evaporate in a puff of smoke, as the perplexed reporter tried to figure out what the problem was.
“Sirius, go to your wife,” Harry barked at his godfather, beckoning towards Amelia sitting by herself in the corner. “Dad, come with me.”
He steered James away from the crowd towards the back door. They emerged in the cold winter air on the balcony, overlooking the grounds of the manor below. Harry charmed all the windows to fog up so that nobody could spy on them from inside the manor. James began to angrily pace about the balcony; Harry hoped he would calm himself down eventually before rejoining the party.
James fished into his dress robes for a moment, and Harry was surprised to see him withdraw a pack of Muggle cigarettes. “Nasty habit, I know,” James grumbled as he brought one to his mouth and lit it with his wand. “But it’s better than the bottle, isn’t it?”
James leaned against the banister and took a deep drag of his cigarette. He offered the pack to Harry – he had never smoked before, but he accepted one anyway. The smoke felt harsh against his throat going down, but after a few drags his mind went peacefully quiet and he quickly understood the appeal.
“You know you can’t make a scene like that in public,” Harry admonished his father. “People will talk, and the Prophet might write about it tomorrow.”
“I’ll owl the editor and make sure that doesn’t happen,” James said bitterly. “Besides, I should’ve done far worse to that prick Pettigrew. The gall he has to think he can take advantage of my Dahlia!”
“He is a slimeball,” Harry agreed. “But Dahlia can stick up for herself, you know. If he tried anything before she came of-age, she’d let him have it, and he’d be the one embarrassed in the Prophet, not you.”
“Yeah, probably,” James conceded. “Still, I wouldn’t have minded breaking that little rat’s nose.”
“You’re not alone,” Harry said darkly. They stood in silence for several minutes, smoking their cigarettes and staring out across the grounds. Harry lamented that he could not talk openly to his father, that he could not reassure him the war was not lost, that they would have the opportunity for revenge soon. He would simply have to finish this war quickly before James cracked under the pressure.
“I feel like I’m failing as a father,” James admitted weakly. “For both you and your sister. I don’t know how to help you any more.”
“Yes, you do,” Harry said firmly. “The best think you can do to help us is stay the course. Keep doing what you’ve been doing. As long as you do your job and play your part, we’re safe.”
Harry knew he had to be careful with his words. Lockhart would surely see this memory, so Harry couldn’t advise James to do anything that would get him in trouble. He hoped this generic advice would satisfy Voldemort’s desire to keep the Potters in line, while also reminding James of the stakes involved were he to stray from the path. They all had to just keep going a little while longer, until Harry could complete his tasks and bring the war to a close.
James remained thoughtfully silent for a long while, fiddling with the silver garnet ring on his finger as he finished his smoke. He eventually flicked the remainder over the banister into a snowbank. “I’d best go and find my wife,” he said, laughing bitterly at the new implications of that word. “Good night, son.”
“Good night, Dad,” said Harry. He remained out in the cold a while longer, not feeling like rejoining the festivities any time soon. He stared out across the moonlit grounds, deep in thought, plotting his next moves, looking ahead to a hopefully brighter future—
He froze. The darkened grounds showed no signs of danger, but suddenly Harry felt a disturbance in the air. Something was wrong. His Dark Mark remained dormant, yet he could not shake the feeling that the energy around him had shifted. That he was being watched.
Who could be out lurking in the darkness? A reporter trying to get a candid shot? A party crasher? Or something more sinister? Harry was paranoid enough thanks to the Grindelwald article that he wasn’t going to remain idle and wait to find out.
He returned into the manor, then quickly retreated downstairs to ground level. He stepped out onto the cold grounds, Disillusioning himself and quietly creeping away from the manor to see who was lurking nearby. He kept his ears strained, listening for any sign of disturbance; all he heard was the quiet whistling of wind and distant chatter of wildlife.
Perhaps the person had been scared away by his approach. Perhaps they’d either rejoined the party or left the grounds...it seemed that Harry was quite alone. He stood quietly for a moment, still listening, figuring his paranoia was just getting the better of him. He was simply on-edge from the Grindelwald news, and seeing ghosts where there were none—
Then, without conscious thought, he whipped around and fired a Stunning Spell into the darkness. There was a brief yelp and a crunching of snow as somebody toppled over to the ground. Harry lit his wand and hurried forward towards the disturbance.
There was a divot in a snowbank where somebody invisible had toppled over, felled by the Stunner. “Finite incantatem,” Harry whispered. The Disillusionment Charm on the mystery individual lifted, and Harry had to suppress a loud gasp of surprise. It wasn’t a reporter. Nor was it a guest of the banquet, or even a Death Eater. The person looked gaunt and ghostly white, like a specter from Harry’s past, reappearing at the moment he least expected it.
Harry stared blankly at the unconscious form of Ron Weasley lying in the snow before him.