The Evans Boy: Victims of Peace

by lonibal

Summary:

Part 3 of The Evans Boy

Deathly Hallows stuff

Chapter 1: Personal Effects

Summary:

Prologue - July 1997

A full week after Dumbledore’s funeral, Headmistress Minerva McGonagall had finally deigned to relinquish the items stipulated in his will.

Acting Headmistress Minerva McGonagall. 

As Percy journeyed to where Dumbledore’s effects were being held, he ruminated on how McGonagall had yet to be officially declared as the headmistress of Hogwarts. The Board of Governors, in the wake of Dumbledore’s death, had to first determine whether the school would continue its operations. The obvious answer was yes, what else would Hogwarts do? What would they do with hundreds of magical children? Consign them to a wandless, ignorant existence? They could be educated at home, but that was uncommon and ill-advised. 

Percy’s own education at home consisted of learning to read and write, basic arithmetic, and little by the way of actual magic. Most of his knowledge of the magical world had, before Hogwarts, been acquired via osmosis, and by virtue of being raised in that world. 

What recourse did a muggleborn child have? How would a muggle or squib parent teach that child magic? They couldn’t even get into Diagon Alley on their own. 

Percy pressed the button for the lift, frowning at the unnecessary banging and clattering. Magical Maintenance had failed on multiple occasions to address the noise. They couldn’t identify the source of it, nor even what, if anything, to cast a silencing charm on, so everyone at the Ministry had to endure the commotion. As with the lilac-colored paper airplanes that flew around like swarms of gnats, the noisy lifts were something that was eventually relegated to the background. 

Most of the time, Percy didn’t notice the noise. In this moment, when he was going down to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to view some items he had neither reason nor permission to view, Percy’s awareness was heightened. 

Visiting Magical Law Enforcement carried with it a risk of encountering his father. 

When the lift at long last arrived, Percy was pleased to see it was empty. He stepped in, then pressed the button for Level Two. Belatedly, it occurred to him that he could have taken the stairs. The lift shuddered, and began descending. The Ministry’s stairs were not so labyrinthine as those of Hogwarts, but once in a while something inexplicable happened behind the walls of the Ministry. Harry had pranced up and down the things at will. The few others who could navigate the staircases were in Magical Maintenance. And yet, they were defied by noisy lifts. 

Arriving on Level Two was akin to stepping into a war room. The failure to locate the Azkaban escapees had eaten away at morale for months, but now there was a new manhunt at hand. Now, the Ministry was mobilized in its search for Severus Snape. The public was up in arms. They clamored for Professor Snape’s blood, for Azkaban, for the Kiss.

Percy waded through the uproar, the maelstrom of posters featuring an aloof Severus Snape, staring out at them as if judging this overreaction.

The response to Dumbledore’s death was not limited to Britain. The entire magical world was impacted by his demise. Albus Dumbledore was prominent not only in Britain, but was a force in the international magical committee. His historic defeat of Gellert Grindelwald, his advances in alchemy, his position in the International Confederation of Wizards; Dumbledore was the grandfatherly, slightly barmy headmaster of Hogwarts, but he was also acclaimed as the greatest living wizard. Rather, he had been. Now he was among the revered dead.

As such, the calls for Severus Snape’s capture were not limited to magical Britain. The entire magical world was out to get him. There was no safe place for Severus Snape, within Britain or without, not when every magical government was aligned in their desire to bring him to justice.

Percy skirted the furor of the Auror Office and discreetly made his way to where confiscated items were stored. No other magical governments would actually lend resources or offer aid in capturing Professor Snape. The threat of the Dark Lord, and the anticipated collapse of the Ministry, held them at a remove. If Professor Snape was seen abroad, they would take perfunctory action to capture him, but there would be no international coalition sweeping the whole of Britain to find the man. Not that anyone could; if they couldn’t catch Harry, there was no hope of catching his father.

Percy paused in front of the storage room. Being the assistant to the Minister offered myriad privileges, including access to nearly every part of the Ministry. Should something require retrieval at the Minister’s behest, Percy was readily available. This was not blanket permission. Dumbledore’s will was not a public document. There were, however, certain beneficiaries of interest to Percy. Of interest to Harry.

Percy opened the door.

Not wanting to dawdle, Percy made quick work of navigating the shelves. 

Harry’s father was currently the most hated man in magical Britain. He was almost more hated than the Dark Lord, which was an achievement unto itself. Professor Snape had only killed one man. The Dark Lord had personally killed hundreds, muggle and magical alike, and was responsible for the deaths of thousands more. Their society had been on the brink of collapse. Were it not for the brave, selfless act of one mother protecting her son, the landscape of the magical world would have been completely altered. Of the entire world, if the Dark Lord instituted the genocide or enslavement of muggles. Perhaps the ICW would have staged a nuclear attack against Britain and, to the muggles, wiped it off the map rather than let it spread. Preserve the Statute of Secrecy. Let the Dark Lord have it. 

Percy arrived at the correct box. The main financial beneficiaries of Dumbledore’s will were his brother, Aberforth Dumbledore, and his aunt’s family. The bulk of his estate went to them, and to an endowment for Hogwarts to provide for orphaned or otherwise impoverished students. A noble gesture. His more salable effects—his personal library, his collection of artifacts and trinkets, his papers—were left to Hogwarts and the Hogwarts Archives. In a curious act of the deceased, there were three items excluded from this generosity. 

The first, and least reasonable, was the Sword of Gryffindor. No one knew where the Sword of Gryffindor was. No one had seen it in centuries. Despite this, with no explanation, Dumbledore had attempted to bequeath it to Neville Longbottom. McGonagall refused to hand it over simply because she couldn’t. The Sword of Gryffindor was said to present itself to any worthy Gryffindor, which made one question what made a Gryffindor worthy as the sword hadn’t decided anyone was in either living or dead memory. 

The second item was a device of Dumbledore’s invention known as a Deluminator. As far as anyone could determine, it was a muggle cigarette lighter that consumed spheres of light. This Deluminator had been bequeathed to Luna Lovegood, and no one could deduce why.

The third, and most puzzling, bequeathment was a copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard. A book of fairy tales any magical child would know. Unlike most children with magical parents, Monty Potter had not been raised in the magical world. Why would Albus Dumbledore give that particular book to that particular boy? The only notable thing about the book was that it was a first edition copy, kept in excellent condition for five hundred years, and written entirely in runic script. 

Monty did not take Ancient Runes. 

Percy handled the book with care, flipping past stories he had heard from infancy. Ron’s favorite, Babbity Rabbity. Ginny’s favorite, The Wizard and the Hopping Pot. Percy’s favorite, The Fountain of Fair Fortune. A fountain that cured maladies that no Healers could. That would restore one’s health. 

There was something else, though. Something which the Ministry’s inspectors had failed to notice. While every other page was in its original condition, unmarred, one of the stories had been marked. At the beginning of The Tale of Three Brothers, at the very top of the page, there was a symbol. 

Percy straightened his glasses, then leaned closer to the book to get a better look. He knew he had seen the symbol before. A triangle inscribed with a circle, and a line bisecting both circle and triangle. 

Percy’s eyes widened when he finally made the connection. 

It was the mark of Grindelwald. 

Troubled, and more confused by this book being gifted to Monty Potter, Percy closed it and moved to place it back in the box. As he did, a glorious, perfect feeling washed over him. 

Every thought, worry, trouble, every aching part of him was swept away, like a window wiped clean of its stains. Percy was floating in a vat of contentment, of happiness, of completion. A pink, frothing vat in which he slowly drowned. He would never, ever resurface. 

It was wrong. 

Awareness slammed into Percy, and he swayed as he threw off the attempt to supplant his will. A cold sweat covered his body, and he was dizzy, painfully thirsty—the Imperius was an Unforgivable, powerful magic, it was too much, they would have killed him—but Percy returned the book to the box of Dumbledore’s bequeathments. He carefully withdrew his wand. 

“Homenum revelio.”

There was a crash of falling shelves, and abrupt light as the door to the storage room sprang open. The culprit was fleeing the scene of the crime. Percy narrowed his eyes, then another wave of dizziness nearly swamped him. He leaned against the shelf. Even without occlumency he was too obstinate to Imperius, but it would have taken him longer to throw it off.

Weakened, he sank to the ground and searched his robes. Like Harry—Harry would be livid when he heard this—Percy was now in the habit of carrying around what potions he needed. He was not going to die in a stupid, preventable way. He withdrew a syringe and scarcely had the cap off before jamming it into his leg. 

Percy sighed in relief, then slumped against the shelf.

A disturbance in the storage room.

If someone found him in here, he would say he heard a disturbance and was accosted. That would put the Ministry on higher alert. Right in the heart of the Magical Law Enforcement.

Whoever had tried to Imperius him was an idiot. His proximity to the Minister notwithstanding, he was Percy Prewett. Who did they think he was? He had never been more insulted in his life. 

Percy let his eyes fall shut, and took deep, steadying breaths. He needed to report this. He needed to return to his desk. He needed to tell Harry about this failed attempt. 

Someone had tried to take away his free will. 

Even within this tangled mess of affairs, a single thought loomed menacingly in Percy’s mind. 

It had begun. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2: Bad Vision

Summary:

July 1997

“Young master,” Kreacher said, peering over the edge of Monty’s bed. “What potion is that?”

Monty frowned at the silver vapor spilling out of the vial, dense and slow-moving, almost liquid in its appearance. 

“Draught of Peace,” Monty said, tipping the vial. The placid turquoise potion flowed to the lip. 

“That is a very dangerous potion,” Kreacher grumbled, one hand creeping over the side of the bed. “Master—”

“Is at an Order meeting,” Monty said flatly. “I’m only going to take a drop.”

Kreacher scowled. “Young master is up to no good. Young master is to wait for Master’s return.”

Hedwig shuffled on her perch, and even Hester looked up from where she draped over her rings.

“I’ve waited a week,” Monty said, closing his eyes. “I’ve waited a year. I’m not waiting any longer.”

Kreacher made an unhappy noise, then turned his milky, oversized eyes to what else lay on Monty’s bed. 

“This is too much,” Kreacher mumbled, looking over the dozens of vials and bottles that surrounded Monty. It was the only source of light in the otherwise dark room. The subtle, insubstantial light of his memories. 

“I agree,” Monty said, carefully placing a single drop of the potion onto a finger. “I’ve brewed this myself, so I know it’s safe.” Without waiting for another objection, Monty popped it into his mouth. 

Kreacher grumbled again, but Monty was beyond caring. A faint, soothing hum spread throughout him, like a baby sung to sleep by his mother’s lullaby. Monty could not remember his mum ever singing him a lullaby, but that didn’t matter. He couldn’t care. Tranquility smothered every other emotion that attempted to surface.

The Draught of Peace was orders of magnitude more potent than a Calming Draught. Peace itself was ever elusive, not something Monty had ever truly known even as the rest of the magical world moved on in Voldemort’s absence. Even the name Voldemort stirred no feeling in him. There was nothing wrong with the world. Nothing wrong with him. Only a quiet contentment, clandestinely brewed for one purpose. 

Monty lethargically corked the vial and handed it off to a distraught Kreacher. “I no longer need this,” he said from far away. 

The memories. He was surrounded by them. They were outside of him, and within were the scars of their removal. It gnawed at him like a forgotten dream, grasping the elusive threads of something lost, something which could never be regained. It didn’t hurt so much now, when nothing had never been wrong and could never be wrong, but the discordance was spread around him. This sour note tainted the peace the potion compelled. 

Monty reached for one memory. It wasn’t much, contained in a small, unbreakable vial. A potions vial. It was the first memory. The oldest one. One which had wrought a change Monty could not fully trace. Had it been intentional, or mere coincidence? Was there ever such a thing as coincidence with magic? Or had something older, deeper, more vast than they could comprehend, moved them all to that point in time?

Not many people knew they had met on the train. 

Something ran down Monty’s face. He slowly reached up to touch it. 

A tear. 

Monty brought the small vial to his eye. A thin, silver mist swirled within. Even through the unbreakable glass, he could feel its warmth. The shape of it taking form. The beginning of something. The end of everything. 

Monty held the vial to his mouth, and he breathed it in. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A quiet, black-haired boy looking up from his book. He could remember the title now. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. He had his own copy. A Christmas present.

Another tear ran down his cheek. 

Sweets tumbling from his hands. 

 

“You can have some too.”

 

The offer of a Chocolate Frog. 

 

“What’s your name?”

 

A small, warm smile. Fathomless black eyes seeking out his own. 

 

“Harry Evans.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

 

Harry leaned back in his chair, kicking his legs up onto the table. Bellatrix gave him a foul look, but he ignored her. He pulled his fingerless gloves down tighter, checking the fit. Jasmine had made them ages ago, but Harry rarely had occasion to wear them. Now, he didn’t have much of a choice. 

“My sister,” Bellatrix began. 

Harry snorted. “If she’s got a problem with it, she can tell me herself.”

Bellatrix half rose from her seat. “Narcissa is in mourning!” she spat. “And you dare defile her home with your foul presence!”

“I should write a book about it,” Harry said idly, examining his varnish. Did Percy like the black, or would he prefer purple? “Oh, the things you’ll defile!”

“You impudent, presumptuous, catam—”

“Bella.”

Bellatrix’s mouth snapped shut, and she slowly sat back down. “Master, please,” she said, turning to the Dark Lord imploringly. “Narcissa hasn’t left her rooms in days! Let me go to her, I beg you! She must see reason!”

The Dark Lord was unmoved by this request, and had a bored expression as he stroked Nagini’s head. 

“Your sister,” the Dark Lord said, emphasizing all the S’s. It was an asinine affectation, but who would tell that to the Dark Lord? “Should be honored to have Lord Voldemort grace her home. To sacrifice her son to our cause.”

“She is honored,” Bellatrix said hastily. “Honored beyond measure, as am I! Had I any children, it would be the greatest pleasure to sacrifice them to you!”

His dad gave him a look of warning, and Harry bit the inside of his cheek. 

Bellatrix had no idea the Dark Lord was a halfblood. Moreover, a halfblood raised in a muggle orphanage, whose mother was practically a squib. Descendant of Salazar Slytherin or not, the man was still a halfblood. He was living proof that pureblood was not synonymous with magical power. In fact, the Dark Lord was an argument for mixing with muggles. His mum making the beast with two backs with a muggle instead of her own brother had saved the Dark Lord from crawling around a rundown shack, garbling parseltongue at dead snakes. 

“It would be a pleasure,” the Dark Lord agreed, still stroking Nagini’s head. Bellatrix looked like she wanted to be Nagini, which would be a vast improvement. 

Harry cracked his back and looked up at the ceiling. He wanted a cigarette. They’d been sitting in this drawing room for a while, waiting for everyone to show up while Bellatrix made doe eyes at the Dark Lord. This was the Dark Lord’s inner circle, his most trusted Death Eaters, those not dead or in Azkaban. Bellatrix Lestrange. Lorcan Travers. Jasmine’s father, Augustus Rookwood. Greg’s father, Hartman Goyle. 

Harry’s dad, Severus Snape, was the most inner inner circle member that ever was in. He had killed Dumbledore. He was untouchable. 

Then there was, of course, Harry. He gave Bellatrix a lazy smile. He had helped salvage Draco’s botch job, confronted Dumbledore on his own before his dad showed up to finish him off. He was also untouchable, and Bellatrix detested it. 

A number of the Dark Lord’s most ardent followers were still in Azkaban, which was another thing they needed to deal with before things really kicked into gear. 

With Dumbledore ostensibly dead, the Dark Lord was more confident in moving against the Ministry. There would be no Dumbledore showing up to duel him out of the Atrium, if indeed the Dark Lord chose to personally seize power. Harry didn’t think the Dark Lord would, and his dad agreed. Even if the Dark Lord installed himself as the Minister, someone else would be doing all of the work. 

The doors to the drawing room finally opened, and Harry rolled his head over to look. It was Corban Yaxley, looking harassed. The blunt-faced man had been exposed as a Death Eater, which was enough to throw a wrench in anyone’s day. That he had been an auror made his fall from grace all the more humiliating. 

“You have tidings for Lord Voldemort?” the Dark Lord said. Harry let a small smile play on his lips, rather than burst out laughing. 

“My Lord,” Yaxley said, striding into the room. “I still have access.”

“Excellent,” the Dark Lord said. 

Harry quietly snorted. Percy had access. He could access all sorts of things. But Harry was not going to offer Percy’s services so readily, and the Dark Lord had yet to inquire. 

There was a twinge in Harry’s head. He kept his expression mildly amused, and his eyes fixed on Yaxley. He would not show any reaction. 

“There was a minor incident,” Yaxley said. “I ran into Scrimgeour’s—”

The pain in Harry’s head suddenly became excruciating, and the Dark Lord released an unearthly scream.

Harry’s eyes watered, and that wasn’t something he could control. He leapt out of his seat like everyone else, getting his wand out and looking around the room, even though he knew the source of the Dark Lord’s distress. The Dark Lord screamed over and over again, a piercing wail that grated on every sense, and Nagini was hissing wildly, swinging her head around, and Bellatrix was shouting, and the Dark Lord was shaking violently, tossing his head around like Nagini, his red eyes rolling to the back of his head as he screamed, and screamed, and screamed. 

“Master!”

“My Lord!”

“Severus! Do something!”

“Master!”

Harry met his dad’s eyes, fear threatening to unravel his composure. Something was happening to his brother, and he had no idea what. His dad could still get into wherever Monty and Sirius lived, he’d been let in on the secret, but they were with the Dark Lord. Neither of them could just run off. 

Bellatrix ran forward, only to get slammed aside by Nagini. Harry’s dad was there too, removing potions from his robes with one hand, casting a spell with another. 

Was Dumbleodore doing something? More worryingly, was Monty doing something to himself? 

Did he know?

Harry looked desperately at the Dark Lord, his head splitting apart, needing to know what was happening to his brother. Madly, he began to raise his wand. Legilimency. If he could see into the Dark Lord’s mind, see what was going on—

The screaming stopped. 

 

---

 

Molly Weasley bustled around the cramped dining room, serving tea and biscuits out of nervous habit. The room had recently been expanded to encompass its new purpose, the meeting room of the Order of the Phoenix. Despite this extended space, the room was packed with a paranoid number of dark detectors. Foe-Glasses and Sneakoscopes in all shapes and sizes, fading invisibility cloaks, whirring Secrecy Sensors and quivering Probity Probes. This deranged collection was one reason this was their new headquarters. It came with additional security. 

Mad-Eye Moody sat at the head of the table, the de facto leader after Dumbledore’s death. His electric blue eye was in constant motion; even though his house had been selected as the most likely to vanish off the face of the earth, and thus had the Fidelius Charm cast on it, the man was always waiting for an attack. Even his dustbins in the garden had been enchanted. He probably had CONSTANT VIGILANCE carved into his wooden leg. 

Sirius tapped his leg with his fingers, listening but offering no input as plans were made to establish more safehouses. Should the secret of the headquarters be betrayed—and Moody was convinced it would be—the Order needed places to retreat to. The Burrow, the homes of Kingsley Shacklebolt, Dedalus Diggle, Minerva McGonagall. Even Dung Fletcher’s bolthole in Knockturn Alley. Bill Weasley, near bursting with water these days, offered up the house he and his fiancée had been gifted in light of their impending wedding. 

“Good thing Albus switched secret-keepers,” someone remarked tearfully. 

It was a good thing, a suspiciously well-timed thing, that Dumbledore had recast the Fidelius Charm on Grimmauld Place and made Sirius secret-keeper. Only five people knew, or had known, the secret of Grimmauld Place. 

Sirius Black. 

Monty Potter. 

Andromeda Tonks.

Albus Dumbledore. 

Severus Snape. 

Sirius stopped tapping his leg, knowing that Moody could see straight through the table. Probably straight through his pants. 

Curiously, Snape had not been let in on the secret of Moody’s home. He had been too busy with final exams to attend any Order meetings. Too busy plotting the death of Dumbledore. 

Sirius didn’t have much thought to spare for this curiosity. He was worried about leaving Monty alone with only a mad six-hundred-year-old house-elf for company. Kreacher had explicit orders not to let Monty go haring off on his own. He had centuries of experience dealing with the varying madnesses of the Black family. Surely he could handle one teenage boy?

“Got an owl from the headmistress,” Moody growled. “They’re keeping Hogwarts open.”

Sirius nodded absently. This wasn’t new information. Even if they combined their forces, the Ministry and the Order could not protect every magical family in Britain. They could, at the very least, protect the children within Hogwarts. They should have been able to protect Hogwarts. 

“She needs a new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor,” Moody continued. 

“Now, more than ever,” Arthur Weasley said. He closed his eyes, pained. “I don’t know what we’re going to do with Ron.”

“Who’s it going to be?” Sirius asked. If Monty went back to school, there would have to be greater scrutiny as to who was hired.

“Me,” Moody said roughly. “Dumbledore had me on a list somewhere.”

There were mixed reactions from the people in the room who had Hogwarts-aged children. Moody had been one of the best aurors, certainly the most tenacious, but he wasn’t exactly a stable person. Nor one Sirius would place a child in the care of, particularly with that eye of his. Maybe he was the only one whose mind went there, but the man could see through robes. In a school filled with children? Now he had to look into enchanted undergarments to protect his godson. 

Sirius lit a cigarette, ignoring the few indignant looks he got, especially from the ones who didn’t have kids. They had no idea what sort of shit he had to deal with. 

Moody gave a lopsided grin at their reactions, then he faced Sirius and tapped his blue eye. “I can keep an eye on Potter.”

Sirius gave him an insincere smile. 

“Is Monty going back?” Molly asked worriedly. “I was thinking of keeping Ron and Ginny home.”

Sirius took a drag from his cigarette. He hadn’t bothered raising an objection to Monty’s desire to return to Hogwarts. Living constantly under Fidelius was no way to live. Even when they were in hiding without the Fidelius, James and Lily had been going stir-crazy. He wasn’t going to do that to Monty. 

“He wants to go,” Sirius said simply. 

Before anything else could be said on the matter, Kreacher appeared at his side. 

Sirius was instantly on his feet. “What is it? Did something happen?”

“How did that get in here?” Moody roared, brandishing his wand. “Black! You—”

“Master must come with me,” Kreacher said urgently. He seized Sirius’ sleeve, and Sirius was torn through space and time. 

Reality reasserted itself in a dim room filled with scattered glassware. His old bedroom. Monty’s bedroom. 

There was a heartbreaking scream, and Sirius moved. 

Monty was on his bed, surrounded by empty vials, staring up at the canopy, thrashing, screaming nonstop. 

“What happened?” Sirius shouted, tripping as he raced to the bed. 

“Kreacher doesn’t know!” Kreacher wailed. “Young master took a potion, and then he took the memories—”

“Get Andromeda!” Sirius snapped. He had always trusted Andromeda, his favorite cousin, the only one of them who hadn’t gone wrong. She was a healer, and if a time came that it was no longer safe for Monty to go to St. Mungo’s or, in the worst case, it was no longer safe for him to leave Grimmauld Place, they needed someone with her skills. 

Kreacher vanished, and was back just as quickly. Andromeda stumbled, her face pale at the abrupt apparition.

Monty was still screaming. 

“Explain,” Andromeda commanded, staring down at the house-elf. 

Kreacher rambled something about the Draught of Peace—Sirius knew it was potent, addictive, didn’t know Monty had brewed any, that damn kid was going to do what Azkaban failed to do and completely drive him out of his mind—and how Monty had started reabsorbing his memories. 

“Memories?” Andromeda said, looking around the room. At the dozens and dozens of vials. “How many memories did he remove?”

Sirius licked his lips, then placed a hand on Monty’s forehead. The kid was burning up. “He removed all of his memories of Harry Evans. About five years’ worth.”

Andromeda looked staggered by this information.

“Five years?” she said, approaching the bed and looking down at Monty. She turned to Sirius. “Someone may remove one or two memories, ones they wish to examine, ones they cannot bear to live with. A few moments here or there. Sirius, this is…this is… I…” 

Andromeda took out her wand. “Move,” she ordered. Sirius quickly got out of her way. “He attempted to nullify any emotional or mental distress he experienced with the Draught of Peace. But fully restoring five years of memories...” 

Her expression hardened, and she pointed her wand at Monty. A soft white light washed over him. Sirius flinched. 

The screaming stopped. 

“He needs to be unconscious for his mind to adjust,” Andromeda said, lowering her wand. “If Severus…” She closed her eyes. “He is proficient in the mind arts. I have some familiarity, but my speciality lies in human transfiguration.”

Sirius looked helplessly at his unconscious godson, bracing his hands on the bed. “Why?” he said quietly. “Why didn’t you wait?”

“I cannot understate how reckless this is,” Andromeda said. “Monty will probably need some time to recover from this…incident.”

“How much time?” Sirius asked, looking up at her. Sirius knew the basics of occlumency and legilimency, but it always struck him as a bit creepy and he’d never had much interest. Snape was the only expert he knew, other than Dumbledore. Neither were an option. 

His eyes widened. Did Harry know occlumency? That was the sort of thing a kid like him needed to sneak around Voldemort. In fact, the more Sirius thought about it, the more he was convinced. And the kid had to be one hell of an occlumens if he had Voldemort fooled. 

Sirius looked down at Monty, and realized Harry had trusted him with something that could get him killed. That would get him killed. The sort of thing that a desperate sixteen-year-old might pull out of his own head. 

“Fuck,” Sirius said, sitting heavily on Monty’s bed. 

“Indeed,” Andromeda said. “I’ll need to do some research. There are likely similar cases.” She sighed, then lightly touched Sirius’ arm. He looked up at her. “This may simply be a case of being emotionally overwhelmed.” She looked at Monty again. “He does need rest, Sirius. It looks like the poor boy hasn’t slept in days.”

Sirius hung his head. “He’s been having sleep problems for years. Since that night, from what he’s told me. Nightmares.” And worse. Visions from Voldemort. Things no kid should have seen. But Sirius didn’t say that to Andromeda.

“I’m going to see what I can find,” Andromeda said gently. “Keep an eye on him. If he wakes up screaming, use a sleeping charm. Don’t,” she said firmly, “use another potion. That this is occurring while he is under the influence of the Draught of Peace is troubling.”

Sirius nodded. He wasn’t a healer. He didn’t fucking know what to do. He should have listened more closely when Monty said he wanted to get it over with. Sirius thought he meant a little at a time, not all at once, but of course his godson would go to the extreme. Of course he would. 

Sirius rubbed his eyes. “Thank you,” he said. 

“I’ll be back,” Andromeda said, before exiting the room. A minute later, Sirius heard the front door open. 

“The bloody Order will want to know what happened,” Sirius muttered. He sat up again and looked at Monty. He pushed back his godson’s hair, and felt a pang of guilt at how exhausted he looked. 

Monty was nearly as tall as James now. Same messy black hair, same bad vision. But that stubbornness? That was all Lily Evans. 

Evans. 

Evans.

Parent killed by Voldemort. 

Sirius shook his head. He wanted to ask Monty more, learn what he knew, but hadn’t wanted to push the kid before he was ready. Monty had already been pushed too far. One of these days…

Sirius sighed, then stood and begin cleaning up the room. 

 

---

 

The Dark Lord’s screaming stopped. 

His eyes suddenly rolled forward, his red glare fixing on Severus. Severus quickly backed away several steps. 

“Severus,” the Dark Lord said. “Why is your wand drawn?”

“My Lord,” Severus said carefully. “You were having…an episode.”

The Dark Lord stared at him. His hands were gripping the arms of his chair. Nagini was unconscious at his feet. 

“An episode,” the Dark Lord said slowly, as if testing the words. 

“Master!” Bellatrix cried, trying to shove Severus out of the way. He remained where he was, his attention on the Dark Lord. “What happened? Are you well? Please, allow me—”

“Silence,” the Dark Lord snapped. “Sit back down. Now.”

Bellatrix leapt to obey, while Severus was slower to react. He had to know. 

“Was it the boy?” he asked in a low tone. 

The Dark Lord’s eyes flashed with ire, and the wood under his fingers cracked. 

“His existence is inimical to my own,” the Dark Lord said, his voice deadly soft. “As mine is to his.” He fixed his gaze on Severus again. “The episode has passed.” He sneered. “Perhaps it was…misguided to taunt the boy so. But he will find no purchase in me. That path is now closed to him.”

Severus watched the Dark Lord for a moment longer, his mind racing with implications, then nodded stiffly and returned to his seat. 

“Yaxley,” the Dark Lord hissed. He clearly wanted to pretend whatever had happened hadn’t actually happened. “Proceed.”

Yaxley visibly hesitated, then collected himself. “Yes, my Lord. As I was saying, I came across Scrimgeour’s assistant.”

The Dark Lord’s eyes narrowed. Severus glanced at his son, who was doing an admirable job of feigning disinterest.

“I recalled what you said, my Lord,” Yaxley continued. “That we must surround the Minister—”

“I am familiar with my own words,” the Dark Lord said, leaning forward. “What did you do?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Yaxley said, squaring his shoulders. “My apologies. I attempted to place the blood traitor under Imperius.”

Severus briefly closed his eyes. 

Harry started laughing. 

Severus quietly sighed, then looked at his son. Harry was laughing so hard that he started to cough. 

The Dark Lord smiled at Harry, then looked at Yaxley again. “If I’m understanding correctly,” the Dark Lord said, “you attempted to place Percival Prewett under Imperius?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Yaxley said, glancing at Harry. 

“Yaxley,” the Dark Lord said, drawing his attention again. “Prewett is an ally.”

“My Lord?” Yaxley said. 

Harry laughed harder. “Of course it failed,” he choked out. He coughed a few times, then said, “Percy’s too stubborn for that. You can’t Imperius him, you stupid fucking piece of shit.” 

“What did you say to me?” Yaxley said, facing Harry. “Care to repeat that, mudblood?”

“Yaxley.”

Yaxley jerked, then looked at the Dark Lord again. 

“We do not Imperius our allies,” the Dark Lord told him. 

“My Lord,” Yaxley said, confused, “the Weasleys are known blood traitors!”

“He’s not a Weasley,” Harry said, no longer laughing. 

Severus closely watched his son as he rose from his seat. No, Harry was not amused. His face had gone eerily blank, and his wand was hanging loosely from his hand. The temperature in the drawing room plummeted.

Yaxley inadvertently took a step back. He looked at the Dark Lord again. “My Lord, I didn’t—”

The Dark Lord wasn’t looking at Yaxley. He was staring at Harry, his episode already forgotten. 

Harry aimed his wand at Corban Yaxley. 

Severus propped his head on a hand, already knowing what his son would do. He now wore a small smile, but his eyes were cold.

“Percy,” Harry said, “Is mine.”

Yaxley reached for his wand, but it was too late. 

“Crucio.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Hi! Welcome to Part III, which is more like Part XIII but whatever.

Some general information:

I don't have an update schedule. Sometimes it's every day, sometimes it's once every week or two.

I don't think this is going to be 700k like the other two "parts," but I don't know how long it is going to be because I have just started writing it and don't have an outline.

There's a discord you can join.

If you see any typos or continuity errors, let me know in discord.

Tags will be updated as needed.

 

Thank you as always for your comments!

Chapter 3: Instantiation

Summary:

July 1997

Harry knocked on the door and waited, sucking so hard on his cigarette he may as well have cut open his chest and rubbed tobacco directly onto his lungs. He nervously ran a hand through his hair. His head was still killing him, even a day later, an echo of the pain. He took another long drag from his cigarette, dizzy and nauseated, but it kept him standing. Kept him breathing. Kept him moving. He had to keep going. Falling apart was not an option, not yet. 

After teaching Yaxley a little lesson, and entertaining the Dark Lord, Harry had not apparated directly to Percy’s flat like he wanted. He waited. He was patient. Other than his immediate family, no one knew where Percy lived. He had scrubbed his records at the Ministry, cut off his floo access. An owl or a patronus might find him, but other than that no uninvited guests were going to show up on Percy’s doorstep. Except maybe his mother or one of the twins, but Percy had consistently rejected, insulted, and distanced himself from the Weasleys. If they were smart, they would stay the fuck away from him. Otherwise, there might be another visit from the mudblood Death Eater. 

The door finally, finally opened, and Harry used every drop of his self-control to not throw himself at Percy. Harry’s eyes roved over Percy’s face. He was so perfectly composed, his eyes clear, his freckles adorable, his lenses spotless, a part in his hair that was barely a suggestion, dim candlelight making him glow, robes pressed and professional, and everything that made Percy seemed just how it should have. 

“It was Yaxley,” Harry said without affect. “He knows better now.”

Percy’s lips thinned, but he didn’t ask for more details. Plausible deniability. Percy was decent enough at occlumency to lie under Veritaserum, but in many cases he would not need to. 

“I appreciate the gesture,” Percy said solemnly. 

Harry’s stomach lurched. “How are you feeling? Do you need more time to recover?”

“I admit, I have been better,” Percy said, taking a step closer to Harry. Harry looked up at him. He was still in the hall. Any nosy neighbor who stuck their head out would see them.

“It’s my fault,” Harry said. “I should have made it clear that you’re off-limits. As is your family. The Prewetts, I mean.”

A faint blush rose on Percy’s cheeks. Harry wanted to go back and teach Yaxley more of a lesson. Placing Percy under Imperius, depriving the world of him, stripping away his agency to leave a fucking puppet in his place out of convenience. 

“I was caught unawares,” Percy said, his voice low. “It will not happen again.”

“No,” Harry said, reaching the limit of his patience. He needed Percy. Unequivocally. He needed something that made sense, something to look forward to, someone who didn’t look at him and think he was a monster, or broken, or irredeemable, or…

Harry pushed Percy into his flat, and the door slammed shut. 

 

---

 

Percy lay curled on his side, his head on Harry’s chest, listening to the steady comfort of his heartbeat. Harry’s arm was around his shoulders, playing with strands of his hair, pulling curls, letting them spring back. He was nearly a foot taller than Harry, but he felt that he fit rather perfectly into this position. Harry liked it too, hooking his legs around Percy and dragging him closer. 

It was late, and his room was dark. The Dark Lord often summoned his Death Eaters at night, and there was the persistent worry they would be caught in the act, or Harry would be lured away from him. That Harry would be punished if he delayed. 

Percy sighed, then reached for Harry’s other hand. His right hand, which was missing the littlest finger. Harry had it tucked behind his head, hidden, but Percy had seen something, and there were questions he wanted to ask.

“What is it?” Harry asked quietly, freeing his hand so Percy could take it. 

It was hard to discern in the dark, but Percy could make out the outline of it. He ran his thumb over the black symbol in the center of Harry’s palm. 

“You noticed that?” Harry said, sounding somewhat amused, mostly resigned. “How could you, when it was wrapped around your—”

“Why do you have Grindelwald’s symbol?” Percy asked. 

Harry closed his eyes. “You could have asked about any of my other tattoos,” he said. “Damning as they are.”

Percy frowned. He knew about the golden babelfish, the elusive creature who had left Harry for less troubled waters. The Dark Mark was not a tattoo, but a brand of servitude. He needed no explanation for either. The thorns and flowers that wound up Harry’s leg were beautiful, and Percy thought he understood what they meant. It was true he hadn’t asked. He felt that if Harry wanted him to know, he would have told him. 

“You’re the only person who would see this,” Harry whispered. “The only person who could know. I should’ve thought of that.”

“Why did you get this?” Percy asked, touching the symbol on Harry’s palm again. It was strangely cold, as if the skin was dead. The triangle, the circle, the line. There was dimensionality to it. Such simple geometries. 

“I’m changing my loyalty,” Harry said drily. “Grindelwald’s still alive. He could make a comeback.”

Percy pulled away to look him full in the face. “Harry.”

Harry sighed, then looked at his hand. “It’s not his symbol. It’s something far older.” He winced, then rolled over to face Percy. His eyes were dark, darkness itself, indecipherable, unknowable. Percy’s breath caught. 

“You know the story,” Harry said quietly. “You must’ve heard it when you were a kid.”

“Which one?” Percy asked. A story for children. Magical children. “From Beedle the Bard?”

Harry grinned. “You’re so clever. It’s one of the reasons I love you.”

Percy huffed, ignoring his stomach flipping over. Harry loved him. Him. “It’s not much of a leap. I’ve had occasion to revisit his tales.”

“Really?” Harry asked, trailing his hand down Percy’s side.

“Don’t try to distract me,” Percy said, heat creeping up his neck. “It’s one of the things in Dumbledore’s will. A first edition copy.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, but Percy was struck with another thought.

“That symbol was in it,” he said. Harry’s hand stilled on his hip. “At the beginning of The Tale of Three Brothers. I was looking at it just before Yaxley…”

“That fucking bastard,” Harry growled. His fingers suddenly grew cold, and Percy flinched. “He’s giving it to Monty, isn’t he?”

“He is,” Percy said. “Harry, you’re turning cold.”

“Shit,” Harry said, pulling his hand back. “Sorry. It’s been getting worse lately.” He laughed humorlessly. 

Carefully, ever so carefully, Percy reached up to touch his face. Harry’s laughter died away. He looked at Percy again, as if he were the only other person in the world. 

“The symbol represents the things in the story,” Harry said. “The line is the wand, the circle is the stone, the triangle is the cloak.”

Percy took Harry’s hand again to look at the black symbol. He was still cold.

“Death’s gifts,” Percy said.

Harry smiled sadly at him, and for a moment Percy feared his heart would break.

“Is that what you think you are?” Percy whispered. 

Harry laid back on the pillows and stared up at the ceiling. His hand was cold and lifeless in Percy’s own.

“It’s what I have to be,” Harry said. He held out his arm, his left arm, his marked arm. An offering. An invitation. Percy fitted himself against Harry’s side again, and knew that Harry too took comfort from his presence. That Harry needed him.

They were quiet for some time. Percy didn’t know what Harry was thinking about, and selfishly he wished it was about him. Not the things Harry had done, or would do. What sort of life he would have after the war. If there would be an after for Harry.

A car passed on the street outside, and its lights swept across the room.

It took longer for Percy to master the dread that threatened to consume him. The thought of a world where he would somehow have to go on without Harry. It was unbearable. His magic would leave him. He would die of a broken heart.

“Do you recall,” Percy said, his voice impeccably controlled, “when we first began speaking regularly?”

“When I was a third-year,” Harry said, a smile playing on his lips. “When I fancied this swotty, speccy, absolutely gorgeous fifth-year prefect?”

Percy suppressed a groan. Gorgeous, honestly. “I was writing an essay for Muggle Studies, comparing the Global Wizarding War to the Second World War.”

“Grindelwald versus Hitler,” Harry said. He ran his hand down Percy’s back, tracing his spine. “Yeah, I remember. They should’ve let Grindelwald kill him like he wanted. He went on about it at his rallies.”

“I know,” Percy said. “We’ve always been non-interventionist.”

Harry scoffed. “Yeah, that’s worked really well for Voldemort.”

“There was a film I saw,” Percy said. “A documentary, I think it’s called. They had a reel of it at the muggle library I went to. There was an interview with one of the muggles who helped create the atom bomb.”

Harry looked down at him. “What about it?”

Percy frowned. “He said something that stuck with me. I even put it in my essay.”

Harry’s hand wandered lower. Percy took a sharp breath. “Yeah?”

“He said…” Percy closed his eyes. “He quoted some muggle religious text. A prince—” Harry’s fingers sank into him. “—is taken by the arm and told, ‘I am become Death, destroyer of worlds.’”

Percy was suddenly pushed onto his back. Surprised, he looked up at Harry, who was braced over him.

“I’m not going to destroy the whole world,” Harry said, staring deep into Percy’s eyes. “Just one part of it.”

 

---

 

The front door opened. Severus looked up from the Daily Prophet, another overweening in memoriam about Dumbledore, and saw a grey cat trot in. Soon after his son followed, a shit-eating grin on his face. 

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Severus said, lowering the paper. 

“Bet you’ve been dying to say that,” Harry said, shutting the door behind him. 

“You could at least bathe afterwards,” Severus said, frowning at his only child’s rumpled appearance. 

“And deprive the world of my scandalous visage?” Harry said, flopping onto the sofa. “Nah. I like to wallow in it.”

The phoenix chick made a few peeps, scattering some of his heated black sand.

“How mannerly of you,” Severus said bitingly. 

“I’m well-mannered,” Harry said with mock offense. “I’m just well shot of it.”

Severus refused to entertain thoughts of what it was.

“Percy’s fine, by the way,” his son went on. The cat jumped onto his stomach, and he wheezed, “Thanks for asking.”

“I assumed so,” Severus said, folding the paper. “My son would not abase himself with some dimwitted dullard incapable of resisting the Imperius Curse.”

Harry snorted. “Cedric would be doing backflips on his way to kill the Minister.”

Severus sneered. Harry had long since moved beyond the likes of Cedric Diggory, but Severus could not forget the emptiness on his son’s face when Diggory had misunderstood Harry’s condition. When he said something which cut his son to the core.

He shut his eyes. It had been the first time he embraced his son. That was the most important memory of that night. 

Severus looked at Harry again, who was busy playing with his cat’s forepaws. Lady Madeleine bore this with a regal air. 

“Why are you wearing gloves?” Severus asked. 

“It’s symbolic,” Harry said, smiling at his cat. “Don’t want to get my hands dirty.”

“That’s more literal than symbolic.”

Harry shrugged, the most dismissive gesture that a teenage boy could wield against his father. The casual indifference...

Severus quietly sighed, and let it go. 

“What you did to Yaxley,” he began.

“He had it coming,” Harry said. “I had to send a message. They have to learn to not fuck with me.” Harry looked over at him. “And did you see the look on the Dark Lord’s face? He wasn’t thinking about Monty. He was thinking about me.” Harry picked up his cat and held her above his head. “Maybe now he’ll stop calling me a mudblood.”

Severus gave his son a hard look. “You have been intentionally mimicking the Dark Lord.”

“To an extent,” Harry said, setting the cat down again. “Not enough to make him suspicious.” Harry sat up. “Don’t worry about it.”

How could Severus explain that fatherhood was a state of constant worry?

“What I’m worried about is Monty,” Harry said. “What the fuck was that?”

Severus smirked. “I happen to have an answer to that.”

Harry watched him intently.

“While you were calling on Prewett,” Severus said, “I contacted Andromeda.”

“I can go to her myself,” Harry said, sounding annoyed for some reason.

Severus ignored that. “She will be visiting later this morning to assess your condition.”

“Alright,” his son said. “Not like I have anything better to do.”

“You don’t,” Severus said firmly. “Not right now. Keeping you alive and well is my priority.”

Harry shut his eyes, anger flashing across his face. Severus was amazed his son let him see that much before smoothing his expression over. Did Harry believe that his brother should be Severus’ priority instead? That he needed less care, less protection? 

“What’s that got to do with Monty?” Harry asked. 

“Sirius Black also contacted Andromeda,” Severus told him. “And Andromeda saw fit to share with me the circumstances under which he did.”

Harry looked at him impatiently. 

“Your brother restored his memories of you,” Severus said. 

Harry jumped up. “He what?”

“Whereas I was under the impression your brother would only remove a few select memories, the most dangerous,” Severus said, “he evidently extracted all of them.”

“That’s…that’s fucking mental,” Harry said, appalled. “I would know, I’ve done it before!”

“Your mind is somewhat more robust than your brother’s,” Severus said. “For reasons which need not be stated.”

Harry sat down heavily and put his head in his hands.

“So that’s why the Dark Lord had that episode,” Harry muttered. “He completely lost his shit.”

“And his connection to your brother.”

Harry looked up sharply. 

“The Dark Lord has abused the connection with your brother,” Severus said. “Forcing upon him scenes both real and imagined. Exploiting what he does not fully comprehend for the sole purpose of tormenting your brother.”

“And it backfired on him?” Harry guessed. “Or something about what Monty did hurt him.”

“I do not know enough to make any claims,” Severus said. “But the Dark Lord has made it clear he will no longer avail himself of that connection, lest there be further repercussions.”

Harry slumped back. “I’m glad something good came out of that.” His eyes darted to Severus again. “What about Monty? Is he okay? Why did they need Andromeda?”

“He is currently asleep,” Severus said. “Andromeda did ask me if I had any insight, as a legilimens.”

Harry reached into a pocket and fished out his cigarettes. Severus reserved comment on this vice. If it made his son feel even the slightest bit better, it was acceptable.

“Memories are weird,” Harry said, lighting a cigarette with a snap of his fingers. “Have you ever noticed how they look sort of like a patronus?”

Severus frowned. “I have not.”

“Alright,” Harry said, taking out his wand. “I’ll cast a patronus, and you pull out a memory.”

“Very well,” Severus said, taking out his own wand. He pressed the tip to his temple and removed the memory of reading that tedious article by Elphias Doge. He pulled the memory out like taffy, a thin, silvery wisp.

Harry, meanwhile, rolled his wrist. A thin, silver wisp slithered out of his wand to hover in the air.

“That is not a patronus,” Severus said, the memory dangling from the tip of his wand.

“I think it’s easier to see like this,” Harry said. He waved between his wispy silver patronus and Severus’ wispy silver memory. “Look at that! It’s practically the same thing!”

Severus sighed, then shoved the dull memory back in his head. “Very different spells have the same appearance, Harry. If your contention is that I just extracted a piece of my soul—”

“I don’t think it’s an actual soul,” Harry said, waving his hand to disperse his own wispy magic. “Souls aren’t tangible, and whatever that was is. Same with a corporeal patronus.”

“Then what do you propose it is, if not a memory?” Severus asked.

Harry took a drag from his cigarette, frowning in throught. “An instantiation,” he finally said. He gave Severus a troubled look. “But honestly, dad? I don’t have a fucking clue.”

 

 

Chapter 4: Awakening

Summary:

July 1997

Monty had been asleep for three days. 

Sirius paced back and forth, occasionally glancing at the front door. Gas lamps spluttered as he passed, and the chandelier retreated into the ceiling. The decor was still snake-centric—even the wall paper had a stylized snake motif—but Monty liked it and so it stayed. 

“Master will burn a hole in the carpet,” Kreacher muttered, watching him from the staircase. “Master always had little care for the state of his ancestral home.”

Sirius didn’t rise to the bait. Kreacher was upset, and it was one of the least snide things he had ever said. Even the portrait of his mother had laid off all the filth of my blood shite. Both the portrait and Kreacher knew that everything was being left to Monty. The entire Black fortune would go to him. Sirius had no plans on continuing the line, as it were. Monty was the only kid he wanted. 

He didn’t know if the plan today was a good idea, and in fact was almost certain it wasn’t, but their options were limited. Sirius told himself that, if Monty were in any state to voice an opinion, this would be it. 

There was a knock on the door. A rap of the knuckles. An agreed upon pattern.

Sirius took out his wand. Four years out of Azkaban didn’t make up for the twelve inside, but he could hold his own against most. Worst come to worst, he’d turn into a dog and rip the bastard’s throat out. 

There was another knock. 

Sirius wiped his hands off on his robes. They had talked about this, thought it over for days. He’d had years to hurt Monty if he wanted to. He could have taken Monty at any point. Monty would have gone with him willingly because he trusted him. Hell, Sirius trusted him too. 

But that’s how they got you. They wormed their way in, acted innocent, acted like your friend for years. Years and years. Then someone you had known half of your life took everything from you. Smiled when they stabbed you in the back, over and over again, plunging the knife deeper, consigning you to a decade of torture while they grew fat off the kindness and ignorance of others. Then one day you wake up and you’re thirty-seven and everyone you love is dead and the only thing you’ve got is this one kid, this one messed up kid, and they’re trying to take him too, and there were promises you made to the people you loved, promises you made to yourself, that you would do anything, anything to keep him safe.

There was a third knock on the door.

Sirius Black was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a fucking coward. He tightened his grip on his wand, and he opened the door.

Andromeda stood at the top of the steps, looking perfectly calm and composed. Behind her, looming like the fucking dungeon-dwelling bat he was, was Severus Snape. 

“I’ve brought Severus,” Andromeda said. Unnecessarily, as Sirius was looking right at him. 

Snape killed Dumbledore. Ludicrous as that sounded—Voldemort couldn’t kill Dumbledore, so how the hell had Snape pulled it off?—it was the least of Sirius’ concerns. Monty was still asleep, and maybe he would always be like that. He might have scrambled his brains, or done some extreme magical damage to himself. Sirius didn’t know, and he hated that he didn’t. He wasn’t a healer, or a legilimens. He was just some arsehole who could turn into a dog. 

“I’m prepared to make any vow,” Snape said somberly, “to the effect that I will do nothing intentional that results in the permanent harm or death of Fleamont James Potter.”

Sirius inadvertently snorted. “Only Luna calls him Fleamont. I don’t think he’d put up with it from anyone else.”

“Be that as it may,” Snape said, still very grave. 

“He doesn’t have his wand,” Andromeda told him. 

Sirius gripped the door. “Then how is he going to—”

“I do not require a wand for legilimency,” Snape said. 

Sirius grimaced. “That’s a comforting thought. I didn’t bring a wand because I don’t need a wand.”

Andromeda looked at him patiently. “May we at least step inside and not discuss this on the street?”

Sirius glanced at Snape again. Even without a wand, he could be a threat. 

“Do you have any potions on you?” Sirius asked. 

Snape’s lips quirked. Was he smirking?

“A fairly large quantity,” he said. “I shall divest myself of them, and you may inspect them to your heart’s content.”

Sirius still hesitated. He rationalized. Snape knew the secret of Grimmauld Place. That alone was not enough to get into the house, but it still gave him access to Monty. 

“I think I will need a vow,” Sirius said. “An Unbreakable Vow. Monty’s too important for anything less.”

“I agree,” Snape said. “If only for my own sanity.”

Sirius gave him a piercing look. “What does that mean?”

“Inside,” Andromeda said, more firmly. “There are things we should not discuss in the open.”

Sirius took a step back. “Kreacher, guard Monty.” Another contingency. Kreacher could take Monty and run. 

Shit. He was really doing this. Letting Dumbledore’s murderer around his godson. 

“Let’s use the kitchen.”

 

---

 

They sat at the kitchen table, where so many pointless Order meetings had been held in the past. Severus was seated opposite Black, with Andromeda at the head of the table as some unofficial arbiter.

Where once Severus would expect vitriol, the casual arrogance of the handsome and wealthy, disdain and disgust, Black simply looked like a man deeply concerned for the welfare of his child. Whatever old animosity that lay between them was no longer relevant. It could not be. The days of cursing each other between classes were long gone, as were all other childish pretenses. 

“You’ve changed,” Black said, almost accusatory in his tone. 

“I’m an adult,” Severus said flatly. 

Black snorted. “No, it’s more than that. You used to be all about Lily and dark arts. When I first heard you were Monty’s teacher, I thought you’d hate him. Since he looks so much like James.”

“Not so much that I would forget that he is his own person,” Severus said. “It was made clear to me to not mistake the son for the father.”

Black still had his wand out, though he seemed disinclined to use it. “I feel like I should ask what happened with Dumbledore,” he said, “but I just can’t care about that right now.”

“The circumstance of Dumbledore’s death is not something I am at liberty to discuss at this time.”

Black rubbed his eyes. “If the only mark against you is that you killed Dumbledore, well, Monty didn’t like him anyway.” He sat up. “And that’s what this is about. Monty. Andromeda told you what he did?”

“She did,” Severus said. “I must say, I expected more prudence from the boy. I believed his more reckless impulses were curbed.”

Black closed his eyes as if pained. “It’s been a hard year for him. He’s… Monty’s really been trying to go on like everything’s fine and normal, but Remus…” He sighed. “And it coming out that one of his friends is a Death Eater…”

“I think we can all agree Monty is dealing with a number of issues unique to someone in his position,” Andromeda said. “We ought to focus on his immediate needs.”

“Right,” Black said, rubbing his face again. “Yeah.” He looked at Severus. “What exactly do you want to do?”

“Nothing extreme,” Severus said. “Legilimize him to determine the extent of the damage, if indeed there is any.” He crossed his arms. “The memory extraction process he used is not akin to Obliviation. It does not fully remove the memory, simply dims it. Weakens the connections. Renders it less easy to recall. In this way, memories one wishes to avoid are easily avoided.”

“And he wanted to avoid a lot,” Black said. “Which, yeah, I can understand that. There are plenty of things I don’t want to remember. And with Voldemort in his head…”

Severus paid no mind to the burning sensation in his arm. It was only that. A sensation. Pain with no lasting harm.

“The Dark Lord will no longer be employing that tactic,” Severus said.

Black’s eyebrows rose. “What?”

“I happened to be in the Dark Lord’s presence during Monty’s restoration of his memories,” he explained. “The Dark Lord experienced… an episode.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“He had a fit,” Severus said. “Something about what Monty did caused the Dark Lord great psychic harm.”

Black gave him a blank look.

“What I suspect,” Andromeda said, “is that Monty experienced some very intense emotions at the time, which overwhelmed him. I don’t believe he damaged himself, not physically. I have found no trace of that.”

Severus nodded. Others knowing of the connection between Monty and the Dark Lord was not ideal, but Dumbledore had been flagrant with the information. He had told the Order after Nagini attacked Arthur Weasley in front of the Department of Mysteries. That was perhaps when whatever trust Monty had for Dumbledore was completely broken. The boy was intensely private about some things, his unwilling connection to the Dark Lord chief among them. The only thing more closely guarded was his relationship with Harry.

“Suffice to say,” Severus said, “the Dark Lord will no longer use that form of access to Monty. He deems the risk to himself too great.”

Black watched him for a long moment, then all the tension left his body.

“Monty’s going to be so bloody relieved to hear that,” Black said. “You have no idea. This has been going on for nearly three years.” He put his face in his hands. “Maybe he’ll finally get a full night’s sleep without having to take potions.”

Andromeda gave Severus a searching look. “Is this true? Can we rely on that?”

“Had you been there,” Severus said, “you would have my same confidence. I have never seen the Dark Lord act in such a way. I have never seen him frightened.”

Black looked up. “He’s scared of Monty feeling things?”

“I hesitate to make such a claim,” Severus said. “The Dark Lord is not forthcoming. What may possibly disturb him more is Monty having control over their connection.” 

“The prophecy,” Black began.

Severus shook his head. “That is part of it. The Dark Lord is older, more knowledgeable, more powerful than a sixteen-year-old wizard.”

“Almost seventeen,” Black said.

“He was already a seasoned murderer by Monty’s age,” Severus continued. “Based on these facts, Monty should not present a danger to him. The disparity in their ability is too great.”

Black shook his head, but didn’t argue. Anyone who envisioned the Boy Who Lived dueling the Dark Lord was delusional.

“However,” Severus said, “there is also the indisputable fact that Monty is the Boy Who Lived. That prophecy tells us he is a danger to the Dark Lord.” He leaned forward, and both Black and Andromeda drew closer. “What frightens the Dark Lord most is that he does not know how.”

Black was silent for a long moment, then his expression hardened. “I’m not going to pit Monty against Voldemort on the off chance he has some secret power. He’s still a kid!”

“I would never propose such a thing,” Severus said evenly. Black did not know about the horcruxes. Severus was inclined towards trusting him with the knowledge; Black prioritized Monty’s well-being above his own. He would not tolerate Dumbledore’s scheme. 

Did Monty suspect what he was? Was that why his reaction had been so extreme? 

Did the Dark Lord suspect?

If he did, what would he do?

Troubled by the direction of his thoughts, Severus decided that was a matter for later exploration. Undoubtedly his son had come to his own conclusions. 

“Last summer,” Severus said, “I was approached by Narcissa and Bellatrix.”

Andromeda gave him a sharp look. “Why?”

“They came to my home to ask for my assistance,” Severus said. “The Dark Lord had by that time marked Draco Malfoy, and ordered him to kill Dumbledore. Narcissa wished for me to intercede.”

Sirius’ expression darkened. “And you agreed? Is that why—”

“I refused,” Severus said bluntly. “As I had someone else’s son to protect.”

Andromeda closed her eyes and bowed her head. Severus had not forgotten that Draco was her nephew, but other than that blood relation she had no association with the boy.

“When I defected,” Severus continued, “when I betrayed the Dark Lord, I went to Dumbledore and agreed to be his spy. After the Dark Lord’s fall, Dumbledore confided to me that he believed the Dark Lord was not truly gone. That he would return, and once again target her son.”

“Her?” Andromeda asked, looking at him again.

“He means Lily,” Black said tiredly.

Severus closed his eyes against his memory of that night. The raw anguish he felt, knowing that the girl he once loved, his friend, was gone.

“If you loved Lily Evans, if you truly loved her, then your way forward is clear.”

“‘Help me protect Lily’s son,’” he said aloud, echoing the words. He looked at Black again. “That has been, and remains, my sole directive. To protect her son, no matter what the cost.” He reached a hand out to Black. “Andromeda, your wand, please.”

Andromeda nodded firmly, and raised her wand. “I will act as Bonder.”

Black jerked upright. “What? You’re serious?”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “I believe that is you.”

Black scowled at him. “That’s my joke.”

“What do you wish the wording to be?” Andromeda asked neutrally. “Bear in mind that this could kill you. Both of you.”

“I have no intention of violating a vow I have already made,” Severus said. “I merely seek to reassure you of my loyalties.”

Black stared at his hand. “I’m in my kitchen having a civil conversation with the man who killed Albus Dumbledore.” He started laughing, then reached out and clasped Severus’ hand. “Maybe I have gone mad.” He grinned at Severus. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Nor the last,” Severus said.

“Keep it simple,” Black told Andromeda. “He agrees to protect Monty. None of that at all costs shit. He’s a Death Eater, he needs room to breathe. Give him some leeway.”

“How forgiving of you.”

“Despite all outward indicators,” Black said, “I’m not an idiot. If a Death Eater is one of the best people you know, what does that say about the world?”

Severus smirked. He knew Black wasn’t talking about him.

“Ready, Dromeda?” Black asked.

Andromeda touched the tip of her wand to their linked hands.

“You’ve got nice hands,” Black said, cocking his head.

“And you’re barking up the wrong tree,” Severus said flatly. “Just get on with it, Black.”

Black smiled insouciantly, then said, “Will you, Severus Snape, protect Monty Potter?”

There was no question of that. “I will.”

A writhing tendril of flame wrapped around their hands, a complex, searing knot which bound them together in the vow. When Black made no other stipulations, it sank into their skin. Severus watched it slowly fade away. He felt no different.

“I think that’s good,” Black said, letting go of his hand. He stood from the table. “Now, let’s go check on Monty.”

 

---

 

Sirius rubbed the back of his hand, watching closely as Snape approached his sleeping godson. He had never been part of an Unbreakable Vow, and his phrasing gave Snape a lot of room to work with. Part of him wondered if it was even needed. He hadn’t known why Snape had turned spy, but that it had to do with Lily hadn’t surprised him in the least. After all, when Sirius had first met them they had already been friends. 

Andromeda stood on the other side of the bed, ready to intervene should Monty wake up screaming again. Kreacher hovered near the door, wringing his hands. Sirius had made it clear that he did not blame Kreacher for what happened, and that Kreacher had done well in getting him immediately. He was still distressed. They all were. 

Sirius remembered his first train ride to Hogwarts as if it happened yesterday. It was where he had met James. They happened to share a compartment, and they had been instant friends. But there was also a girl in their compartment who had been crying. They pretended to ignore her, too uncomfortable with a crying girl.

Then Snape walked in. 

He had thought it was all a game, saving the pretty muggleborn girl from the evil dark wizard. The older they got, the more serious the game became. Jinxes turned into hexes turned into curses, and the next thing he knew he was laughing while a boy suffocated, surrounded by people who couldn’t care less about him. 

“Alright, Snivellus?”

Sirius crossed his arms, feeling uneasy. He wasn’t the only person in the world who would die for his friends. Who would kill for them. 

Snape peeled open one of Monty’s eyes. An unfocused green eye, seeing nothing. “Legilimizing a sleeping mind presents a challenge. Thoughts are more abstract, form more tenuous connections.”

“But it’s possible?” Sirius asked. 

“Of course it’s possible,” Snape said. “The brain does not shut down. He is still thinking, though these thoughts manifest as dreams.”

“Nightmares,” Sirius said quietly. 

Snape nodded. “I need silence now, for I must seek out any disturbances in his mind.”

“There’s plenty of those,” Sirius muttered. 

“Quiet.”

Sirius frowned, but kept his mouth shut. Snape was leaning over Monty, staring into his eye. No incantation had been uttered, but there was a stillness to Snape, a focus to him, that told Sirius that something was happening. He suppressed a shudder, grateful that legilimency was such an obscure and difficult art. Playing around with people’s minds. Was this what magic was for?

He lost track of time. How long would it take to sort through nearly seventeen years of memories? Snape respected Monty’s privacy, Sirius knew that, otherwise Monty would never have agreed to learn occlumency from him. The memories in question all had to do with Harry Evans, and Monty had said he hadn’t removed all of them, just significant interactions. But what had he considered significant? The kid had run out of vials and started using anything with a lid. 

Finally, Snape sat up. He was pallid, and he appeared to be trembling, but otherwise he had that same infuriatingly aloof expression. 

“I found nothing to suggest damage to either himself or his memories,” Snape said. “It seems Andromeda’s assessment is correct. He merely suffered an extreme emotional shock.”

“Merely?” Sirius said. 

“One from which he will recover,” Snape said. “Eventually.”

Sirius took a step forward. “Eventually?”

“Consider the situation we are in, Black,” Snape said coldly. “We are weeks away from a Ministry takeover. The man who has stalked this boy his entire life is entrenched.”

Sirius’ pulse spiked. Weeks away? He thought they would have more time. Hoped they would.

“All of his loved ones are at risk of being tortured and killed, and several already have been. So, yes,” Snape said, giving Sirius a hard look. “Eventually.”

Sirius looked away from Snape, to the snowy owl watching from her perch, to the occamy in her cage, to the posters Monty hadn’t bothered taking down, his trunk, piles of books, empty vials, an unopened letter from Luna. He looked at Monty, James and Lily’s son who was somehow now his kid. 

They had got him away from the Dursleys. No. Harry had got him away from the Dursleys. How could they get him away from this? 

“Is it safe to wake him up?” Sirius asked. 

Snape and Andromeda shared a look. 

“I believe so,” Andromeda said. 

“Then do it,” Sirius said. “I want to know what he’s got to say for himself.”

 

---

 

“If I’m lucky, you’ll never see me again. Not until this is over.”

Awareness slapped him in the face. He came to with a gasp, his eyes flying open. Tall, blurry figures stood around him. He scrambled back, his heart pounding. 

“Where is he?” Monty rasped, looking around wildly. “Where is he!”

“At home,” a deep, familiar voice said. 

Monty jerked away, then squinted. “Professor Snape?”

“Take deep breaths.”

Monty flinched as something touched his forehead. “Uh… Mrs… Healer Tonks?”

“You’ve been in a magical sleep for several days,” she said. “And you can call me Andromeda. You and Sirius are family.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Monty muttered. He had just woken up, and there were too many people in his room. “Why is Professor Snape here? Where’re my glasses?”

“Here.” Sirius had also appeared at his side, and handed Monty his glasses. “You did something really fucking stupid, kid.”

Monty stared at his glasses. 

At home. Harry was at home. 

“Yeah,” he said, “I remember.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 5: The Burden of Proof

Summary:

July 1997

Severus held the glass orb to his eye. The opaque emerald potion sat motionlessly within. The opacity was a curious attribute, as was the glowing. No matter how small the quantity, it remained opaque and glowing.

He had unveiled the nature of the potion. It was not a Draught of Despair, a thick potion the color and consistency of pumpkin juice, sweetened with glumbumble treacle. Look-alike potions always amused Severus; there was an element of simple trickery, insidious conniving on the potioneer’s part. The Draught of Despair was simple, if not in its brewing then its effect. It made the drinker feel despair.

The emerald potion was more complex. It did not merely induce despair in the victim. Consuming it caused extreme pain, a sensation of being burned from the inside out. Not quite comparable to the Cruciatus Curse, not enough to prevent the drinker from depleting an entire basin. There was also induced fear, an all-encompassing dread. This was similar to prolonged exposure to a dementor, putting the victim in a state where their worst memories surfaced, their worst fears manifested. Additionally, the emerald potion caused delirium.

The potion assaulted the entire body, weakening it, making the drinker’s mind vulnerable. To top this all off, the emerald potion made one extremely thirsty. As Severus doubted the Dark Lord wanted anyone to drink down the basin, he assumed this was to urge the intruder to drink from the inferi infested lake.

Severus’ conclusion was that this was not one potion. It was several potions mixed together, then obfuscated by the green coloring and phosphorescence. The Dark Lord was no potioneer; the contents of the basin were secondary to the basin’s function. The more pertinent magic was requiring that the basin’s contents be drunk. That someone had to intend to drink to be allowed to approach the basin at all. Severus could easily prepare the requisite antidotes to the emerald concoction. He could remove the coloring and glow, enabling them to see what, if anything, lay within the basin. 

Dumbledore was welcome to drink the emerald concoction. He would live. Severus would ensure that.

Severus made a few notes, and thought on how to present his findings so that Dumbledore would agree to a sensible course of action. He set down his quill then, out of curiosity, shook the glass sphere.

“Admiring your giant gobstone again?”

Harry had, without his notice, snuck into the laboratory and was observing Severus’ observations.

“I doubt its contents would be permitted in any game,” Severus said, returning the glass sphere to a secure box. “You’ve roused yourself to inquire after your brother.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, sitting on a stool. “How is he?”

Severus looked around the laboratory. There was nothing that immediately needed his attention.

“I was not with him long enough to be questioned,” Severus said. “Nor to answer questions. Your brother seemed interested in neither.”

“But he’s alright?” Harry asked. “Nothing went wrong?”

Severus sighed, then pulled a stool in front of his son and sat down. “It went as well as it could.”

Harry frowned. “What does that mean?”

“I made an Unbreakable Vow to protect your brother.”

Harry stared at him in shock.

“That vow was as much for you as for him,” Severus said. “More. You do not trust me—”

“I do!” Harry exclaimed. “Dad, what the fuck?”

“I also needed to prove my loyalties,” Severus said, not reacting to his son’s growing distress. “I made the vow to Sirius Black.”

“Oh, my god,” Harry said, putting his head in his hands. “What the fuck. What the fuck. That could fucking kill you!”

Severus crossed his arms. “And now you see.”

Harry looked up at him again, aghast. He laughed humorlessly. “What? Are you trying to teach me a lesson? What the hell are you trying to prove?”

Severus watched his son jump off of his stool. It toppled to the ground, but Harry ignored it, pacing back and forth.

“Fine,” he said harshly. “That’s bloody brilliant of you. Well fucking done, dad.”

“The vow will not kill me,” Severus said evenly. “The wording is too vague to compel specific behavior. Intentionally so.”

Harry glared at him. “You’ll have to protect him for the rest of your life!”

“So be it,” Severus said. “Protecting your brother is protecting you as well.”

Harry shook his head angrily. “You’re just making my life harder,” he muttered. Severus kept his expression neutral, however much the accusation hurt.

Harry stopped pacing and took a breath, then looked Severus in the eyes. “How is Monty?”

“He was agitated upon waking,” Severus said. “He asked where you were.”

His son grimaced. “I don’t want him to think about me at all.” He braced his hands on a table. “I wish I’d never talked to him at all. I never should have said a single fucking word to him.”

“Do you really feel that way?” Severus asked quietly.

Harry wiped his eyes. “What else?”

“Your brother has considerable circumstantial evidence but no proof,” Severus said. “You’ve given him enough information to draw the conclusions he wishes to draw, but the discrepancies—”

“This is my fault,” Harry said abruptly, hanging his head. “Never should have told him anything.”

“He knows your mother and I were childhood friends,” Severus said. “He knows we grew up in Cokeworth. He knows you live in Cokeworth. He knows his mother’s name was Lily Evans. He knows one of your parents was killed by the Dark Lord, and the other was a Death Eater.”

With each word, Harry’s face grew more and more pained.

“He knows you sent him his mother’s potions book,” Severus finished. “I can only conclude that you want him to know.”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t have time to deal with this. I don’t want to deal with this.”

“Your brother wants it to be true,” Severus said. “But the truth is so outlandish to him that he cannot reconcile the information he has. As you told him, his parents were still in school when you were conceived. His mother was in a relationship with his father at the time. How could one hide a pregnancy in that situation?”

Harry ran a hand through his hair then gripped it. “Is he going to show up at the house again?”

“I don’t know,” Severus said. “He is not in a state to make rational decisions.”

“That’s fucking fantastic,” Harry said bitterly. “I told him I don’t want to see him.”

“A lie.”

Harry shot him a dirty look, then winced and grabbed his forearm. Severus felt it too.

“Every single fucking time,” Harry muttered darkly. He walked to the door. “What does the noseless cunt want now?”

Severus rose from his seat. “Harry.”

“I’ll take a fucking Calming Draught,” his son snapped. “I’m not in the mood to be tortured. I’ve already done that to myself.”

Severus watched his son storm out of the room, then turned to straighten things up. Loathe as he was to admit it, he had to trust that Black would prevent Monty from making any more rash decisions. At least none that could harm Harry.

Harry could not be a Death Eater and a brother to the Boy Who Lived. The Dark Lord made too many demands on Harry’s time for him to cater to his brother’s whims. 

Severus made to leave his laboratory, to go to the Dark Lord’s side, but stopped before leaving the room.

His son was attempting to do something never before done so that his brother would not have to die. One of the biggest threats to that was Monty himself.

Severus closed his eyes, his temple throbbing.

The boys had to be kept apart. They had the power to destroy each other.

After several long moments, Severus exited his laboratory and shut the door behind him.

 

---

 

A line between James Potter and Lily Potter.

The name was wrong. It should have said Lily Evans. Harry had neglected to add that damning little detail. 

A line down to Monty Potter. 

Nothing else connected to Lily Potter. 

It was a lie. 

“Monty?”

I know it’s not exactly what you want, but this is the best I can do right now.

“Monty, you alright?”

Monty was not alright. 

“How you feeling, kid?”

He did not look away from the Potter family tree. 

Months of work. 

Harry knew more about Monty’s family than Monty did. 

“We need to talk,” Sirius said, moving further into the drawing room. 

“I don’t want to talk,” Monty said flatly. 

He wanted to talk to Harry, but Harry didn’t want to see him. Harry was a Death Eater. The Order thought he was the most prolific Death Eater. The youngest. The best. Voldemort’s favorite. Professor Snape’s favorite. One of the best students in Hogwarts history. Perfect marks. Prefect. Head Boy. Gobstones captain. Son of a Death Eater. Son of…

“Not about Harry,” Sirius said, kneeling down next to him. “You know Arabella Figg?”

“The squib who spied on me,” Monty said, still looking at his family tree. It was not complete. He knew it wasn’t complete. His mum’s entire side of the family was missing. “Mrs. Figg.”

There was a boy on Privet Drive with the surname Evans. Mark Evans. Dudley had liked to bully him. Evans was a common name. A very common name. 

“Yeah, that one,” Sirius said. “Listen. We got a message from her. Well, Moody did, and he was kind enough to share it with us.”

Harry got his cat from Mrs. Figg. Lady Madeleine, the Princess of Mercia. 

Midlands. 

Aunt Petunia had made them stay in a hotel in Cokeworth. 

Monty’s mum was from Cokeworth. 

Professor Snape was from Cokeworth. 

Harry was from Cokeworth.

What the fuck was going on in Cokeworth?

“It’s about your cousin,” Sirius said. “Mrs. Figg says he’s woken up.”

Monty slowly turned to look at him. “He was Kissed by a dementor. There’s no waking up from that.”

“Well, he has,” Sirius said. “And Moody’s confirmed it. Your aunt and uncle brought him home, and he’s talking and moving around.”

“Is he possessed?” Monty asked. 

“Moody doesn’t think so,” Sirius told him. “He thinks Dudley wasn’t Kissed at all, that maybe dementors have a stronger effect on muggles. No one actually saw the attack.”

Monty stared at Sirius for a bit longer, then looked at his family tree again. He couldn’t prove it—he couldn’t prove anything—but he knew it was Harry. If anyone in the world could reverse the Dementor’s Kiss, it would be Harry Evans. 

“The Order’s going to move them,” Sirius said. “And Mrs. Figg. I know you don’t like the Dursleys, neither do I, but that’s your only known address.”

Monty shook his head. He didn’t care what the Dursleys did or what the Order wasted their time doing. 

“Just wanted to let you know,” Sirius said, placing a hand on Monty’s shoulder. “Kreacher’s made dinner. He’ll be upset if you don’t eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You can still eat,” Sirius said, standing. “Come on, kid. This’ll be here when you’re done.”

Monty looked at the picture of his mum. Green eyes, red hair, smiling. He had her eyes. He needed more pictures. Pictures of other people. 

Both of their pictures were in the Daily Prophet. 

Pictures weren’t proof. He didn’t look anything like Petunia or Dudley. 

“Monty.”

Monty squeezed his eyes shut. Voldemort wasn’t in his head anymore. He was free to think whatever the hell he wanted. 

Why didn’t they trust him? 

Why tell him anything at all?

“I’m just going to stand here until you get up.”

“Fine,” Monty muttered, getting to his feet. “Only because Kreacher made it.”

Sirius gave him a warm smile, then ruffled his hair. “Such a considerate child.”

“I’m nearly of age,” Monty said tonelessly.

“Still a kid,” Sirius said, walking away. “Until I say otherwise, which will be never.”

Monty rolled his eyes, then followed his godfather out of the room. 

Harry didn’t want to see him. 

There was a sharp pang in Monty’s chest, and he wrapped his arms around himself. 

That was fine. Perfectly fine. It didn’t matter. It was like Sirius and his dad. 

Harry had always wanted a brother. 

Monty wanted one too. 

Whether anyone liked it or not.

 

---

 

“Albus Dumbledore Remembered,” Harry read aloud. “By Elphias Doge.”

The Dark Lord’s eyes glittered with amusement. “And what does dear Elphias Doge have to say about Dumbledore?”

On the Dark Lord’s other side, Harry’s dad took a long sip from his cup.

Harry snapped out the Daily Prophet he had stolen from his dad and smirked.

With the head of the Order of the Phoenix cut off, the Dark Lord was calling meetings more frequently, and with more Death Eaters. The insidious terror campaign, the daily deaths and disappearances, had mostly served its purpose. The Ministry had been scrambling for a year, failing to track down any Death Eaters, arresting innocent people, dementors no longer in control, the goblins uncooperative and disinterested in wizard matters. 

The plan was comically simple. Surround the Minister with people either loyal to the Dark Lord or made so under Imperius, then strike. Profligate use of the Imperius Curse had hamstrung the Ministry during the Dark Lord’s first rise. They had to anticipate another wave of Imperiuses. Percy had certainly predicted it. The problem was, while many Death Eaters were more than willing to cast the Imperius, most of them were complete shit at it. Either it was too weak, or they went to the other extreme and forced people to act out of character. They were all ambition and no subtlety. 

While anti-muggle and muggleborn sentiment was rife within certain segments of magical society, it was not popular among the majority of people. Even if someone disliked the existence of muggleborns, or was otherwise prejudiced, it didn’t mean they’d go along with killing them. That was too extreme for most. So the Dark Lord had a paucity of collaborators within the Ministry. His message, what little of it there was, wasn’t appealing enough to win mobs of people to his side. Of course, the Dark Lord didn’t care about that. He was an aspiring despot. 

“‘Our mutual attraction,’” Harry read, raising an eyebrow, “‘was undoubtedly due to the fact that we both felt ourselves to be outsiders.’” There were a few laughs. “Says his dad savagely attacked three Muggles, then died in Azkaban.” 

Harry glanced at the Dark Lord. He couldn’t tell if the Dark Lord was surprised by this information. Dumbledore had spent decades gathering information on the Dark Lord, and Harry suspected the favor had not been returned. Know thy enemy was too flaccid for the Dark Lord. He preferred torture and kill thy enemy. 

“It goes on about all the awards he won,” Harry said, frowning. “But then his mum and his sister die.” There was more laughter, and the Dark Lord smiled. Death Eaters ate this death stuff up. 

“‘Albus Dumbledore was never proud or vain,’” Harry read. “‘He could find something to value in anyone, however apparently insignificant or wretched.’ Reckon he’s talking about Hagrid.”

Yaxley raised his cup to the jeering and laughter. Killing a half-giant like Hagrid was a feat. 

“It’s masturbatory,” Harry said, tossing the paper on the table. His dad drank deeply from his cup. “‘Working always for the greater good.’ Bloody horseshit.”

Someone else seized the paper and began reading Doge’s article in a mocking singsong. They were so easily entertained.

The Dark Lord laced his fingers together, smiling at Harry. “You disagree that Dumbledore was working for the greater good.”

Harry scoffed. “Greater for who? Me? You, my Lord?”

The Dark Lord’s eyes dimmed. “The greater good refers to the bettering of magical society as a whole.”

“I know that,” Harry said. His dad shot him a look. “My Lord, but what’s the use of a good society when individuals still suffer? Why is it that the whole is deemed more important than the part? Alright, brilliant, society is overall better in some way, but why am I still getting fucked over?”

The Dark Lord looked at him thoughtfully. “The world has been unfair to you.”

Harry gave the Dark Lord his most charming smile. “Not lately, my Lord.”

Once the amusement at Doge’s article had worn thin, the Dark Lord clapped his hands. The room fell silent. 

“We are missing some of our family,” the Dark Lord said, looking around the table. There were no empty chairs, but such things were malleable with magic. “Many of us languish in Azkaban.”

Harry kept his expression neutral. The Dark Lord could have ordered another breakout months ago. He had chosen not to. Lucius Malfoy, Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange, Killian’s mum, Vince’s dad, Theodore Nott’s dad, they and others were being punished for their failure in the Department of Mysteries. There were other dark witches and wizards in Azkaban, some sympathetic to the Dark Lord, all potentially useful. All ripe for the taking.

A planned breakout was not strictly necessary to get people out of Azkaban. If Mr. Malfoy had the gumption to summon his house-elf, maybe his son wouldn’t be dead. Mrs. Malfoy was still sequestered in her rooms, doing god only knew what.

“Harry.”

He met the Dark Lord’s eyes. He had expected this. He and his dad were the only two people in the room capable of casting the Patronus Charm. Harry was abruptly struck with how risky this commonality was, but no one had yet called attention to how he and his dad shared this unusual ability.

“You will lead the retrieval,” the Dark Lord said.

Harry inclined his head. “It would be an honor, my Lord.”

Less of an honor would be breaking the news to Percy. He was not going to be happy about this.

When the meeting was over, when Harry had his instructions, he walked to the gates of Malfoy Manor. His dad had stayed behind. Harry didn’t care what his dad and the Dark Lord were discussing. If it was important, his dad would tell him. His dad would tell him if it wasn’t.

He was sick to death of caring about the Dark Lord.

He was sick of it all. 

Harry lit a cigarette and kept walking. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 6: The Idiot King

Summary:

July 1997

The rocky coastline was not appreciably different in the daylight. Harry kicked a loose rock into the steely grey waves below, watched it sink under the water. There were no selkies out, no one surfacing to investigate. The craggy landscape was completely empty, the cause of which lay hidden behind the dense wall of fog several miles off the coast, a grey haze that united ocean and sky. 

Harry crouched on the edge of the cliff, smoking a cigarette and weighing his options. The Dark Lord told him to lead the retrieval, and he hadn’t specified how. It was up to him to do it in such a way that appealed to the Dark Lord. Summoning the entirety of Azkaban Island to Malfoy Manor would have been a legendary feat, but it would have scared the Dark Lord shitless. Harry knew he captivated the Dark Lord, he had shaped himself into an object of desire for his master, but he also made him uneasy. He made all the Death Eaters uneasy.

Did snakes shit like birds, or was it more like pellets? Harry didn’t know, he hadn’t taken Care of Magical Creatures or spent any time studying magical creature scat. The Dark Lord probably didn’t shit at all. There was nothing between those cold, flat cheeks. 

Harry wrinkled his nose and determinedly stopped thinking about the Dark Lord’s arse. The anomaly of his existence. How did blood, bone, and a house-elf become that?

“Percy’s going to kill me,” he reminded himself. He picked up another rock and tossed it into the water. Nothing happened. Magical creatures were going to ground. It had been bad for them during the first war, and it would be worse for them now. 

The choice was his. He could break people out of Azkaban any way he wanted, so long as they were thoroughly broken out and there were no negative repercussions for the Dark Lord. 

Since it was up to him, and Harry was fairly sick of everything at the moment, he was breaking into Azkaban alone. 

Harry finished his cigarette and flicked it over the sea. The filter spiraled through the air, then vanished. 

“I could be condemned to hell for every sin but littering,” he muttered with wry amusement, standing upright. He placed his hand on the broom hovering next to him. A Nimbus 2000. There were a few scratch marks on the handle, a few broken twigs, as an eleven-year-old who was only a few weeks into knowing magic existed at all had little conception of how to care for a top-of-the-line broom. Monty had a broom servicing kit, but he’d got it around the time he got his Firebolt. Then Monty gave the Nimbus to him, and Harry had to stop thinking about it before he started crying. 

He hadn’t brought Lady Madeleine with him, though she would have enjoyed the trip. It was well past the time when things became dangerous for her. His cat was one of his few tethers to sanity. He couldn’t lose her. 

Harry sat sideways on the broom. He enjoyed flying as much as the next person, but he rarely needed or wanted to use a broom. Brooms were the most popular method of transportation; with the numerous enchantments on them, brooms were safer and more reliable than apparition for the majority of witches and wizards. Harry didn’t even think about apparition anymore. He just did it. He could be almost anywhere he wanted instantly.

He couldn’t be anywhere he wanted. Not really. 

It was the middle of the day, the least suspicious time, the time when Percy was probably having lunch, probably a sandwich he made himself, probably eating at his desk. 

Harry gripped the handle of the broom, and it flew forward. He wasn’t going to fly at its top speed. He’d probably crash into a stray dementor. 

Once he—once the Dark Lord—took over the Ministry, he’d be able to meet Percy for lunch. He’d be able to do this one normal thing. Until then, he and Percy had their lunches separately. Most days Harry skipped the meal entirely. With his dad lurking around, that was less likely, but he was breaking into Azkaban. You couldn’t eat for at least half an hour before something like that. 

Harry skimmed over the waves, unconcerned if any muggles saw him, closing his eyes as the cold, salty spray hit his face. It grew colder as he neared the fog, and a calmness settled over Harry. The hiss of wind rushing past him, the swell of sea, rising and falling, the splash of water, the astringency that sapped him, salt crystals on his eyelashes.

As the fog neared, he murmured an incantation, a counter-charm. They had used the same enchantment at Hogwarts.

“He hæfde fithru swylce thyrnen besma...” The broom shuddered beneath him. “Lyftfleogend, in tham grimmestan gæstgewinne...”

He passed into the fog.

Between the rocky shores, he was alone. 

He missed being alone. 

“Everything is going up,” Harry softly sang, taking out his wand. With a tap, he Disillusioned himself. “Everything is going as planned.” He was almost inside the fog. The few dementors who preferred Azkaban to taking their chances elsewhere wouldn’t notice something was amiss, not with him occluding. “Everything moves along. Everything is fine, fine, fine…”

The first black rocks appeared out of nowhere. It was far easier to see it in the day, in the grey light rather than no light at all. Dementors wouldn’t notice a lumos, but the aurors they had patrolling Azkaban definitely would. 

He didn’t bother conjuring his patronus. It would be seen by the aurors, true, but Harry had other concerns. He wasn’t certain which shape it would take.

Harry landed on the sharp black rocks, then propped the broom over his shoulder. He knew he was in a precarious position. He was dancing on the edge, courting the fall. Doing this, being this, was hard enough without his brother looming over him. He wasn’t ready for Monty to know the truth. He would still do what he had to do. There was no changing his mind. He was in too deep. He was too far gone.

He idly rubbed his chest. It felt heavy, but he knew he was imagining it. It was in his head. All of this was in his head.

Harry started up the shore. Coming alone had its advantages. No other Death Eaters to report back his activities. No Death Eaters eager to kill some aurors. Harry planned on there being no casualties. As exciting as it would be to duel a few aurors, he just wasn’t up for it. He had done enough. 

When would it be enough?

Silent, invisible, forgotten, Harry approached the prison fortress. There were several dementors wandering around the graveyard, indifferent to his presence. He had no presence. 

He passed an auror walking listlessly out of the fortress, a faint rabbit patronus hopping at her side. The woman didn’t sense him, her full attention on the dementors she could see.

It was funny. Harry had expected to encounter some difficulties. An enchantment over the entire island, alarms, maybe a physical barrier. More security. Perhaps, subconsciously, the Ministry had already yielded Azkaban. They didn’t have the aurors to staff it, and they needed people who could conjure patronuses, a watch-wizard wouldn’t cut it. They also knew that the Dark Lord, or one of his mudblood minions, could traipse in and take what they wanted. There were people more worthy of protection than criminals.

Azkaban did have an anti-apparition enchantment, but that was easily bypassed.

Harry stopped at the edge of the void. This empty, echoing space was the core of Azkaban, and around it coiled black staircases, reaching deeper and higher than the mind could perceive.

A more ruthless Minister would have killed the Death Eaters in Azkaban, rather than risk the Dark Lord retaking them. You didn’t leave pieces on the board. 

Harry hooked a leg over the broom, then he jumped. He fell into the black pit, smiling faintly at the sensation of weightlessness. The screaming and crying was less pronounced than during his stay in Azkaban. Fewer dementors.

Harry gradually slowed his descent, until he was hardly falling at all. His boots brushed against the floor, the bottom of Azkaban. He landed light as a feather. 

The darkness was total. The silence was complete. A deep, inescapable cold penetrated him. He took a shallow breath, shuddering as icy air filled his lungs. 

He liked it down here, in the dark and quiet. In this place where no light could ever reach. He could see nothing, hear nothing. He was nothing. 

Harry hadn’t given much thought to what would become of him after the war, it was a minor concern, some days he didn’t care at all, but he might let them put him back in Azkaban. He felt a strange peace here, the tranquility of isolation. 

Making friends, meeting Percy, learning who his dad was, finally meeting the younger brother he had always wanted to, those were all wonderful things. He loved them, so poignantly, so painfully, that it overwhelmed him. 

He loved them, but sometimes he wished he was alone again. 

Harry took another breath, coming back to where he was, what he was doing. It would have been fun to duel his way through Azkaban, make a spectacular escape, bring the fortress down around those it had oppressed for centuries, but this was just another thing he had to do, and to him not a very important one. He wasn’t in the mood for playing around. Not when his brother was suffering because of him. 

He never wanted that. He never wanted to hurt Monty. He only wanted to protect him. He only wanted to save him. He only wanted Monty to be happy, but he was fucking that up too, just like he ruined everything else. 

Harry grimaced, then forced himself to set the broom down and move. Occlumency was not a perfect defense against dementors, and he was experiencing some strong emotions. This was a job. A simple job. He needed to do the job, then leave. 

The worst of the worst were kept at the bottom of Azkaban, the furthest away from the light and air. The people the Ministry, the world, wanted to forget about. 

Harry wasn’t here to discriminate. The Dark Lord would take anyone useful and willing to serve, and kill anyone who was neither. He did have to light his wand. He couldn’t see in the dark, and needed to know where to aim. Another mark against him; he should have enchanted his eye to see in the dark. That would have been useful. 

“Who’s there?” a tremulous voice asked. 

Harry peered into the cell and saw a familiar, wasted face looking back at him. 

The man hadn’t been in Azkaban long enough for the filth to really sink in. Sirius Black had looked far worse after twelve years, and being on the run for months. That wasn’t to say Lucius Malfoy was in good condition. He had lost weight, making his face gaunt and his wrists bony. His pale blond hair was longer, but has lost its luster. His eyes were red rimmed, and he squinted at the dim light. To him, it might have looked like a patronus. A cool light floating in the darkness. His robes were stained. He had soiled himself.

“How the mighty have fallen,” Harry murmured. 

“Who is it?” Malfoy weakly demanded. “Who is there? Reveal yourself!”

Harry had no intention of revealing himself. He took another wand from his pocket, an older wand, a stick that felt oddly fitted to his hand. He pointed it at Lucius Malfoy’s filthy, tattered robes. 

He could do this now. He knew the spell. He understood it, possibly better than anyone else alive. 

These people were like children, stumbling around blindly, no comprehension of the world around them, toying with powers they could not fully conceive. Even Dumbledore was guilty of this. 

The sacrifice Harry’s mother made was something Harry struggled to understand, both her reason for it and the nature of it, but Harry knew what it was. He felt it in his very soul. 

Harry narrowed his eyes. Lucius Malfoy’s prisoner robes existed here, but they could also exist elsewhere. They would drag the diminished man along for the ride.

“Portus,” he whispered. 

Malfoy’s eyes widened in surprise, but before he could scream he was torn through space. Not time, that was one differentiation between portkeys and apparition. There was a small chance that Malfoy’s robes would have disintegrated, and in the process deconstructed the concept of Lucius Malfoy, but that was a risk Harry was willing to take. He didn’t think it was likely. He wasn’t the same person as he was three years ago, listening to overworked witches and wizards droning incantactions, watching one man in the Portkey Office passing his wand over piles of rubbish, repeating the same word. He wasn’t a kid at his dad’s kitchen table, disintegrating newspapers. 

An inferior wizard might have, for a completely random example, transfigured a big fancy boat for everyone. Or brought a ton of brooms. Or staged a battle against Azkaban, leading the wandless prisoners in a revolt. A few might have died, or been Kissed, but that was war. People died. Innocent people died. You killed innocent people and then you went on with your life. 

Turning the whole of Azkaban into a portkey was not off the table, but given the size of the island it would have demolished Malfoy Manor. Harry didn’t know where else to put it. And it would have brought all the dementors and aurors too. Too much of a hassle. 

Harry moved on to the next cell. The nearby prisoners were stirring, alerted by Malfoy’s tearful questions. The actual casting of the spell was rote. It was mundane for those in the Portkey Office. Just a job. 

Harry aimed at Rabastan Lestrange. “Portus.” Rodolphus Lestrange. “Portus.” Mulciber. “Portus.” Killian’s mum. “Portus.” Vince’s dad. “Portus.” Mundungus Fletcher? Pass. Macnair. “Portus.” Theodore Nott’s dad. “Portus.” Stan Shunpike? Why not? “Portus.” 

Being a Death Eater was, in a lot of ways, a job. He even had a uniform for it. There were no set hours, no consistent routine, but he hated his boss, hated his coworkers, hated that he had to work at all, and it had taken over his life. 

Being a Death Eater was a shitty job. 

Halfway up, he ran into another auror. John Dawlish. Harry sighed, then Confunded the man. The breakout would eventually be discovered, likely within hours. He hadn’t told Percy about it yet. This was an objectively bad thing, bolstering the Dark Lord’s ranks. And with some truly abhorrent people. He could not discriminate. If he was bringing Mrs. Avery, he had to bring Mulciber too. They could sort out the pile at Malfoy Manor. 

He could have dumped them in the middle of the North Sea. That would have technically been out of Azkaban. Could the Dark Lord fault him for that? Would the Dark Lord fault him for that? A bracing dip would have improved them. The stench was considerable, and the Dark Lord had a sensitive nose. Sensitive nostrils. 

“Excuse me.”

Harry froze, then turned to face the speaker. The sound of that voice made his skin crawl, though not so much as when the Dark Lord touched him. The Dark Lord didn’t actually enjoy touching him, he enjoyed the reactions it elicited. This was an important distinction, in Harry’s mind. 

“Forgive me if I’m being silly,” Dolores Umbridge said, pressing herself against the bars. “But it seems to me that you are releasing prisoners. I couldn’t help but notice that I am a prisoner. Wrongfully imprisoned, of course. Dear Cornelius was beside himself! The poor man—”

“Is no longer the Minister for Magic,” Harry said. With a thought, his Disillusionment fractured, then fell away. He had heard the sensation described as someone cracking an egg over your head—his brother had said that, his brother who had not slept for days, who had half the pieces of the puzzle that was Harry Evans and still, somehow, made them fit—but Harry had always experienced it differently. He imagined it varied from person to person. His felt more like thin glass. One tap, and it shattered. 

Percy said it was beautiful.

Umbridge stared at him, open mouthed, her eyes bugging out. 

“You seem to be under a misapprehension,” Harry said. “I’m not releasing prisoners. I’m breaking out fellow Death Eaters at the Dark Lord’s request.” He pointed his wand at her. “You are not a Death Eater.”

Umbridge began shaking. She held her hands out, plaintive. A supplicant. 

Harry hated those hands. They were weak and flabby and he knew the things she wanted to do to him. All her little fantasies. She was up there with Mulciber, but she had never crossed the line into actually doing anything. She had never had access to young boys, not until she was at Hogwarts. Then her desires were expressed in ways tacitly approved by the Ministry. Physical punishment. Torture.

It was tempting. There were few people in the world Harry wanted to kill. Very few. Peter Pettigrew. Voldemort. Dumbledore, sometimes. The Dursleys, especially Vernon. Dolores Jane Umbridge made the list. Not for what she had done to Harry, he didn’t really care about the sick thoughts she had so long as they stayed in her head. No, it was for what she had done to his brother. Eight hours, carving her depraved message into his hand. Doing it to himself. His brother, hurting himself while this fucking monster squirmed in her own foul juices. 

“Mr. Evans,” Umbridge said, her voice high, saccharine, girlish. What she thought boys found appealing. 

The Dark Lord didn’t care who Umbridge was. He probably didn’t remember she existed. A middling Ministry employee, a mediocre witch. That she had risen so high with so little to offer, with such poorly concealed biases, was a product of the rank corruption and incompetence that had plagued the Ministry, and by extension their society, from its inception. The Ministry needed to be taken over, for its own good.

Harry also knew, deep down, that the Dark Lord would use Umbridge against him. 

His dad had taught him this spell for a reason. So he could protect himself. 

Umbridge smiled at him. She looked like a toad someone had run over. 

He pointed his wand at her. 

“What—”

“Obliviate.”

Umbridge’s eyes unfocused, and she fell backwards, crashing to the floor of her cell. Harry watched her for a moment, hoping she had struck her head hard enough to concuss herself. Wanting to bash her head against the floor until she could never look at him again. 

When Umbridge stirred, mumbling nonsense to herself, Harry turned and walked away.

He walked past dark, empty cells, down to the very bottom of Azkaban. Where it ended. He picked up the broom his brother gave him. He looked up at the pinprick of light. The Nimbus 2000 had a top speed of one-hundred twenty miles per hour. Harry sat on the broom. His brother noticed that he didn’t have a broom, so he had given Harry one of his own. His first broom. 

His little brother had given him his first broom. 

Monty deserved a better brother.

The broom shot up, accelerating so fast that the prison, the silence, the darkness, the memories blurred and tore away. 

Harry burst into the light, a lone figure rising from the black hole of Azkaban, one hundred feet, two hundred, three hundred above the ground, the island, the prison, the fog, breaking through the clouds until it was only him, just Harry, under the unforgiving sun. 

His hands tightened on the handle. He wasn’t going to fall. 

Notes:

The title, and the lyrics Harry is singing, are from The Idiot Kings by Soul Coughing

I know not everyone is into the inclusion of music in this fic, but it is relevant to Harry's mental state. Little musical easter eggs.

Chapter 7: Piled On

Summary:

July 1997

Notes:

If you see any typos, you're probably here early. Give me an hour to correct any errors, and if you still see any let me know in discord. Thanks <3

The emerald concoction undulated within its glass sphere. Severus watched it intently. In no way was he captivated by either the color or the movement. It was merely a glass sphere with a liquid inside. 

The emerald concoction had been analyzed. Severus had used his decades of experience and breadth of knowledge, identifying each component, each separate potion, in which proportions, in which quantities, in which sequence. More than the potioneering aspect, he had successfully identified the additional enchantment placed on the concoction itself.

Dumbledore reported that the basin had several enchantments, to perpetually refill the concoction, a requirement to use a drinking vessel to extract the potion, some means of ascertaining if the concoction had been drunk rather than discarded.  Interestingly, there was no requirement that a human drink the concoction, which rendered Dumbledore’s suicidal instinct to drink it himself even more idiotic. 

The enchantment on the concoction itself was curious, a superfluous addition. It enabled the concoction to be turned transparent. 

What purpose did that serve? Why would the Dark Lord do such a thing?

The entire cave was strange. A very strange thing to do. The location, the boat, the inferi, the basin, the concoction. Was it a shrine? A shrine for a piece of the Dark Lord’s soul? If he revered the fragments of his soul so profoundly, to expend so much frivolous effort in containing and displaying one, why did he give the diary to Lucius Malfoy? Why was the ring underneath a floorboard in an abandoned hovel? Why was the diadem left in a room filled with junk?

What made the presumptive horcrux in the cave different?

These were questions for which Severus was unlikely to obtain answers. The only one who knew was the Dark Lord himself.

Most times Severus understood the Dark Lord. He presented a fairly simplistic worldview. An unexplained hatred for anyone without pure magical human heritage, an obsession with immortality—in other words, a fear of death—and a need to control those around him. The Dark Lord was a very insecure man, one who grew up in poverty, his intelligence making him exceptional, entitled, hungry for power. Then the Dark Lord would do something inscrutable, as if guided by some alien instinct, utterly at odds with any semblance of rationality. It made the Dark Lord erratic, unpredictable, incomprehensible. 

A rational person would not attempt to kill an infant based on half of a prophecy. 

Severus looked at the emerald concoction in the glass sphere, and could not understand why it existed at all. 

Sighing, Severus waved his hand and the glowing, emerald concoction became clear. 

“Why?” he said aloud. His private laboratory held no answer. 

His son was thankfully not here to witness him at his wit’s end. The boy was on another island holiday, as he so flippantly put it. Harry had not requested his help, nor the help of any Death Eaters. Severus was admittedly concerned, but, unlike the Dark Lord, he could always follow his son’s way of thinking. 

Severus’ dark mark abruptly burned. 

It was always abrupt. There was no warning, or incremental building of the pain. One moment his mark was quiescent, the next it was a raging inferno fueled solely by the Dark Lord’s desire. 

Severus put the glass sphere back in its secure box. The precaution was not entirely necessary; even if the glass broke, which it wouldn’t, the emerald concoction only acted when drunk. Skin contact was safe, as was breathing in any fumes. Severus had yet to encounter a potion that took effect through visual contact, and made a note to explore that further. It could be a new class of dark potions. 

He locked up his laboratory, walked up the stairs, petted the cat sleeping on his chair, paused to wonder why the hell he had just petted the cat, walked out of his house, cast several curses to bar or at least impede Dumbledore-esque intruders, then apparated. 

 

---

 

Percy stood on the rocky shores of Azkaban, holding a clipboard and not knowing what to do with it. 

The Minister was fuming, which was disappointing. Had the man truly not anticipated another mass breakout? Did the first one not tip him off? What about the distinct lack of dementors? That they could only spare two aurors to guard hundreds of inmates?

Which part of this came as a surprise?

Percy, being a professional and someone who desperately needed to retain his position, kept his opinions to himself.

Azkaban was not the best prison, for a number of reasons. It was hundreds of miles from the Ministry, isolated, the construct of a dark wizard who had created or summoned the dementors, had gone mad, and vanished without a trace. 

Azkaban hadn’t been built by the Ministry, but appropriated. The extent of Ekrizdis’ activities on Azkaban were unknown. The Ministry had discovered it once the concealment charms broke upon Ekrizdis’ presumed death, found the island infested with dementors, did an investigation, and promptly destroyed all records. 

Scrimgeour was busy reading the riot act to John Dawlish, who seemed genuinely confused. Seemed, as Percy suspected the auror had been Confunded. It was expertly done, no noticeable changes in his behavior or speech, but there was one glaring flaw. Dozens of prisoners were missing without a trace. How could anyone possibly miss that? Probability alone required that Dawlish had to be in proximity to one of the vanished prisoners. He had been patrolling within the fortress itself, and multiple prisoners above and below him were gone.

The prisoners were simply gone. No sign of forced entry, not damage to the cells, nothing left behind, no trace of magic. 

There were nascent theories. That they were all unregistered animagi who had suddenly decided to escape, months or years after their incarceration, all at the same time. The anti-apparition enchantment was still up, but that meant nothing. It could have been disenchanted then reenchanted by an appropriately skilled witch or wizard. The Dark Lord himself. That the two aurors were unharmed and alive, and that the remaining dementors were agitated, suggested this was not the case. The Dark Lord had not personally retrieved the missing prisoners, many of whom were not even Death Eaters. 

Another discrepancy stood out to Percy, though he already knew who was behind this mass breakout. The same impossible person who was behind the first one. A young man who had escaped Azkaban after a week. After waiting a week, as if to prove a point. 

“I could have freed someone else instead. One of those witches who goes around healing muggles.”

Percy reread his copy of the list of missing prisoners. Scrimgeour and the aurors were concerned solely with the escaped Death Eaters, but several names caught Percy’s attention. The names of people who had been convicted of breaking the Statute of Secrecy after healing muggles. 

The parchment rolled up before Percy could do something foolish—such as proclaim his undying love for Henry Samuel Evans, the man who was a gift of magic itself, the greatest wizard across all of time, the man for whom he would go to any lengths to defend, who saw the world in such a beautiful, wondrous way that even the slightest glimpse of the vibrant landscape of his mind made him weep with joy, someone so brutally, so relentlessly good, someone who had so much to give and contribute and be in a world that was ceaseless in its quest to break him, who gathered those shattered pieces of himself and kept moving forward, the man who he loved beyond all reason, with every single part of him, who he would be tied to in this life and the next, the stars themselves would rearrange in the image of their love, his name would burn across the endless universe for all of eternity, and when the last humans huddled around their sputtering fire they would whisper his tale and dream of standing in the glory of his presence, and when nothing but the ashes of mankind remained the indelible mark of his existence would be drawn in that cinereous font—in front of the Minister, two confused aurors, and several angry dementors. 

Percy blushed furiously, holding his clipboard stiffly in front of his robes. 

“We cannot let word of this get out,” the Minister seethed. 

Percy wholeheartedly agreed. 

 

---

 

Severus was prepared to meet the Dark Lord. He was not prepared to meet a groaning pile of Death Eaters in Azkaban robes.

The gates of Malfoy Manor were thrown open. In broad daylight stood the Dark Lord. He met Severus’ eyes over the mound of stirring bodies, his expression remote. Severus attempted to make sense of the situation. That he had been summoned to assist with this… deposit was clear. Severus didn’t feel it was his place to ask, What is the meaning of this? The Dark Lord likewise seemed disinclined to ask a question with such an obvious answer. 

The Dark Lord had commanded Harry to retrieve those imprisoned in Azkaban. Harry had delivered them in a timely fashion, as close to Malfoy Manor as he could without destroying the various enchantments against magical forms of transportation. 

Severus quickly counted the bodies. The pile was taller than he was, and sprawled along the gate. There were dozens of people. A hundred or more. 

What the bloody fuck were they going to do with so many people?

“My Lord,” Severus said with perfect composure. “We should get them inside.”

The Dark Lord looked at the pile. A single, filthy hand had emerged from the mass of flesh and dirty grey robes. The Dark Lord smiled, splitting his face in half, his teeth slick and eerily white under the sunlight. The Dark Lord was monstrous under the cover of darkness, profane in the light. Like an overturned rock revealing a pale and writhing maggot, exposing its vulgar presence, its rancid debauchery, to the world. Then the Dark Lord began laughing, a shrill cackle that silenced the countryside around them. 

Severus began conjuring stretchers, for lack of anything else actionable. A few of the very recently freed prisoners, those with recent sentences, were ambulatory. Others had clearly been decaying for years. Harry had not only sent the Death Eaters in Azkaban, but ostensibly anyone he deemed useful. That would be the Dark Lord’s interpretation. More likely, these additions were people Harry personally believed did not belong in Azkaban. A befuddled Stan Shunpike, for an apposite example. 

The Dark Lord’s laughter had a rousing effect on the carnal agglomeration. Róisín Avery had an enviable spot near the edge of the mass. She lifted her head, grimacing as she struggled to remove herself. From the darkest depths of Azkaban, her only companions the cold and the screaming of the other damned, to warmth, light, fresh air, and freedom. 

Severus conjured more stretchers, easing them under the Death Eaters and other prisoners. The Dark Lord took a more direct approach. He aimed at the one Death Eater he immediately wanted, crushed beneath the others, using his wand like a conductor to tease the unfortunate man out. Soon, the man hung before the Dark Lord, his bare and bleeding feet only brushing the ground. 

“Lucius,” the Dark Lord purred, tilting his head. “How good of you to join us. As you see, we have a number of guests to accommodate. Unfortunately, Narcissa is… indisposed. You will need to prepare their rooms.”

“My… my Lord,” Lucius stuttered, unprepared to go directly from his cell to the Dark Lord. “Narcissa…. My wife…”

“Is indisposed,” the Dark Lord said. He was still smiling that horrible, predaceous smile of his, but his voice was tinged with annoyance. 

“And my son,” Lucius said, trying to move his head. “Draco. Where is—”

“Draco is dead,” the Dark Lord said coldly. He flicked his wand, and Lucius dropped heavily to the ground. “Now get up and prepare your home for your new guests. The boy you call a mudblood has provided me the means to rebuild my army, to make one greater than before. You will do your part, or die like your son.”

Lucius lay motionlessly on the ground.

Severus watched Lucius as he continued to place people on stretchers, creating some organization out of his son’s chaos. If someone told him his son had died—if the Dark Lord had killed his son, Severus knew what he would do. He had a plan already in place. No one would leave the room alive, himself included. 

Lucius had been in Azkaban for a year. He had been out for a few scant minutes. He had immediately been informed, in the most indifferent and callous manner, by a man to whom he had signed away his life, wealth, and name, that his wife was indisposed and his only child was dead.

Lucius Malfoy was faced with the loss of everything. 

For a moment, it seemed Lucius would defy the Dark Lord. Perhaps hurl his body at his master, determined to cause some meager harm. A desperate, final act. 

Then, Lucius Malfoy stood. His body was frail, his life destroyed, but he pushed himself out of the dirt and climbed to his feet. Cringing and beaten, Lucius Malfoy stood before the Dark Lord. 

“Yes, my Lord,” Lucius said quietly, his voice hoarse from days and weeks and months of crying and screaming and begging for release. Now Lucius had that release, and he knew that freedom came at a terrible cost. 

His head bowed, Lucius stumbled past the Dark Lord, cutting his feet on the useless gravel drive of his family home. A home for a family which no longer existed. It was for the Dark Lord’s family now. The first priority, the first loyalty, was always to the Dark Lord. 

Severus watched Lucius Malfoy limp away, a broken man, a man only suited to obey his master. Lucius had taught Draco his entire life that they were the masters of the world. He was a pureblood, inherently superior to the tainted halfbloods and filthy mudbloods. Taught that the Dark Lord was good, and right, the darkest and most powerful wizard, a wizard Draco should revere, emulate, aspire to serve. 

Had Lucius heard the lies in his own words? Would he still once he learned how Draco died?

“Severus.”

“Yes, master,” Severus said. He had grouped the marked Death Eaters together. He recognized many of the people by face and name. Former students, former classmates, Daily Prophet articles, seen in passing in Diagon Alley or Knockturn Alley or Hogsmeade. Their population numbered in the thousands. Every face was familiar. 

“Bring them inside the gates,” the Dark Lord said, turning around. He began walking up the drive at a more sedate pace. “And when Harry arrives, tell him I wish to speak.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Severus said, bowing his head. He continued his work, ferrying the nearly dead. A part of him hoped Harry would take his time returning. The boy likely needed to recuperate.

His son had once again accomplished something truly remarkable.

He had drawn the Dark Lord from his den. 

 

---

 

As soon as there was a knock on his door, Percy threw it open. 

“Hey,” Harry said with a lazy smile. He looked exhausted, but he was smiling. He was radiant.

“You are,” Percy began, unable to articulate what Harry was. 

Everything. He was everything. 

“I am,” Harry said, his smile growing. “Sorry, I meant to tell you beforehand. Give you some warning, but I wanted to—”

Percy took Harry’s arm and pulled him into his flat. 

“—get it out of the way,” Harry finished, fitting himself around Percy. He sighed. “God, you’re warm. Casting the same spell so many times…”

“How did you do it?” Percy asked, wrapping his arms around Harry. Around his boyfriend. Around the man he would… “Did you do something to the anti-apparition enchantment?”

“I did something to the anti-broom enchantment,” Harry murmured, sneaking his hands into Percy’s robes, touching his bare skin. Harry’s hands were cool, but not painfully cold. It felt… “But I didn’t have everyone fly out. I turned their robes into portkeys.”

Percy inhaled sharply. “That’s why we found nothing.”

“I thought about summoning the Knight Bus,” Harry admitted, running his hands up Percy’s back. “Thought it would be a laugh. I’m dead curious how it even works.”

Percy tried to keep his breathing even. It was impossible. “The Minister wants it covered up. He believes it will demoralize the public. That it would give them a false impression of how powerful the Dark Lord is.” 

He framed Harry’s tired face in his hands. Harry had purple bags under his eyes. His skin was deprived of color, translucent. It was Azkaban. Being there did this to Harry. 

“How powerful you are,” Percy said quietly, feeling uneasy admitting his thoughts aloud. He had seen the mark on Harry’s palm. He knew what Harry believed it meant. He didn’t know how, or why, or even what was happening to Harry. 

“The Dark Lord is pleased with me,” is all Harry said. “Though he admonished me for making a mess.”

Percy frowned, wondering what the mess was, but Harry pulled him into a kiss, and his hands were too clever, and they had more important considerations to attend to.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 8: Simple Deductions

Summary:

July 1997

“The Dark Lord is insane,” Harry declared, kicking up his legs and crossing his arms behind his head. Percy glanced at the boots on his table, followed the line of Harry’s legs. “Completely mad. We all know that.” Harry looked at him and smirked. Percy hastily sat upright, placing his hands in his lap. “But he has a rationality, and that rationality is rooted in self-preservation.”

Percy cleared his throat. “His claims of immortality.”

“Right,” Harry said, looking pensively at the ceiling. “That’s where his true interest lies, and political power is ancillary to that. He doesn’t want to take time to manage anyone, nor even structure the Death Eaters in a competent, efficient manner. It’s a bloody free-for-all. The Dark Lord will issue some vague instruction and expect people who can’t even coherently organize an essay to methodically seize the power he ostensibly wants. Wants to wield by proxy.” 

“And he was Head Boy?” Percy asked drily. 

Harry snorted. “That whole thing is bullshit.” Percy frowned. “Not being Head Boy, but that Moaning Myrtle got killed by a basilisk, Hagrid’s acromantula was blamed despite not having instant-death vision and, you know, eating his victims, and despite Moaning Myrtle saying herself that she had seen a pair of yellow eyes.” Harry faintly sneered. It made him resemble his father, a traumatizing thought for Percy. “Not spider eyes. Armando Dippet was a bloody idiot, and Dumbledore was… I don’t even know what he was thinking. He knew the Dark Lord was a parselmouth.” Harry let out a breath, then put his feet on the floor. “I’m getting off-topic. But it’s mad they made him Head Boy after that, when he was so obviously the culprit. He should’ve been chucked into Azkaban.”

Harry picked up a quill from the table and began twirling it between his fingers. Percy moved his chair closer to see what Harry would do. He liked seeing what Harry would do. He liked watching him go about his life. There was something deeply satisfying in Harry simply being. Harry had been the most interesting person to Percy for much longer than he was willing to admit. 

“It’s already been established,” Harry said, scratching words into the parchment. No, his quill didn’t scratch. It flowed effortlessly. Percy swallowed. Swooning over someone’s handwriting. He was being ridiculous. Then he registered the words Harry was writing. 

The Sedition of Percival Prewett and Henry Evans. 

“That sounds like the title of a novel,” Percy said. 

“The tale of our torrid love affair,” Harry said, drawing a heart next to Percy’s name. He crossed out sedition and above it wrote seduction, then replaced and with by. Percy inadvertently laughed. Harry smiled, then securely gripped the back of Percy’s neck and kissed him. 

“Stop distracting me,” Harry said quietly, gazing into Percy’s eyes. Percy’s mouth immediately went dry. Harry kissed him again, then turned back to the parchment. “I can’t even remember what I was going to write.” He shook his head, then wrote Ministry, Gringotts, and Media. “Wish Gringotts started with an M.” Harry sighed, then looked at Percy again. “Last time, the Dark Lord didn’t completely capture the Ministry. He was like a mold, taking more and more of it with each person placed under Imperius, which is something we want to avoid this time.”

“I should hope so,” Percy said faintly. 

“That means willing collaboration,” Harry said, his eyes hardening. “Or the presumption of it. I’d say it doesn’t matter to the Dark Lord whether someone is under Imperius or not so long as they do what he says, but that’s not true.”

“Why do you say that?” Percy asked. 

Harry grimaced, looking away from Percy. “He gets off on you doing things of your own volition.”

Percy hesitated, not knowing if it would be welcome, then placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder. 

“Not like that,” Harry said quietly. “I hope not. But he does enjoy it.” He sighed, then sat up straighter. Percy let his hand fall away. “It’ll be easier if the Ministry rolls over. Surrenders. Fewer people under Imperius. Fewer deaths.”

“The Minister would never,” Percy said. 

“Yeah,” Harry said, meeting Percy’s eyes again. “I said fewer, Perce. Not none.”

“I’m aware of that,” Percy said stiffly. Standing aside… His family would never forgive him. Why did he even want their forgiveness? “I know, Harry.”

“Sorry,” Harry said. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it. “I’ve got a lot on my mind. Anyway, the Dark Lord has only spoken of his plans for the Ministry, if you can even call it a plan. I’ve never heard him talk about Gringotts, or the Prophet, or the wireless, or any other infrastructure. Nor Hogwarts, really, only that he wants my dad to be the headmaster.”

“He has an impoverished conception of power,” Percy said. 

“And my present task is to enlighten the Dark Lord,” Harry said. “But he can’t know I’m doing it.” He tapped the parchment with his quill. “Getting specific people in place is tricky. He listens to dad more than me. Dad’s advice is sacrosanct these days, not to mention he’s older and has served the Dark Lord longer. And the Dark Lord knows him better, or thinks he does.”

Percy pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “You’re proposing to manipulate the most powerful dark wizard in known history.”

“That last bit’s up for debate,” Harry said dismissively, “and I’ve already been manipulating him.” He tossed the quill onto the table and leaned back in his chair. “Obfuscation, omission, lying. It’s all manipulation.” He fished out a cigarette and lit it, closing his eyes as he inhaled. “I’m a deceitful person. My entire bloody life’s a lie.”

Percy watched him smoke, unsure what to say. His entire life? Or just being a Death Eater?

“I know what you’re thinking,” Harry said. “Has he lied to me? What was the lie? Is all of this a lie?”

“I was not thinking that,” Percy said quietly.

Harry didn’t hear him, or chose to ignore him. “I have lied to you. I’ve lied to everyone about being a muggleborn.” He laughed bitterly. “Except for Monty.” He took another drag from his cigarette. “I told him one of my parents was a Death Eater.”

Percy gave him an alarmed look. “Why would you do that?”

Harry smiled sadly. “So he would trust me.”

Percy stared at him. “How would that—”

“Manipulating Voldemort sounds mad,” Harry said. “But it’s easier than it sounds. Plant the seeds, let them germinate—”

“Harry,” Percy said, annoyed, worried, confused. Harry made him run the entire gamut of emotions. No one else could. “I’m not going to be thrown off by you saying his name.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. 

Questioning Harry about his relationship with Monty Potter would go nowhere, Percy knew that. He didn’t think Harry enjoyed lying to him. In fact, it seemed to trouble him quite deeply, and Percy was reluctant to put him in such a position. He knew Harry feared his friends would be captured, tortured for information, then discarded. Percy wondered if Harry feared being rejected by him. He knew Harry did, and he didn’t think he could say anything to convince Harry it wouldn’t happen. Percy didn’t know if there was anything he wouldn’t forgive, and that was a terrifying thought.

Harry hated the Dark Lord, that much was clear. However, Percy was increasingly convinced Harry was more interested in protecting Monty. That he believed the most advantageous position to do so was from the Dark Lord’s side.

Did Monty have any idea? Did Harry want him to know, or was that something else he feared?

“What are you thinking about?” Harry asked. Percy looked at him, and found Harry watching him with a neutral expression.

“You,” Percy said honestly.

Harry was still for a moment, then relaxed and gave him a soft smile. Percy’s heart stuttered.

“There were always two paths for me,” Harry said. “Either openly oppose the Dark Lord, or defeat him from within. I told Monty that because, well, I was preparing him for that eventuality.” He sat up again. “The Dark Lord’s going to be marking anyone who’s of age, before they’re sent back to Hogwarts. His third generation of Death Eaters.”

Percy took one of Harry’s hands. It was a harrowing thought. 

“That’s part of it,” Harry said. “Creating tasks that are nonviolent.” He licked his lips, then took a drag from his cigarette. “I’ll let dad worry about that. They’re his students.”

Percy laced their fingers together. It still felt like something he wasn’t allowed to do, holding another young man’s hand.

Young man. He sounded like his aunt. 

Harry gently squeezed his hand. “The people most in danger are all the muggleborns. People like Bellatrix, Mulciber, Nott, the real zealots, just want to start killing muggleborns. Systematically wipe them out. But the Dark Lord isn’t stupid. He knows muggles and muggleborns are needed for our population. He’s seen the end result of centuries of inbreeding.”

“So, detention?” Percy asked, his stomach souring. “Internment? What…” He closed his eyes, feeling ill. He knew the sort of things that happened to women during a war. Were they going to round up muggleborn women to… he hadn’t even considered… 

“I don’t know what the Dark Lord’s long-term plans are for muggleborns,” Harry said darkly. “He’s said things about preserving magical blood. He hates muggles, he goes on about that all the time, but muggleborns are more like vermin to him.” Harry laughed humorlessly. “That’s part of why I don’t believe he specifically hates muggleborns. Everyone is vermin to him.”

Percy’s mind was still reeling with what horrors muggleborns would face if the Dark Lord was victorious. To contemplate such things in the quiet of his cheap flat, sealed off from the rest of the world.

“The best we can hope for,” Percy said slowly, “is detaining them.” 

Placing muggleborns in Azkaban, reinstalling dementors and removing all other human presence. It would keep them out of the way, relatively safe. 

Percy could not conceive of a rape occurring in Azkaban. The environment, particularly with the dementors, was not conducive to it. He hoped.

Harry touched his face, and he flinched.

“That’s the fallback plan,” Harry said firmly. “The alternative. Think, Percy. What makes someone a muggleborn?”

“Having muggle parents,” Percy said, sickened and exasperated. “Harry—”

Harry lightly gripped his jaw, and Percy froze.

“How can you prove someone is a muggleborn?”

“If their parents are muggles,” Percy said, feeling lightheaded. This was not helping him think. “If their parents cannot do magic.”

“What about Mafalda?” Harry asked intently.

Percy stared at Harry, and his thoughts snapped into place.

“Her father is a squib,” he said.

“He can’t do magic,” Harry pointed out. “So is Mafalda a muggleborn?”

“No,” Percy said. “She’s… a halfblood, I suppose.”

“Do you?” Harry said. “Why?”

“Her grandparents were a witch and wizard,” Percy said. 

“Can you prove that?” Harry asked. 

“Yes,” Percy said. “There’s a record…” 

His eyes widened. He felt like a fool. It was so obvious. 

Harry smiled at him, and suddenly Percy was bodily lifted out of his chair and deposited on Harry’s lap. Blood rushed to his face. It was a ridiculous position. He was too tall, he either had to put his feet on the floor and perch like a spider, or let them dangle like loose noodles, or—

Percy gasped at what Harry was doing, and stopped worrying about how silly he looked.

“It’s going to be a hell of a lot of work,” Harry murmured. Percy squeezed his eyes shut. “You’re the only one I trust to do it.”

Percy completely melted. A part of him wondered if this was Harry manipulating him, but Harry didn’t have to. Harry could simply ask. Percy would do anything for him.

“I wanted to get started on developing procedures,” Harry whispered against his throat. “But…”

Percy shuddered, then pressed his face against Harry’s shoulder. He was glad it was the weekend.

 

---

 

“Thanks for coming,” Black said, without his usual grudging tolerance. 

For a moment, Severus imagined what it would be like if Lily and James had survived. Would Lily have eventually revealed Harry? Would she have raised him as James Potter’s son? 

Would she have told him?

“How is he?” Severus asked, banishing the thought. Black stepped aside, permitting him entry to Grimmauld Place. 

His hatred for James Potter had lasted years beyond the man’s death. In retrospect, he felt pathetic for clinging to it. There was little for him to cling to at all. Protect her son, hate the father, teach his classes, keep his body alive. It wasn’t so much living as it was persisting. Distasteful though the comparison was, both he and Black had been reduced in their obsession with revenge. 

Black sighed, then shut the door. There were an absurd number of clicks. The door was the sole point of entry, the most vulnerable part of a house that was slowly turning into a fortress. Severus was mildly impressed by the amount of effort Black was putting into protecting his godson. 

“Not great,” Black said, shaking his head. “He’s barely talking, to either me or Kreacher. Physically, he’s doing fine. Eating and sleeping and all that. Sleeping better than he has his entire life.” Black shook his head. “Reading a lot. Mostly muggle books, which is different. He’s usually reading about potions or creatures. The number of journals that kid’s got me subscribed to…” Black sighed again. “No visions from Voldemort.”

Severus slowly released a breath. He would give Black the benefit of the doubt. Black had a malicious streak, like a poorly bred mutt, but under the circumstances it was unlikely Black intentionally sought to harm him. 

“Using his true name aggravates the dark mark,” Severus said evenly. 

Black raised his eyebrows. “I thought you lot were all afraid of it, that’s why you’re so twitchy. You’re telling me that Vol—that using his name hurts you?”

“It burns,” Severus said simply. “Why the Dark Lord designed it so, I cannot attest to. For his own amusement, presumably. I have intuited no deeper purpose.”

Black’s expression soured. “He’s a real piece of shit. The things that bastard does to his own followers. It’s…” He ran a hand over his face, then looked at Severus. “Before you check on Monty, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Another request from Sirius Black? Will the wonders never cease?”

Black crossed his arms, his face unreadable, then met Severus’ eyes. “Do you know what happened to my brother?”

Severus showed no reaction. He should have anticipated the question. Regulus Black had one day disappeared, without a trace. The Dark Lord had never spoken of it. Severus believed the Dark Lord didn’t know what happened. No one did. The loss of one Death Eater, even one such as Regulus Black, was negligible. Severus, however, was in the unique position of knowing exactly what had happened to the estranged Black’s younger brother. 

“I will look into it,” Severus said. Extracting Regulus Black’s body from the lake would be no issue. In a few days, he would be returning to the Dark Lord’s cave with Dumbledore. They could do it then.

“Thanks,” Black said, his shoulders relaxing. “I’d appreciate that.” 

Severus nodded, then looked up the staircase. “Where is he?”

“The kitchen, actually,” Black said. He started off down the corridor. “When I say he’s been eating, I mean he’s been eating a lot.”

“He’s a teenage boy,” Severus said, wishing his own teenage boy had anything resembling an appetite. Harry displayed some of Severus’ less enviable attributes. Severus too had stopped eating at points during and after the war. 

They walked down a set of narrow stone steps. Another enchanted choke point, easily defensible. It was unlikely anyone would penetrate the Fidelius, not with Black as secret-keeper, but Severus applauded the man’s prudence. It seemed Azkaban hadn’t completely rotted his intelligence away. 

“I think he’s trying to build his strength or something,” Black muttered, stopping in front of a door. “The kid’s eating me out of house and home.”

“You can afford it.”

Black snorted, then opened the door to the basement kitchen.

The kitchen of Grimmauld Place was no less gloomy than when Severus had first seen it. It wasn’t a kitchen built for the occupants of the house to spend leisure time, or even take meals in. It was constructed as a workroom for several house-elves. The stone walls were rough, the main source of light was the immense fire, the long table had stains and cut marks, and the ceiling was a hanging forest of pots and pans. It was, in short, a kitchen.

While these dismal surrounds contributed to the oppressive air, a lone, sullen figure with his arm around a treacle tart the size of a wagon wheel all but exuded despondency. 

“Kreacher,” Black said, putting a hand over his eyes. “I said one slice a day. Slice! One! He’s going to be sick!”

“He’s sitting right here,” Monty said ominously. 

Severus sighed, then walked over and took a seat next to the boy. “Good afternoon.”

“Hey, professor,” Monty said, not looking at him. “There’s nothing wrong with me.” 

Severus begged to differ, but telling the boy that would get him nowhere. 

Monty sighed, then pushed the treacle tart away from himself. It vanished from the table. “He’s not been in my head. I would tell you if he was.”

“I’m more concerned with the reintegration of your memories,” Severus said. “Have you sensed that you are forgetting anything?”

“Not anymore,” Monty said bitterly. “No, I remember. I remember perfectly.” 

Monty gave Severus a piercing look, and for a moment he wondered if Monty had been practicing legilimency, or perhaps had manifested some natural ability in the art. Alas, no. Severus felt no intrusion into his mind. Monty was merely, extremely, pissed off. 

Monty’s eyes darted to Black, who was pretending not to listen in, then he focused on Severus again. His voice dropped, nearly inaudible. “You would’ve still been in Hogwarts,” he said accusingly.

“Yes,” Severus agreed. “You’ll find the evidence is nonexistent.”

Monty glared at him. “He is the evidence.”

Severus placidly regarded his son’s younger brother. The boy was deeply hurt, and Severus would not give him what he wanted. His son was continuously pushed to the breaking point. A confrontation with his brother would be devastating. 

“I’m sorry,” Severus said. 

“That’s not good enough,” Monty said. 

“I know,” Severus said solemnly. “Will you allow me access to your mind?”

Monty slumped in his chair, a gesture so endearingly like his older brother that Severus felt his own anger flare up. The Dark Lord had not only taken their mother, but had taken the chance for the boys to grow up with their fathers—Potter, him, Black, Lupin, anyone who cared about them—and to grow up with each other. If they both survived the war—Severus would ensure it, no matter what the cost—Lily’s sons would have years left to them. Decades. Centuries, if his worst fears were confirmed. But nothing, no amount of time, would replace their lost childhoods. 

“Go on,” Monty muttered. “Not like there’s anything you haven’t seen.”

 

 

 

After confirming that Monty’s memories, at least, were not damaged, Severus let Monty know he would be back the next week to check in, and left the melancholy boy in the kitchen. 

“See what I mean?” Black said when they returned to the foyer. “I think he’s up to something.”

“Tell him that putting himself at risk will put Harry at risk,” Severus said. “Threaten him, if you must.”

Sirius scowled. “Monty already knows that. He has nightmares about it.” He looked at Severus. “He’s convinced it’s his fault. That the only reason Harry ended up a Death Eater is because of what happened during the tournament.”

Severus nodded. He understood the reasoning, and agreed to a certain extent. Not that Monty was at fault, both boys had been unwilling participants, but that Harry had been forced to make a decision. He chose what he thought was best for his survival.

However, Severus knew his son. There was a chance that Harry would have actively sought to become a Death Eater. A high chance, given how the boy felt about Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix. Harry trusted himself above everyone else, and was accustomed to doing everything on his own. It was too much for one person. For his son. 

“Oh,” Black said as they reached the front door. The locks began clicking again. “There’s something I meant to tell you.”

“Is this Order related?” Severus asked. “Are you spying for the spy?”

Black gave a huff of amusement, but his demeanor was sober. “It’s about the Dursleys, actually. Lily’s sister?”

“I’m familiar,” Severus said. He had seen bits of pieces of Monty’s childhood. He knew exactly what sort of person Petunia had become. 

“Something happened with their son,” Black said, frowning. “Something very… odd.”

Severus took a step towards him. Black gave him a surprised look.

“Tell me everything.”

 

Notes:

If you don't read my other extremely frequently updated fic, Days Between the Stations, I don't blame you. But do read Skibididumbledore by notdexterousatall, it's the funniest fucking thing I've read

And here's some Harry/Percy fanart by AudiArcher, super cute!

And fanart for this chapter by Songbird_Concoctions!!

Chapter 9: Proof of Concept

Summary:

July 1997

It was that time of year when cats began melting. Lady Madeleine was sprawled on the kitchen floor, a pool of thick grey fur. Harry was slumped in a chair, thinking about joining Lady Madeleine on the nice, cold tiles. 

“I need to comb your fur,” he murmured.

Lady Madeleine stretched out her legs, yawned, and rolled over. She was the cutest cat in the world. 

Harry frowned at her exposed stomach. “Are those knots?” he said. “Might have to cut those out.”

Lady Madeleine growled.

Harry sighed, then closed his eyes. “It’d hurt more to comb them out.”

Cokeworth was muggy, and had been for the past week. Harry felt like the mugginess had got into him, spreading like an opportunistic mold. He wasn’t motivated to do anything, not even fall over onto the floor. 

The Dark Lord hadn’t summoned him for several days, which was a mixed blessing. There was the constant worry that he had been found out, that the next time he was called before the Dark Lord would be his last. He could talk or fight his way out of it; there was enough blood on his hands to wriggle out of any situation. His dad had done it. But there wasn’t another Dumbledore for Harry to kill. All the other people had to suffice. 

A hopeless malaise overtook him whenever Harry thought of his brother. At the idea that his brother knew. He was fairly certain that Monty knew who his dad was. He did look a bit like his dad, and Monty knew they were both from Cokeworth. He also knew their mum was from Cokeworth, which was bad. It was bad. Worse that he had the same surname as his mum. Evans were as common as weeds, but Monty wanted it to be true. Harry knew that. 

For years he had offered Monty the one thing he really wanted: a family. He had acted like an older brother, and looking back he knew his behavior had only grown more intense. He had actually told Monty he wanted a little brother. He must have gone temporarily mad. And now Monty had to reconcile that one of his teachers may have slept with his mum, without being able to prove or disprove it. Harry felt the only things in his favor were that his mum had hidden her pregnancy, and that she had been seeing Monty’s dad the entire time. 

Another wave of torpidity swamped Harry, and he slumped further in his chair. There were things he needed to do. A lot of things. A lot of important things. Implementing his plans for the Ministry. For muggleborns. He didn’t want to bring it up himself, but wanted for it to organically arise. The Death Eaters ranted about muggleborns enough, and he could always magically manipulate someone, but if the Dark Lord wasn’t summoning him there wouldn’t be a chance. 

Happily, there was a scheduled meeting that week, and Harry sluggishly thought over what he would say and how he would say it, writing scripts in his head, trying to predict the different outcomes. The pressure of the impending meeting contributed to Harry’s inability to get up and do anything. He didn’t want to. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to go to sleep and wake up in a world where everything worked out. He wanted to skip all this shit in between and get to the part where he was happy. 

There was also Dudley. He needed to know if it worked. 

A sinister presence swept into the kitchen. Some papers on the table rustled, the edges lifting and sliding out of place. The atmosphere grew hushed and dim. The furniture creaked menacingly. Lady Madeleine yawned again. 

Harry rolled his head over and looked at his dad. His arms were crossed, his eyes were the endless black of empty space, his black robes billowed around him in the cold wind of his fury. 

“What’s our kid done this time?” Harry asked forlornly. “Another runner?”

“This is not about your brother,” his dad said, his voice crackling in the air. “But your cousin.”

Harry stared at him uncomprehendingly, the words your cousin failing to penetrate the dense mush of his mind.

He continued staring as he was struck like a bell, alarm clamoring through him. 

“I had a very interesting exchange with Sirius Black,” his dad said, advancing on him. Harry didn’t move a muscle. He would neither confirm nor deny anything. “About a rather miraculous recovery.”

His dad loomed over him like a thundercloud, and Harry braced for the downpour. 

“Word reached the Order that your cousin returned from his two year convalescence seemingly whole,” his dad said. “Figg saw your cousin with his parents, for all appearances alive and ensouled.”

“His soul must’ve made the dementor ill,” Harry said, closing his eyes. “Sicked it back up.”

“After two years?”

Harry rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “I don’t know, dad. Maybe the muggles—”

A hand fell on his shoulder. Harry looked up, and realized with a start that his dad wasn’t fuming, but worried. Scared. 

“Did you do something to that boy?” his dad asked. 

Harry looked to the side. He kept having the thought that he wanted to do this alone. He was tired of explaining things. He didn’t want to explain things, especially not himself. He could do that after he won. Or maybe he would leave the magical world and go away forever. No one would find him if he didn’t want them to. 

His dad sighed, then pulled over a chair and sat down next to him. 

“The Order doesn’t suspect anything,” his dad said. “The idea is so ludicrous that they can only think there was some mistake. That the soul was not fully extracted, or perhaps that he has a sensitivity to dementors.”

Harry huffed. “They think Dudley’s allergic to dementors?”

“I proposed as much to Black,” his dad said, “who is serving as a go-between while concealing my involvement.”

“He’s your spy?” Harry said, his smiling growing. 

“We are liaising,” his dad said flatly. 

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Does Professor Burbage know?”

“I have yet to contact her.”

Harry sat up a little. “Dad, it’s been two weeks.”

“Which is no time at all,” his dad said. “She knows I will contact her when it is safe. It is not presently safe.”

Harry sighed, then flopped onto the table. “I was going to brush Maddie.”

“Did you do something to your cousin?” his dad asked again. 

Harry put his arms over his head.

“And why are you still wearing those gloves?”

Harry hunched his shoulders. “I don’t feel like talking,” he mumbled.

His dad was quiet for some time. Probably wishing Harry had never told him they were related. Wishing he had used protection. Had it occurred to either of them? Harry hadn’t seen any magical condoms, but maybe he wasn’t going to the right shops. They were probably made out of sheep intestines or something horrible. 

“What you have done,” his dad began. Harry turned his face away. He didn’t want to hear it. “Is perhaps the greatest piece of magic to have ever been performed.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to hear it. 

“There is no other instance of a dementor’s Kiss being reversed,” his dad said. “Of an extracted soul being returned to a body. No one has performed such a feat, Harry. No one.” A hand lightly touched his back, and Harry flinched. “Words fail to do justice to how proud I am of you. How impressed that you would do such a thing for a boy who treated your brother so harshly.” His dad began rubbing his back. “I’m also terrified of what the cost may have been.”

Harry sniffed. “Nothing. It doesn’t cost anything.”

The hand on his back stilled. It was warm, and comforting, and he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve to have a dad. 

“Have you gone to see him?” his dad asked. 

“No,” Harry said. “I meant to.” He sat up, wiping his eyes. His dad drew back. “I was going to. It’s not a nice thing I’ve done. He’s just a proof of concept.” He sniffed again. “I don’t even know if it worked. He might be worse off than he was.”

“I can think of few things worse than spending an eternity in the stomach of a dementor,” his dad said. “We know from ghosts, and others who trade with death, that souls are meant to move on. While the Kiss itself is excruciating, a horror in the body’s continued functioning absent a soul, that the soul itself is trapped within the dementor is, in my opinion, the true horror.”

Suddenly, Harry’s lap was filled with cat. He hugged Lady Madeleine to his chest, and her purrs rumbled through him.

“You possess two of the Deathly Hallows,” his dad said. 

Harry shut his eyes tightly. He didn’t want to tell his dad. He didn’t want to tell anyone. But his dad was worried about him, and he felt sick with guilt at being the cause of that. He was ruining everyone’s lives. Everyone would have got on fine if he hadn’t been born. Maybe his mum would have had her wand. Maybe she would have fought back. Maybe his gran wouldn’t have died. Maybe Voldemort would never have come back.

“Please talk to me,” his dad said. “Please trust me.”

Harry hid his face in his cat’s fur.

His dad sighed. “I have yet to approach the Dursleys. I wanted to speak with you first.”

Harry bit his lips. Petunia had been there. She might not have seen much, but she had been there for the whole thing. His dad was going to find out either way. Covering up his mistakes again.

“I used the Resurrection Stone,” he whispered.

His dad went silent again. Harry didn’t even hear him moving. He huddled around his cat. He hated this. He hated everything. 

“Did you see your mother?” his dad said, his voice hoarse. 

“No,” Harry whispered. “I saw gran.”

He flinched as his dad pulled him into a hug. His dad was hugging him. Hugging him as he was hugging his cat.

He wanted to run away. 

“I had to know if Dudley’s soul was still around,” he said, his throat raw. “I didn’t know if something happened after the Kiss. I had to know if it was even possible.”

His dad held him tighter. 

“She told me he wasn’t with them,” Harry said. He sobbed and clung onto his cat. She probably hated it. Cats didn’t like hugs that much. “She called me handsome.”

His dad sighed wearily. “Death strips all illusions away.” 

Then, to Harry’s astonishment, his dad kissed the top of his head. 

He was too stunned to react. No one had done that since before his gran…

“To use that stone,” his dad said, “is an extraordinarily foolish, and incredibly brave thing to do. Not even Dumbledore dared to. Some say it causes great pain to the summoned—”

Harry’s breath hitched. Had he hurt his gran? Did he keep hurting people even after they died?

“—but the greater pain is to the holder,” his dad finished. 

“She wasn’t there long,” Harry said quietly. “Only a minute or two. I didn’t want to look at her. It… it hurt. Everything hurt, even what I did to Dudley.” 

Harry tried to move away. His dad relaxed his hold, but left an arm around him. He felt weak and stupid and childish. 

He wiped his eyes, then looked up at his dad. His dad’s face was tight with concern. Worrying about him again. Well, if things didn’t work out, his dad wouldn’t have to worry about him at all anymore. 

“What did you do?” his dad asked. 

Harry looked away, then told his dad exactly what he had done.

 

---

 

Severus apparated his son to Privet Drive. The boy was distressed, and in no state to do magic. If the Dark Lord summoned him… Severus would cross that bridge when they got to it, then burn it down and any fools who stood upon it.

It was too late to fully Obliviate Figg or the Dursleys. The information had already spread throughout the Order, and possibly even reached Dumbledore’s ears. Severus had already seen to containing it to the Order, and hoped Black proved to be a reliable ally. This could not get out to the wider magical public.

“Necromancy,” his son said.

Severus looked down at him. He had cast muggle-repelling charms on them both, which would prevent any muggles from noticing them. He hadn’t wanted to Disillusion his son for fear of Harry disappearing completely.

“It’s black magic,” Harry said. “What I did. Real necromancy. That’s what I’m becoming, dad. A necromancer.”

Severus could not bear for his son to be so alone. To stand in the middle of some muggle street and condemn himself with such resignation. If a necromancer restored souls to those who had lost them, how could such magic be wrong? How was that dark?

Feeling awkward, and ignoring that feeling, he put an arm over his son’s shoulders.

Harry’s birthday was in a week. His son hadn’t said anything about it, perhaps hoping it would pass unobserved. Severus struggled with what to do. Harry deserved so much.

“Your cousin was not dead, in the way I understand it,” Severus said. “His body and soul were separated. You reunited them.”

Harry sighed. “Maybe. I don’t think—”

They both looked up as the door to Number Four Privet Drive opened. Severus had not had time to note the differences since he had last been forced to endure this suburban hellscape, but the changes leapt out at him. The company car in the driveway was now blocked in by a multi-purpose vehicle, and a ramp led up to the doorstep.

Severus noticed Petunia first, the blonde vulture who had circled around him and Lily, relentlessly hunting for things to scavenge. She was backing out of the house, wearing a virulent pink cocktail dress. Then Severus saw what she was pulling on.

Dudley Dursley in a wheelchair.

Harry went stiff. Severus pulled his son closer.

Petunia eased the wheelchair down the ramp, then paused to catch her breath.

“There we are, Duddy Dinkums,” Petunia said, turning the wheelchair around and pushing it to the MPV. “We’ll just get you strapped in, then we’ll go to your appointment.”

Dudley’s eyes were wide open and staring at nothing. His hands gripped the arms of his wheelchair, and his jaw worked up and down. He made a noise Severus could not interpret.

“We can get chips after,” Petunia said, petting her son’s hair. She unlocked the vehicle and slid open the side door. “We’ll go to that new drive-through!”

Dudley shook violently, then made a garbled noise that sounded like mum.

Petunia bent down and with some effort pulled out another ramp, then she guided the wheelchair into the vehicle.

Harry took a step back, then another. “His soul was in a dementor for two years,” he said darkly. “You can’t be normal after that.” He turned as if to apparate, and Severus grabbed his arm. 

“It will take time to recover,” Severus said evenly. “But the fact that the boy has an opportunity at all to recover is astounding. Consider Colin Creevey. His months of petrification. It took time, Harry. Your cousin has only been restored for a few weeks.”

“Colin’s different,” his son said. “Why do you keep calling him my cousin?”

Petunia stepped out of the vehicle and slid the door shut. She climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

“I find the name gormless,” he said. Dudley Dursley. They had doomed the boy from his inception.

“Reckon the shoe fits now,” Harry said bitterly.

Severus let go of his son to run a hand over his face, berating himself for his poor choice of words.

“I’ll ask Andromeda to assess Dudley,” Severus said, intentionally using the name. His own opinion of it did not matter. Harry silently listened, his head bowed. “More magical intervention may be required. I suspect what Dudley truly needs are things muggle hospitals can provide. Rebuilding his strength, teaching him how to walk again, how to communicate.”

Petunia slowly backed out of the driveway, then drove down the street.

“Are we done here?” Harry asked.

Severus was not done. He doubted Petunia would tell the truth of her son’s miraculous recovery, but he had to ensure her silence. According to Black, the Order planned to relocate the Dursleys shortly before Monty’s birthday. 

He could, however, see that Harry was done. He had hoped proof of his success would improve his son’s mood, but he was still despondent. Yet Harry’s brow had the slightest pinch. 

Severus relaxed. His son was thinking very hard about something.

Smiling to himself, Severus placed a hand on his son’s arm and took them home.

 

---

 

The cursor moved across the flickering screen, then froze. Charity whacked the monitor with her wand, then clicked the drop down menu. She waited impatiently as her masterpiece was saved. A feverish smile on her face, she ejected the floppy disk and held it above her head. She started cackling, spinning side to side in her chair. 

Severus had dropped off the face of the planet. She didn’t know where he was, but she saw him every day in the Daily Prophet, scowling at her in that dour and sexy way of his. He said he would write to her, but she hadn’t heard a single thing. Not a peep. For all she knew he was in one of the Dark Dipshit’s dungeons, tied to a rack and being tortured. Killing Dumbledore should have made the Lord of the Snakes happy, but the man was mad as a hatter. 

Did he get sunburns on that bald head of his? He could use a hat. 

Severus, her Severus, the love of her life, he was finally hers and he was not getting away that easily, her beloved dark Potions Master, had killed Albus Dumbledore.

It was mad. Pure madness.

Severus was terrifying and brilliant and everything. 

She had been working on this piece on and off for the past few months, and once Hogwarts let out spent the past two weeks fixing it up. Her arse and back hurt—and not because of Severus, which was a shame—her eyes were dry, she couldn’t remember the last time she had anything to eat or drink. She had to finish, and she did. 

It was perfect. 

Grinning as insanely as the Cheshire cat, Charity got out of her chair and tucked the floppy disk into her pocket. She didn’t have a printer at home—she couldn’t afford it on her salary—so she needed to find a print shop, then take her work to Diagon Alley. She didn’t trust owls to not be intercepted. The Daily Prophet was being cagey about the Death Eaters. She knew which way the wind was blowing. There was a very short window in which they’d still publish anything by a mudblood like her.

She would love to see the look on that fascist fucker’s face when he read it. 

Chuckling to herself, Charity grabbed her keys and left her flat. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Charity is a Snapewife

Chapter 10: Consorting with Beasts

Summary:

July 1997

The Sunday Prophet featured yet another article about the late Albus Dumbledore. It seemed the Prophet was printing anything written by a passing acquaintance with an anecdote. It was becoming repetitive.

Percy took a sip of coffee, wondering if this one was worth reading. The Daily Prophet was hit or miss, depending on how heavily the Ministry was leaning on it. The only truly reliable information was the quidditch scores. It was arduous, filtering through the sensationalism, gossip, and fluff pieces to find a kernel of truth. How a regular witch or wizard, how any random student, managed to extract useful information was no real question. The majority took what the Daily Prophet wrote at face value. They didn’t question what was being left out. 

That was one thing Percy credited his parents for. Well, his father. His father had always been critical of the Daily Prophet, and candid when it came to their deceptive writing. His mother was one of the many who got taken in by manipulative writers such as Gilderoy Lockhart and Rita Skeeter. She either lacked the will or ability to analyze and interpret the media she consumed, not unlike a sea sponge clinging to a reef and letting the ambient current shape it. 

That was the problem with having one newspaper under the control of a crypto-fascist, propagandist government. Any alternative view was quashed, sometimes literally. 

Percy took another sip of coffee, then turned the page. He stared blankly at the day’s forecast. Despite clear skies and it being twenty-six degrees out, the forecaster predicted a hail of herring in two day’s time. 

Sighing, Percy looked at the Fiendishly Difficult Crossword. He normally didn’t bother with the crossword. It wasn’t worth the ink. 

 

42 Across - The color of the Quaffle

 

Percy scoffed. Fiendishly difficult. Who was writing the crossword? He wanted to have a few words, introduce this puzzle master to a dictionary so they could look up the definitions of fiendish and difficult, and perhaps make some additions to their lexicon that were more than three letters long. Percy felt stupider for having seen this. He turned another page.

Like his father, Percy’s position at the Ministry gave him access to the more intimate workings of the magical world. He knew things went unreported. He, like his father, helped conspire to make that so. 

He skipped over the horoscopes, which were so vague as to be rendered nonsensical, the international news, which took up a smaller portion of the paper with each passing day, and the Ministry affairs as he had written that himself. 

A pair of arms appeared around Percy. Blood rushed to his face as Harry draped himself over his shoulders. 

“Morning,” Harry mumbled, kissing his cheek. 

“Indeed it is,” Percy said. 

Harry chuckled, then hugged Percy tightly. “You are a pearl cast before swine.” He kissed Percy’s burning cheek again, then dropped into a chair and slumped over the table. Harry turned his head to smile at him. Percy swooned. “Anything interesting in there?”

“Not that I can ascertain,” Percy said, busying himself with turning another page. 

Harry gave him a lazy smile. “I’m sure with the proper incentive Barnabas Cuffe can turn that shitrag into riches.”

Percy frowned. “A vehicle for the blood purist agenda.”

Harry quietly laughed. “They’ve been publishing Lucius Malfoy’s opinions for years. They always include someone’s blood status. All that shite about Dumbledore has to bring up that his mum was muggleborn, his dad was pureblood, he’s a halfblood.” 

Harry sat up, stretching his arms over his head and yawning. Percy surreptitiously looked at the scars on Harry’s chest, blushed again, then held the paper in front of his face. 

“I mean, just look at the titles,” Harry said. “Muggleborn addresses sleeping accommodations on the Knight Bus? How is it relevant that they’re muggleborn? It’s to discredit their opinion. You get a sleeper on a muggle train, you’re not going to get concussed en route.”

“I meant that it will be more overt,” Percy said. “Open calls for the eradication of muggles.”

Harry yawned again, covering his mouth. “Most of the Prophet isn’t going to substantively change. We can’t turn over the entire staff. Who would run it?”

“What a relief,” Percy said drily, “that if I must endure a totalitarian regime, at the very least it will function smoothly.”

Harry laughed, giving Percy an adoring look that made his heart stutter. “You’d make a terrible Death Eater. The Dark Lord would kill you for being too fastidious.”

Percy set down the paper. “I suppose you must usurp him to spare me of such a pedestrian fate.”

“I’d kill Voldemort for you,” Harry said, leaning over to look at the spread pages. “I think I need coffee injected directly into my veins.”

“I’ll make you some,” Percy said immediately. He started to stand, but Harry took his wrist. 

“Look at the notices,” Harry said, placing a finger next to the section. 

Percy obediently looked, reading the announcement, the names, the date.

Harry placed an arm around him. “Did you get an invitation?” he asked.

Percy nodded. Errol had shown up with it and needed a day to recover after his laborious flight. He was too old to be delivering wedding invitations.

“Do you want to go?” Harry asked.

Percy laughed harshly. “And how exactly would that work? Sorry, Bill, can’t stay for the cake, I’ve got to help overthrow my own government and install a literal puppet state for the Dark Lord.” He shook his head. “No. I sent the invitation back for my mother to weep over.”

Harry watched him for a moment, gently rubbing his back.

“You don’t have to be at the Ministry that day,” Harry said. “I can arrange things so you can go. He’s your older brother. I—”

“Bill wouldn’t want me there,” Percy said. “He won’t miss me.”

Harry touched his cheek, and Percy looked at him.

“We could sneak in,” he said, smirking.

Percy stared at his boyfriend, and possible future wedding date.

“You want to overthrow the government,” Percy said slowly, “then crash my brother’s wedding?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Sounds like a plan.” He gave Percy a quick kiss, picked up his coffee cup, and took a sip. He stood, patting Percy’s shoulder. “I’ll make more.”

Percy watched Harry walk to the counter, then looked at his brother’s wedding announcement. 

What was he going to wear?

 

---

 

Monty stared blankly at the illustrated phoenix flapping its wings. The invitation had come with the rest of the post that morning, and Sirius thought it would be best if the decision was left up to Monty.

“Do you want to go?” Sirius asked. He was craving a cigarette, but quietly watched Monty for his response. For any reaction at all. 

“It’s the day after my birthday,” Monty said.

Sirius sighed. “You could ask Luna to go with you.”

Monty looked at him, the shining gold script reflected in his glasses. 

“I might ask your Divination professor,” Sirius said, smiling slightly. 

Monty stared at him.

“You’ve got some time to decide,” Sirius said, leaning back in his chair. He gave in and fished out a cigarette. “But we do need to let them know so they have a proper head count.”

Monty looked at the wedding invitation again. It had been addressed to the Family of Sirius Black. That was him and Monty, and Kreacher. Sirius snorted, picturing Kreacher wearing a cummerbund over his loincloth. 

“There’s a war,” Monty said. “A wedding has a lot of people. Are they stupid?”

Sirius lit his cigarette, looking over what remained of their breakfast. Mostly Monty’s breakfast. The kid was still eating like a horse. “Your mum and dad got married during a war.”

Monty’s eyes darted to him. “Were they stupid?”

Sirius closed his eyes, taking another drag to help quell the abrupt anger he felt. He wasn’t going to rise to Monty’s bait. He was, from all outward appearances, an adult.

A part of him wondered if Monty had sometimes intentionally goaded his uncle into beating him. Dared the man to hurt him. The thought made Sirius ill, but he felt that Monty was trying it with him. Trying to get him to lash out. 

“Speaking of parents,” Sirius said, keeping his tone light. “One of Harry’s parents was killed by Voldemort?”

Monty’s expression darkened, and he glared at the invitation. Putting a phoenix on it might not have been the best idea, not for Monty. Monty hated Dumbledore, and he hated the Order of the Phoenix. Monty had smiled while reading Dumbledore’s obituary, and it was one of the most disturbing things Sirius had ever seen. The depth of his godson’s rage was frightening. 

It had been weeks since Monty let that information about Harry slip, and it was eating away at Sirius. Who was it? Who was this mysterious murdered parent? 

Monty looked at him, narrowing his eyes. Sirius frowned, wondering what warranted such close inspection. 

“I used to think that Harry was your son,” Monty said. He grimaced, then quickly looked away. “I hoped he was.”

Sirius gaped at him, his cigarette frozen halfway to his lips. Monty sighed, then pushed away from the table. 

“I’m going to write Luna,” Monty muttered, trudging up the stairs. 

Sirius watched him go, his mind spinning. 

Was it… was it possible? 

He did get around a lot in school. 

But that was the sort of thing you’d let a bloke know. 

Right?

Unless the wizard in question was an irresponsible layabout who had been burned off his family tree, lived with his best mate and his parents, got wasted and slept with anyone who would have him, was recruited into a vigilante organization, nearly his entire family supported Voldemort, everyone knew he was secretly dark, that he was going to go bad, gets his best friends killed and lands himself in Azkaban for over a decade.

Sirius placed the cigarette between his lips, reeling from the possibility that his own son was a Death Eater. 

Did he suspect? 

Did he know? 

Who was it? Who could his mother be? 

Dorcas? There was that one time down by the pitch… No, the kid was pale as a ghost.

Or was his appearance altered to hide his identity?

Marlene? Her entire family had been killed. Did they overlook a toddler?

The overlap of people who could get pregnant that Sirius slept with and the people personally killed by Voldemort couldn’t be that big. He even fooled around with Bertha Jorkins. 

Sirius scowled, feeling stupid.

Harry Evans was not the secret lovechild of Sirius Black and Bertha Jorkins. That sounded like a Quibbler headline, only they’d call him Stubby Boardman. Bertha hadn’t been capable of keeping her mouth shut. But plenty of other people were, and would be clever enough to hide a kid from Voldemort. 

A realization struck him, and Sirius wanted to bang his head against the table. 

Harry wasn’t on the Black family tapestry. He would have noticed something like that. 

Monty was fucking with him. 

“Little shit,” Sirius muttered, kicking up his feet and lighting another cigarette. “Got my hopes up too.”

 

---

 

Lord Voldemort reclined on his throne, rolling his wand between his fingers, indulging in how well it still fit his hand. With his other hand, he stroked the small scales on Nagini’s head, feeling the vibration as her tongue flicked out. She tasted the air, the acrid stench of human bodies, the fearful sweat of his more slippery friends. 

“Lucius.”

Lord Voldemort smirked as Lucius flinched at the sound of his own name. 

“Yes, my Lord?” Lucius said, his face the greyish color of old porridge. 

How Lord Voldemort loathed porridge, and all of the vile slop served by those foul muggles. Forced to stand in long, winding queues, endure the damp heat of bodies pressed together, all for an egg, a hard lump of cheese, a sliver of pork salted to the point of inedibility. To serve such rancid fare to one such as he, who had feasted in the halls of his forebears. 

“How is Narcissa today?” Lord Voldemort asked. 

“She continues to sit with—” Lucius choked up. “With our son.”

A mother cradling her broken child in the ruins of a bombed ward. 

Lord Voldemort smiled to himself. Some things never changed. 

“She needs more time, master,” Bellatrix said, looking at him with desperate hope in her eyes. Rodolphus and Rabastan’s second sojourn in Azkaban had been more deleterious than the first. The two idiots kept rambling about coconuts. 

Lord Voldemort looked to Severus, who sat next to him, apparently bored by the proceedings thus far. Or perhaps Severus was merely preoccupied with the many, many people recently restored to their ranks, all in need of extensive healing before they were capable of conjuring the most meager light. 

“Our young friend has yet to join us,” Lord Voldemort said. 

“I imagine he is recovering, my Lord,” Severus said tonelessly. His lip curled. “The follies of youth.”

Lord Voldemort smiled at the obvious disapproval. Some of his Death Eaters were disturbed by his most ardent Death Eater’s proclivities, as they were disturbed by a werewolf’s desire for human flesh, a vampire’s desire for blood, that craving for sustenance they could not comprehend. 

“You’re not pure, and I’m telling everyone…”

Words echoed down the corridor, resonating throughout Lord Voldemort’s reception hall. Throaty, dulcet notes, a siren’s call, luring all who hear to relentlessly dash themselves upon the jagged rocks of his magic. 

“Save your breath, I never was one…”

Lord Voldemort’s smile grew. 

“I believe I hear him now,” Severus said, the merest hint of repulsion in his voice.

“You don’t know what I’m all about…”

Nagini flicked her tongue again. She could feel his vibrations in the air, through the stone. 

“Like killing aurors and reading Grindelwald…”

Lucius’ face became stricken. Lord Voldemort glanced at him, wondering at the cause of his discomposure. The imminent arrival of the mudblood who saved him? What debt that accrued?

“I was passing out while you were passing out the rules…”

Lord Voldemort narrowed his eyes as Harry Evans appeared in the door. 

“One, two, three, four,” Harry sang, sauntering in with his hands in his pockets. Muggle clothes again. The boy was incorrigible. “Who’s pure, what’s the score?”

Harry looked around, as if expecting applause. 

Lucius stared at Harry as though he were the devil incarnate. 

Bellatrix began fondling a knife.

Róisín Avery, who had recovered with impressive alacrity, drank deeply from her goblet.

Lord Voldemort marked the reactions of all his Death Eaters to the arrival of Harry Evans. The boy never failed to capture their attention. To capture his attention. 

Severus put a hand over his eyes.

“Good evening, my Lord,” Harry said, smiling sweetly at him. “Did you hear the news?”

Lord Voldemort tilted his head, giving Harry a piercing look. “What news?” He waved at the open chair beside Severus, and Harry ambled around the table to join them.

“The best news,” Harry said, all but throwing himself into the chair. “My future brother-in-law is getting married.”

Severus shot the boy a dark look. “Do not waste the Dark Lord’s time with frivolities.”

Bellatrix cackled. 

Yaxley cleared his throat. “I believe, my Lord, that Evans is referring to the wedding of Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacour.”

“Ah, yes,” Lord Voldemort said, looking at Harry again. “The veela.”

Bellatrix flagrantly gagged, clutching her throat.

“Quarter veela,” Harry said, picking up a goblet and frowning at the embossed peacock “This real silver?”

“Thirteenth-century goblin-wrought,” Lucius said, his voice strained. 

For a moment, it seemed Harry considered pocketing the goblin silver goblet, then he shrugged and set it down. The goblet vanished and was replaced by a bottle of butterbeer. Harry laughed, a delightful sound that sent a shiver down Lord Voldemort’s spine, then picked up and uncorked the bottle.

“Consorting with a beast,” Alecto said, giving Scabior a hateful look. Scabior returned a lascivious grin, and licked his lips. 

Harry took a sip of butterbeer, and Lord Voldemort watched the undulation of his delicate throat as he swallowed.

Lord Voldemort continued smiling, having played such games himself as a youth. Slughorn had been putty in his hands. 

“A further degradation of our blood,” Lord Voldemort said, watching Harry’s reaction. 

The bottle left Harry’s lips, and he set it on the table with a pensive expression. 

“Whose blood?” Harry asked. Severus sighed, then, like Róisín, quaffed his goblet of wine. “Fleur’s got some useful skills. I don’t think she can turn into a bird woman or shoot fireballs from her hands, but she’s definitely got the allure.” Harry looked at Lord Voldemort, his fathomless black eyes sparkling with amusement. “It’s like the next step in our evolution. We’ve already lost so many magical abilities from inbreeding. It’s about time to introduce some new ones.”

“One that happens to attract men,” Severus said acidly. 

“I don’t need help in that department,” Harry retorted. 

Lord Voldemort chuckled, though Harry’s words were not received well by his audience.

The pureblood families had greatly diminished over the centuries. Lucius and Narcissa had lost their only child. Bellatrix had no issue, nor did Severus. Róisín had one son, a friend of Harry’s who Lord Voldemort was eager to meet. 

Lord Voldemort, too, was the last of his line. 

The only parselmouth. 

Unique. 

“Look at the Black family,” Harry said, waving at Bellatrix. “The only metamorphmagus in decades is a halfblood blood traitor.” He rolled his eyes at Bellatrix’s outraged expression. “And where did all the Seers go? The last true Seers died nearly a century ago.”

“Are you forgetting Grindelwald?” Lord Voldemort asked. 

“He’s no longer relevant, my Lord,” Harry said. He slumped in his chair, the bottle of butterbeer dangling from his hand. “That’s how you end up with people shagging giants and trolls. Can’t charm your way out of a bloody box, but at least your kids can go to Hogwarts.” Harry’s eyes darted to Goyle. “No offense.”

“Must I remind you not to antagonize the other Death Eaters, my dear?” Lord Voldemort purred. 

Harry flushed, blood turning his cheeks a delicious shade of pink, then sat upright. “My apologies, master. The sustainability of our population is a concern of mine, especially when the muggles fornicate like vermin.” Harry scowled, his gaze growing distant. “Bloody breeders.”

There was a pregnant pause, the pure disdain in the word breeders hanging in the air between them. 

Severus raised an eyebrow, then turned away from Harry to address Lord Voldemort.

“My lord,” he said, “we should discuss what to do with your new recruits. Their physical ailments aside, none of them have a wand.”

Lord Voldemort briefly thought this over, and the solution immediately presented itself. 

“Bring me Garrick Ollivander.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Harry is parodying Boxcar by Jawbreaker

I've noticed a few remarks about updates slowing, or wishing I would work on TEB exclusively.

I considered taking a few months of hiatus before writing this part, but instead decided to move forward. I've written ten chapters over the past few weeks.

I'd appreciate seeing less complaints about the frequency of updates, considering I've written over 1.4 million words in eighteen months.

Thank you as always for your support!

Chapter 11: Threshing

Summary:

July 1997

Notes:

Thank you for all your supportive comments <3

Lady Madeleine was lying on top of Harry, kneading his chest with her paws. Harry yawned, winced, then lifted his cat above him. 

“You have sharp paws,” Harry said as Lady Madeleine lashed her tail. “I can’t get any softer.”

“Meow.”

Harry rolled his eyes, then lowered his cat again. He hugged her, and she began to purr.

Percy was on his side, watching this fascinating exchange. Sometimes Harry brought his cat with him, sometimes he didn’t, and Percy had yet to determine the impetus for Harry’s choice. 

“Do you mind if I take a copy of your proposal?” Harry asked. “I want to present the idea to the Dark Lord today. Or even the general concept that one should have an idea of what you want to do after taking over the government. The plan can’t just be take over, right?”

“I’ve already made a copy for you,” Percy said. He reached around for his glasses. He could see Harry clearly if he was very close, but that would only whet Harry’s appetite. “And I have put more thought into what I’d like to do with the Ministry.”

“That’s because you’re a thoughtful person,” Harry told him. “You care. He doesn’t.” Harry pressed himself into the pillows. “I’m worried he’s going to ask me to start Imperiusing Ministry employees, since Yaxley’s so shit at it.” Harry grinned. “I’ll take over Magical Games and Sports and declare gobstones as the national sport.”

“Is it not a game?” Percy asked, toying with the black ring on Harry’s finger. He couldn’t settle on a stone. Sunstone felt too obvious, however perfect it was. Something green?

Lady Madeleine fled the room.

Harry suddenly pounced on him. Percy had only a moment to be glad they both woke up early before Harry blew every other thought away.

After Harry exacted the justice of the stone, as he called it, Percy went back to gazing at him. He had to get up and get ready for the day, but he was reluctant to leave Harry’s side. 

“You’ve been staying over frequently,” Percy observed. 

Harry smiled lazily at him. “Do you want to kick me out?” Percy jolted, his heart thudding. “If you need space, just say the word.”

“I—” Percy stuttered.

Harry frowned. “I’m not upset,” he said gently, cupping Percy’s cheek. “I know it’s hard for you to say no to me, but it really doesn’t bother me when you do.” 

Percy swallowed. “Is there a reason?”

“I wish you didn’t have to go to work,” Harry said, pulling away. He drew his knees up, dropped his head, and sighed. “Yeah, there’s a reason. I’m avoiding going home.”

“May I ask why?”

Harry smirked. “You may ask me anything, Perce. I’m not guaranteed to answer. But yeah, it’s because I’m worried about someone showing up. I’m more avoiding a person rather than my house.”

“Who?”

Harry shook his head. “I could go to my dad’s house, but that also runs the risk of someone showing up uninvited. I’m honestly surprised the Ministry hasn’t knocked the place down.”

“Professor Snape’s address is unknown,” Percy said. 

Harry glanced at him. “Did you do that? Or was it already like that?”

“Already like that,” Percy said, sitting up. “He’s very cautious.”

“Unlike me,” Harry muttered. “I’ve been fucking around with fate too much. That’s why I haven’t told you where I live, not even the general area. I don’t want you to run into whoever else might show up looking for me. The whole bloody thing’s trying to unravel.” He looked at Percy again. “I’m not cruel enough.”

Percy stared at him, his head spinning. Who was looking for Harry? Had he discovered fate-altering magic? Or invented it? When would he have time for that? He could not conceive of Harry being a cruel person. It was an absurd assertion.

“Or maybe I don’t hate myself enough,” Harry said quietly. 

“What do you mean?” Percy asked, feeling ill. “There’s no reason to hate yourself.”

Harry laughed. “Agree to disagree. What I mean is that if I were smarter, or more mercenary, I’d Obliviate everyone who knew anything remotely incriminating about me. I’d make people forget we were friends. I’d be a ghost.”

“I don’t want you to do that,” Percy said, feeling even worse. “I never want to forget you. You’re too important.” Percy squeezed his eyes shut. “I love you too much for that.”

Harry lightly touched his cheek, then pressed a lighter kiss to his lips. 

“I’m not going to do that,” Harry promised. “I was only thinking about it. And I’m sorry for pulling this right before you head out. I’m one of those people who no one expected to be a Death Eater, you know? The only person I really need to convince is the Dark Lord, and I’ve been doing that for the past two years.”

“It is hard to believe,” Percy admitted. “But I imagine not many people know you as well as I do.”

Harry laughed again, this time sounding more amused. Percy’s heart fluttered, and he too wished he did not have to go to work. Or that he had a late start. Or anything that would result in more time with Harry. 

“Certainly not in the biblical sense,” Harry said suggestively.

“I beg your pardon?”

 

---

 

His son was walking through the gate just as Severus was leaving. 

“The hours you keep are scandalous,” Severus said, scowling at the cat as she slipped inside the house. 

“I was asleep for most of them,” Harry said, blushing lightly. He cleared his throat. “Where are you going? I thought we could have breakfast. Or second breakfast, in my case.” He flopped himself over the gate and moped. “Why is everyone busy today?”

“I’ve left something on the stove,” Severus said, pleased his child was eating more. That he was eating at all. “I am going to meet with Dumbledore.”

Harry wrinkled his nose, then stood up again. “I should put a Taboo on his name too. I don’t want to hear that shit this early in the morning.”

Severus smiled and, on a whim, brushed his son’s hair back. It was growing out a little, and if it got too long the resemblance between them would be stronger.

“Are you not busy today?” Severus asked as Harry gaped at him. He knew his son required physical displays of affection, which was a poor match with his own reluctance to touch people. His son was, as always, an exception. “Do you not have an audience with the Dark Lord to discuss the future of the wizarding world?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Only blood supremacists call it that. Or sexists.”

“Be that as it may,” Severus said, resting a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You are fully capable of speaking in blood supremacist vernacular, however unwillingly. I will not be there to mitigate your shit-starting tendencies.”

“I’m not going to start anything,” Harry said, meeting his eyes.

“I know you’re lying when you do that,” Severus said. He gently squeezed Harry’s shoulder. “I’m not certain how long I will be, so I may not see you before you leave.”

“Alright,” Harry said, walking up the house. “Have fun with the aquatic zombie horde.”

Severus’ eyebrow twitched, but he knew his son was intentionally goading him. Harry knew the difference between inferi and zombies. The same could not be said of the majority of Severus’ sixth-years.

Once Harry was inside of the house, and the door was securely shut, Severus apparated.

 

---

 

Percy rode the lift, ignoring the pointed looks from his father, deep in thought. He didn’t have much time to arrange things, and there was no safe way to warn people until it had already begun. A few people might die, but more likely they would be placed in Azkaban. Public executions of mudbloods would agitate the populace, and according to Harry the Dark Lord claimed he had no wish to spill magical blood. Even if the blood was filthy, it could still serve a purpose. Harry proved that with his every breath. Percy knew he wasn’t truly a muggleborn—whether a true muggleborn existed was highly debatable—but Harry routinely demonstrated his superiority to other witches and wizards. Harry, despite his ignoble heritage, had the Dark Lord’s favor. 

When his father got off the lift without a word, Percy relaxed. That was yet another thing he had to manage. His father’s career, whether a known blood traitor would still have a career after the coup. It was a daunting task, considering how openly his father, his entire Weasey family, opposed the Dark Lord, but his father lacked the capacity to do it himself. His family would have two children at Hogwarts and zero income. They might be hunted down, arrested, or killed. 

They had no idea how much danger they were truly in. 

Percy exited the lift and began walking to his desk, forcibly redirecting his thoughts. 

Harry was presenting the plan to the Dark Lord that day. Sorting the wheat from the chaff, as Harry put it, one of his endearing muggle idioms. Harry enjoyed confusing people, but he always kissed Percy and explained what he meant, letting Percy in on the joke. Percy knew him in the biblical sense, after all.

The Society for the Support of Squibs had the most reliable genealogy of squibs, though it was doubtful they would consent to their records being used by the Ministry. Not that they would have a choice once subpoenaed at wandpoint.

The Ministry failed to keep records of squibs, and had in the past purged the archives lest their magicless contamination spread. Squibs were only just considered human under Ministry law, and had barely more rights than muggles. Centuries prior, squib children were killed in their beds. Now, many squibs were abandoned somewhere in the muggle world, to either die of exposure or be taken in by muggle authorities. The lucky ones were abandoned only after a Hogwarts letter failed to arrive.

Even Percy’s own family quietly rid themselves of squibs, though they ensured the squibs could support themselves in the muggle world. Most families took steps to completely sever any connection to their squib relatives, which meant that, unless a squib was openly acknowledged by their family, no record of them existed. It would soon be Percy’s task to fabricate such records, to test the limits of plausibility. 

Percy settled in at his desk and began sorting through the contents of his in-tray. That was when he was accosted by a most unwelcome visitor.

“Percy?”

Percy pushed up his glasses and glared at his assailant. “It’s Mr. Prewett,” he said coldly. “Or Assistant Prewett. If the additional syllables prove too great a challenge, simply Prewett will suffice.”

“Uh, Prewett, then,” Cedric Diggory said, smiling awkwardly. He had a scroll in his hand, tied with a white ribbon.

Percy had never seen the supposed handsomeness the other students fawned over. Then again, his definition of masculine beauty favored more brooding, darker, ethereal, esoteric, paradigm-shifting, cataclysmic magnificence.

Cedric Diggory cast spells like a troll flailing his club around. 

Harry was poetry in motion.

“What do you need, Diggory?” Percy asked.

“I’m working in Regulation and Control,” Diggory said, looking around with a smile. “Beast Division. Never been up here before.”

“I am aware,” Percy said drily. “What has warranted this momentous occasion?”

“Oh, right,” Diggory said, still smiling like an idiot. He handed the scroll to Percy. 

Percy took the scroll, careful not to touch Diggory. He was tempted to call Diggory out in front of the entire Ministerial staff and challenge him to a duel to the death.

“Dad sent me up with that,” Diggory said. “It’s an odd letter that came in late last night, and he’s only just looked at it.”

“And this requires the Minister’s personal attention?” Percy asked, sliding the ribbon off. “Could you not send a memo?”

Diggory leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Dad says it’s too sensitive for that, since it’s related to an ongoing investigation.”

Percy frowned and unrolled the parchment. Expecting a brief missive, he was surprised when it reached a foot and still had more parchment. “Which one?”

Diggory looked around, then whispered, “Draco Malfoy’s death.”

Percy glanced at Diggory, feeling cold. He perfectly recalled what Luna Lovegood said. He knew what was in Madam Pomfrey’s report, and in Andromeda Tonks’ report. A large, invisible, bird-taloned creature had torn Draco Malfoy to shreds, and eaten parts of him.

Draco Malfoy’s body had disappeared from the infirmary. Percy now had a good idea of where it had ended up.

“It’s from his mum,” Diggory added. “Remember a few years back how his dad went after that hippogriff?”

“I do,” Percy said, having argued in the hippogriff’s defense. Both Harry and Luna Lovegood were there too.

“I think his mum’s gone round the bend,” Diggory said. “Anyone would, really, after what happened to Draco. But she’s threatening the public dismemberment and burning of all hippogriffs in Britain.”

“I can see that,” Percy said, staring at the yards of parchment covering his desk. The handwriting was elegant, though the words themselves were utterly mad. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I will inform the appropriate parties.”

“Thanks,” Diggory said, sounding relieved. He continued to stand in front of Percy’s desk, looking at him. 

“Was there something else?” Percy asked flatly. 

“Yeah,” Diggory said, scratching his ear. “You haven’t heard from Harry lately, have you?”

Percy drew himself up, his body flush with sudden, intense fury. 

“Are you accusing me of associating with a Death Eater?” he demanded. 

“No!” Diggory said, looking alarmed. “No, I’m just worried about him, you know? People always said he was strange, a muggleborn in Slytherin and all, but I never expected he’d join up with You-Know-Who.”

“It’s always those you least suspect,” Percy said, his voice deathly calm. 

If this… this flash git continued gibbering about Harry, he’d end up a pile of hippogriff shit. Percy would feed the beasts himself. 

Percy began rolling up the scroll. He would make a copy for himself and look it over later. He knew Harry would have deeper insight on the matter than anyone working for the Ministry. He was in the nest of snakes. 

“Did you read his speech in front of the Wizengamot?” Diggory asked, still making no move to leave. 

Percy frowned. “That was a year ago, and I just so happened to be the Court Scribe.” He gave Diggory a piercing look. “I’m not in the habit of discussing persons currently under investigation, and I’m afraid the sheer quantity of my work precludes idle chatter. I suggest you return to your department and inform Mr. Diggory of your successful delivery. Perhaps he’ll reward you with a lolly and a pat on the head.”

Diggory laughed good-naturedly, which made Percy detest him more, then finally left. Once Diggory was out of sight, Percy wrote a memo for the Owl Post Room, informing them that any correspondence from known Death Eaters or associates should immediately be sent to the Auror Office. The word hippogriff should not be enough for critical evidence to wind up in the hands of a Diggory. 

Percy shuddered at the incompetence he was made to endure. Once the Dark Lord took over, there would be changes in the Ministry, and not just whose name was on the Minister’s door plaque. 

Once he finished rerolling the scroll, Percy set it aside and went back to sorting through his in-tray, visions of Diggory screaming in agony and begging for Harry’s forgiveness dancing behind his eyes. 

Harry would be reclined on a throne, black stone to match the starless galaxy of his eyes, Percy draped over him. Harry chuckling darkly as Diggory writhed and bemoaned his fate, an arm around Percy, holding him still, one hand lightly stroking Percy’s leg, higher and higher…

 

---

 

“Are you certain of this, Severus?” Dumbledore asked, leaning over the glowing green basin. “The potion possesses no means of alerting Lord Voldemort should it be altered?”

“I am positive,” Severus said through gritted teeth. He raised his wand. “And it is not a potion.” 

Severus swept his wand over the surface of the basin, encountering no resistance. Dumbledore had several weeks to pick apart the Dark Lord’s enchantments. The Dark Lord was not the only magical genius, and Dumbledore had decades more experience and knowledge. That the former headmaster’s first instinct was to drink the mysterious concoction continued to baffle Severus. The man had a death wish. 

At another wave of his wand, the emerald concoction turned crystal clear. Both Severus and Dumbledore peered at the small, unadorned gold locket that lay on the bottom. 

“That is not Slyterin’s locket,” Severus said, vindicated. “It hasn’t got a snake on it.”

Dumbledore silently stared at the locket. 

“Perhaps if you drain the basin directly into your gullet, the true horcrux will materialize,” Severus said. “Or would you prefer to free-dive into the inferi-infested lake and take your chances there?”

“You needn’t mock me, Severus,” Dumbledore said quietly. “Your prudence has won out.” He braced himself on the basin, as if ready to plunge in. “Perhaps this is a ruse, as you suggested. Or…” Dumbledore turned to look at the black water. “Regulus was here first.” He stood straight, then with his wand levitated the locket out of the basin. “We will have to search his body. It is possible he carried the horcrux into the water.”

Severus patiently watched as Dumbledore manipulated the fake locket midair. There was a soft click, and the locket opened. A scrap of folded parchment was wedged in like a photograph.

“A message,” Severus said as Dumbledore gingerly removed the parchment. “Pray tell, what does our drowned suitor have to say for himself?”

Dumbledore had a somber expression as he unfolded the note. He cleared his throat, then read, “To the Dark Lord. I know I will be dead long before you read this, but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret…”

 

---

 

“Choices always were a problem for you… What you need is someone strong to guide you…”

Lord Voldemort’s lips peeled back in a smile. Harry’s bewitching voice continued echoing into the drawing room. The boy did love his little songs. A canary in his cage.

“Deaf and blind and dumb and born to follow…”

Lucius went rigid in his chair, his face achieving an undiscovered hue of white. Lord Voldemort chuckled to himself. 

“What you need is someone strong to guide you…”

Lord Voldemort laced his fingers together, waiting for dear Harry to darken his door. 

“Like me…”

Harry appeared like a vision, a muggle briefcase tucked under his arm, silken black hair falling across his eyes, the sleeves of his muggle garment pushed up to proudly reveal his dark mark, the skull and snake a deep shade of red that glimmered like rubies in the firelight. His mark looked alive on Harry’s milky skin. Harry ran a hand through his hair, black-tipped fingers cleaving through it like a knife plunged in the breast, a black ring glinting malevolently. Lord Voldemort too cherished a ring, and he too displayed it boldly at Harry’s age, challenging any to question his right to it. 

This pleased Lord Voldemort.

Harry looked up and gave him a coy smile, the same the boy directed at the pureblood he was infatuated with. A lover’s smile. He sauntered around the ornate table, ignoring its other occupants. Only one person in this room mattered to Harry. 

Lord Voldemort narrowed his eyes in pleasure. This boy, little more than a child, gave everything he was to his master. Few so perfectly submitted themselves to Lord Voldemort, and Bellatrix had always been cloying in her affections. She lacked Harry’s intelligence, his grace, his presumption. 

Bellatrix, like Lucius, Augustus, Tiberia, Pugnacius, Walden, so many others, had been born into their privilege. They never fought for anything. Harry Evans knew one had to seize power by the throat. One had to take. 

“Good, my Lord,” Harry proclaimed, falling to a knee and bowing his head. “Vouchsafe me a word with you.”

Lord Voldemort stared at him, the words sounding familiar, perhaps heard in passing, but the memory was old and not one he cared to unearth. 

“You have requested an audience with me,” Lord Voldemort said. “Though no such formality exists between us, my dear. You are always welcome in my presence.”

Harry looked up at him, his lips curved in the slightest pout. “My Lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unmannerly.”

“What is it babbling about now?” Bellatrix said, sneering as Harry prostrated.

Harry cracked a smile, his eyes sparkling with amusement. Harry did love to play with the other Death Eaters, though not all understood or enjoyed his games. 

“What is this bold duty you speak of?” Lord Voldemort asked. “And have a seat, Harry. Have you supped this afternoon?”

“Not on food,” Harry said, setting his briefcase on the table. Upon closer inspection, Lord Voldemort saw that it was dragonhide. Hungarian Horntail. “But I needn’t discuss that facet of my appetite.” 

Harry stretched his arms over his head, which tugged up his ridiculous seahorse shirt—the creature was perpetually birthing smaller versions of itself—exposing a pale stretch of stomach, and the puffy silver scars where a kelpie once attempted to eviscerate the boy. Then Harry yawned and lowered his arms, once more concealing the glorious sight. 

Lord Voldemort had once touched those scars, felt the boy’s delicate flesh quiver at his fingertips. 

“One of the major problems facing us is properly defining what a mudblood is,” Harry said without preamble. “What constitutes magical blood.” Harry glanced at him. “I’m afraid I must begin with a sensitive subject, my Lord, one which will no doubt create some discord among my illustrious peers.”

“Oh?” Lord Voldemort said, already intrigued. “What is it?”

Harry looked around the table, his eyes landing on Bellatrix. “Squibs.”

Bellatrix immediately surged out of her seat, her wand in her hand, brandishing it at Harry. She began screeching about blood, duty, dishonor, filth. Her usual diatribes. Lord Voldemort recalled that Bellatrix had just graduated Hogwarts when the Squib Rights movement began in earnest. She was integral in the slaughter that killed off the movement’s leaders, and the majority of its members. 

Harry watched Bellatrix with a knowing smile, unmoved. 

“Sit down,” Lord Voldemort said irritably. He wanted to hear Harry speak. “Show some decorum befitting your blood!”

Bellatrix’s mouth snapped shut. She blanched, then collapsed into her seat. Lucius was breathing quickly, his eyes darting from his master to the mudblood child he inexplicably feared. 

“How many squibs has the Black family kicked out into the muggle world?” Harry said evenly. “How much have you diluted magical blood?” He shook his head, then looked at Lord Voldemort again. “Fact is, my Lord, the Ministry hasn’t been keeping track of squibs, and that’s a problem.” 

“And why should they?” Lucius said through clenched teeth. “They don’t have magic. They’re little better than muggles.”

Harry gave him a withering look, and Lucius leaned away. 

“It’s a problem,” Harry said slowly, “because, once in a while, that squib goes on to have magical children, or grandchildren. I know of at least two in Slytherin right now.” Harry looked at Lord Voldemort again. “For one of them, if his parents hadn’t changed his surname to his mother’s maiden name, he would have been mistaken for a mudblood. But he’s not. His grandparents were a witch and a wizard. It’s not his fault his mum’s a squib.” Harry’s expression darkened. “Both of the kids were abandoned once their magic was discovered.”

Harry closed his eyes, and Lord Voldemort was entranced by the play of emotions upon his face. Lord Voldemort had occasion to wonder at Harry’s lineage, though the boy himself seemed ambivalent. Harry believed that having magic in and of itself gave him the right to magic. 

That Harry had the blood of the enemy could mean any number of things, as Lord Voldemort had many enemies. Perhaps Harry was the great-grandson of the orphanage’s matron. Perhaps he was some distant relation of a blood traitor. More likely, it was the boy’s dead muggle mother. All muggles were Lord Voldemort’s enemy, and enemies of magic. 

“I’m a Slytherin. He only accepted the pure. Why would the Sorting Hat put a mudblood in his house?”

There was also the unknown sire. Harry would not be the first halfblood who was the product of a witch or wizard raping a muggle, nor would he be the last. There was no telling how many byblows Mulciber had seeded throughout the world. 

“Do you have proof of their magical lineage?” Lord Voldemort asked. It had taken Lord Voldemort years to uncover his own. That he was given a pureblood middle name was fortunate, though he doubted the woman foresaw how Lord Voldemort would use the information.

“Yes, my Lord,” Harry said, unlocking his dragonhide briefcase. “In fact, that is the purpose behind my request to speak with you. We need to reclaim the blood disseminated into the muggle world, if only to maintain our population, and we need a means by which to identify the true inheritors of magic from the ostensible thieves like myself.” 

“Changeling,” Augustus muttered. Lord Voldemort’s lips twitched. Another pureblood myth. 

Harry grinned, demonstrating how little he thought of the idea that muggles were capable of stealing magic. It was a ludicrous claim, yet exceedingly common. 

“It took some time to develop a feasible plan,” Harry said, opening the lid of his briefcase. “Though I admit I had help from someone steeped in the Ministry’s byzantine bullshit.”

There was a harsh laugh from Yaxley, who laughed harder when he drew dirty looks. 

Harry withdrew a sheaf of parchment from the briefcase. Lord Voldemort accepted the top page, then smiled when he saw the title. 

 

The Muggleborn Registration Commission

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Charity and Severus dancing

Chapter 12: Replevy

Summary:

July 1997

Harry scratched his head. His hair felt oily. He knew he should take a shower, and probably should have several days ago, but didn’t feel like it. He didn’t feel like seeing the light of day, or doing much of anything at all. The sense that things were getting out of control was growing stronger, though logically Harry knew things were proceeding mostly as planned. 

Dudley was alive. 

Harry chewed on his lip, then took a cigarette from the pack on the table and lit it. The Sunday Prophet had been delivered, but Harry didn’t feel like reading it. There was rarely anything of value in the Prophet. 

Since Percy was a functioning human being, he was presently bathing himself. Smartening up. Percy slotted into routine more easily than he did. Harry was a spanner in the works, chucked in to fuck up everyone’s day. 

He looked down at the work he managed to do, smoking, his lungs feeling like a bonfire. It looked like someone vomited numbers onto a page. It was rubbish. 

Harry only saw a glimpse of Voldemort as a wraith. He didn’t know what a wraith even was, and in the years since had not found a single reference to one. Harry couldn’t even recall if it’s a word he simply gave the thing. Not a ghost, as those were echoes of a soul. An imprint his dad would call them. Ghosts couldn’t possess people. A poltergeist could rattle around inside of something, but they could also independently influence the physical world. The wraith could only possess. Typical of Voldemort.

Harry knew what it was, in the strictest sense. The wraith was what was left over after Voldemort lopped off the rest of his soul. It was a living thing.

What can hold a human soul?

Harry took a sip of coffee, his brow furrowed in thought. Two possibilities immediately occurred to him, should he fail. He didn’t think he would, but he was wary of committing anything to parchment. He was wary of the fact that Dumbledore hadn’t thought of it. 

The problem was Monty. 

He pulled a knee to his chest, staring at the mad scrawl of numbers. 

Percy emerged from his bedroom, a butterfly from his chrysalis, or a moth. Harry liked moths more. Was there a difference? 

“Do you think moths are night butterflies?” he asked Percy, who was wearing a set of spring green robes. It made him look oddly innocent, and Harry’s thoughts lurched in a lascivious direction. Percy had no time for a thorough ruining this morning. 

“Moths spin cocoons from silk,” Percy said, joining him at the table. “Butterflies make a chrysalis from their skin.”

“Or are butterflies day moths?” Harry wondered aloud. He looked Percy over. Percy straightened his back, submitting to this scrutiny. “You look absolutely ravishing, my love.”

Percy blinked in surprise, and a pink tinge began creeping up his long, freckled neck. Harry laid his head on his knee, fascinated. 

Was he not complimenting Percy enough? Had anyone?

“And you remain scantily clad,” Percy said, his blush deepening. 

“The deshabille of Harry Evans,” Harry said, smiling slightly. 

“I cannot present you to my aunt in this state,” Percy said with a sniff. 

Harry’s smile faltered. “You’d want me to go with you?”

Percy frowned at him. “Obviously. I wish I could invite you with me today.” Percy reached out, touched Harry’s bare shoulder. “I’ve always wanted to properly introduce you to my family. Why do you think that’s changed?”

Harry’s throat tightened, and his eyes began to water. He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Percy sighed, then bent down and gave Harry a chaste kiss. 

“I know this is ironic coming from me,” Percy said, running a hand down Harry’s back. He shuddered. Every time Percy touched him was a miracle. “But I think you need to take a break.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Harry muttered. 

Percy’s hand lingered for a moment, then withdrew. “I won’t be back until this evening,” he said. “You are, of course, welcome to stay. You can go through all of my things. I know you want to.”

Harry quietly groaned. He was already an intrusion into Percy’s life, utterly obsessed with him. He’d kill Voldemort if only to obsess over Percy in peace. 

“I’ll do something with myself,” Harry said. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“But I want to,” Percy said. 

Harry closed his eyes. His emotions were all over the place again. It was a few days until his nineteenth birthday. Another blood red potion to choke down. 

“I’m going to go talk to my dad, I think,” he mumbled. “He’s the unofficial leading dementor scholar on the planet.”

“Beg pardon?”

 

---

 

The body of Regulus Arcturus Black lay on a conjured slab in an undisclosed location Severus had been apparated to. The body was immaculately preserved, including the various wounds he sustained after being attacked by inferi. 

Dumbledore was bent over the body, his mouth drawn down in consternation. 

Severus stood back with his arms crossed. There was no sign of the locket among Regulus Black’s clothing, and a search of the lake had similarly yielded nothing. Other than the fake locket, and the note, there was no indication of what happened to the locket. 

“The Dark Lord may have relocated the horcrux and left the body behind,” Severus suggested. “A decoy.”

“Perhaps,” Dumbledore said, straightening. “It is also possible that Regulus had an ally.”

Severus frowned. “Based on what?”

“If Regulus drank the potion—” Severus’ eye twitched. “—he would be in no state to retrieve the locket.” Dumbledore looked at him. “Was he close to any other Death Eaters?”

“No,” Severus said. “He was the youngest, at the time. Quiet. Eager. Watchful.”

“How did he discover the cave at all?” Dumbledore wondered. “I happened to speak with the matron of Tom’s orphanage and knew of their coastal holidays. I spent many months searching the coastlines.” Dumbledore looked at the body again. “Regulus was in no position to do either, which leads me to conclude he was told. But by whom?”

“Or he was a Seer and scried the location,” Severus said flatly. “Why would the Dark Lord reveal such a closely guarded secret to his lowliest Death Eater?”

“I do not know,” Dumbledore said quietly, sounding troubled. He met Severus’ eyes. “You must speak with Sirius again. Perhaps Regulus left another note. Something in his bedroom, a correspondence.”

“Black doesn’t know anything,” Severus said. 

“But Kreacher may.”

Severus’ eye twitched again. The house-elf. He wished he had thought of that first. His son would have. Monty would have. 

“What should we do with the body?” Severus asked. “Give it to Black? The house-elf?”

“I think we should start with telling Sirius of his brother’s fate,” Dumbledore said. 

“Who is we?” Severus asked. “Do you intend to reveal yourself?”

“To select parties,” Dumbledore said, sounding pensive. “When the time comes.”

Severus looked at Regulus Black’s wasted face. Dead at seventeen. Killed while betraying the Dark Lord. 

Why?

The body held no answers for him. Severus turned away to once more be the bearer of bad news. 

 

---

 

“Pip!”

Percy held his arms out, just in time for Mafalda to barrel into him. She was turning into a sturdy young woman, already fourteen. Too young for the Dark Lord, he hoped.

“It’s good to see you too,” Percy said, hugging her. 

A sandy-haired boy stood awkwardly nearby. Percy recognized him as one of the first-year Slytherins Harry had taken under his wing when he first became a prefect. A gobstones player.

“Your name’s Pip?” the boy, Derek Wilkes, asked. “I thought it was Percival. That’s what Miss Muriel calls you.”

Percy released Mafalda and offered his hand to the boy. Derek took it. He had a firm grip.

“Percival Ignatius Prewett,” he said solemnly. “Assistant to the Minister for Magic. You may address me as Percy.”

“Nice to meet you,” Derek said politely. “You were the Head Boy when I started, right?”

Percy smiled. “I was.”

“What are you three squawking about?” Aunt Muriel demanded. She was sitting on the terrace, the grandeur of Featherby House rising above her. A luncheon was spread on the table, far more food than four people could eat. Aunt Muriel had donned her least decayed fox head for the occasion.

Mafalda grabbed his arm and began dragging him up to the terrace, Derek trailing behind. Percy had not visited for several weeks, wanting to give Derek a chance to settle in. He was spending the holiday at Featherby House since his family, like Mafalda’s, no longer welcomed him.

“Percival,” Aunt Muriel croaked, the glassy-eyed fox head swaying precariously. “Sit next to me.”

Percy ducked under the flowering vines. Featherby House was at its most resplendent in summer. He wanted to bring Harry here. Embrace him under the hanging flowers, proclaim his undying love for all the world to hear—

“Wipe that stupid look off of your face,” Aunt Muriel snapped.

“I was unaware I was making a face,” Percy said, taking a seat next to her. Mafalda and Derek took seats around the table, Derek glancing at Mafalda before sitting.

Aunt Muriel grunted, then pointed a crooked finger at a pitcher. “Have some of the elderflower cordial. Nesty made it this morning. Mafalda loves the stuff.”

The luncheon was essentially a massive cheese platter that took up the entire table. Scotch eggs, pork pies, radishes, tomatoes, pickled onions, gherkins, apples, grapes, cucumber, at least five varieties of cheese, thick slices of bread, rich yellow butter. 

Had Harry eaten yet?

Mafalda and Derek dove in, piling food on their plates, throwing grapes at each other with deadly accuracy. 

Aunt Muriel was suddenly in Percy’s face. “Your brother’s wedding,” she said ominously.

Percy picked up a red grape, testing its firmness. “What of it?”

“Molly says you’ve returned your invitation,” Aunt Muriel said, fixing him with a gimlet eye. “I told her you would be accompanying me. I am one hundred and seven years old!”

“I fail to see how that’s relevant, auntie,” Percy said drily. “Why were you speaking with my mother?”

Aunt Muriel cackled, another calculating glint in her eyes. “Molly asked to borrow my goblin-made tiara. Been in the family for centuries!”

“I am aware of our treasure hoard,” Percy said, “having inventoried it myself.”

Aunt Muriel grunted. “Your mother wasn’t pleased at me telling her no. Left here in a right tizzy. Nearly made Mafalda cry.”

“Did not!”

“Why not lend it to her?” Percy asked. 

Aunt Muriel narrowed her eyes at him. “I told your mother that I was saving it for someone truly special, not some French tart!” She huffed, then settled back in her seat. “Besides, I’ve always thought silver looked best with black.”

The words struck Percy through the heart. Did Aunt Muriel know? What had he said to her? What gave it away? Was it so obvious? 

Percy’s eyes widened. He had told his parents. His brothers and sister. They knew he was gay. They knew he had, at some point, been in a romantic relationship with Harry. No reasonable person would expect such a thing to persist after one party was sentenced to Azkaban. Right? That would be mad. He worked for the Minister!

“Eat,” Aunt Muriel said, buttering a piece of bread. “You’ll catch flies like that, Percival.”

Percy took a bracing sip of the cloudy cordial, tart and honey and floral, small white flowers floating among the ice. He should have plundered his family’s riches, though he despaired of finding anything worthy of his beloved’s splendor. The goblin-made tiara. He should have thought of that. What could possibly be more fitting?

“Did you see that piece in the Prophet this morning?” Aunt Muriel asked. 

“I’m afraid not,” Percy said, setting down the glass. The cordial was quite nice. 

The fox head bobbed as Aunt Muriel chewed her bread. She wasn’t that old. She probably had another century in her. She swallowed, then cried, “Nesty!”

A copy of the Sunday Prophet appeared at Percy’s elbow.

“It’s with the Opinions,” Aunt Muriel said. 

Percy gave the paper a skeptical look, but at an insistent prod he picked it up. 

“Not the usual rubbish,” Aunt Muriel said quietly. “It was written by one of your professors. I don’t know what that young lady was thinking!”

Percy flipped to the Opinion section, and his thoughts screeched to a halt.

“Fuck,” he whispered. 

A small picture of a smiling, plump blonde woman winked at him.

 

---

 

His dad wasn’t home, so Harry decided to kip on the living room floor. He considered going skateboarding, getting a pint with his mates, rolling over, but the idea of doing anything at all didn’t appeal to him. Distantly, Harry knew he was depressed. He didn’t feel like doing anything about that either. Ultimately, his feelings were immaterial. 

He pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes. 

“Is Herpo the Foul still alive?” he asked the empty living room.

There was a muffled meow, and a heavy cat landed on his stomach. Harry grunted, then lowered his hands to look at her. Lady Madeleine had a copy of the Sunday Prophet in her mouth. She dropped it on his face, then meowed loudly.

“Alright,” Harry said, sitting up. “I’ll read it. I’d rather crawl into a hole and die, but—”

Claws sank into his stomach, and he hissed in pain.

“I’m not going to,” he said, scratching Lady Madeleine’s ears. “I just feel like it sometimes. That’s all.”

Lady Madeleine meowed again, then pounced at the paper.

“Is it about the National Gobstones League tournament in Birmingham?” he asked, picking up the paper. “I’m not going to that. Today’s the last day, you know?”

Lady Madeleine butted her head against him and purred.

Harry smiled slightly, then flipped through the paper. There wasn’t much of interest. He didn’t care about Celestina Warbeck’s love child, or quidditch scores, or the shit comics about stupid muggles, or more empty promises from Scrimgeour. Had the man even been a decent auror? Not that Harry thought much of aurors, barring Adrian.

“I don’t feel like sitting up,” Harry muttered, turning another page. “Reckon I could do the puzzles, but they’re always so bloody—”

Then he saw the article.

Harry scrambled to his feet, his heart racing.

“No,” he breathed, fumbling to get a Calming Draught. “No, there’s no fucking way.” He pulled the cork out with his teeth then guzzled it down, coughing at the intense lavender flavor. He couldn’t afford to panic. 

Was it already too late?

Harry winced, grabbing his arm. The paper fell to the floor, and he sank to his knees.

“Fuck,” he whispered, tears swimming in his eyes. “Why didn’t you talk to her, dad?” 

He had no idea where his dad was. He didn’t know if it was safe to contact him. 

Harry swallowed, his throat aching. 

He didn’t have a choice. He had to go.

Harry got to his feet again and stumbled to the door. He had to pull himself together. There was a way out of this. He was going to find a way out of this. If she was smart, she would have already fled the country, but she wasn’t the sort to run. She’d stand and die.

“Fuck!” Harry shouted, kicking the door. “I hate this, I hate this, I hate this!”

He slumped against the door, chest heaving. Gradually, he forced his mind to stillness, made his expression neutral. 

He would have to find her first. That gave him some time. A few days.

Harry took a shaky breath, threw open the front door, ran into the street, and apparated.

 

---

 

“What’s going on?” Black asked, setting a cup of tea down in front of him. Black took a sip of his own tea, then sat at the head of the kitchen table. “Don’t we need Monty here?”

“It’s best I deliver this news to you first,” Severus said, ignoring the tea. “I have discovered what became of your brother.”

Black froze, the tea cup pressed to his lips. He slowly lowered it. “You know what happened to Regulus?” 

“I do,” Severus said. “He was killed in the act of betraying the Dark Lord. I located his body in… a hideout, one could say. A location known only to the Dark Lord, which housed an artifact of great value. Your brother sought to steal the artifact, and deprive the Dark Lord of a key element of his power.”

Black’s eyes widened. “Regulus betrayed Voldemort?”

Severus took a sharp breath through his nose. 

“Sorry,” Black said quickly. He leaned forward. “You’re telling me my little brother, the same idiot who was obsessed with the… Dark Lord… betrayed him in the end?”

“That is what I have gathered,” Severus said evenly. “I cannot imagine why else he would have—”

“Professor?”

Severus and Black both looked over to the staircase, where Monty was standing. He seemed deeply troubled. A Sunday Prophet was clutched in his hands. 

“What is it, Monty?” Black said, pushing his hair back. “Snape was telling me something pretty fucking important.”

“I think this is pretty fucking important too,” Monty said, walking into the kitchen. “Professor Burbage wrote an article. They’ve published it this morning.”

Severus jerked, then recovered himself. “She what?”

“Your Muggle Studies teacher?” Black asked. “An article about what?”

Monty set the paper on the table, already opened to the article. Severus stared at the title, at the small picture of a foolish woman blowing him a kiss, at her name in black and white. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Purebloods and Muggleborns: The Magical All

 

Professor Charity Burbage, Muggle Studies

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

ABSTRACT

 

This article analyzes the enduring impact of muggleborns on magical culture, population, government, economy, the development of magic and magical theory, and the multigenerational aspects often overlooked when assessing the influence muggleborns have. While magical society has some novel inventions, I will argue that the continued adoption of muggle technologies is crucial to daily life and the advancement of the magical world. I will investigate common myths associated with muggleborns, in particular debunking the supposed ‘theft’ of magic, which has been erroneously connected to the existence of squibs. Using population data drawn from the Ministry of Magic’s wand registry, the Hogwarts Book of Admittance, and birth records from The Society for the Support of Squibs, I will show that the evidence overwhelmingly supports that there are significantly more muggleborns than squibs. Evidence further suggests that muggleborns are descended from squibs. This article will also re-examine the pureblood supremacist shibboleth ‘purity,’ what constitutes a magical lineage, and why so-called ‘halfbreeds,’ i.e. part-creature witches and wizards, are excluded from the ‘pure’ designation. 

 

INTRODUCTION

 

At the time of the Founding, Salazar Slytherin argued that magical learning should be restricted to those from ‘all-magical’ families. ‘All-magical’ was used to distinguish children born to apparently non-magical parents from those born to magical parents. There is no indication that Slytherin considered a family where either one or both parents was muggleborn to be ‘non-magical’...

 

Merlin, perhaps the most famous wizard sorted into Slytherin, was of an unknown lineage. Some texts claim his mother was a selkie and his father was a muggle, though Merlin himself was reticent on the matter. Slytherin is said to have personally taught Merlin despite the open question of his magical heritage. Ironically, Merlin later became a seminal leader in promoting muggle rights…

 

The genesis of ‘the muggleborn’ postdates the Founding of Hogwarts by several centuries. The terms ‘muggle’ and ‘muggleborn’ do not appear in any magical texts until the late 16th century. In a case brought before the Wizard’s Council, Replevin for a Fire-Breathing Chicken, the plaintiff highlights damage caused by a flock of fire-breathing chickens on a neighboring ‘muggle’ farm…

 

Low birth rates have long plagued…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Severus lowered the paper, his hands perfectly still.

He had no idea what to do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 13: Sheep's Eye

Summary:

July 1997

There was a strange taste in his mouth, acrid and bitter, yet cloyingly sweet. Like he had a mouthful of black treacle.

Harry knew he was imagining things. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had anything with treacle in it. It reminded him of his brother, and thinking about his brother opened a vast and desolate landscape within him, a lifeless plane of existence, a loss so profound that with every step he dragged his weakened limbs through thick, grasping mud that sought to pull him under and drown him in its dense, lightless misery. 

How could he grieve someone who was alive?

“Please,” the old man gasped. “Please… Merlin, please… I’ll—” 

“Crucio.”

The pleading cut off in another hoarse scream. Harry watched Ollivander indifferently as he twitched on the floor. He was too old to withstand repeated torture, and torturing him was a bad idea. Harry didn’t know why the Dark Lord was doing it, and he tried to move his thoughts in a direction that would bring this to an end. He hadn’t been the one to capture Ollivander, nor had he been part of any interrogations. The fact was that everyone knew Ollivander. Everyone in this room had gone into Ollivanders when they were eleven years old, had that same moment of connection, of understanding, of completion. The man was a wandmaker. He should have existed outside of any conflict, a neutral party, untouchable. 

Harry wasn’t grieving his brother’s potential death. That wasn’t going to happen; even if his primary plan failed, he had his contingencies. He had picked over the prophecy, analyzed, interpreted, translated, reinterpreted, rearranged, taken it apart, broken it down.

For neither can live while the other survives.

What was it to live?

What was it to survive? 

Harry was alive, but he didn’t feel like he was living. 

The Dark Lord lowered his wand. He wasn’t smiling, or laughing. The Dark Lord looked blank. Empty. As if this meant nothing to him. Torturing the man who made his wand with the very wand he cherished.

Voldemort did not deserve that wand. 

“My Lord?” Harry said. 

Red eyes unerringly fixed on him. “Yes, my dear?”

“I don’t understand what we’re doing here,” Harry said. 

There was a choked noise, an outraged cry. Ollivander was being tortured before an audience. Harry’s dad was absent. He didn’t know why the Dark Lord hadn’t summoned him. They hadn’t really talked about Professor Burbage’s article yet, just decried its existence. No one here was interested in reading it. 

Was that why Ollivander was being tortured? 

“Is it because he gave wands to mudbloods too?” Harry asked. “The wand chooses the wizard, my Lord. Mr. Ollivander creates them, but he can’t control them.”

The Dark Lord beckoned Harry, and Harry willingly walked up to him. Then the Dark Lord cupped his chin, tipped up his face, moved closer until there was almost no space between them, until Harry could smell that sickeningly sweet stench that emanated from the Dark Lord’s body. A body that ran with his blood. 

“Are you feeling sentimental, Harry?” the Dark Lord said quietly. 

“Not sentimental so much as practical,” Harry said. “How are the firsties going to get their wands? I think any family would want their child to have an Ollivander wand.”

The Dark Lord’s fingers tightened. “Ollivander has yet to agree to make wands for my army.”

“Ah,” Harry said. He couldn’t move his head. He couldn’t move at all. The Dark Lord was pinning him down with his eyes. Harry could do that with Percy. He could use his words to control him. He didn’t need magic at all. “Perhaps he has already made the wands, my Lord. He has centuries of backstock. They left all of his wands at the shop. It’s only a matter of finding the wands, of finding a proper match. We also don’t want the Ministry, or the Order, to be alerted by Mr. Ollivander’s absence.” Harry gazed back at the Dark Lord, letting his sincerity bleed through. “He’s a pillar of magical society.”

The Dark Lord stared at him, and stared, and Harry knew that the Dark Lord could see reason, but he also knew the Dark Lord acted. He took action before fully thinking the consequences through. Making horcruxes. Going after his little brother. Making a mudblood a Death Eater. Harry was also taking a risk. He was almost nineteen, a legal adult in both the magical and muggle worlds, but he was still a teenager. The Dark Lord was old enough to be his grandfather. He was a child to the Dark Lord, which made everything worse. So much worse.

“I just don’t see the point in him wasting time making new wands when he’s already got thousands,” Harry said, looking down. “Sorry, my Lord. I should not speak out of turn.”

The Dark Lord chuckled. “Should not, but when has should ever stopped you?”

Harry cracked a grin, and the Dark Lord let go of his face. 

“Return Ollivander to his cell,” the Dark Lord said lazily. “I’ll make my decision later. We have another matter to discuss.”

A burly Death Eater dragged Ollivander off. Actually dragged him, like a muggle. Maybe the Death Eater didn’t have a wand, but Harry thought it was more than that. It was atavistic. 

The Dark Lord didn’t need to touch him. The Dark Lord wanted to. 

Harry looked around for somewhere to sit—there was only the Dark Lord’s throne—briefly considered sitting on the floor, then decided to keep standing and crossed his arms. 

“There is a reason I summoned you, Harry,” the Dark Lord said to him, “and it was not to speak in Ollivander’s defense.”

Harry looked steadily back. Did he fuck up? Had he fucked up again? He should have kept his mouth shut.

“The article in the Daily Prophet,” the Dark Lord said. “The defense of mudbloods. Encouraging us to breed with muggles.”

Harry suspected the Dark Lord had not read the entire article. 

“Alecto has claimed the honor of hunting the mudblood Charity Burbage down,” the Dark Lord said. “However, Alecto lacks the knowledge of the muggle world to locate her.”

Harry looked around the rest of the hall. Silent, robed Death Eaters. “Where is she? Rampaging round the countryside?”

“Why do you say the countryside?” the Dark Lord asked quietly. 

Harry frowned. “Everyone knows Professor Burbage grew up on a farm. That’s common knowledge. West Country, I think. She sounds like a female version of Hagrid.”

“Looks like one too,” someone muttered, to much laughter.

“I sent Alecto out immediately,” the Dark Lord said. “She has yet to return.”

It hadn’t been that long since the article was published. A day. The first summons, when the Sunday Prophet arrived, was little more than an impromptu rally, randomly reading parts of the article, drinking, raucous laughter, torturing and killing a few muggles, working up people who didn’t even understand the words they were reading. 

“You know more about the modern muggle world than my other Death Eaters,” the Dark Lord said, “which has its advantages.”

Harry had found people in the muggle world before. There was precedent for this. 

“Give me your arm,” the Dark Lord said. 

Harry gave the Dark Lord his arm. The Dark Lord slowly pushed up his left sleeve, exposing his Dark Mark. The Dark Lord ran his thumb over his dark mark, making Harry shudder, then pressed down. Harry closed his eyes against the sudden, searing pain. 

Harry hadn’t seen his dad yet. His birthday was tomorrow. 

“You will bring me Charity Burbage,” the Dark Lord said, dropping his arm. 

“Yes, my Lord,” Harry said, feeling sick and heartbroken and knowing it was only a matter of time before he hurt someone he cared about. “I will.”

 

---

 

There weren’t many people in the record shop, which Percy was grateful for. He still felt nervous in muggle places, worried he would commit a faux pas. Professor Burbage was an excellent teacher, but distilling the entirety of British muggle culture to once a week for three years, five if you took the N.E.W.T., was an impossible task. Harry melded flawlessly with the world around him. Percy felt unmoored without him near. 

A pulsating, complicated, electronic song was playing over the shop’s speakers. Percy paused to listen to it.

“I’m the bitch you hated, filth infatuated…”

Harry had broad, insatiable tastes, but Percy knew the music he enjoyed often spoke directly to him. Harry felt connected to it. 

“I’m the pain you tasted, fell intoxicated…”

Heat rushed to Percy’s face. He swallowed, taking a moment to calm himself, then walked up to the counter. 

“I beg your pardon,” he asked the heavily tattooed young woman. She had a bored expression as she applied price tags to a stack of square plastic cases. Compact discs. CDs. “May I inquire as to the musical group which is currently being played?”

The woman gave him a strange look, then pointed at a display stand behind him. “It’s with the new releases,” she told him. “Ten quid.” 

Two galleons. 

Harry was worth ten times that. A hundred times that. A thousand. A million. He was priceless. A man could count to infinity and keep going for all eternity and still not approximate the value of Harry Evans. Percy snorted disdainfully. The concept of value was too base for Harry, too crude. It was impossible to quantify love.

Then Percy saw the name of the artist, and the album art, and knew he had to have it. 

 

---

 

A small, nondescript brown bird watched a woman in a dark paisley skirt and a floral linen top pass between the automatic sliding doors of a Waitrose. The bird watched the entrance for some time, looking up and down the street, listening for any hint of pursuit. Once he deduced all was clear, the bird flew down into an alley, then resumed the form of Severus Snape. With a flick of his wand, he transfigured his robes into something more acceptably muggle, crossed the street without looking, and strode into the posh supermarket.

Severus had never been inside a Waitrose before. The aisles were too wide, too well lit. Too expensive. He could practically smell money oozing off of the aspirant upper middle class. Severus scoffed at their excess. He was a connoisseur of Tesco’s finest. 

If Severus had caught Harry shoplifting in here, he might have let the boy go. 

After some meandering, and not looking at any of the products, Severus found his target dithering over a carton of small, speckled eggs. Charity frowned, weighing the quail eggs in her hand. She had a shopping basket at her feet. Thus far, it only contained a block of extra mature Cornish cheddar cheese, a box of fairy cakes, and a box of strawberry Cornetto.

She was shopping out of order.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Severus demanded. 

Charity jerked in surprise, then looked up at him. Her beautiful, sea-blue eyes widened, her plump, cherry-red lips parted. Severus couldn’t believe she was real. He had to confirm she was alive.

“Severus?” Charity said, blinking a few times. “Can you believe they call these essential? Two pound fifty for a dozen tiny eggs! Wait. Why are you dressed like a muggle? Why the hell are you in Waitrose?”

Severus swooped down, wrapping an arm around Charity’s back, spreading a hand to encompass her decadence, capturing those soft lips for his own. Charity made a noise of surprise, then closed her eyes and melted against him. Severus cradled the back of her head, luxuriating in the flaxen strands of her hair, in how sweetly she tasted. 

Someone loudly cleared their throat. Reluctantly, Severus pulled back. He glared at the interloper, an elderly woman who was looking pointedly at the eggs.

“Come on,” Charity said, picking up her basket. “I’ll just get the bloody quail eggs.” She placed the eggs in the basket, took Severus’ hand, and led him away. “I can’t believe you’re here. I mean, I knew you would turn up eventually, but it’s nearly been a month! Get a pack of prosciutto would you?” Severus grabbed a pack of prosciutto and tossed it into her basket, then Charity steered him to the produce section. “I need cantaloupe.”

“Why did you write that article?” Severus asked. “You know the Dark Lord will be obligated to respond.”

Charity came to a dead stop in front of a display of ripe, fragrant melons. “Is that why you’re here?” she asked tensely. “Your master ordered you?”

“No,” Severus said. “He has yet to summon me. I imagine the honor of apprehending you will go to Alecto.” He took a breath, then added, “Or Harry.”

Charity looked at him for a long moment, searching his face. Her eyes were big, her mind vulnerable. The Dark Lord would tear her apart. 

“Hold this,” she said, thrusting the shopping basket at him. Severus obediently hooked it around his arm. “Cantaloupe? Galia?”

“Cantaloupe,” he said. 

Charity laughed. “We could, if you wanted to.”

Severus stared at her blankly. 

“Cantaloupe?” she said with a teasing smile. “Can’t elope?”

Severus implored the fluorescent lights above him. “Charity, what were you thinking?”

“That I’m not going to die like a dog,” she said, picking up a cantaloupe. Charity sniffed it, then set it back down and picked up another. 

She was still holding his hand. Her hands were soft, warm, dry, fit perfectly into his. Severus closed his eyes.

How many times would he see his son tortured?

“I’m not going to be scared into silence,” Charity said. “If the Ministry falls, the Daily Prophet will be the Daily Death Eater. No one has ever matched the Dick Lord intellectually, or presented a cogent ideological argument. Muggles are treated like clever animals by most witches and wizards, or vermin by blood supremacists. The ignorance of the muggle world is pervasive, even among halfbloods, many of whom aren’t raised in the muggle world.”

She squeezed his hand. Severus wanted to kiss her again. He wanted to hide her away, shield her from danger, but the people he loved insisted on throwing themselves onto the pyre, and he stood back and watched them burn. 

“You’re an exception, not a rule,” Charity said. “I’ve had to rewrite the entire Muggle Studies curriculum so it’s actually fact-based. I’ve practically written a goddamn book since all the ones published are filled with rubbish and outright lies. It’s hard to get students interested in taking the class because you don’t learn much magic in it. They go to a magic school, they want to do magic. Brew potions, fight dragons, cast spells and shit.” 

“I was hoping you would retain your position next year,” Severus said quietly. “I was devising a plan—”

“Well, you didn’t bloody tell me that, did you?” Charity said, glaring at him. “I’m standing here, feeling up cantaloupes, and you show up out of nowhere and question me? Question my decisions?” She scoffed. “I’m sorry, Severus, which one of us is wanted for the murder of one the most prominent and powerful wizards in the world? Who dropped his body off a tower for a bunch of kids to see? Who’s the one who vanished into the fucking ether and left me wondering if you were dead or alive?”

“It was for—”

“Don’t you dare tell me it was for my safety,” Charity said viciously. “I’m a mudblood.” Severus winced. “I’m not safe no matter what I do. I can’t keep my head down and pretend everything is fine, business as usual.”

“I know that,” Severus said, meeting her gorgeously furious gaze. “Plans are in motion—”

“Plans I am not aware of,” Charity snapped. “Me and nearly every other muggleborn has been shut out of the Ministry and the Order of the Phoenix! The only muggleborn in the Ministry in a leadership role is Dirk Cresswell, and that’s only because he busted his balls learning Gobbledegook when no one else bothered to!” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “I don’t need to justify myself to you or anyone else. No one, not a single bloody person has openly recognized that muggles are a necessary part of our world. We could kill every single muggle on the face of the planet, and all we would be left with is a dying world.” Charity sniffed. “Well, the world would survive, but I doubt we would.”

Charity looked at the cantaloupe she was still holding, then set it in the basket. “I was going to celebrate the first paper I published in a decade,” she said quietly. “I felt proud of myself, you know.” She looked at him again. “I accomplished something.” She laughed again. “So much for that.”

“It is an excellently written article,” Severus told her. “It is an accomplishment.” 

He took a breath. 

A clear mind. 

Clarity. 

Charity. 

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said, feeling hollow, raw, exposed. “I don’t want to make that sacrifice again.”

“Again?” Charity asked. “Severus, are you talking about—”

A silver goose flew out of the cantaloupes. Charity gave a startled cry, while Severus stared at it numbly.

“I’m coming for her,” the goose whispered in his son’s voice. “She better be prepared.”

The patronus dissipated, thousands of silver stars falling from the sky. 

“Was that,” Charity panted. “Was that Evans?”

It was the worst possible scenario.

Harry could not fail. Charity could not die.

There had to be a way through this. Severus would find it. 

Severus pulled Charity away from the display of melons. “We must hurry,” he said, gripping Charity’s hand firmly in his own. “I have to prepare you.”

“Prepare me for what?” Charity demanded. “You don’t think Evans…”

He looked into the basket. Twenty pounds for six items? 

“Bloody rip-off,” he muttered. Then he apparated, stealing Charity too. 

 

---

 

“You’ve got an owl from the Ministry,” Sirius said, holding the scroll out to him. Monty took it, frowning at the purple seal. There was a golden M on it, bisected by a wand with radiant lines around it, as if someone had cast lumos.

“The fuck do they want from me?” Monty asked, taking the scroll. Sirius was upset. Monty didn’t know what about, only that it was something Professor Snape had told him before running off to rescue Professor Burbage. Monty hoped he was rescuing Professor Burbage. He hoped Harry would. 

He looked down at the scroll. Harry was a Death Eater. Death Eaters killed and tortured people. Harry served the man who killed his mother. 

“It might be important,” Sirius said. He had an open bottle in front of him. Monty knew it wasn’t his first one. 

Monty sighed, then took a seat at the kitchen table and broke the seal. He opened the scroll and read through its contents. 

“It’s a summons,” he said, tossing the scroll onto the table. “Apparently Dumbledore left me something in his will.” More memories, Monty guessed. A case of useless vials.

Sirius picked up the bottle, tipped it, frowned at how little there was left. “If Dumbledore wanted to give you something, he could have made other arrangements.” He took a sip, then sighed. “Bit strange that he had you in his will. He could’ve died fifty years from now.” Sirius finished the bottle, then asked, “When do they want you to show up?”

“On my birthday,” Monty said, sliding down in his chair and gazing up at all the pots and pans hanging above him. 

He was turning seventeen in a little over a week. Harry’s birthday was tomorrow. He was turning nineteen. Two years older than him. Monty’s parents were still in Hogwarts when Harry was conceived. So was Professor Snape.

His mum’s name was Lily Evans. She was from Cokeworth. So was Professor Snape. So was Harry.

Professor Snape had been friends with his mum, but they stopped talking after their O.W.L.s. After Professor Snape called her a mudblood. Monty couldn’t imagine his mum would forgive something like that from her best friend. To hear what he felt about people like her. Monty didn’t think Professor Snape really thought like that, though. Not with the way he went after Professor Burbage.

“Luna and Neville are being summoned too,” he said. “I think they’re trying to encourage me to show up. It was signed by Scrimgeour.”

“We can get Kingsley and Arthur there,” Sirius said. He lit a cigarette. “We should have lunch.”

“You’re smoking,” Monty said flatly. 

Sirius grinned at him. “I can do both. Do you want to go out to eat? We could get the fast food.”

“It’s just fast food,” Monty said.

Sirius chuckled. “I know, I’m fucking with you.” He stood, then walked over to Monty and ruffled his hair. “Let’s get out of the house. I’m sick of waiting for something to happen.”

“Me too,” Monty said, getting up to follow him. “Do you think they’ll send the Hogwarts letters soon?”

“They have to find a new Defense professor first,” Sirius said, leading the way up the narrow stone stairs. Monty didn’t mind the smell of smoke. It reminded him of Harry. 

He had to get Harry a birthday present. 

“Shit,” Monty exclaimed, barreling past Sirius. “What the hell am I going to get him?”

 

---

 

“Crucio!” Alecto shrieked wildly, twisting her wand.

The shrub’s leaves quivered.

Harry took a drag from his cigarette, rolling back and forth on his skateboard. 

Alecto lowered her wand, breathing heavily, a manic grin stretched across her face. “Do you remember now, you filth?” she screeched. “Do you?”

Alecto Carrow believed she was in a muggle farmhouse, torturing a family for information about Charity Burbage. In reality, she was torturing the verge of an empty lane. Nearly empty.

A couple with a dog ran by and gave them a concerned look. 

“My aunt’s schizophrenic,” he said apologetically. “I’m waiting on my dad to help get her home.”

The couple ran on, looking over their shoulders as Alecto continued to hurl abuse at the innocent greenery. He had charmed her robes to look more like a hospital gown. He couldn’t quite remember the pattern, but he thought it was good enough. 

“Crafty bitch,” Alecto growled. “She put them under Fidelius!”

“How could a mudblood do that?” Harry asked lightly. 

Alecto spun around, her chest heaving. “Stolen magic! Like you’re stealing from the Dark Lord!”

Harry snorted. “You think I’m sucking magic out of his cock? If that was possible, Per—” He bit his tongue. “The Dark Lord would not allow any part of his magic to be stolen. Are you saying he is too weak to guard his own power?”

Alecto paled. “I… No! I would never! The Dark Lord is the most powerful wizard in the world! A disgusting, conniving, catamite, mudblood—”

“Now you’re calling the Dark Lord a pederast,” Harry pointed out. 

Alecto staggered back. 

“We don’t have time for this,” Harry said, kicking the ground. “We’ll check the next house. If the muggles there don’t know where the Burbage farm is, we’ll move on to the towns. She might have a muggle relative nearby.”

Harry rolled along, smoking, Alecto prowling in his wake. 

He trusted his dad would deal with Professor Burbage. Not bringing her in wasn’t an option. If she eluded him, the conclusion would either be that he let her go or that she was forewarned. The other Death Eaters would see it as sympathy for a fellow mudblood. Voldemort might too, given his squib speech.

There was no plausible reason for Harry to fail after so many successes. 

Harry knew his dad had been careful with what he told Professor Burbage, but they still spent a lot of time together. If Voldemort looked into her mind, the trust his dad earned with Dumbledore’s death would be eroded. 

When he reached a tree, Harry waved his wand at Alecto, muttering under his breath as he reshaped her world.

Harry gritted his teeth together. He was too competent. He was too good at being a Death Eater. If his dad had talked to Professor Burbage they could have avoided this.

A silver ewe stepped out of the verge. Harry sucked in a breath. He would be losing his mind if it were Percy. For this to happen to his dad again, for another woman he loved to be targeted by Voldemort…

“I have her,” the ewe said in his dad’s voice. It faded back into the verge.

Harry relaxed, then he lit another cigarette and went back to buying time.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 14: Fit for a Prince

Summary:

July 22nd, 1997

Part I

Harry leaned against Percy’s door, pressing his face against it. A cigarette dangled from his lips, and he took a halfhearted drag from it. It was close to the filter, and he could feel the heat on his lips. He closed his eyes, then slowly exhaled through his nose to feel the sting. 

A television was blaring a commercial. A sale at Argo. Someone was yelling at their partner to shut up. Another was banging pots around. He heard the front gate squeal open. 

What he was about to do, what he was about to ask for, was something that he didn’t know if he was ready for. Something that made him question himself. Question his masculinity. Something he tried to avoid ever since he was thirteen and was told he wasn’t like other boys. Ever since Cedric Diggory rubbed a knee between his legs and grabbed his arse. Ever since he was tied to a headstone and the man who murdered his mother penetrated his mind and took one of his deepest, most intimate secrets from him because he had to give something. 

Harry wrapped his arms around himself, not sure if he was even allowed to want this. If he was allowed to want anything at all. 

After running her around all day, Harry had stunned Alecto and stuck her in a tree to keep overnight. He considered dumping her in a park, or in an alley, but even if she was an evil bitch he wasn’t going to put her at risk of being assaulted. He needed to meet up with his dad; Harry knew his dad’s bigger plans, and there was some merit in going in blind and having more genuine reactions, but what little benefit that would yield was far outweighed by Professor Burbage’s life.

Harry smiled to himself. He knew what he wanted to do, and he had a feeling Professor Burbage would be game. 

But that was a problem for tomorrow. The Dark Lord knew it was his birthday, and Harry wasn’t going to do this shit on his birthday. He wanted a day for himself, just one, and then he would go back to being what he needed to be. 

When the filter started to burn, Harry vanished it and then pushed himself off the door. 

This was stupid. He was being stupid. No one but him and Percy would know, and he trusted Percy as much as he could trust anyone. 

Harry took a breath, knocked on the door, and waited. He idly rubbed his chest, then pulled his hand away. It was strange how he could kill someone without hesitation and still feel so insecure.

There was a reason for it. They wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t forgive him, but there was a reason. 

Everyone, every single one of these fuckers, was content to make his brother their Boy Who Lived, their martyr, to throw Monty at Voldemort, their human shield, their abused little sacrifice. They were all so willing to condemn Monty, so ambivalent about it, from the top to the fucking bottom. The kid who just wanted to make potions for flying seahorses was supposed to give his life, his future, his everything to save them.

They wanted to take his brother from him. 

It was not going to happen, and Harry didn’t give a shit how many bodies he left behind. That would be his sacrifice. 

The door opened, and Harry looked up at Percy. He was in a set of dark green robes that flattered his lithe form, his enticing complexion, every kissable freckle on his face, the fleck of green in his hazel eyes, his coppery curls, and yes, Harry had been besotted with Percy since he was thirteen, not long after he understood that he fancied other boys, and Harry did think Percy was incredibly aesthetically pleasing, but that was mostly because it was Percy.

Harry wanted Percy, desperately, and he wanted everything from him. 

Percy must have seen something in his expression, because a blush spread across his face and he was gripping the door as if his life depended on it. 

“Good evening,” Percy said, his voice husky. “Happy birthday.”

Harry slowly smiled, delighted by the effect he had on Percy. He took Percy’s hand and tenderly pressed his lips against it. He remembered the first kiss he gave Percy very well. It had kept him up for weeks. 

“Thank you,” he said, pushing Percy lightly. Such modest robes. Such long, modest robes. “Sorry for coming by so late.”

“Don’t be,” Percy said, shutting the door behind them. “I was expecting you.”

“Am I that predictable?” Harry asked, reaching up to touch Percy’s throat. 

“When it comes to me,” Percy said, his voice strained. “You look…avaricious.”

“There is something I want,” Harry said, gently squeezing Percy’s throat. Percy’s eyes fluttered shut. He was perfect. “Something only you can give me.”

“Anything,” Percy whispered breathlessly. “Anything at all.”

Harry smirked, then slid his hand down Percy’s arm and took his hand. He wanted to do this, and he had a feeling Percy did too. Percy hadn’t said anything at all in the almost two years they’d been sleeping together. That was going to change. 

“There’s something I want to try,” Harry said, leading Percy into his own bedroom. Sometimes he thought about asking Percy if he wanted to live together, but he didn’t think either of them were ready for that. He still needed his own space, more privacy than living with another person afforded. He needed a lot of time alone. 

“What is it?” Percy asked, taking a seat on his bed. It was ridiculous how tall Percy was even sitting down. How effortlessly elegant he was. 

Harry took steadying breath, then sat down next to Percy.

“I want to do things differently this time,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound as nervous as he felt. He wasn’t occluding. He rarely did when it was just him and Percy. He didn’t want there to be any barriers between them, impossible as that was. 

Percy gave him a curious look. “What do you mean?”

Harry took another breath, then told Percy what he wanted and had been too afraid to ask for. 

 

---

 

Percy was pressed down into his pillows, gazing up at Harry. Harry was absolutely radiant in the moonlight, his skin glowing from within, soft as the petals of a lily. Percy ran a shaking hand up Harry’s back, while his other was occupied elsewhere.

Harry was shaking too. 

“Are you certain you wish to do this?” Percy asked, even as his heart fought its way out of his chest. He hadn’t known if Harry would be willing. He was so domineering, which Percy had been surprised to find he enjoyed. Even now, it felt like Harry was in control of the situation.

Percy had never done this before, but neither had Harry. He wanted to, but Harry was squirrelly about being touched in certain areas. Percy sat up slightly, bracing a hand on Harry’s back. 

“I wasn’t sure if I had a—”

Harry broke off in a groan, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. He laughed, then looked down at Percy and licked his lips.

“You always look like you’re enjoying yourself,” Harry said archly. “That’s not very fair, is it?”

Percy froze.

Harry suddenly reached out and seized his throat. “You stop when I tell you to stop.”

“Yes,” Percy gasped. 

Harry’s fingers tightened, and he glared at Percy with a withering expression. “Yes, what, Prewett?”

“Yes, sir,” Percy wheezed. He was going to die. He was going to die if Harry didn’t let him—

Harry relaxed his grip, then gave Percy a smile that made every thought in his head vanish. He leaned down, shifting forward. Percy bit his lips together, his blood racing with anticipation. Harry’s lips brushed his ear, implacable fingers gripping his hair.

“All you have to do,” Harry whispered, “is exactly what I tell you to do.” Harry chuckled darkly, and the sound shook Percy to his core. “It should be easy for you, Prewett. You do love to follow the rules.”

Harry rose above him, limned in silver, the blackness of night cloaking the power that thrummed though him, and Percy soon learned better than to question him again. 

 

---

 

Harry woke sprawled across Percy. They always gravitated towards each other in their sleep. He pressed an ear against Percy’s chest, listening to his heart beat, taking comfort in that familiar pattern.

He wasn’t sure how to feel. He felt a little mad. He had gone temporarily insane. 

Percy was awake too, and Harry closed his eyes as Percy ran fingers through his hair. Percy didn’t do that often, which made it all the more precious. 

“How are you feeling?” Percy asked softly. 

Harry grumbled. He didn’t want to get off of Percy, he wasn’t up for moving at all, but Percy had to go to work. Harry had things to do that day too, but not until later. He had to talk to his dad first, see if he needed more time. 

“Dad wants me to have breakfast with him,” Harry mumbled. “My birthday quiche. I’ll save you a slice.”

Percy went still.

Harry pushed himself up to look at Percy’s face. He didn’t have his glasses on. Harry preferred when he did. He wanted Percy to see everything. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked. 

“Professor Snape cooks?” Percy said. His voice was a little rough, but that was expected. Harry also preferred to hear Percy. Living with six siblings had made him very quiet during certain activities, and Percy still slipped into that habit sometimes. Harry was happy to give him reminders. 

Harry blinked a few times, processing Percy’s words. Then he started laughing, and leaned down to kiss Percy. He was so adorable when he lost his footing. 

“Will I see you again today?” Percy asked. 

Harry sighed. “Probably not.” The Dark Lord would likely summon him for a progress report, or because it was his birthday, or because it had been two years since he was marked. All three. Some fourth, more terrible option. 

He kissed Percy again, so deeply that he knew Percy would be dizzy after, then carefully sat up. “We should get going.”

Percy sat up too, the blanket slipping off of him. Harry smirked. The robes would cover that up nicely. This was for his eyes only. 

“I’ve got something for you,” Percy said. 

Harry grinned. 

“Not that,” Percy said, slightly exasperated. “A present.”

Harry’s smile grew. 

“You’re incorrigible,” Percy said, getting out of bed. 

“I’ve heard that one before,” Harry said, watching Percy walk to a set of drawers. He returned with a slim package wrapped in black paper. Harry could deduce it was a CD from its shape, but was dead curious to know what Percy had picked out for him. 

“It made me think of you,” Percy said, handing the present to him. “I hope you enjoy it. I personally found it interesting.”

More curious, Harry unwrapped the present, taking care not to tear the paper. He revealed a CD with a crab on it. 

Harry bent over the jewel case, silently laughing, then sat up again to see who it was by.

The Prodigy.

“I had no idea they released a new album,” Harry said, turning the case over to read the track listing. “I love Music for the Jilted Generation.” He smiled up at Percy, his heart feeling full. Less bereft. “Thank you. I can’t wait to listen to it.”

Percy was smiling too. His entire face was alight with happiness, and it stole Harry’s breath away. 

Harry slowly ran his eyes down Percy’s body, then set the CD aside and pulled him back into bed. 

 

---

 

“Are you sure it’s alright that I’m here?” Charity asked, glancing at the kitchen door. She had Harry’s cat on her lap, which was a blatant endorsement if Severus ever saw one. 

“You contributed the eggs,” Severus said. “And the cheese.”

“Still,” Charity said, stroking Lady Madeleine’s back. “She’s quite friendly, isn’t she? Such a pretty former Head Cat.”

Lady Madeleine was not a friendly cat, she was actually quite vicious towards most living things and only contained her murderous tendencies at Harry’s behest, but Severus kept that to himself. 

“Still can’t believe I’m in your house,” Charity said, looking around the kitchen. “I didn’t know you had a house.”

“It’s my childhood home,” Severus said, pouring the coffee. It had been a long night. A long, difficult night, and they had a worse day ahead of them. 

Letting Charity into this part of his life, into the life he shared with his son, was a risk. A risk he was willing to take. He had concealed many things from Charity, and soon they would be concealing more. 

Lady Madeleine hopped out of Charity’s lap and ran to the door, meowing. 

“Is he here?” Charity asked. “Should I stand? Should I get my wand out?”

“Harry is not going to duel you,” Severus said drily, setting a cup of coffee in front of her. Charity Burbage was in his kitchen. This was surreal. She was too vibrant for Cokeworth. “If he wanted you dead, you would already be dead.”

“How comforting,” Charity said, picking up the cup. “What exactly is your relationship with him?”

“He’s like a father to me.”

Charity flinced backward, almost spilling hot coffee all over herself. Almost, as Harry had his wand out and the cup and its contents were frozen. 

“Morning, Professor Burbage,” Harry said, strolling into the kitchen with his cat draped over his shoulder like a feline fur stole. 

Severus sighed, then set a cup of coffee on the table for Harry. 

“Good morning,” Charity said, quickly setting the cup down. She nervously ran her hands down her dress. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, slipping his wand into a pocket. 

Lady Madeleine jumped to the floor as Harry approached Charity, a slight, menacing smile on his face. He placed a hand on the back of Charity’s chair. Charity looked at Severus, then up at Harry.

“I have just one question for you, Professor Burbage,” Harry said, his voice low and threatening. 

“What is it?” Charity asked. “You’re really close, kid. You might want to back up.”

Harry’s smile grew. “Do you want to live, or do you want to die?”

Charity gave him a stunned look, which quickly shifted to fury. “What the fuck—”

“Harry,” Severus snapped.

Harry backed away from Charity, raising his hands. “Just kidding,” he said lightly. “A little Death Eater humor.” Harry dropped into his usual chair, across from where Severus sat, and wrinkled his nose.

“No one other than you is amused,” Severus said, carrying Harry’s birthday quiche to the table. He hesitated before setting it down. “I should place this quiche in the bin.”

“No!” Harry threw himself forward on the table. “I’m sorry, that was in poor taste.” Harry smiled again, and Severus despaired of his child. “I’ve had a rough night.” Harry looked at Charity. “You’d piss yourself if you knew what Alecto wanted to do to you. That woman is more depraved than I am.”

“It’s alright,” Charity said, relaxing slightly. “We’re all on edge.”

Harry chuckled, and Severus narrowed his eyes at him. He knew exactly where his son had spent the night. 

“Thank you, Professor Snape,” Harry sang, picking up his coffee. He raised it reverently with both hands. “Blacker than the stains on my soul.”

“You know where the cream and sugar are,” Severus said flatly, just as two pots floated past him. 

Charity gaped at this casual display of wandless magic. Harry wasn’t even aware he was doing anything extraordinary. 

“Did I get any owls?” Harry asked as he dumped sugar into his coffee. When he was done, he pushed it towards Charity. 

“You did,” Severus said, summoning the stack of letters and packages Harry had received. He had no idea when Harry had done it, but owls could no longer fly directly to him. All post was delivered to Spinner’s Circle. Severus had collected it earlier that morning. 

“My mates want to go to the White Wyvern,” Harry said, frowning slightly. “Reckon they won’t call the aurors on me, or should Henri make a return?”

“I knew it!” Charity exclaimed. “I knew that ice cream was too good to be true!”

Severus began cutting the quiche. “One of your mates is an auror.”

Harry smirked. “It’s the principle of the matter, sir.” 

Severus scowled. He understood what his son was getting at. 

Harry sighed, then glanced at Charity. “I’ll have to tell them tonight might not work.”

Charity frowned. “Because of me?”

Harry grimaced, then picked up another letter. “Why is this one wet?” he asked, lifting up a sodden envelope. His eyes went wide. “It’s from Mhairi and the seal kids!”

“Seal kids?” Charity asked. “Is that a band?”

“Selkies,” Severus told her, plating the quiche. 

“Save a piece for my boyfriend,” Harry said, sorting through his other birthday correspondence. “I want to watch him have a nervous breakdown.”

Severus gladly set a piece of quiche aside, it was for a good cause, but said, “I used magic.”

“Small amounts are fine,” Harry said, picking up a small golden box. “Now, who the fuck—” Harry went very still. “There’s no fucking way,” he whispered. “I told him—” He jumped out of his seat. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.” 

Severus watched his son run out of the room, a stream of letters, packages, and a cat chasing after him. He took his own seat, then looked at Charity. 

“What was that about?” she asked. 

“An unexpected sender,” Severus said. “As you know, Harry lost everything when he was exposed as a Death Eater, including many of his friendships.” Including his freedom, his physical well-being, his future, and possibly his life. 

Charity leaned towards him, then quietly asked, “Is he really a Death Eater?”

Charity would not remember this conversation, not for some time, but Severus lied to her anyway. 

“He is.”

 

---

 

Harry ran into his basement lair, leaving the door open long enough only for his post and Lady Madeleine to get in. Then he sank to the floor, the golden box clasped in his hands. 

“You idiot,” Harry whispered, his lip trembling. “You’re supposed to hate me. You’re supposed to forget me.”

Lady Madeleine put a paw on his knee. Harry shook his head, too choked up to speak. He ran his finger over the box, finding a small depression. At his touch, the box opened. There was a folded letter inside. Harry pulled it out with shaking fingers. Underneath it was a solid gold quill. Harry laughed wetly, wiped his eyes, then unfolded the letter. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Harry, 

 

 

I always wanted a big brother. 

 

 

Love, 

Monty

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 15: Breathe

Summary:

July 22nd, 1997

Part II

Percy sat at his desk, staring at a poster. It was a photograph of a young man with dark features, leaning against the side of the frame. Hair blacker than the empty heart of night fell across blacker eyes, gazing back at him, radiating heat, capturing him in the corona of those inescapable cosmic wells.

The reward for capturing this elusive, mysterious, impossible young man had quietly been raised to ten thousand galleons. Ten thousand galleons on his head, dead or alive. Percy was uneasy at the increased rate. No one was permitted to want Harry more than he did. 

Several papers appeared in Percy’s in-tray, but he remained captivated by the arrogance in the line of Harry’s jaw, the taunting curl of his lips, the disdain in the arch of his brow. Others had framed photographs of their loved ones on their desks. Percy had wanted posters, plastered over every surface of the Ministry and every magical establishment. Harry was always watching him, and this was no florid hyperbole. Photographs of Harry had an unnatural habit of looking directly at Percy, following him with their fathomless eyes, even moving around their frames to get a better look at him. 

Harry was distracting. 

It was nearing lunch, and Percy sighed. He was forlorn, for his intention to dine with Harry at a restaurant befitting his exquisiteness was stymied by other obligations.

Percy knew Harry sometimes used sex to divert him. He also knew that he went along with it, both out of personal desire and a wish to offer Harry some semblance of normalcy. A place and a time where he didn’t have to be the muggleborn Death Eater. The mudblood Death Eater. 

All Harry had told Percy was that they would probably not see each other again that day. Percy hadn’t asked why. He could tell that Harry didn’t want him to, and Harry didn’t want to do whatever it was the Dark Lord had ordered.

Percy had read Professor Burbage’s article. 

Such a direct challenge could not go unanswered. 

“Is Scrimgeour in?”

Percy tore his eyes away from Harry’s poster to look at the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Pius Thicknesse. 

“The Minister is in a meeting right now, Mr. Thicknesse,” Percy said, frowning slightly. He hadn’t heard the lift, too consumed with ogling his boyfriend. He needed to pull himself together and get some work done. “Your meeting with him isn’t until four, sir.”

Thicknesse was one of those older aurors who had survived the first war. One who used Unforgivables. His long black hair and beard were threaded with silver, and his heavy brow gave him a brutish look, which was in line with a fairly mercenary auror career. Failing to locate and capture any real Death Eaters, Thicknesse, with avid support from Scrimgeour, had directed the arrest and incarceration of innocent people, recommending absurdly long sentences in Azkaban for minor crimes. Scrimgeour couldn’t properly operate a police state—he lacked the manpower, and the intelligence—so he engaged in poorly acted political theater. Thicknesse was complicit in that.

“Very well,” Thicknesse said, not quite looking at Percy. Then he walked away. 

Percy stared after Thicknesse. That was unusually terse for the man, not to mention odd. He had sent an interdepartmental memo with a reminder that morning.

Another paper appeared in his in-tray. Percy turned to deal with the growing pile, then stilled.

Thicknesse avoided eye contact. That was highly abnormal for an auror, someone trained to look people in the eyes specifically for a situation like this. A situation in which someone was under the Imperius Curse.

It had to have happened very recently, perhaps minutes ago. Whoever cursed Thicknesse likely had a tenuous grasp over his will. Someone practiced in the Imperius Curse, someone adept, could cover up those little tells.

Percy let out a breath. It wasn’t Harry.

Percy closed his eyes. It wasn’t Harry, who had already been made to commit atrocities, but chief among those, what Harry abhorred, was taking away someone’s will.

Percy reached for a cup, coffee, tea, gurdyroot juice, he didn’t care. The second highest ranking Ministry employee was under Imperius. They failed with Percy, but Percy was not the only one close to the Minister. 

He had once watched Bill and Charlie build a house out of Exploding Snap cards. That’s what Percy was in, and the entire structure was set to detonate.

Several more papers arrived in Percy’s in-tray. 

A controlled detonation.

Percy put his face in his hands and laughed helplessly.

 

---

 

Harry squatted behind a skip, smoking, listening to the CD Percy got him, watching the entrance to a block of flats. Something was making a lot of noise within the skip, tearing open bags, and he smiled when a fox leapt out with half of a roasted chicken in its mouth. The chicken had clearly seen better days, but Harry imagined the maggots were like seasoning to a fox. He hadn’t eaten as a squirrel, and he was suddenly interested in having that experience. Mushrooms and tree nuts, maybe a small snake. Would it taste good as a squirrel?

Harry’s squirrel-thoughts subsided when he saw a tall man in a black suit and a shorter woman in a floral dress approaching the entrance to the building. The man had a hand on the woman’s lower back, and she looked up at him with stars in her eyes.

His heart gave a funny lurch. Harry knew what his dad was going to do. He knew he had argued with Professor Burbage. He knew his dad was going to do it over her objections. It was a matter of Professor Burbage’s mind. She was a brilliant woman, but she wasn’t an occlumens. 

The Dark Lord was a frighteningly powerful legilimens. His dad met that with equally powerful occlumency, an impenetrable and unknowable mind. Harry misled, redirected, obfuscated, deceived. Hiding that he was an occlumens was one of the things he felt proud of. He fed into the Dark Lord’s beliefs about him. 

The Dark Lord might not bother with legilimizing Professor Burbage—she was just one woman who had written her article independently, she wasn’t part of the Ministry or the Order—but the Dark Lord could sense if someone was lying, a passive legilimantic ability that the most adept legilimens possessed. Dumbledore could, his dad could, and Harry could too. It was incredibly invasive magic, but also incredibly useful. It was magic that would save Professor Burbage’s life, whether she liked it or not. 

Once the gate closed behind his dad and Professor Burbage—he had to keep thinking of her that way—Harry pulled out his wand. 

The Dark Lord had yet to summon him, and Harry wanted to forestall that. He wanted to get a pint with his friends. 

“Expecto patronum,” he whispered. 

A silver goose flew out of Harry’s wand, a truly scandalous bird formed of everything he felt when he was with Percy. It was safer than using his love for Monty; Harry was terrified of what shape that might take. 

The goose flapped sedately in front of him, waiting. 

“Go to Voldemort,” Harry said quietly. “Tell him that I’ve tracked down Professor Burbage. We’re waiting for her to return from an errand. I’ll bring her tonight.”

The goose flew off, vanishing through the side of a building. 

Harry sighed, then stood up. He glanced into the skip to make sure Alecto was still in there, and only slightly scratched up by a hungry fox, then apparated. 

 

---

 

The sofa was crowded with Severus and Charity both on it. Severus found that he enjoyed the sensation of every part of Charity touching him, the comfort of her close proximity. Here, in this moment, she was safe, her warm hand held tightly in his own. That Charity was willing to touch him was an honor. 

“There is something I must tell you,” Severus said. “Something I have regretted not saying in the past.”

Charity had not taken her eyes off him since they entered her flat. She was furious with him, with the Dark Lord, with the world. She knew Severus had not needed to ask her permission, had not needed to inform her at all. As hopefully brief as this would be, Charity would still suffer.

Severus was making a choice. Either he would watch his son suffer, or he would watch Charity suffer. Charity understood what a failure would cost Harry. What it would cost him. Her repugnance, her horror, was exactly what Severus needed. What he deserved. 

Severus turned to Charity, cupping her soft cheek in his unworthy hand. He needed her to know that he meant what he said, even as the truth of it tore another rent in his heart, in his soul. Severus looked deep into her clouded blue eyes, felt the tenor of her fear, of her rage, which nothing he could say or do would ameliorate, not without a cost he refused to pay again. 

“I’m in love with you,” Severus said fervently. “Though you may despise me when this is over, I love you.”

Charity’s eyes watered. “You’re such an arse for saying that now.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “Forgive me.”

“You’ll have to make it up to me first,” Charity said, breathing into him. “It might take a while. You better get started now.”

Severus kissed her, tasted the bitter tears on her lips. Then he took out his wand and began redefining his life with the woman he loved. 

 

---

 

Harry got into the White Wyvern with no problem. When people saw him, recognized who he was, they looked the other way. That he was in muggle clothes, that his sleeves were rolled up, that his dark mark was exposed, that his picture was stuck behind the bar with everything else the Ministry required pubs to display, that he was Harry Evans. They couldn’t kick him out without offending the Dark Lord, they couldn’t let him in without going against the Ministry. So, they did nothing. He was a ghost. 

He thought his friends were aware of the duality of his state of being. They could have gone to a muggle pub, or to a park, or one of their houses, or anywhere else at all, but they were at the White Wyvern with the other disaffected. 

“Nice quill,” Adrian said, thunking a pint in front of him. “Prewett get it for you?”

Adrian took his seat next to Jasmine and put an arm around her shoulders. She had smuggled herself out of Malfoy Manor wearing a sunshine yellow pinafore. Adrian had done a shoddy job disguising himself, turning his hair a lurid shade of pink, but no one was looking at their table. No one was looking at him. 

Harry gave Adrian a half smile, then took a sip of what turned out to be spiced mead. He rather liked mead, imagined he could tell what flowers the bees had visited to make their honey. Blackberry blossoms. 

“Does it even hold ink?” Astrid asked, toying with the solid gold quill behind Harry’s ear. “Or is this part of the dowry?”

“Fuck you,” Harry said, ducking away. “How’s training going?”

Astrid punched her hand and cracked an evil grin. 

“Is that good?” Phoebe asked.

Terence snorted into his gigglewater. 

“The fuck are you drinking that for?” Astrid demanded. “Are you expecting?”

“Tastes good,” Terence said with a shrug.

“Let me try,” Phoebe said, making a grabby hand at him. 

“You have your own.”

Phoebe looked at her other hand. “Oh.”

“Next round is Lobe-Blasters!” Adrian declared, raising his fishy-green pint. 

“Some of us want to wake up tomorrow,” Jasmine said drily. She took a dainty sip of a sapphire blue cocktail. Harry had no idea they even served mixed drinks at the Wyvern. 

“Lightweight!” Astrid said, pointing with her bottle of dusty, thousand-year-old rotgut. 

Harry took another sip of mead, his throat tingling. He couldn’t tell if it was magic or if he was having a mild allergic reaction to whatever pollen was used to make the honey, but it wasn’t bad enough to worry him much. 

It had been a few months since they had all got together, not since he bent nature to his whim and herded a storm across Scotland. Cassius hadn’t turned up, but they were days out from a coup. He didn’t want to be caught up in that. 

In reality, none of his friends would be very affected. They were all purebloods. They all had pureblood names, and families, and the safety that afforded.

Astrid’s family would likely be under investigation given her aunt was Professor McGonagall.

Phoebe’s might too, as her grandmother was muggleborn.

Adrian’s dad was on the Wizengamot, his family had buried his Death Eater mother, and he was nominally a Death Eater. Adrian would be at the Ministry, or possibly out on a case if he was lucky. There was a risk he would die in the crossfire, if it came down to a fight against his fellow, more experienced aurors. Harry would be there too, and he would do what he could.

Jasmine’s father was a Death Eater, but her mother was foreign. A witch, but not a British one.

Terence was Terence. His family was predominantly pureblood, and he had an aunt on the Wizengamot. 

Jasmine and Adrian couldn’t fully stay out of it, but the rest of them could. Astrid could play quidditch, Phoebe could help run her family’s broom business, Terence could continue learning broomcrafting. 

Harry did his best to participate in about five different conversations, but he knew he wasn’t enjoying himself. He loved his friends, but he didn’t feel like being around them. He didn’t feel like being around anyone. 

Adrian got up to get another round, and Jasmine took his seat. Talking at Malfoy Manor was a risk. Death Eaters, portraits, house-elves. The Dark Lord. Jasmine mostly stayed in her rooms. Stayed out of the way. 

“There’s something strange going on with Mrs. Malfoy,” she said quietly. 

“She’s still sitting vigil?” he asked. “It’s been nearly a month.”

“I don’t think she’s holding any sort of vigil,” Jasmine said. “I’m surprised the Dark Lord can’t smell it. Or maybe he does.”

Harry kept his expression blank. He didn’t care what Mrs. Malfoy did with Draco’s body. Maybe that was his mum’s thinking, that she would rather die than watch her son die. That she would take his place, and that would be the lesser agony. 

Adrian came back with their second round, and Harry gratefully took another pint. He wanted his lobes blasted right out of his skull, but he couldn’t get shitfaced. He couldn’t really let go. He had work to do. 

Harry sat there, smiling, doing his level best to act like himself, whatever that meant. After some time, he checked his watch, lied about meeting Percy, and said goodbye to his friends. He would see them again, but they would probably see him first. 

Outside of the Wyvern, he lit a cigarette, hugged Astrid when she followed him out, then apparated to a flat in Bristol.

 

---

 

Charity squeezed the teabag to eke out a little more flavor, then fished it out of her cup. She added a few spoonfuls of sugar, a splash of cream, then another splash, and another because that still wasn’t enough, stirring all the while. Her fingers hovered over a bottle of firewhiskey. She pursed her lips, then added a splash of that too. She opened a box of fairy cakes and took one out. After a moment’s thought, she took another. She was celebrating, after all.

After glancing out of the window to see if there were any incoming owls, Charity carried her tea and her plate of fairy cakes into her living room, setting both on the table. She had received a few hateful owls, a few cursed letters that she redirected to the Auror Office, but there were more letters that were complimentary. People thanking her. People praising her courage for writing something so controversial. Charity considered an enchantment against further owls, but she was hoping to hear from her colleagues at Hogwarts. 

Charity’s shoulders drooped, her mood souring at the reminder.

Severus had murdered Dumbledore. She had sat next to him at meals every day for years. She thought they were friends, or starting to be friends. He was the only other teacher around her age, after Remus left. After Remus had been murdered. Remus hadn’t returned any of her owls, and now he never would.

Swallowing thickly, Charity took out her wand and flicked it at the telly. She had no idea where the clicker was. She didn’t feel like watching anything, but the noise made her flat feel less empty. There was a film on with an actor who reminded her of Severus. Tall, dark, striking, alluring, witty, intelligent, the only person she could have an actually intelligent conversation with, who didn’t look at her like she was naive for being younger, for teaching a soft class, for being too muggle. 

Hogwarts wouldn’t be the same without Severus. 

Charity sighed, then took a sip of tea. 

The door of her flat exploded inward. 

Charity threw herself to the ground, knocking over the table. She came back up brandishing her wand.

“Protego!” she shouted, just as another explosion tore apart half of her living room. She gritted her teeth together, and got to her feet as fast as she could. Apparate, she had to apparate—

The air in the room vanished.

“Crucio!”

White-hot agony coursed through Charity. She screamed in surprise, in pain, in rage. She couldn’t think, she couldn’t see, she couldn’t breathe. It was so much worse than they said, nothing could describe this, the most horrid, abominable pain she had ever felt, like an exposed nerve, every single nerve exposed and flailing and it wouldn’t end, it would never—

“That’s enough. The Dark Lord wants her alive.”

Charity gasped, her fingers twitching helplessly as she tried to hold onto her wand. 

“The fat bitch killed my brother!”

She forced her eyes open. 

Alecto Carrow.

Harry Evans. 

Oh, god. 

Oh, god, no. 

They came for her. 

She knew it might happen. She thought the protective enchantments would at least give her warning. She felt like she was having a heart attack. She was too young to have a heart attack, no matter how much of a fat bitch she was. She was going to die. She was going to die for telling the truth. But Evans was muggleborn too. Surely he would have some sympathy for her. Empathy.

What had he said? 

The Dark Lord wants her alive. 

No. 

No. 

Anything but that. 

They weren’t going to take her al—

“Crucio!”

A scream tore out of Charity’s throat and all she knew was pain, incomprehensible pain, pain distilled, every other sense stripped away, mindless, eternal pain.

“How is she going to answer any of the Dark Lord’s questions if you fry her brain?”

And then it stopped. 

Charity lay on her destroyed living room floor, her entire body aching, trembling, every breath a struggle.

Her wand was gone. 

Someone was shouting. Breaking things. Ruining all of her things. Alecto Carrow. Rampaging around her home.

Too stupid, too slow to save herself. 

How had they found her? No one knew her address, not even her family. Her parents’ farm was under Fidelius. She wasn’t in any directories, she stole all of her utilities from neighbors. Owls couldn’t be followed. She put only her name on correspondence. She covered all of her tracks. 

How the hell had they found her?

As chaos continued all around her, all of her things burning and breaking and shattering, neighbors shouting, someone calling the police, a pair of boots swam into focus. 

“Breathe the pressure… Come play my game, I’ll test ya…”

Harry Evans crouched in front of her, smiling sadly. There was a pair of headphones around his neck, playing a song she’d heard over the radio. Muggle music. 

“Come… play… my… game…”

“I thought you might kill her for me,” he said quietly. “But, as usual, I’ve got to do all the work around here.”

“Kill?” Charity rasped. 

“Inhale… inhale… you’re the victim…”

“The woman who wants to Polyjuice as her dead brother and gang rape you with Mulciber and Scabior,” he said, looking away from her.

Charity shuddered.

There was another explosion. Evans frowned, then looked at her again.

“And that’s the least of what she wants to do, Professor Burbage,” Evans said. “Don’t worry, I’ve got your wand. I’ll keep it safe.”

“Evans…”

“Come… play… my… game…”

“You can call me Harry,” he said warmly, placing his wand to her temple. “You’re lucky my—Professor Snape’s a legilimens. You won’t suffer any brain damage.”

“Exhale, exhale, exhale…”

Charity struggled weakly. Her body wasn’t working right. It wasn’t listening to her. 

“Brain?” she whispered.

“Breathe with me…”

Her brain?

No.

No… 

“Obliviate.”

Her world went black. 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 16: Broken Toys

Summary:

July 22nd, 1997

Part III

Severus apparated to a moonlit lane, the blistering pain of his dark mark reducing to a simmer. With a fluid motion, he pointed his wand at a dark figure several yards away, who, through some strange twist of fate, had appeared at the same time. 

Several moments passed in tense silence as they regarded each other, wands poised, ready to kill at the merest hint of pursuit. Then the blunt features of the man resolved into Corban Yaxley, and Severus lowered his wand. He turned and walked towards the gates of Malfoy Manor, Yaxley walking alongside him. The Dark Lord was not a patient master. 

“Got any news?” Yaxley asked.

“Of a sort,” Severus said, deeply disinterested in any conversation. His child had been socially engineering the Dark Lord for two years, and now it was Severus’ time to guide the Dark Lord to the decision he wanted. To play his piece on the board. To discover how much killing Albus Dumbledore was worth.

“Thought I might be late,” Yaxley said. Severus glanced at him. “It was trickier than I expected.”

“Skulking about the Ministry?” Severus asked.

Yaxley gave him a thin smile. “Among other things. The Dark Lord will be the first to hear.”

Severus nodded, and they turned onto a wide gravel drive barred by tall, wrought iron gates. Severus raised his left arm, as did Yaxley, and they passed through the gates as if they were nothing more than smoke.

The security at Malfoy Manor was abysmal. All it required was a marked Death Eater to enter, and even that enchantment could be unraveled in time, or with persistent, overwhelming power. 

One of the yew hedges rustled, and Yaxley spun around, brandishing his wand at a white peacock. Severus frowned as the bird displayed his tail feathers. Why was a peacock awake at this hour?

“He always did himself well, Lucius,” Yaxley said, putting his wand away again. He snorted. “Peacocks.”

“I doubt the bird cost much,” Severus said, walking past the strutting avian. “Fifty galleons, perhaps. Or nothing if it was conjured.”

“It’s not the cost,” Yaxley said, stomping up the drive. “It’s the message it sends. If Lucius wanted a pricey bird he’d get a hippogriff.” Yaxley chuckled. “Though it’s more likely the thing would be sacrificed.”

Malfoy Manor loomed out of the night, each window glittering like a diamond thrust into the heart of a fire. A fountain gurgled somewhere in the gardens. Gravel rolled underfoot.

Severus wondered when his son would finally start choosing himself. Harry was only nineteen. He had his entire life ahead of him, if he would allow himself to live it. 

The front door swung inward as he and Yaxley approached. The hedge, the gardens, the peacocks, the elegant foyer, all belied what dwelt within these obscenely decorated walls. It was all superficial, ironically muggle. This was the sort of wealth the customers at Waitrose dreamt of, a generational torpidity that only existed to perpetuate itself, that lined itself with painted idols of the dead. 

Lucius and Narcissa had only one child. Severus doubted they would have another.

When they reached a heavy wooden door, Yaxley hesitated. Severus sighed, then reached for the bronze handle and opened the door.

The drawing room was dead silent. All the usual furniture had been haphazardly stacked against the walls, pouffes and sofas and spindly tables inlaid with mother-of-pearl. A long, polished table dominated the once cozy room, around which sat several dozen Death Eaters, all trying not to look at anything. The only light came from a large marble fireplace, above which hung a gilded mirror seemingly conjured for the occasion. 

Severus looked into the mirror, saw what was reflected within, then scanned the table’s occupants. All were avoiding the spectacle hovering above them, save one. Harry was sitting near the middle of the table as if to get a better view, his legs kicked up, a golden quill behind his ear, idly picking at his nails with a black knife. There was a cardboard box on the table before him. A small smile played on Harry’s lips as the hanging Charity Burbage rotated to face him. 

Charity was unconscious, her body arched towards the ceiling, her mouth open and slack, golden waves of hair trailing along the table. Her breasts were falling out of her dress. Her skirt was short enough that Severus could see up it, but Charity’s large thighs concealed anything intimate from view. He was a little disgusted with himself for noticing these details, by how much he desired her even in this moment.

The drawing room was sweltering, the air hard to breathe. Severus could see sweat forming on Charity’s lip, glimmering in the firelight.

A cold, high-pitched voice broke the silence. 

“Yaxley, Snape,” the Dark Lord said. “You are very nearly late.”

Severus tore his eyes away from Charity, met the Dark Lord’s raw, bleeding gaze. Severus walked towards him, already knowing his place. The place he earned. 

“Severus,” the Dark Lord said, waving at the seat to his right. “Here. Yaxley, beside Rookwood.”

Now that those seated had something safe to look at, Severus felt their eyes following him as he walked down the table and took his seat at the Dark Lord’s side. The chair was comfortable, but the fire was roasting his back. Strange, how these small things made themselves known in the face of catastrophe. 

The Dark Lord turned to him expectantly. “What have you brought me this evening, Severus?”

“My Lord,” Severus said, “next Friday, Monty Potter will be attending the wedding of Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacour at the Burrow in Ottery St. Catchpole. The Order has yet to place it under Fidelius given the… expansive guest list.”

The Death Eaters around the table shifted, murmured restlessly, some giving him and the Dark Lord more avid looks. A wedding was the perfect opportunity for a massacre of blood traitors. The Dark Lord, however, had other plans. He narrowed his red eyes at Severus. 

“And where does this information come from?”

“From the source we discussed,” Severus said, smiling slightly. Mundungus Fletcher’s recent release from Azkaban had been very opportune. There was a reason Harry had left him behind in the mass breakout. 

“Very good,” the Dark Lord said. 

“My Lord.”

The Dark Lord looked down the table, to where Yaxley was leaning eagerly forward. Everyone turned to look at him, except for Harry, who was now tossing his knife into the air.

“There will be a reading of Dumbledore’s will at the Ministry the day before,” Yaxley said. “Potter’s going to be there. He’ll be escorted by Order members, but not as many as at a wedding.” He smirked. “Dawlish let that slip.”

Severus smiled nastily. “A wedding is far easier to infiltrate than the Ministry.” He looked to the Dark Lord. “In either event, the boy will be of age by then. He is currently living under Fidelius.”

The Dark Lord frowned, and his eyes turned towards the floating, unconscious woman above them. 

“The boy remains hidden from me,” the Dark Lord said quietly. 

“Turn on the lights and the roaches run,” Harry said, catching the handle of his knife. “Plus ça change.”

The Dark Lord’s eyes darted to Harry. 

“The first war?” Harry said, waving the knife around. Next to him, a Death Eater ducked away. “C’est la même chose, mon Seigneur des Ténèbres.”

Severus ignored his foolish child, and said to the Dark Lord, “There will not be another opportunity, not until we seize control of the Ministry and Hogwarts. With those resources at your disposal, my Lord, we will be in a better position to apprehend the boy.”

The Dark Lord held a colorless hand up, and Severus went still.

“If he and the Order are at this blood traitor wedding,” the Dark Lord said, “then they will not interfere with my move against the Ministry.” He looked at Yaxley again. “Well, Yaxley? Have you made any progress at all on that front, or do you merely have rumors and speculation?”

Yaxley drew his shoulders back. “I have, my Lord. I succeeded in placing Pius Thicknesse under Imperius.”

Rookwood gave Yaxley a barely impressed look, while others around him were more open in their appreciation for such an feat. The Dark Lord could not persuade Ministry employees to his side—only Adrian Pucey was a Death Eater—so he had to vicariously place them under magical control. It was, Severus now saw, a very weak and unpopular position the Dark Lord held, unpopular even among his own followers as there were few who were truly pureblood. But, for a werewolf, for all those called dark, the choice was a Ministry that criminalized and hunted them or the Dark Lord who welcomed and used them. 

“Thicknesse is one man,” the Dark Lord said. “I need more assurance than that, Yaxley. Should the attempt against the Minister’s life fail, should any move to seize the Ministry fail, that will set me back.” The Dark Lord’s expression soured. “I have already been set back for thirteen years.”

Yaxley stiffened. “Thicknesse is the Head of the Depart—”

“I know who he is,” the Dark Lord snapped. 

“Forgive me, my Lord,” Yaxley said quickly. “I meant his position puts him in contact with the rest of the Ministry’s administration. It should be easy to subjugate the rest.”

“In less than a fortnight?” the Dark Lord pressed. “You believe he will remain undiscovered?”

“I will ensure that he is,” Yaxley said. “As for Monty Potter, the will reading—”

“I am less interested in the boy than the Ministry,” the Dark Lord said, gazing at Charity again. 

Severus avoided looking at her, lest his expression reveal something of his thoughts. There was too much at stake. Instead, he looked at the Dark Lord. 

“I have been careless,” the Dark Lord said thoughtfully. “There is an order to these things.”

Something was moving under the table. 

Slithering, loud hissing, scales scraping against stone. She brushed Severus’ leg, then began winding her way up the Dark Lord’s chair. Nagini’s immense head rested on the Dark Lord’s shoulder. He stroked her with his long, pale fingers as Nagini flicked her tongue at Charity. 

Harry started laughing. “I think she’s too fat for you,” he said, grinning at the snake. “You’d get indigestion.”

The Dark Lord’s lips curved with amusement. “You are not the only one with an insatiable appetite, my dear.” His smile fell away, and he turned to look at another seated at the table. “Though some seem to have lost theirs.”

Lucius was sitting with Narcissa. Severus had not seen Narcissa in weeks, and wished she had not been dragged out of Draco’s rooms for the occasion. She looked cadaverous, pale and thin, her eyes shadowed and empty. She looked like a mother whose only child was gone. She looked how Severus felt every time he thought of what the future held for his son. Lucius fared little better, forced into the light to tend to the manor, to the dozens of people recovering from years, sometimes decades, in Azkaban. 

“What troubles you, Lucius?” the Dark Lord asked. “Have you not desired my return to power after my many years of suffering? Are circumstances not to your liking?”

“I have—we have desired it, my Lord,” Lucius said tremulously. He wiped sweat from his face. “We desire it.” 

Narcissa showed no reaction to the Dark Lord speaking. The seat next to her was unoccupied, and her hand rested on the arm of the chair. On the chair’s other side sat Bellatrix, who watched the Dark Lord longingly. 

“Does my presence in your home displease you, Lucius?” the Dark Lord said, his eyes alight with malice, with delight at tormenting Lucius so. 

“My Lord,” Bellatrix said, leaning around the empty chair. “It is an honor, the greatest pleasure, to have you in our family home.”

Harry snorted, and Bellatrix shot him a hateful look. 

“Since when were you a Malfoy?” Harry asked her. “Did you get adopted? Are you shagging your sister’s husband?”

Lucius’ mouth fell open in outrage and disgust. “You filthy… you dare… in front of my wife!”

Bellatrix rose from her seat, seething. “You little fucking cocksucker—”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Reckon your fecundity’s in question too.” He laughed at Bellatrix’s face. “Good thing we’ve got the Weasleys. We’re running out of purebloods at this rate.”

Severus took even breaths. 

“Sit down, Bellatrix,” the Dark Lord said absently, looking at Charity again. “A pureblood marrying a veela.” He looked at Harry. “And you say the half-veela has the allure?”

“She’s a quarter,” Harry told him. “But, yeah, my Lord.” He laughed again. “Doesn’t work on a cocksucker like me, or someone with an amount of self-control, but weak-willed witches and wizards throw themselves at Fleur when she’s turning it up.”

“How fascinating,” the Dark Lord said, raising his wand. “And some argue that magical ancestry includes breeding with beasts.”

The Dark Lord flicked his wand, and Charity woke up with a gasp. 

 

---

 

Charity groaned. Every part of her hurt. She tried to move into a less painful position. 

She couldn’t. 

Charity’s eyes flew open.

It was dark. Dim. Hot, terribly hot. Her head felt oddly full, and as she blinked the blurriness in her eyes away Charity realized that she was moving. Rotating, in the air. Upside down.

A pale figure emerged from the gloom, and Charity was confronted with the creature that stalked their nightmares. 

White as a maggot.

Hairless.

Skeletal.

Serpentine.

Two gashes where a nose should be, a slash for a mouth.

Slitted red eyes, gleaming with malevolence. 

Pure, unabstracted horror obliterated her lingering pain, and Charity began struggling, though she knew it was no use. No one lived after he decided to kill them, except one boy, and Charity desperately hoped he would stay far, far away. 

She was still turning, and the thought of losing sight of Voldemort was more terrifying than looking at him. 

“Do you recognize our guest, Severus?” 

Voldemort’s voice was shrill and penetrating, and Charity almost laughed at how unexpected such a voice was coming from the most feared, most dangerous wizard in the world. 

A familiar face came into view, and for a moment Charity hoped. Tears swam in her eyes. Then Severus looked up at her, and Charity knew. She knew. 

“Severus?” Charity said, her voice cracking. “Severus, please!”

Severus was unmoved. He only stared at her. Indifferent. Cold. Detached.

“I do, my Lord,” Severus said in that silky, deep voice that had once made Charity swoon. “I have had to suffer this woman’s presence for years.”

Charity was still turning, as if she were on a rotating display, each upside down face watching her rapaciously. 

There were fates worse than death. 

Charity started struggling again. Severus had killed Dumbledore. Why the hell would he care about her? Charity had thought, maybe…

Another familiar face came into view. 

“And Harry,” Voldemort said. “Of course, you recognize her. But you would have no need for her class.”

Evans was watching her with a small smile. He was holding a fairy cake. One of her fairy cakes. 

“Heard it was better than Quirrell’s,” Evans said. He took a bite of the fairy cake, then winked at Charity. She clenched her teeth together. Evans swallowed, then said, “Percy said they had to rewrite the O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. because it was so blatantly incorrect. Muggle Studies was a waste of time until Professor Burbage took over.”

Was he complimenting her? Now of all times?

Voldemort started laughing, which was worse than him speaking. He sounded like Chucky with his balls cut off. 

Did Chucky have balls?

She was going to die. 

She was going to die. 

Charity tried to slow her breathing. 

She couldn’t get enough air. She was surrounded by Death Eaters. 

She was going to die.

“For those of you who do not know,” Voldemort said, “we are joined here tonight by Professor Charity Burbage who, until recently, taught at Hogwarts.”

The Death Eaters she saw looked at her with comprehension. Recognition. One of them, another woman, oh, god, that was Bellatrix Lestrange, Bellatrix Lestrange was laughing, cackling at her, she was going to die, if she was lucky it would be quick, she didn’t want to die, she wasn’t ready yet, there was so much she wanted to do, so much she wanted to say. 

“Severus,” Charity whispered, squeezing her eyes shut, tears running down her face, dripping into her hair. “Please, Severus. I thought we were friends. I thought…” 

They were humiliating her first. They were going to humiliate her. 

“Professor Burbage,” Voldemort said, his tone mocking, “taught her students all about muggles. She taught the children of witches and wizards that muggles are not so different from you and I.”

Charity took a shuddering breath. She was going to die anyway. What did it matter?

“That’s a gross misrepresentation of Muggle Studies,” she said, the words rushing out of her. She knew they may be the last she spoke. “And reductive to the point of meaninglessness.”

The room fell horribly silent. Charity wasn’t done yet. She was still spinning, and Voldemort was coming back into view.

“If you’re speaking from a strictly biological sense,” Charity said, her voice stronger, “then the fact that we can reproduce with muggles proves that we’re the same species.” She laughed humorlessly. “Not that any of you took biology. Or know what biology even is.”

Charity stopped moving. Voldemort was staring straight at her. He looked stupid upside down.

“Hence your impassioned defense of mudbloods in the Daily Prophet,” Voldemort said acidly. “According to you, Professor Burbage, we must accept these thieves of knowledge and magic—”

“Did you even read my article?” Charity demanded. “We steal from muggles too! It’s mutualistic! It’s symbiotic!”

“You would have us mate with muggles!” Voldemort snarled.

“You would have us driven to extinction!” Charity shouted.

Voldemort jabbed his wand at her, but someone else was already casting a spell.

“Crucio.”

Charity screamed, and screamed, and screamed until her throat was bloody and raw, it was worse, so much worse, there was nothing left of her at all, just all-encompassing, unending agony.

Then it stopped.

Charity gasped for air, her entire body wracked with echoing pain.

“Watch your tongue, mudblood,” Evans said evenly. Charity wished she could see him instead of Voldemort. “My Lord, this is exactly what I’ve been talking about. The Daily Prophet’s out of control. They’ll let anyone publish an opinion. Look at Mr. Malfoy. Do you think he has anything of value to say?” She heard a chair squeak. “At least Professor Burbage does her fucking research.”

“To indoctrinate and pollute the minds of children,” Voldemort said, with markedly less hostility. 

“My Lord, if I may.”

Charity looked at Severus. He looked like an idiot upside down too. 

“What is it, Severus?”

Severus had a pensive expression. 

“We need someone at Hogwarts who actually knows the muggle world, my Lord,” Severus said. “The real, extant threats that muggles present to us.” Severus sneered. “Not the fabrications shown in comic books.”

Charity thought about that sneer an indecent amount, but now…

“Have you heard of Kalashnikov?” Evans asked through what sounded like a mouthful of cake. 

“Is he a wizard?” Voldemort asked.

“It’s a type of muggle weapon, my Lord,” Severus said. “A gun that shoots faster than any spell I know.”

“Protego might work against a Minie ball,” Evans said scornfully, “but it’s not going to hold up against a fucking semi-automatic.” He started laughing. “Most people can’t even cast a Shield Charm.”

Charity closed her eyes. Certain knowledge of the muggle world was dangerous in the wrong hands. What if Voldemort went on a lark and started a nuclear war? You only had to Imperius the right person to end the world. 

“And when Alexander saw the breadth of his domain,” Charity whispered, “he wept, for there were no more worlds to conquer.” She swallowed, then looked at Severus. “You want me to teach that muggles are dangerous. That they’re evil.”

Severus watched her impassively. “I want you to teach the truth. We’re all victims of the muggle world, Professor Burbage.”

“No,” Charity said angrily. “I refuse! I will not be fucking mouthpiece for—” 

Charity choked on her words. Her eyes went wide. He silenced her. He silenced her.

“Where is Alecto?” Voldemort asked, no longer looking at Charity.

“Professor Burbage tried to blow herself up,” Evans said. “Took out half the flat. She was really adamant that she wasn’t going to be taken alive.” Charity heard him chewing again. “I could go back and scrape her off the walls for you, if you’d like.”

“That will not be necessary,” Voldemort said drily.

“Should’ve stuck to gobstones,” Evans said dismissively.

“My Lord,” Severus said. He was looking at her. “Staffing is already going to present a challenge next year. Finding someone as knowledgeable about the muggle world will be next to impossible.”

“What are you proposing, Severus?” 

Severus smiled. “I believe I can… persuade… Professor Burbage to develop a curriculum in line with our values.” His dark eyes roved over Charity. “Personally, I would like to teach her a lesson on breeding.”

Someone made a loud gagging noise. Others started laughing. Someone spat on her. 

Severus looked at Voldemort. “Consider it recompense for the time I’ve been forced to endure her prattling.” Severus smirked. “As my Lord knows, I’ve always enjoyed putting mudbloods in their place.”

Charity went cold. 

No. 

No.

Severus wouldn’t. 

He would never.

Severus had been friends with Ronan Mulciber. 

He was friends with a rapist.

Charity started crying again.

Voldemort looked up at her, stroking the head of a monstrous snake. The snake flicked its long, forked tongue at her.

“You want your own toy mudblood, Severus?” Voldemort asked.

Severus glanced at something Charity couldn’t see, then looked back at Voldemort.

“You broke the last one, my Lord.”

Voldemort started laughing. He flicked his wand, and the invisible bonds around Charity vanished. She crashed to the table, and when she cried out in pain she learned she was no longer silenced. Charity was flipped over, she winced as she was crushed against the wood, then she was dragged along the table, right into Voldemort’s waiting hand. He seized her face, and at his touch Charity felt like she was going to piss herself.

“Kill me,” she said. “Just fucking kill me.”

“You cost me two Death Eaters, Professor Burbage,” Voldemort said, his sharp nails digging into her cheeks. “You must pay for that.” He moved his face closer to hers, stared into her eyes. “You will soon learn that death is a kindness.”

Charity glared at him. “I would rather die,” she spat.

Voldemort smiled at her, and it was the single most horrifying thing Charity had seen because she knew, she knew, there was no escape. Any chance of a quick death was gone.

“That is precisely why you won’t,” Voldemort said, releasing her. 

Charity tried to crawl away, but she was lifted into the air again. She flailed, sobbing helplessly. She didn’t want to cry. She didn’t want to break. She wasn’t weak. She wasn’t. She started kicking and screaming. If she could hit one of them it would be worth it. And they were laughing at her. Laughing and laughing.

“We’ll have fun with you, Charity Burbage,” Voldemort said over her screams. “For a very, very long time.”

“Happy birthday to me,” Evans muttered.

“Crucio!”

 

---

 

When they were finished with Charity, her clothing was in shreds, parts of it burned away. The back of her dress was nearly gone after she had been repeatedly whipped. Her hair was ragged, matted with blood. Her arms, legs, face, her entire body was covered in bruises. Bellatrix carved MUDBLOOD into her arm. Scabior urinated on her. Charity bit through her tongue. 

She had stopped screaming eventually. 

Harry had placed her under Imperius fairly early on. Most of it Charity wouldn’t clearly remember.

Charity was alive.

Severus carried her out of Malfoy Manor alive.

He took her back to Spinner’s End because he had nowhere else to go.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Severus said, laying Charity on his bed. 

Charity stared at him and didn’t move.

“I’m not stupid,” she rasped. “I don’t know why, but I know what you did.”

Severus took a breath. “There are things you don’t remember. It will take time to fully restore your memories.”

Charity watched him for a moment longer, then closed her eyes, shutting him out.

“I would have rather died.” 

 

 

 

Notes:

Charity was not sexually assaulted. She was extensively tortured.

This was one of the few things I had planned from almost the beginning. Sorry.

Chapter 17: Secrets in the Sacrifice

Fawkes shifted in his tray of black sand. Harry rolled onto his side to look at the little phoenix chick. Pin feathers were coming in, thin, golden tubes that Harry was tempted to take between his fingers and crush open. Fawkes had a soft glow to him, red and shimmering, that was the only source of light in his bedroom. Harry yawned, then wiped his eyes. 

“Could you do anything for Professor Burbage?” he whispered. 

Fawkes peeped a few times, then rested his overlarge head on the black sand. Harry watched him for a moment longer, then sighed and rolled onto his back. Fawkes had been eating constantly those first weeks, and was able to choke down insects and berries himself, but now the frequency of his feedings had tapered off. Thankfully, as his dad would no longer be able to keep an eye on Fawkes throughout the day. Not without Professor Burbage noticing. 

Harry rolled over again, putting his back to Fawkes and his softly glowing light. Maybe the Dark Lord would have ended things sooner if Alecto was alive. Or maybe things would have been worse. He could—his dad could—protect Professor Burbage’s body from lasting injury, mostly, but the humiliation, degradation, the harm to her mind, to her heart, were things less easily defended. 

He couldn’t sleep.

Harry idly rubbed his chest, wishing that the heaviness would go away. When it didn’t, when he got sick of lying there and doing nothing, when he remembered that it wasn’t a good idea to be at his dad’s house for a while—he was one of her torturers, he had cast the Cruciatus Curse on her, but she should have understood, she should have known—he didn’t feel like being in bed anymore. It was hurting his body. It hurt to lie down. 

Getting out of bed was hard. His body didn’t want to move the right way. But, Harry persisted, swinging his legs over the edge of his mattress, pushing himself upright. He sat there for a moment, hunched and gripping his bed. 

If he was a real Death Eater, none of this would bother him. He’d be able to go on with his life without thinking about it. More than dark magic, more than a hatred for muggles and muggleborns and anyone not perfectly human, more than their marks, what bound the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters together was a desire to cause pain. Even to each other. They reveled in it. 

Harry didn’t understand that. He didn’t like being hurt. He never liked hurting people. With someone like Peter Pettigrew, someone he tortured to death, it was not really about the pain inflicted, but his suffering. He wanted Peter Pettigrew to suffer for what he had done. To be punished. To know why. 

People would want him to suffer for what he had done. 

Harry wrapped his arms around himself, then stood and left his bedroom. 

 

---

 

When Charity woke, Severus was waiting for her. He had been waiting all night, sipping at a potion to keep himself alert. She was slow to come to awareness, her eyelids moving leadenly, the prismatic ocean of her eyes dark and impenetrable in the confines of his bedroom. 

Her eyes immediately found him. Charity stared at him, and the emptiness in her gaze filled Severus with revulsion. 

“I’m sorry,” Charity said, her voice raspy. With sleep, not the torment she endured, not her screaming. He healed that as soon as Charity was safely in his home, reluctant as she was to take any potion he provided. 

Charity tried to raise herself up, clearing her throat. “I…” 

Severus was immediately at her side, holding a glass of water to her lips. Charity closed her eyes again, placing a hand over his to help tip the glass. Severus watched her drink, a strange feeling overtaking him. Possessiveness, desire, he did not know. A dark satisfaction that Charity was now in his care, outside of the Dark Lord’s control and interest. Severus was charged with her handling. His own pet mudblood. 

“Andromeda will be by later this morning,” he said. “Andromeda Tonks. She is discreet.”

Charity pulled her lips away with a sigh, then lay back down. She cleared her throat again, then she looked at him. 

“Is he okay?” she asked quietly.

“Yes,” Severus said. “Physically, at least, which is all I can guarantee these days.”

Charity sagged in relief, then looked at the photographs on his bedside table, the relics on dangerous display. 

“Will I have to go through that again?” she asked. 

“I don’t anticipate it,” Severus said. “The Dark Lord had meted out his punishment, and he has entrusted me to perpetuate your indignity.”

Charity laughed weakly. “How comforting. I’m a Death Eater’s sex slave.”

“I would never—”

Charity shook her head. “Doesn’t matter, Severus. I don’t care if that’s what they think. Like I said, I’m not stupid. I knew what I was getting into. I knew what the risks were. I thought I was an exception, though. Thought I’d been careful enough.”

“A Fidelius isn’t careful enough,” Severus said. “That has been proven time and time again.”

Charity made an unhappy noise. “It could have been worse.” She looked at him. “Unless you Obliviated the worst out of me.”

“I would not do that,” Severus said. “No matter how ugly it was.”

Charity nodded, then looked at the photographs again. “Is that you? And… Lily Potter?”

“Lily Evans,” Severus corrected. “In both of those photographs, she was still Lily Evans.”

Charity glanced at him, then turned back to the photographs. She stared at the pictures, at the picture of Lily with a black-haired baby, and her eyes went wide. 

“Why do you have baby pictures of Monty Potter?” Charity asked, reaching tentatively for the framed photograph. Severus didn’t mind if she touched it. 

“That isn’t Monty,” he said quietly. 

Charity’s fingers stilled on the frame, then she turned to look at him. “Then who is it?”

Severus took a breath, then said, “My son.”

 

---

 

Harry was sitting at his kitchen table, writing.

“Sorry for breaking in,” Harry said, not sounding sorry at all. “Didn’t want to wake you up.”

“I wish you had,” Percy said, walking up to him. Harry had not only broken into his flat, but broken in wearing only a pair of boxers. Or perhaps he had arrived fully clothed and only after decided to shed his garments. “Such interruptions are always welcome.”

Harry ducked his head. Percy could see the shape of his spine, the ridge of vertebrae. 

“I brought you some birthday quiche,” Harry said, gesturing to a plate that did indeed have a slice of quiche. There were also two steaming cups on the table. “It was made with magic, so.” He sighed. “I wanted you to try it, but no pressure.”

“I would love to partake of your birthday quiche,” Percy said gallantly, placing a hand on Harry’s back. He was cold. “What are you working on?”

Harry tapped his quill. “Some things can’t be quantified,” he said. “Or compared. It’s hard to know when enough is enough.”

“Of what?” Percy asked. 

Harry shook his head. “There’s a surfeit of death,” he said, giving Percy a wry smile. “Everyone does it, you know.”

Percy brushed the hair away from the base of Harry’s neck, and Harry shuddered. 

“I made coffee,” Harry said, closing his eyes and leaning into Percy’s touch. “Availing myself of you.”

Percy bent down and kissed his cheek. He wasn’t fully awake yet, and not grasping whatever point Harry was making. 

“What did you do yesterday?” Percy asked, taking a seat next to Harry. He left a hand on Harry, vaguely worried that Harry would disappear if he wasn’t held on to. 

“Various acts of self-destruction,” Harry said. He drew a circle on his parchment, and Percy saw that it was filled with other doodles. An owl, a cat, a thestral, a fish, a wolf, a small bird, a squirrel, a triangle, a pyramid. Harry was adding a curve to the circle, making it a sphere. 

Percy picked up a cup, inhaled the rich, nutty scent. “No different from any other day, then.”

Harry laughed a little. “That’s what sacrifice means. It’s violent.” He set down his quill. “I kidnapped and tortured Professor Burbage.”

Percy lowered his cup. He did not stop touching Harry. He would not pull away from him, no matter what came out of his mouth. 

“She’s alive,” Harry said, reaching for his own cup. He changed his mind and picked up his pack of cigarettes. “Though it was a near thing.” Harry leaned back, and Percy shifted so his arm was around Harry’s shoulders. “He could’ve killed her outright.” He lit a cigarette, gazing out of a window. “Dad needs her at Hogwarts.”

“Was there no alternative?” Percy asked, not wanting to think about what torture entailed. Something terrible, but survivable. 

“Like what?” Harry asked, smoke curling around his tongue. “We had less than two days to come up with some way of saving her. There wasn’t exactly time for a complex scheme.”

“Other muggleborns are going into hiding—”

“She was in hiding,” Harry said. “I found her.”

Percy sighed. “Or are leaving the country.”

“Yeah, that wouldn’t have stopped me,” Harry said. “You can’t just run from the Dark Lord, Percy. He chases.” Harry snorted. “I can’t just say, ‘Well, she ran off, sorry. Please don’t kill me for my failure.’”

“I was not suggesting—”

“I’ve thought about it,” Harry said over him. “How to justify myself. I’m not interested in doing so at this moment in time.” He angrily flicked his cigarette. 

“I’m not asking you to,” Percy said calmly. 

“It was either her or me, and I chose myself,” Harry said. “And, if I’m being blunt, I didn’t want to waste time on some elaborate ruse. I don’t have time to fuck around.” He ran a hand through his hair. “She’s alive. She’s alive, and the plan is moving forward.” Harry rubbed his eyes. “The whole point is to get people at Hogwarts, where they’re out of the way. Where my dad can keep them safe. The point is to convince the Dark Lord that’s the right thing to do, or, alternatively, pull it off without him knowing.” Harry took a drag from his cigarette, then looked at Percy. “That includes kids like your brother, who…” He huffed. “What Professor Burbage wrote speaks to that point. It feeds into their paranoia, the population trend that only a fucking idiot wouldn’t notice.” He laughed bitterly. “The really hilarious thing is that the Dark Lord is a halfblood. They think he’s some paragon of purity, when his dad was a muggle and his mum was basically a squib.”

Percy lightly rubbed Harry’s back. He had to start getting ready for work. Was there ever a good time for such conversations, when Harry’s mind was nervously darting around?

“How are you?” Percy asked. 

Harry glanced at him. “Me?” he said incredulously. “I’m bloody fantastic.”

“I know she wasn’t your teacher,” Percy said, “but—”

“It could’ve been worse,” Harry said darkly. “I’ve seen and done and experienced worse. And dad told her what she was getting into. That’s more warning than most people get.” 

There were, in Percy’s mind, two victims. Professor Burbage, for having suffered whatever torture the Dark Lord saw fit, and Harry for being forced into the role of a perpetrator. Professor Snape, too. And him. All of them, all suffering with the hope of a better outcome. A better ending. 

“I wasn’t criticizing you,” Percy said. “I don’t know enough to do so. I’m just concerned.” He swallowed. “I worry about you.” 

Harry put his head in his hands. “I’m not going to justify myself to anyone,” he muttered. “Not even you, Perce. I’m well beyond that point.”

 

---

 

Severus sat in his kitchen with an untouched cup of coffee.

Andromeda was upstairs with Charity, tending to any injuries he may have overlooked. The scar on Charity’s arm, MUDBLOOD, had been carved with a cursed knife. She would have that scar for the rest of her life. Charity had laughed at it, but there was a manic edge to her laughter. Maybe she would embrace it, maybe she would cover it up. They both had marks on their arms now.

Severus hoped Bellatrix’s whim would not result in more muggleborns being marked as Charity had been. It was the sort of thing that appealed to the Dark Lord. There would be several muggleborns among the first year students. If there was some requisite cutting, or branding, Severus would have to devise a means of fabrication. 

“Percy didn’t eat the quiche.”

Severus looked up and saw his son walking into the kitchen. 

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said. 

Harry dropped into a chair. “Didn’t want to surround Professor Burbage with the faces of her torturers.”

“You did very little in that regard,” Severus said. 

Harry shrugged, then pulled a Daily Prophet out. “Percy said he wasn’t hungry. I made him lose his appetite.”

Severus frowned. 

“I wasn’t hungry either,” Harry said. He ran a hand over his face. “It’s hard to think right now.”

“Andromeda is here,” Severus said. 

Harry wrinkled his nose. “That time of the month, eh?”

“Your well-being is my priority,” Severus said. “Though your reluctance is noted.”

“You don’t have to note that,” Harry said mulishly. “I’m just… tired.”

“I know,” Severus said quietly. He looked at his cup of coffee, then slid it over to his son. 

Harry lit up. “Thanks, d—Professor Snape.” Harry picked up the cup, smiling warmly.

“I don’t like when you call me that,” Severus said. He sighed, then said, “Charity knows.”

Harry spat out the coffee. “You what? You already told her? It’s not been a day!” He looked up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe this. What were you thinking?”

“It makes our positions more understandable,” Severus said, waving his wand to clean up the spat coffee. “She saw a photograph of you and your mother.”

Harry grimaced. “I don’t like this,” he said. “I wish you asked me first. I haven’t even told Percy.” He set down the cup and put his face in his hands. “I haven’t told Monty. It’s not fair. She’s his teacher!”

“I wanted to secure her cooperation,” Severus said. “This wasn’t a spur of the moment decision, Harry. I—”

“I can’t be here,” Harry said abruptly, jumping out of his seat. “I’m sorry, I can’t fucking do this today.” He gave Severus an angry look. “You don’t get to go around spilling my secrets to anyone you happen to be shagging.”

Severus took a breath. “That’s not the reason.” 

He had assumed that Harry would be willing to part with that information so Charity would be more understanding, more willing to cooperate, to go along with everything. Given his own relationship with Charity, given that Harry was his son, he thought he was permitted to share things about his own life. And Charity was trustworthy, she wouldn’t betray him, or Harry. She deserved to know why she had been tortured. That it was either her or his son. Severus wanted her to know. 

“I don’t give a shit what your reason is,” Harry snarled, grabbing the paper off the table. “I didn’t want her involved! I don’t want anyone!”

“It’s not solely your secret,” Severus said evenly. “I can assure you, Charity won’t be in contact with the Dark Lord—”

“But she will be with Monty,” Harry said harshly. “She’ll know something about him that he doesn’t. That’s not fair!”

“Your brother—”

The temperature in the kitchen plummeted.

“Doesn’t know!” Harry growled. “He doesn’t know, he can’t know, I don’t want him to know!” 

Severus sucked in a frigid breath. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Harry, please listen—”

Harry stormed out of the kitchen before Severus could finish. 

“I don’t even know where my fucking cat is!”

Severus heard the front door slam shut. 

He stared at the empty seat across from him. At the abandoned cup of coffee. That was the first time he shared his own food with his son. 

Harry would see reason. Would see his reason. Harry was a very empathetic person, far more than he had a right to be. When he calmed down, they could talk about this. Harry might not agree, but he would understand. Severus believed that. He trusted his son. 

Like Harry trusted him. 

When he calmed down...

Severus got out of his chair and raced to the front door. 

 

---

 

Harry threw himself onto the banks of the sludgy river that wound its way through Cokeworth like a clogged artery. The mud around him started to harden, and the straggly grass began crackling. The already sluggish river slowed, the water darkening. Harry was oblivious to this, too furious to think.

He glared at the hazy sky. He didn’t want to be in Cokeworth. He didn’t want to be anywhere. He hated his dad. No, he didn’t hate his dad. He hated what his dad had done. No one was entitled to anything about him. He wished he had never said anything. Had never tried to find out who his dad was. He should have stayed alone. Quiet, overlooked, alone. 

Harry wiped his eyes, then gave the tears on his hand a disgusted look. He didn’t have time for this. He didn’t have time for bullshit. He resented it. All of it. Professor Burbage’s article. The position it put his dad in. The position it put him in. 

Mouthy fucking mudbloods.

He laughed bitterly. God, he was the worst. 

Harry thunked his head onto the oddly cold mud. His dad wanted Professor Burbage to keep teaching at Hogwarts. He wanted Professor Burbage to keep teaching at Hogwarts. They wanted all the underage squibs and muggleborns to be at Hogwarts. The point was to keep all the kids safe. That was his dad’s goal when he became headmaster, to protect as many children as possible, to limit the Dark Lord’s influence and presence at the school. It was all secondary to Harry. He wanted Monty to finish his seventh year, but keeping Monty alive was more important. Not that Monty had any say in the matter. He wasn’t even allowed to know the truth. It was harder if he knew the truth. Why didn’t his dad get that? What made Professor Burbage more special than Monty? What gave her the right to know the first fucking thing about him? Who cared if she agreed or not? They dug her out of the hole she dug for herself. Did she not understand he would have been tortured if he hadn’t found her? That he might have spent weeks or months searching for her at the Dark Lord’s urging? Did people not fucking get that he would not stop unless he stopped him? They kept wasting his time on frivolous bullshit. He had it all calculated, down to the fucking second. 

There was a muffled meow. Harry turned his head and saw Lady Madeleine trotting up to him with a dead rat in her mouth. She dropped it at his feet and meowed loudly.

“Is that my birthday present?” he asked. He reached out and petted her back. Lady Madeleine arched her spine. “I’m not hungry, but thank you. Eat it for me?”

As Lady Madeleine tore into the rat, Harry unenthusiastically opened the Daily Prophet. After he had failed to get Percy to eat the quiche—he hadn’t tried very hard, and Percy had to go to work, it was bad timing, everything was bad timing—Harry nicked the paper and left. He didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. He didn’t know what he might do. 

There was nothing on the front page about Voldemort, which wasn’t a surprise. Nothing about Professor Burbage, either. No one had noticed her missing. It was more of a pain in the arse than Harry let on to the Dark Lord. He had to kill Alecto, deal with all of the muggle neighbors, and then the police when they showed up. It was a shitshow.

What the hell was his dad thinking? He was supposed to be a spy!

Harry was about to chuck the entire paper into the river, but then he saw a picture of Dumbledore. It was at the bottom of the front page. Another obituary? It had been going on for weeks. No one could shut up about Dumbledore. Harry scowled at the headline.

 

DUMBLEDORE – THE TRUTH AT LAST? 

 

“What the fuck is this?” he muttered, sitting up. He quickly scanned the article. 

 

Coming next week, the shocking story of the flawed genius considered by many to be the greatest wizard of his generation … the explosive new biography The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore, by Rita Skeeter…

 

“Oh, fuck you,” Harry said, flipping pages to get to the rest of the article. His head was pounding. 

 

…I devote an entire chapter to the whole Potter–Dumbledore relationship. It’s been called unhealthy, even sinister…no question that Dumbledore took an unnatural interest in Potter…open secret that Potter has had a most troubled adolescence... 

 

The paper in Harry’s hands burst into flames. Lady Madeleine sprinted away from him, leaving her rat behind. Harry ignored that and leapt to his feet, swaying slightly.

“I’m going to kill her,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’m going to fucking kill her!”

“Kill who?”

Harry spun around, seething. His dad was walking down to the river bank, looking completely out of place in his robes. Looking grim. Upset. Worried. Why were they so worried about him? No one needed to worry about him.

“What do you want?” Harry snapped. “I don’t want to deal with you right now. Everyone’s trying to fucking piss me off today!” 

“I was concerned,” his dad began. 

“You don’t need to be,” Harry said angrily. “I’m fine on my own!” He grimaced, then bent over. “Not now, not now!” He grabbed his stomach and sank to the ground. “Fuck! I fucking hate this, I hate my body.” He punched the ground. “This broken piece of shit! I hate everything, I hate it, I hate it, I—”

His dad grabbed his arm before he could hit the ground again. 

“I erred in my judgment,” his dad said, his voice low. “I should have consulted you, or at least informed you first. I have not slept and…” He sighed. “I was emotionally compromised. I’m sorry, Harry. I’m sorry for everything.”

Harry struggled weakly. He didn’t want to accidentally hurt his dad. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. 

“So are you,” his dad said, taking a vial from his robes. A Calming Draught. Harry didn’t want to be calm. “You really do need to see Andromeda. You’re going to collapse if you continue neglecting your health. How would that help your brother?”

“You don’t need to manipulate me like I’m a child,” Harry muttered, taking the vial. 

“You’re my child,” Severus said. “I wanted Charity to understand how important you are to me.”

“I don’t care,” Harry said, struggling to take out the cork. “I’m going to kill Rita Skeeter.”

“If that would make you feel better,” his dad said. He flicked the vial and the cork popped out. “Take the potion. I don’t want you to have an adrenal crisis.”

Harry glanced at him. “You’re really cavalier about me murdering people.”

His dad hesitated, then brushed back his hair and looked into Harry’s eyes. 

“I’m more concerned with how it impacts you,” his dad said. “As my actions have impacted you.”

Harry looked down, then squeezed his eyes shut and took the potion. It tasted strongly of lavender. He sort of missed the mint. 

His dad gently stroked his back. “I’ll Obliviate Charity if you wish.”

“No,” Harry mumbled. Lady Madeleine was creeping back. He tossed her the empty vial to play with. “I hate this, dad.”

“I know,” his dad said quietly, pulling him into a hug. “I hate it too.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 18: Give and Take

Summary:

July 1997

“Regulus betrayed Vol—the Dark Lord,” Black said incredulously. 

Severus met Black’s eyes. The incident with Charity had afforded him little time to reconsider his approach to this conversation. Charity was still recuperating at Spinner’s End, while his son avoided the house. The summer holiday was, historically, time he reserved for his son, but Harry was no longer an eleven-year-old caught stealing chocolates from Tesco. It was yet another reason to hate the Dark Lord, Severus’ loss of time with his son.

He would see Harry at the meeting tonight, the only place he was guaranteed to encounter his son.

“That is the only conclusion I can come to,” Severus said. 

“And he was stealing an artifact?” Black asked. 

“I believe he did steal it,” Severus said, “as the object I recovered is a cheap simulacrum.”

Black frowned. “What is it?”

“Slytherin’s Locket,” Severus said. Black gave him a stunned look. “It is one of several artifacts tied to the Dark Lord’s continued existence. I am engaged in the act of locating said artifacts. We must ascertain where your brother removed the locket to. I believe your house-elf was quite close to him?”

“Yeah,” Black said faintly. “Kreacher worshipped the ground he walked on…” Black’s eyes went wide. “Kreacher, are you listening right now?”

There was a loud clatter from the scullery, and Black’s ancient house-elf slumped out. 

“What does ungrateful master want?” the house-elf muttered mutinously.

“Do you know anything about the locket Snape’s talking about?” Black asked. 

The house-elf went rigid. 

“If Regulus gave you any orders about it,” Black said quickly, “I want you to—”

Kreacher began wailing.

“Shit,” Black said, jumping out of his seat. “I hate when he gets like this. Monty! I need your help!”

Monty, who had predictably been eavesdropping, ran into the kitchen. Severus watched as Monty fell to his knees in front of the panicking house-elf, pulling Kreacher into his arms. A hug. Monty was hugging a house-elf, and the elf was reciprocating. Severus had never seen a human show such affection to a house-elf, and part of him was ashamed to realize how pervasive the casual cruelty and indifference was. He had never thought anything of house-elves. House-elves were simply… there. 

“What happened to my brother?” Black asked as Monty continued to soothe Kreacher. 

“He was killed by inferi,” Severus said. “I imagine his acquisition of Slytherin’s Locket roused the inferi and he was subsequently attacked.”

“Merlin,” Black breathed, glancing at Kreacher. “Don’t tell me Kreacher saw the whole thing.”

Kreacher started wailing anew, and Monty gave Black a dark look. Black grimaced, then turned back to Severus. 

“No wonder he’s so… how he is,” Black said. He leaned back in his chair, putting his hands over his face. “Seeing your favorite… person die.” Black let out a shuddering breath. “All of us have. The bastard just keeps taking, doesn’t he?”

“He does,” Severus said quietly. “I have recovered Regulus’ body, though I suggest that any funeral be a quiet affair.”

Black gave a humorless laugh. “Yeah, I’m not going to put a death announcement in the Daily Prophet.” He looked at Monty, who was still consoling Kreacher. “We’re pretty anti-Prophet these days.”

“You’re talking about Slytherin’s Locket?” Monty asked. “Regulus had it?”

“Master Regulus’s locket!” Kreacher screamed. “Kreacher did wrong, Kreacher failed in his orders!”

“It’s alright, Kreacher!” Monty shouted, grabbing the house-elf before he lunged for a poker. “We can help you! Tell me what happened, please, so I can help you!”

Kreacher stilled, his large eyes cloudy with age and grief, then threw himself at Monty again.

“Master Regulus was so proud when he joined the Dark Lord,” Kreacher said, his voice muffled by Monty’s shirt. “So proud, so happy to serve…”

Severus listened in growing disgust as Kreacher told them how the Dark Lord required an elf, how Regulus volunteered Kreacher, how Kreacher was ordered to do the Dark Lord’s bidding then come home.

Kreacher went to the Dark Lord, and the Dark Lord took him to that cave by the sea. The Dark Lord made Kreacher drink the potion—that Kreacher survived with his sanity mostly intact was astounding—and as Kreacher suffered, the Dark Lord laughed. Then the Dark Lord dropped the locket into the basin and refilled it. Severus wondered whether the Dark Lord actually needed the potion drained, or whether he wanted to examine its effects. After depositing the locket, the Dark Lord sailed off and left Kreacher to die. Kreacher attempted to drink the water from the inferi lake, and when the inferi attacked him he apparated to safety. He went home, as ordered. 

Black stared at the house-elf, looking ill. “What did the potion do?”

“It causes great physical and mental anguish,” Severus said. “An existential despair. If you drank it, I imagine you would hear James Potter blaming you for—”

“I get it,” Black said stiffly. 

“What happened when you came back?” Monty asked. “How did Regulus react when you told him what happened?”

“Master Regulus was very worried,” Kreacher said, shuddering. “Very upset. He told Kreacher to stay hidden and not leave the house. Then, one night, Master Regulus came to find Kreacher in his cupboard.” Kreacher paused, looking even more troubled than he already was. “Master Regulus was… strange. Not as he usually was. Disturbed in the mind.”

“Why?” Monty asked gently. “Because of what happened to you?”

“Kreacher doesn’t know,” Kreacher said. 

“I think I may know,” Severus said. “Somehow, Regulus became aware of what exactly was in that cave.”

Kreacher shuddered. “Master Regulus asked Kreacher to take him there, to the cave where Kreacher had gone with the Dark Lord.”

“He didn’t make you drink that bloody potion again,” Black said. “Don’t tell me my brother—”

Tears poured down Kreacher’s face.

“Master Regulus drank it,” Kreacher cried. “Master Regulus gave Kreacher another locket, he told Kreacher to help him drink, and to switch the lockets. And Master Regulus told Kreacher to take the Dark Lord’s locket and—” Kreacher sobbed. “Master Regulus told Kreacher to leave him, to go home, to never tell my mistress, and to destroy the first locket, and Kreacher watched Master Regulus drink the potion, and Kreacher switched the lockets, and Kreacher watched Master Regulus get dragged under the water, and—”

“I’m sorry,” Monty said, and Severus saw he was also crying. “I’m so sorry you had to watch him die. I…” Monty started sobbing too. “I don’t want to watch him die. I don’t want to watch him die again. Why is he doing this? Why won’t he talk to me? Why—”

Black got out of his seat, joining Monty and Kreacher on the floor, embracing them both. 

Severus quietly watched, wanting to leave but needing to confirm the locket’s presence. The important thing, to him, was that the locket was safe. If the house-elf wanted to continue protecting it, that was acceptable. 

 

---

 

It took a while to calm Kreacher down, for everyone to calm down. Monty still wasn’t very calm, but Professor Snape insisted that they all have Calming Draughts. Then Kreacher took them to his cupboard—and Monty didn’t think about how both he and Kreacher lived in a cupboard—and showed them he had kept Slytherin’s Locket safe all these years. Apparently it had been on display in the drawing room, but once the Order of the Phoenix infiltrated Grimmauld Place, Kreacher hid all of his favorite things under the boiler. It was sort of funny that one of Voldemort’s horcruxes had been in Monty’s house the whole time, but Monty really didn’t find anything about the situation funny at all. What happened to Kreacher and Regulus was horrifying.

Professor Snape said that Kreacher ought to keep protecting the locket, which confused Monty. He assumed Dumbledore wanted all of the horcruxes destroyed. Then Professor Snape excused himself, not giving Monty any chance to ask about Harry. 

“Alright,” Sirius said, shutting the door to Kreacher’s cupboard so he could continue mourning in private. Sirius was pale and shaky. He just learned how his brother died, and why.

Monty was terrified. Angry, and terrified. Regulus died while betraying Voldemort, and he knew, deep down, that Harry was willing to do the same. 

“We’ve got a big day ahead of us,” Sirius said, looking exhausted by his own words. “Scrimgeour’s agreed to meet us at your friend Neville’s house.”

“Really?” Monty said. “I thought I had to go to the Ministry.”

“I refused,” Sirius said. “Scrimgeour thinks the Ministry hasn’t been infiltrated, but he’s wrong. Snape confirmed it. Voldemort also knows about the will, since one of his other spies told him.” Sirius sighed. “I’m not putting you in a situation where you can get hurt.”

“Even if I want to fight?” Monty demanded. 

“Listen,” Sirius said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Right now, Voldemort is more focused on taking over the Ministry than you. That’s what we want. We want him distracted by that, and by having to run the damn thing. Kids like you—”

“I’m not a kid!”

“You are to me,” Sirius said bluntly. “And you’re my kid. I’m not going to put your life at risk for some shit Dumbledore wants to give you.” Sirius closed his eyes in frustration. “But Scrimgeour refuses to hand it over without a face-to-face meeting, so we’re going to do that at Longbottom Manor. It’s not under Fidelius yet.” 

“Okay,” Monty say. He hadn’t seen Luna or Neville all holiday.  He cared more about that than anything Dumbledore wanted to give him.

Sirius squeezed his shoulder. “I’ve told you this before, but I think you need to hear it again,” he said. Monty looked up at him. “You’re more important to me than defeating Voldemort.” 

Monty stared into Sirius’ eyes. Sometimes, he wondered if his parents thought that way too. They died to protect him from Voldemort. They knew there was a prophecy, and chose to give their lives protecting him rather than let him die. Did that mean he was more important than Voldemort, or that they thought him staying alive long enough to defeat Voldemort was important? Were they thinking about it at all?

Monty didn’t know if he thought he was more important than Voldemort. 

“Sirius,” he said. “I…”

Monty looked down. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know anything. He wanted to talk to Harry. Harry obviously didn’t think he was more important than Voldemort, and Monty needed to tell him that he was wrong. Killing Voldemort wasn’t worth Harry’s life. Why couldn’t Dumbledore have taken Voldemort down with him? They should have killed each other. Why did Monty and Harry have to be involved at all? Why did their… why did his…

“The other thing,” Sirius said. “While we’re dealing with the Minister, the Order is moving the Dursleys. If you wanted to—”

“I don’t want anything to do with the Dursleys,” Monty said. “I don’t care.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest it,” Sirius said, “and, frankly, I don’t care about them either. The Order is still determined to relocate them to a safehouse, so if there is anything you wanted to say—”

“No,” Monty said. “They’re not my family. I hate them, and I wish—” Monty clenched his teeth together. “When are we going?”

Sirius checked his watch. “After lunch, so we have some time. Are you—”

“I’m not hungry,” Monty said. 

“If you say so,” Sirius said, letting his shoulder go. “I’ll make something anyway.”

 

---

 

Harry tightly gripped his shoulder, watching as the Dursleys packed. 

Privet Drive was subdued, as if anticipating the departure of its strangest residents. No matter how much the Dursleys pretended at normalcy, they were the farthest from.

Harry smoked, and imagined what it would have been like if him and Monty had grown up here together, with the Dursleys. His mind dulled just looking at Privet Drive. All the houses were the same, all the gardens were the same, nothing was happening. A quiet, boring street, where people stayed inside and watched television. People did that in Cokeworth too, since there was nothing to do there either, but at least it was interesting to look at. 

In reality, it was mostly Petunia doing the packing, while Vernon paced around and complained, and Dudley sat listlessly in his wheelchair. From Mrs. Figg’s roof, Harry could only catch glimpses of the activity within Number Four Privet Drive. It was, as his dad had informed him, his last opportunity to interact with the Dursleys. Then they would be moved to a safehouse, and Harry could not devote time to tracking it down. It was under Fidelius. Harry did consider studying the Fidelius Charm, but that was a dangerous line of inquiry. Taking apart a soul to get at the secret within was a harrowing prospect.

What would happen if a dementor removed the soul of a secret-keeper?

Harry took a drag from his cigarette, then tugged down his gloves, banishing the thought. 

As much as Harry detested the Dursleys, when he distanced himself from the situation he recognized that this move was costing them a lot. They had bought a new vehicle for Dudley, had installed a ramp, and had a chair lift for their staircase so he could get to his bedroom. From what his dad said, Harry knew the Dursleys refused any offer of magical healing. Harry didn’t know if what Dudley went through could be healed. A book his dad had given him years ago, when he was fourteen, when he first became interested in soul magic, suggested it could not. 

A Study into the Possibility of Reversing the Actual and Metaphysical Effects of Natural Death, with Particular Regard to the Reintegration of Essence and Matter dealt with reversing death. Bringing people back from the dead, restoring ghosts to physical bodies. The author’s conclusion was damning. Give it up. It’s never going to happen. At the time, Harry wondered why his dad had a book like that. A book that told him to give up.

Harry wasn’t going to give up. 

When Harry saw a flash of blond hair in Dudley’s bedroom window, he tossed his cigarette and turned into a squirrel. He dove off of Mrs. Figg’s roof, ran into the street, dodged a car, scampered up a tree, and jumped through the open window. 

Dudley was in front of his computer, looking at something Harry doubted Petunia would approve of. Vernon, on the other hand…

Harry turned back into a human, locked and silenced the door, then placed a hand on Dudley’s shoulder. 

“Sorry about this,” Harry said over Dudley’s shriek. He leaned down, staring into his cousin’s scared eyes. “I’ll make it quick. Legilimens.”

 

---

 

“‘The Last Will and Testament of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore’,” Rufus Scrimgeour read from a scroll. “Here we are… ‘To Mr. Neville Francis Longbottom.’” 

Scrimgeour gave Neville a hard look, and Neville sat up straight. They were all sitting up straight. His gran had chosen the most uncomfortable of the manor’s drawing rooms to host the Minister for Magic. The upholstery was tight, and it felt like everything was stuffed with concrete. Monty’s arse was already numb. He was crammed on a sofa in between Neville and Luna, Luna’s hand clasped firmly in his own. She was humming and smiling to herself. 

Sirius, Neville’s gran, and Mr. Lovegood weren’t in the room. Scrimgeour demanded he speak with them alone, possibly recognizing the threat to his life around Neville’s gran. 

Scrimgeour’s already unhappy expression soured. “Dumbledore wished to leave you the sword of Godric Gryffindor.”

Neville’s jaw dropped. “He what?”

Monty looked around. “I don’t see a sword anywhere.” Scrimgeour had only brought a small drawstring pouch, which could have concealed a sword but Scrimgeour made no move to draw one.

“No one knows where it is,” Scrimgeour said. “Moreover, the sword is not Dumbledore’s to give away. It’s a historical artifact which may present itself to any worthy Gryffindor.”

Neville didn’t seem distressed by the lack of sword. In fact, he seemed heartened by this. 

Scrimgeour gave him a piercing look. “Why do you think Dumbledore wanted to give you the sword?”

It took Neville a moment to respond, and he seemed reluctant to share his thoughts. 

“I think,” Neville said slowly, blushing lightly, “I think Dumbledore’s saying that I could wield it. That I…” Neville steeled himself. “That I am a worthy Gryffindor.”

Scrimgeour stared at him blankly, then cleared his throat. “A noble sentiment. Moving on.” He lifted the scroll again. “‘To Miss Lunaper Pandora Lovegood.’”

Monty looked at Luna. “Lunaper?”

“It was my mum’s favorite tree,” Luna said, squeezing his hand.

“A mythical tree,” Neville said quietly.

Luna hummed to herself. “It depends on where you are.”

“I thought you were named after the moon,” Monty muttered to himself. Lunaper. He liked it. A lot.

Scrimgeour loudly cleared his throat. “‘To Miss Lunaper Pandora Lovegood, I leave my Deluminator in the hopes that she will continue bringing light to the world.’” 

From his pouch, Scrimgeour withdrew what looked like a silver cigarette lighter. He passed it to Luna who smiled like the sun as she took it. 

Luna immediately clicked the Deluminator, and the drawing room was plunged into darkness.

“That is a valuable artifact!” Scrimgeour shouted. “Not a toy to be played with!”

There was a loud crash—Neville’s gran breaking into the room. “How dare you raise your voice—”

Luna clicked the Deluminator again, and warm spheres of light shot out, relighting the candles and fire.

Scrimgeour had risen from his seat, his wand drawn and pointed at the three of them. Neville’s gran filled the doorway, the vulture on her hand leaning menacingly towards Scrimgeour. Her wand was aimed at his heart.

“My apologies,” Scrimgeour said gruffly, shoving his wand away. “I was merely startled. I was an auror for many years…” He straightened his robes and looked at Luna. “Miss Lovegood, why would Dumbledore leave you such a rare and unique artifact?”

Luna stared at him, her big, silver eyes wide as the moon—or perhaps lunaper berries. 

“Professor Dumbledore said why,” Luna said slowly. “You just read it, Minister.”

Scrimgeour apparently had no response to this, as he went back to reading off his scroll.

“To Mr. Fleamont James Potter, I leave my copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, in the hope that he will find it entertaining and instructive.”

Scrimgeour took out a very old book, with a peeling, stained binding. He passed it to Monty, who carefully took it. The title was in runes, and Monty sounded them out individually in his head.

“Why do you think Dumbledore left you that book, Mr. Potter?”

“You just stated the reasons,” Monty said. Luna could read runes. They could read it together.

Neville’s gran was still in the room. Sirius and Mr. Lovegood had followed her, and none of them looked happy with the Minister.

“Dumbledore taught thousands of students,” Scrimgeour said, looking more irritated than intimidated. “Why would he single out you three in his will?”

“I don’t know,” Monty said honestly. “But I think you should leave. We’re done here.”

 

---

 

Severus came to a stop at the threshold of the drawing room. The space within had been transformed to accommodate a large table, upon which his son was perched. Harry stuck the nib of a golden quill in his mouth, and when he pulled it back out it was red. On an immense sheet of parchment, Harry carefully inscribed several runes, then stuck the quill in his mouth again to draw more blood.

His child was insane. 

The Dark Lord was watching this display with a lascivious grin. His snake, Nagini, was coiled next to the fire. Severus couldn’t tell if she was asleep or awake, but her eyes were fixed on Harry. 

“Ah, Severus,” the Dark Lord purred. “Thank you ever so much for joining us. I need your expertise. Dear Harry insists that I must apply the mark to this artifact he is crafting.”

Harry glanced at Severus and, of all the asinine things, winked. 

“My Lord,” Harry said, sitting back on his heels. He pushed his hair back with a hand and smiled at the Dark Lord. “Your name is already being used. I cannot create a spell using your name as an incantation. I have to tie it in to another spell schema.” Harry sighed, then said. “Reckon we could do this with You Know Who, or He Who Must Not Be Named, or even the Dark Lord, but we’d get endless false positives and render the entire concept moot.”

Harry’s lips were red with his own blood, and the Dark Lord’s eyes darkened as Harry spoke. 

“I am not questioning that reasoning,” the Dark Lord said patiently, which nearly staggered Severus. Never, in his life, had he seen the Dark Lord treat anyone like he treated Harry. Almost as if he were speaking to a peer. “I cannot see how the dark mark will integrate with a map. It’s not an enchantment as such. It’s connected to me, Harry.”

“That’s why it’s taken me so long to develop this, my Lord,” Harry said. “I had to analyze my own dark mark.” He smiled sweetly. “I could probably mark people on your behalf.”

The Dark Lord stared at him. 

“I wouldn’t,” Harry said quickly. “But the nature of our… relationship makes us magically indistinguishable, in some exceedingly rare senses.”

Severus’ own blood went cold. What the hell was Harry thinking? He glanced at the Dark Lord, and could not tell whether he was pleased by this information or infuriated. 

“That’s why I’m using my own blood as an intermediary,” Harry finished. He leaned forward to scratch something else onto the parchment, then he slid off the table. “Well, I’m done.”

The Dark Lord’s eyes narrowed. “You’re done?”

Severus walked up to the table, and was hit with the bitter, metallic scent of blood. His son’s blood. 

“Yeah,” Harry said, licking the end of his golden quill and sticking it behind his ear. He then ran his tongue over his lips, and smiled. “Professor Snape can analyze it, but please don’t damage it, sir. It’s not easily reproducible.”

“I’m not that careless, Evans,” Severus said coldly, scanning the small, dense, chaotic array of runes and arithmantic equations his son had woven together. 

To Severus’ eyes, and knowing his son, it looked intentionally overcomplicated. Harry could have come up with a simpler way to create the Dark Lord’s Taboo, but he purposefully chose the most cumbersome method to develop and execute, delayed for months, and simultaneously misrepresented his own aptitude. 

“My apologies, sir,” Harry said demurely. “I meant no offense. I’ve just…” 

Harry bit his lip and looked down. Then the Dark Lord smiled fondly at Harry and placed a hand on his head.

Severus forced himself to watch his son’s continued seduction of the Dark Lord. Then Severus turned back to his son’s work and began the long, tedious task of reassuring the Dark Lord without arousing any suspicion. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 19: A Perfect Fit

Summary:

July 31st, 1997

Harry gently picked up Fawkes’ tray of black sand and set it on his bed. Lady Madeleine was curled into a ball, asleep. Fawkes looked up at him curiously. There hadn’t been time to recover Fawkes’ own ashes, and Harry was slightly concerned they were important for his development. Fawkes hadn’t said anything about it, though. Could they use another phoenix’s ashes? Surrogate ashes?

“You were with Dumbledore for a long time,” Harry said quietly. 

Fawkes blinked at him. 

“Long for him,” Harry amended. Fawkes looked like a baby bird, but he was ancient. A mythical being. 

Harry had a lot of questions for Fawkes. Why did he choose Dumbledore? Why had he only given two feathers? Why was he so parsimonious with his tears? What were Fawkes’ goals? Did he have any?

“You’ve been with him through some significant events,” Harry said. “You could have carried my brother to the Dursleys.”

Fawkes chirped.

“Maybe,” Harry said, “but no one noticed Hagrid on Sirius’ motorbike. Did you not want to interfere with anything Dumbledore did?”

Fawkes chirped again. 

Harry frowned. “Well, unlike him, I’m not going to take your presence as tacit endorsement. The only approval I need is my own.” He gripped his blanket. “Most of the time I don’t think about it, then it hits me all at once.”

Fawkes sang a little, and Harry smiled sadly. 

“It’s the weight of a soul,” he said. “The burden of being human. I’m not special.” 

Harry reached out and gently touched Fawkes’ head, the small feathers which would one day become a magnificent crest. Lady Madeleine raised her head and glared at Fawkes. Harry reached over to pet her too. He had two hands. 

“A lot of Death Eaters were exonerated after the first war,” Harry said quietly. “People who have done worse things than me. They got to go on to live their lives.” Harry snorted. “Until now.”

Harry sighed, then got out of bed. He picked his gloves up from his bedside table and put them on. “Do you want to come with?”

Fawkes nestled down into his sand. 

“Maddie?”

“Meow.”

“Maybe you can sniff out something valuable.”

Lady Madeleine lashed her tail, and Harry chuckled. 

“It’s not for me,” Harry said, picking her up and carrying her out of his bedroom. “I wonder if that will come up. Those people were going to die anyway. The Dark Lord ordered it. If it wasn’t me, it would have been someone else, and at least with me their deaths are meaningful.” 

Lady Madeleine began purring. 

“Is there a difference between letting someone die and killing them yourself?” Harry asked his empty house. “It’s the same result. They’re dead either way.”

Lady Madeleine continued purring. It wasn’t a question she cared about, but she knew Harry was troubled by it. 

Lady Madeleine was a cat, and Fawkes was a bird. They had a different relationship with death than humans, especially Fawkes for whom death was an impossibility. His existence was one long, unbroken continuity. 

“I hope I don’t traumatize him more,” Harry said, opening the front door, “but I can’t think of anything else.”

Harry stepped outside, then shut the door behind him. He looked down the dark, cracked street of Spinner’s Circle. Someone had come round to smear crack filler over everything, and the black lines spread out like coiling veins. Harry had no idea why they bothered, but it made a smoother surface for skateboarding. 

Harry wasn’t going to skate. He didn’t feel like it. 

His dad was at Spinner’s End with Professor Burbage. Harry was thinking of going there for breakfast, but it was almost midnight and that was hours away. 

“Ready?” he said, smiling down at his cat. 

“Meow.”

Harry held his cat close to his chest, then apparated. 

 

---

 

The graveyard was silent. Darkness and cold earth and wilting flowers. A cool summer breeze ruffled his hair, made his skin tingle. Rows of weathered stones marked the passing centuries, witches and wizards interred next to muggles in adopted tradition. The church was silent too, the shadow it cast washed out under the moon and stars. 

Harry looked up at the clear sky, at the misty river of the Milky Way cutting through the cosmos like a celestial wound. 

It was a beautiful night for doing something terrible. 

The white marble of the headstone was luminous under the moonlight. Lady Madeleine was sprawled on top of it, watching him with glowing green eyes. 

Harry crouched in front of the headstone, tracing the engraved name. 

 

Lily Potter, born 30 January 1960, died 31 October 1981

 

Lily Evans was subsumed by Lily Potter, by being the sacrificial mother to the Boy Who Lived. Harry had only met two people who called his mum by her maiden name. His dad, and Slughorn. Sirius had made the connection too, well before Dumbledore did, but it was a tenuous one and at this point Harry didn’t think anyone would connect the mudblood who willingly served Voldemort to the mudblood who had famously defied him. If anyone cared to remember his mum’s name, that he happened to share it was just an unfortunate coincidence. 

Harry’s fingers drifted to the other words. Whether chosen at random or intentionally, he didn’t think they were a coincidence. 

 

The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.

 

There were two kinds of immortality. Someone could be immortalized in memory, like Harry’s mum was, or they could live forever in a more literal sense. 

Harry lit a cigarette and reread the words. 

It was amazing Dudley was doing as well as he was. There wasn’t much to his memory. One evening two years ago he felt very cold and very scared. He continued to feel very cold and very scared until he woke up in a hospital bed. Maybe it had to do with Dudley being a muggle, his brain defending itself from the two years his soul spent inside of a dementor. Dudley wasn’t forming memories then, which was fortunate as he would have gone mad if he could remember the experience. But, that was a muggle. 

Where was Herpo the Foul when you needed him? 

“Alright,” Harry said, standing up and stretching his back. “Let’s get this over with.”

Harry backed away from the headstone and raised his wand. He swung his arm down, and the ground beneath his feet cracked open. He was taken aback by the lack of enchantments, his mum being dumped into the ground. That none of the Dark Lord’s followers had defaced her grave was astounding. Perhaps they were afraid of any power that lingered in his mum’s corpse. 

A large block of grave dirt rose up in a crumbling mass. Harry levitated the block of dirt aside, setting it on top of someone else’s dead loved one. 

Harry entertained the thought of digging them out by hand, a lone teenager with a spade, shoving it into the hard ground over and over again, tossing dirt over his shoulder, pausing to take a drag from his cigarette. It would take hours to exhume his mum that way, and Harry was one of the most wanted wizards in the world. He didn’t have time to fuck around.

Walking to the edge of the rectangular pit, Harry looked down into the grave. There was a large casket of white marble, which made his stomach sour. It reminded him of Dumbledore’s tomb, of all the posthumous praise and adulation. Harry was still enraged that Rita Skeeter had written something about his brother, but he was curious what else she had dug up about Dumbledore. Served the bastard right. 

Harry waved his wand, and the heavy marble casket rose up. His mum and stepdad had been buried together, which was… nice. That’s what they probably wanted. They probably wanted to not die at all, and Harry bitterly thought in that case they should have put up a better fight. They should have at least had their bloody wands. He would have apparated with a baby, to hell with the consequences, or jumped out of the window, or anything, anything other than just stand there. 

Harry stood there, gazing at the white marble casket. The memories he had of his mum were murky impressions. Red hair, laughter, murmuring, crying, a cadence, being left in his grandmother’s arms, a subtle crack that resounded in his mind, waking up as a secret sank into his soul, and the horrible, keening wail when his gran understood why he was crying.

The lid of the casket rose, silent and still, white broken up by silvery veins, like the scars dark magic had left on Harry’s body, on his brother. 

Harry took a breath, then looked into the casket.

His arm dropped leadenly to his side.

Harry stared at the two bodies, their hands entwined in death, wearing their nicest robes, their eyes closed as if they had only just fallen asleep. As if they would wake up and resume their lives. As if they could.

Harry gripped the stone in his pocket until his fingers went numb.

Lily Evans and James Potter looked exactly like they did the day they died.

Unnerved, Harry wanted to back away, put the lid back on, but he forced himself to stay where he was. 

Harry had erred in his assumption that his mother’s grave was unprotected. The enchantments were not on the grave itself, but on the bodies. Someone had perfectly preserved his mum and stepdad, made it so their bodies would remain untouched, unmolested, depriving any would-be necromancers from violating their corpses. 

Harry lurched forward and grabbed the cold casket, gasping for air.

What Harry expected was two decayed corpses. He didn’t expect this. He didn’t expect to see two people not much older than him. His mum and stepdad had been Percy’s age when they died. His mum’s hair was exactly like he remembered it, a deep red falling across her shoulders, she was so pretty, he missed her so much, he wanted to hug her, and Harry angrily wiped his eyes, he was not going to do this.

Horribly, Harry’s mum and stepdad were holding their wands.

Harry took a shaky breath, swallowed around the tightness in his throat, then stood upright. 

“It’s good to see you again, mum,” Harry said, trying to smile. 

His mum didn’t react. She was dead. 

Harry glanced at Monty’s dad. He and Monty did bear an uncanny resemblance, but that was mostly the messy black hair and glasses. When Monty smiled he looked like their mum.

Harry walked around the side of the casket, feeling the shape of the spells laid on the bodies. He didn’t think any would prevent what he planned to do. If something did, he had time to develop a workaround 

“Sorry about this,” Harry said, reaching for Monty’s dad’s arm, not thinking too hard about it. “I can’t imagine you’d object, but I’m not interested in asking. Not like you’re using it.”

When he didn’t encounter any resistance, he lifted the arm and pushed back the sleeve. Harry smiled, then started laughing.

“I should’ve known,” Harry said, divesting his stepdad’s wrist of its adornment and slipping it into his pocket. “Why not add graverobbing to the list? Percy’s already got his work cut out for him.”

Harry tugged the sleeve back down, then gently returned his stepdad’s arm to his side. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached out and tried to touch his mum’s hair. He took a sharp breath when his fingers were shocked, then gritted his teeth and pushed through the horrid sensation. For a second, Harry felt how soft and silken his mum’s hair was, caught a whiff of what she smelled like, tea and flowers and magic, and tears blurred his vision.

When he couldn’t take it anymore, Harry pulled back. His entire arm ached, and he couldn’t feel his fingers, but it was worth it.

“I’ll see you again,” Harry whispered brokenly. “Sooner than you want, but it’s either me or him, and I choose me.”

Harry lifted his wand, and he once again buried his mother.

He conjured flowers, a bouquet of roses and lilies.

He laid it against the headstone.

He picked up his cat and apparated. 

When Harry arrived home, he found a white owl waiting for him. 

 

---

 

Monty woke up with a book on his face. He groaned and started to roll over, but remembered that the book was several centuries old and delicate. With a grumble, Monty carefully picked up the book and set it on his bedside table, exchanging it for his glasses. He sat up, his mouth dry, feeling groggy. 

After Neville’s seventeenth birthday party, which involved all of his elderly relatives celebrating late into the night, Monty had fallen asleep trying to penetrate the runic script of The Tales of Beedle the Bard. Monty was familiar with the stories. Luna loved fairy tales. Harry had introduced the book to Monty back in his second year. 

Monty’s mood darkened at the thought of Harry. That was the year Harry had been petrified by the basilisk. Everyone assumed it was because Harry was a muggleborn—he wasn’t, but only Monty and Professor Snape knew that—but Monty thought now it was because Harry had worked out what was going on, even if he didn’t know who or what was behind it. Harry was too smart for his own good. 

Neville’s seventeenth birthday. 

Monty’s eyebrows shot up. It was his birthday. He was seventeen. Luna, Neville, and Hermione were coming around later, as were Andromeda, Ted, and Nym. He debated whether to invite Ron, but he didn’t want to risk it. Mrs. Weasley had suggested to Sirius that they have a party at the Burrow, but Monty shot that idea down. He only wanted his closest friends and family, not the entire bloody Order. 

Monty wasn’t certain about Hermione; he was still bitter about some of the things she had done—siding with and defending Ron, her animosity when he academically surpassed her, her capitulation to authority figures—but he felt bad for her. Maybe he was inviting her purely out of pity, Monty didn’t know. Hermione wanted to be friends still, but Monty just didn’t have the capacity to repair one friendship, not with everything else going on. 

There was a sleepy hoot, and Monty looked up just as Hedwig soared through the window. 

“Breakfast,” Hester hissed from her cage. 

“Breakfast,” Hedwig hissed back, landing on Monty’s bed. 

“You two are mad,” Monty said, untying the parcel from Hedwig’s outstretched leg. “Where have you been all night?”

“Brother,” Hedwig hissed at him. She closed her eyes, then settled into his blankets. 

Monty gaped at her. “Where did you learn that—” 

He looked at the parcel in his hands. It was wrapped in parchment. 

Monty’s heart gave a painful thump. 

He ran his finger over a nearly invisible seam, and the parchment unfolded, revealing a plain black box. Fingers trembling, Monty picked up the parchment.

 

Dear Monty,

 

This was your dad’s. Your mum didn’t have one, or I would have sent hers. Sirius probably already got you one, but who says you can’t have two? Start a collection, or give one to Luna. Do what you want. You’re allowed to. I’ll make sure of it. 

I miss you, and I’m sorry I won’t be there. It’s for the best. I hope you’ll understand that one day. I hope you’ll forgive me. 

Happy seventeenth. 

Love, 

 

Harry

 

Monty set the parchment aside. He picked up the box, took a breath, then opened the lid. 

Inside was a gold watch. 

Monty stared at it for a long time before picking up the watch. He knew it was tradition for wizards to receive a watch on their seventeenth birthday. He hadn’t thought much about it, and hadn’t… he hadn’t… his dad’s… 

The watch was gold, which Monty loved, but not entirely gold. The bezel was gold, engraved with what looked like alchemical symbols, which made Monty choke up. His family, the Potter family, had been potioneers for centuries. The crown looked like a ruby, and the strap was dark red dragonhide. There was a subdial for seconds, and one for the days of the week. All useful for a potioneer.

What truly made the watch stand out was that the entire face of the watch, the dial, was a midnight blue field of stars. Within this was a small, craggy moon. 

The watch showed the phases of the moon. 

Monty stifled a sob, then turned the watch over. 

There was an engraving on the back. 

Happy 17th Birthday! 

Love, Mum and Dad

Monty choked up, knowing these words were from his grandparents to his dad, but they felt like they were for him. 

He put the watch around his wrist. 

It was a perfect fit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 20: Breakfast

Summary:

August 1st, 1997

The Wedding

Part I

Malfoy Manor was still and silent, save for the disquieting crooning that emanated from behind the closed door of Draco Malfoy’s room. 

Most days, Jasmine avoided taking meals with the rest of the household, or being in their presence at all. Illogical as it was, it was safer to stay sequestered with her father. He no longer spent hours staring at her, or told her how to dress or how to style her hair, no more touching her hands or face. She no longer saw the dark desire that brought wretched life to his dead eyes, eyes that kept her awake all those nights she was tied to a bed. 

This day, however, was a beginning. A beginning of something far worse, which no one, not the British Ministry, not her professors at Hogwarts, not Albus Dumbledore and his useless and vain Order of the Phoenix, none of them had prevented. They all knew—all the Death Eaters and their children—they knew, when their darks marks never faded, from whispers and signs, the discontent and malice that moved through the shadows and forgotten places of the world, that the Dark Lord would return, and the Dark Lord learned from his mistakes, and the Dark Lord would make them pay. 

Jasmine paused outside of Draco Malfoy’s room, which was located in the same wing of the manor as her own. A place of prominence, the daughter of a valued Death Eater, as Draco Malfoy was the son of one once held in high regard. Every time Jasmine left her rooms, to go to the kitchen, the library, the gardens, a courtyard, to prostrate herself before the Dark Lord with her father’s hand pressing down on her back, she had to pass Draco Malfoy’s room. And every time, she heard his mother speaking to him. 

This terrible morning, Narcissa Malfoy was singing. 

“The joy of my flesh, the purest of blood, the pride of your fathers, befouled by mud…”

Jasmine grimaced. If Mrs. Malfoy heard her walking through the corridor… had the woman never heard of silencing charms? Could she use magic at all anymore? Jasmine hoped not.

“The filthy beasts shall be crushed under your feet,” Mrs. Malfoy sang, her voice high and clear. “Nasty, flea-ridden freaks…”

There was a loud, wet, crunching noise that made Jasmine flinch. She slowly backed away from the door, and didn’t dare breathe until she reached the end of the corridor. 

 

---

 

“Why do we have to get ready so early?” Mafalda complained as Percy brushed her hair out. 

“Because I have work,” Percy said. “I’m taking a half day, but I still need to go in.”

Mafalda had an entire suite of rooms in Featherby House, including her own dressing room—Aunt Muriel cackled when he called it a boudoir—which Percy found excessive, but they had space to spare. Mafalda loved them, the charmed pastoral wallpaper, the floaty drapery, the balcony that looked over the pond where the pygmy kraken waged war with the militant geese. 

Percy wanted to give Harry another tour of the property, glean which rooms Harry was most drawn to. 

He wanted to see where Harry slept. 

“I can do my own hair,” Mafalda grumbled, though she didn’t move her head away. 

Normally, Mafalda kept her fine, flyaway hair in twin tails or plaits, but this was a wedding. Mafalda’s hair was similar to his mother’s, and his own. Percy had spent years taming his uncooperative hair into some semblance of order. Aunt Muriel was thankfully busy with Nesty, putting together outfits for herself, Mafalda, and Derek. Percy had no wish to discover what his aunt would do to Mafalda's hair if left unchecked. It would be menagerie of whatever dead and stuffed creatures she had at hand.

“It’s a shame we can’t use Sleekeazy’s,” Percy said, spraying mousse into his hand. It was from France, and thus had to be hidden from Aunt Muriel. “Muggle products must suffice.”

Mafalda frowned. “Why can’t we use Sleekeazy’s?”

“With red hair there are… unique results,” Percy said reluctantly. 

Mafalda went eerily silent, and Percy chastised himself. He had no doubt in his mind that his little cousin would acquire Sleekeazy’s as soon as humanly possible and dump the potion all over her head.

Percy brushed some product through Mafalda’s hair, then twisted each curl with a finger. Among his siblings, he was the only one who had hair like their mother. The rest had straight, easily managed hair like their father. Percy was also the only one who wore glasses. More ways in which he stood out. 

“Is Captain Evans going to be there?” Mafalda asked. 

“I don’t see why he would be,” Percy said evenly. Mafalda actually knew Harry, unlike most people. It was imperative to keep her far away from the Dark Lord. Safe at Hogwarts, under the watchful eye of Professor Snape. 

Mafalda craned her neck around to give him a sharp look, uncannily like Aunt Muriel. “Isn’t he your date?”

Percy cleared his throat. “I imagine Evans is rather busy today,” he said. “Mafalda, he’s a Death Eater. I cannot bring a Death Eater to the wedding of a member of the Order of the Phoenix.”

Mafalda frowned. “But—”

“That I’m attending at all is ill-advised,” Percy continued. “And only at Aunt Muriel’s insistence.” He sighed. “Besides, you shouldn’t speak of Evans so familiarly. He’s a dangerous person to know.”

Mafalda crossed her arms in a huff. “I’m not an idiot, Percival. I’m only talking about it at all because Auntie’s busy.” She glanced at him again. “And she’s not an idiot either.”

Percy wiped his hands off then patted his cousin’s shoulder. “It’s been a year. It’s time to accept that Evans fooled us all.”

Mafalda jumped to her feet and glared at him. “I have seen into the heart of the stone.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The truth caught in the lattice of crystals,” Mafalda said, her voice ringing.  

“Merlin’s beard,” Percy muttered. “Now is not the time for declaiming.”

Mafalda dashed off into an adjoining room. “I’m bringing my gobstones, just in case!”

Percy was left sitting on a stool, a brush in his hand. He sighed, then checked his pocket watch. 

“Percival!” Aunt Muriel’s creaky voice boomed through the house. “Nesty’s made muggle breakfast!”

“It’s just breakfast,” Percy muttered, setting the brush down and getting to his feet. 

“What was that?”

Percy looked around the dressing room. How had she heard him?

Unnerved, Percy found Mafalda in her bedroom, cackling over her gobtones, cast a charm on her hair so she wouldn’t intentionally sabotage his work, then escorted her to muggle breakfast. 

 

---

 

Ron stared up at the enormous pile of presents in the living room. Sorting the presents was one of the few things he could do to help with the wedding preparations. It was physical labor that couldn’t be easily accomplished with a wand since you had to read who the presents were from. It wasn’t the worst of the busywork his mum gave him over the past month. Ron didn’t know why he still had to degnome the garden when jarveys existed. His dad thought the gnomes were funny, but mostly they were a pain in the arse. Everything was, without magic. 

It took a moment for Ron to overcome the white-hot rage that coursed through him. He was surrounded by magic, all the time, and he hated it, he hated that every time he touched a wand it felt like a dead piece of wood, he hated the chessmen that no longer spoke to him, he hated that he couldn’t see fairies or thestrals or anything, that an entire world was closed off to him, like someone shut all the windows and doors and he was standing in the middle of an airless room and there was no way to escape. 

Ron wanted to kick the presents, but they were for Bill and Fleur, and this was Bill’s wedding, and Bill was one of the only people who didn’t treat him like he was made of glass, or like he was broken, or diseased, or… 

Lavender was coming to the wedding. Ron hadn’t seen her since Dumbledore’s funeral. All of their post was being searched by the Ministry so he couldn’t really say anything to her.

Hermione was coming too, and Monty. 

Ron gritted his teeth. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. He only went to that bloody place to help Professor Lupin, because Monty was his friend. 

Was. 

It wasn’t fair that he lost his magic and his best friend. 

“Ron?”

“What?” he snapped, spinning around. 

His dad was smiling at him, though his expression was... off. “Your mum’s made breakfast.”

Ron’s traitorous stomach growled. Why couldn’t he have lost that? His appetite, his vision, his sense of smell, a leg. Two legs. Why was his magic taken?

His dad walked up to him and put an arm across his shoulders. “Why don’t we eat, then you and I can sort through all these presents together.”

“Fine,” Ron muttered. He hated feeling so shitty, especially on Bill’s wedding day. He was going to ruin it for everyone. He was going to ruin everything because he was a useless bloody squib. 

“I’m really proud of you,” his dad said quietly. 

Ron looked at him, confused. “What?”

His dad smiled at him. “I know it’s been hard for you,” he said. “But you’re still here with us.”

“Where else would I go?” Ron asked. “I live here.”

His dad chuckled, then led Ron into the kitchen to have breakfast with his family. 

 

---

 

As Monty shoveled porridge into his mouth, Sirius’ eyes caught on the watch he was wearing. Sirius’ own watch was destroyed by the Ministry, like his wand. They stripped him of everything before throwing him into a cold cell. He had a new wand, one he got from Ollivander. Another wand chose him. Mahogany and dragon heartstring. Sirius wasn’t the same person, not an eleven-year-old whose mother was berating Ollivander while his little brother hid behind him and his father was completely checked out. 

The watch Sirius got when he turned seventeen, a few months before James did, was given to him by Monty’s grandfather. Fleamont Potter. James’ parents knew Remus was a werewolf—anyone capable of drawing a line between the full moon and Remus being ill knew—and gave him an astronomical watch. A map of the sky. It was the nicest thing Sirius ever owned. 

Sirius could not resent Monty wearing a copy of James’ old watch. It gave him a shock every time he saw it—he had completely blanked out when Monty came down for breakfast on his birthday—but it had only been a day and Sirius would make himself get used to it. 

“What time are we meeting Luna?” Monty asked, piling eggs on a slice of buttered toast. 

“Half past two,” Sirius said, ignoring that the porridge had been replaced. He took a bracing sip of coffee, then said, “We’ll walk to the Burrow from her house. Most guests are arriving by Portkey, but there’s also a designated apparition point.” 

Enchanting the Burrow to allow disapparation but not apparition was a headache. Sirius didn’t quite get the distinction, but he knew they could apparate out but not in. 

“Alright,” Monty said, with a strange affect, then he returned to eating the feast Kreacher laid out every morning for the kid. Monty was being spoiled. Sirius didn’t care. His kid deserved it. 

Monty was raised in Surrey. Where was he picking up Lily’s accent from? 

Shaking his head, Sirius lit a cigarette—hand-rolled by Kreacher, the maniac—and went back to thinking about the watch Monty now wore. Sirius had yet to ask Monty where he got it from. He knew where Monty got it from. There was only one person on the face of the planet who would do something as insane as creating a replica of James Potter’s watch to give to his son on his seventeenth birthday. 

What bothered Sirius was a fairly basic, obvious question. 

How did Harry Evans know what James’ watch looked like?

Another question occurred to Sirius, a line of inquiry he was trying not to follow. 

Was it a replica? 

“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” Monty asked, now attacking a pot of rose-flavored yogurt. Where the fuck did Kreacher get rose-flavored yogurt? Were those real gold flakes in it? What did that add to the flavor?

“I should,” Sirius said, scowling when the cigarette vanished from his hand. Kippers and a dry piece of toast appeared in front of him. 

“Thanks, Kreacher,” Sirius said, summoning the butter to himself before that vanished too. “Fit for a bloody king.”

 

---

 

Charity slowly crept down the narrow staircase. She winced as a step squealed. Severus had not been in bed when she woke, which was unusual as Charity was also an early riser. Charity was still not completely comfortable being in Severus’ home. His childhood home. It had been a little over a week since she was captured, and her thoughts skirted around those memories. At how easily she had been subdued, the bleak horror of being at the complete mercy of people who wanted to hurt you. People who thought of you as a thing.

Charity shuddered, then continued down the stairs. 

She wanted to go back to her flat, salvage what she could. To hear Evans tell it—the kid told her to call him Harry before Obliviating her, and they had to modify her memories before Voldemort ransacked her mind—there wasn’t much left of her flat. Alecto Carrow had destroyed most of it—Harry killed Alecto, in Charity’s flat, a teenager killed someone to protect her, it would have been worse, so much worse, how were you supposed to deal with something like that?—and Charity didn’t know if there was anything left at all. She lost nearly everything, except her wand and her life.

Once she reached the sitting room, Charity was confronted with a sight that made her heart flutter. It made her wonder how she had never seen it before. 

The sitting room itself screamed Severus Snape. There was hardly any room for sitting at all, as every wall was covered in books, all bound in dark leather, padding the room, making it feel smaller, more confining. Intimate. Charity emerged from one such wall, and quietly shut it behind her. A candelabra that looked uncannily like a dead spider hung from the ceiling, shedding dim light that had the effect of making the room feel darker. The fireplace was cold, only ashes and crumbling charcoal. 

Severus was sitting in an old armchair, a cup of coffee nearby on a rickety table. He was reading the Daily Prophet, though he looked unhappy about it. Charity imagined it was a combination of another retrospective on Dumbledore’s contributions to magic—which, as far as Charity knew, stopped about fifty years ago—and the ongoing manhunt for Severus. 

Next to Severus, innocently sleeping on a threadbare sofa, was Harry Evans. 

Charity stared at the teenager, feeling conflicted. Sad. Guilty.

Nineteen, and Severus said Harry was marked when he was seventeen. It was sickening, but why would someone like Voldemort balk at forcing kids to do his dirty work?

There was a grey cat sleeping on his chest—Lady Madeleine, which was an adorable name, how could this kid be a Death Eater? Were Death Eaters not allowed to like cats and give them cute names? They all started off as kids, so what happened? What turned them into people capable of committing atrocities?—and the cat raised her head and gave Charity a piercing look. Charity smiled, and the cat narrowed her eyes. Kneazles were very defensive, and this half-kneazle looked like she would defend Harry to the death.

Harry looked more his age when he was asleep. Younger, even. Vulnerable, except for the vicious cat and dangerous dark wizard watching over him. Harry didn’t look like he was finished growing yet, which was unsettling. 

Tears clouded Charity’s vision. She angrily brushed them away. She knew in general how Harry became a Death Eater, and she thought she knew why he chose to remain one. If she was sixteen, tied to a headstone, alone in a graveyard with the most dangerous dark wizard in history, she’d probably piss herself and beg for her life. She’d probably end up dead. Even now, at thirty-three…

Severus silently rose from his seat, took Charity’s arm, and led her into the kitchen. 

“I had to give him a potion to get him to sleep,” Severus said quietly. “The past days have been trying for him.”

“I think the past years have been,” Charity murmured, glancing into the living room. “Severus, that kid needs—”

“To get through this war alive,” Severus said, guiding Charity to a chair. “I am not presently concerned with the fallout. Too much is at stake.”

Charity watched Severus move around his kitchen, taking out pans, lighting the stove, putting a kettle on, taking things from the fridge. 

Severus Snape had a fridge. 

“He may not act like it,” Severus said as he cracked an egg, speakingly softly, “but my son is still very agitated that his lineage has been revealed to you.”

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” Charity said. “Who would I even tell?” 

Severus had a son. A nineteen-year-old son. That was a long time to keep a secret, especially when Severus was one of Harry’s teachers for seven of those years. Charity was more thrown by Severus having a kid than who that kid’s mum or brother were. 

If Voldemort knew…

“Jesus,” Charity said uneasily, rubbing the still healing cuts on her forearm. The thought nauseated her. If they were willing to do all of that to her, what would they do to Harry? Better her than a kid.

“I would refrain from mentioning it,” Severus said, cracking another egg. Why did he need so many eggs? “It’s a sensitive subject, and would only serve to further upset my son. He needs to remain focused today.”

Charity kept her hand covering the scars. The bitch used a cursed knife so it couldn’t be fully healed.

“Why?” she asked. “What’s happening today?”

Something dropped into the chair across from Charity, and she jumped, her heart racing. It was Harry, looking like death warmed over. It was easier now to see the similarities between Harry and Severus, as if a veil had been removed from Charity’s eyes. Black hair, though Harry’s was finer and not as oily, penetrating black eyes, a less prominent nose but still distinctive, expressive brows, fuller lips more given to smiling than scowling.

Harry looked like Severus had a kid with Lily Evans. It was surreal. 

“Morning,” Harry mumbled. He put a cigarette between his lips, glanced at Charity, then sighed and started to put it away. 

“I don’t mind,” Charity said quickly. “This is your home, you’re allowed to do what you want.”

Harry looked at her, a smile slowly forming. “How…”

“Don’t,” Severus said flatly. 

“Charitable,” Harry finished with a grin. He lit his cigarette, then leaned back in his chair.

The cat jumped onto the table. She sniffed Charity, then jumped off again. 

“As for what’s happening today,” Harry said, looking at the smoldering end of his cigarette. “My future brother-in-law is getting married.” He held out his hand, and the cup Severus left in the sitting room flew into it without spilling a drop. Charity blinked at this kid’s casual, effortless display of wandless magic. Harry didn’t even seem to notice. He just took a sip of coffee like this was completely normal.

“Future brother-in-law,” Charity repeated, glancing at Severus. He was still busy doing something at the counter. 

“This quiche is destined for the bin,” Severus said drily.

Harry laughed. “You think I won’t eat out of a bin?”

“You should have slept for twelve hours,” Severus said, opening the oven. He was indeed holding an unbaked quiche. 

“Give quiche a chance,” Charity said faintly. 

“I was actually going to go with Magic is Might,” Harry said through a yawn. “But that’d work.” He scratched his nose, then took a drag from his cigarette. “Percy will have to redesign the statue.” Harry smiled at Charity. “I have to say, a pro-quiche theme is more appealing than an anti-muggle theme.”

Charity had no idea what Harry was talking about, but latched on to something familiar. “Percy? Percy Weasley?”

“Percy Prewett,” Harry said, his smile turning dreamy. “We are… affianced.”

“No,” Severus said, his deep voice like a crack of a thunder in the small kitchen. “You are most certainly not.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Anyway, dad’s right. There’s a lot of shit happening today.” He leaned forward. “Most relevant to you, professor, is my takeover of the Ministry of Magic.”

Charity frowned. “Your takeover?”

Harry winked at her. “That’s a secret.”

Charity shivered, then gratefully accepted a cup of tea from Severus. She didn’t know how she was going to get through this breakfast, much less a war. 

“Now, Professor Burbage,” Harry said, crossing his arms. “Let’s discuss your role in the new world order.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 21: Le lunch

Summary:

August 1st, 1997

The Wedding

Part II

The Dark Lord stood before the fireplace, Nagini coiled around him like a vine, staring into the flames.

There were surprisingly few Death Eaters in attendance, only a few deemed inner circle. Severus was among them, as was his son, lounging in a chair. Bellatrix kept casting dark looks at Harry, suspicious ones at Severus, then returning to her salivation over her dark master.

Lucius looked on the verge of a complete mental breakdown, which the man had been threatening to have since Harry took him from Azkaban. Lucius had not made much progress with the other escapees over the past month; many still lacked wands and were in very poor health. Lucius was more an inept nursemaid than a dark wizard, and coupled with his dead son and his wife going mad, Lucius was swiftly approaching the nadir of his torment.

Corban Yaxley stood stiffly to one side, his blunt features tense, wary. 

This was the sum total of the Death Eaters needed to overthrow a government that had existed for nearly four hundred years. Not the oldest in the magical world, but among the most influential. In truth, Bellatrix and Lucius were not needed. The Ministry coup hinged on Yaxley, and the rest on Harry. 

“And you believe you can take both?” the Dark Lord asked, his voice high and soft. That he attempted a hiss even when no S’s were present was something Severus’ son mocked. Severus could not imagine, prior to the creation of his horcruxes and subsequent collapse into this serpentine visage, that the Dark Lord had such off-putting verbal affectations. 

“Yeah,” Harry said, picking at his nails with a knife. “Within minutes. Like a house of Exploding Snap cards. Once one goes off, they all come tumbling down.” Harry frowned. “Blow up? A chain reaction?”

The Dark Lord chuckled, stroking Nagini’s head with one long, pale finger. All color had been leeched from the Dark Lord, other than his blood-red eyes and, presumably, his organs. Severus preferred not to cogitate upon the Dark Lord’s anatomy. 

“Yaxley.”

Yaxley straightened his back, an oddly militaristic habit. Or perhaps it had been beaten into Yaxley to not slouch. “Yes, my Lord?”

“Remember my words,” the Dark Lord said. “One failed attempt will set me back, and I do not wish to waste time on remediating your failure.”

“I will not fail you, my Lord,” Yaxley said firmly. “Thicknesse is completely under my control. His will has eroded these past days. The others under his control are similarly subdued.”

“Good,” the Dark Lord said quietly. “Very good. Severus?”

“Yes, my Lord?” Severus said. He found his role the least enviable. Harry, through his own machinations, was relatively far removed from the events to come at the Ministry. Not that much activity was planned.

“You have brought the Veritaserum?” the Dark Lord asked. 

“I have, my Lord,” Severus said. “It has matured over this past lunar cycle. However—”

“I have heard your objections already, Severus,” the Dark Lord said sharply. 

Severus fell silent. Telling the Dark Lord that something was pointless was itself pointless.

The Dark Lord believed he was more than human, capable of impossible feats of magic. In Severus’ experience, that was not the case. The Dark Lord was steeped in dark magic, had traveled the world seeking obscure and forgotten magicks, so he claimed; the Dark Lord rarely displayed any of the vast amounts of knowledge he attested to. In reality, the Dark Lord was a megalomaniac who happened to be better at magic than most people. Confronted with someone who was his equal or superior in power, such as Dumbledore, the Dark Lord’s delusions unraveled. 

Harry glanced at Severus, then checked his watch. “It’s nearly two, my Lord.” Harry threw his head back despairingly. “I missed lunch.”

Bellatrix took a step towards Harry, her face hideous with fury, her silver fingers twitching as if imagining them wrapped around Harry’s neck. “You insolent, filthy, vile abomination! You dare complain about missing lunch on the eve of the Dark Lord’s—”

“It’s not the eve,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “It’s early afternoon.”

Bellatrix gnashed her teeth. “You…”

“Do you have rabies?” Harry asked her. “Do you know what rabies is?”

Severus had no one in the room to turn to. Yaxley was backing out of the line of fire, Lucius was cowering, the Dark Lord was petting his giant snake.

“Is that why you don’t bathe?” Harry asked, smiling. “Where do you get off on calling me filthy when you smell like fucking roadkill?” He snorted. “I bet you do get off on—”

“Evans,” Severus snapped. “Do not waste the Dark Lord’s time with your infantile attempts at humor.”

Harry blew a raspberry at him, then jumped out of his seat. “With your permission, my Lord, I’d like to get this over with. I’m missing out on sullying my pureblood paramour with my filthy, filthy, absolutely fucking disgusting—”

“You may leave, Harry,” the Dark Lord said, sounding, against all rationality, amused. “Bellatrix, calm yourself. I do not wish for any magical blood to be spilt today.”

Bellatrix underwent a startling transformation, from seething at Harry to simpering at the Dark Lord. Severus wondered if Bellatrix’s parents were as repulsed by her behavior as he was by his son’s. He knew Harry hated sharing intimate details about his relationship with Prewett, and that Prewett valued his own privacy. Harry flaunting his relationship, his sexuality, was just another tool he used, another form of manipulation. Severus was doing something similar with Charity. Turning his love into a vice. 

“Thank you, my Lord,” Harry sang sweetly as he walked to the door. Lucius flinched as he passed. “Make sure to tune in.”

Severus watched the door swing shut on his son, then turned back to the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord had looked away from the fire to watch Harry leave, and was now regarding Severus.

“You are certain that Monty Potter will be at this wedding?” the Dark Lord asked.

“Yes, my Lord,” Severus said. “Both the Order of the Phoenix and the Ministry have placed the Burrow under the most powerful protective enchantments at their disposal. Infiltrating the wedding will be near impossible without the Ministry’s resources under your control. The nature of the enchantments is closely guarded. It would take hours, perhaps days, to subvert them, and Potter will undoubtedly flee before we manage such an onerous task.” Severus paused, then added, “Sirius Black will be with him.”

The Dark Lord stared at him. Monty had not presented himself at the Ministry like Yaxley asserted he would, and now this wedding was their best opportunity. Once that failed, Severus was ready with his alternative. 

The Dark Lord feared Monty. He was afraid what would happen if he tried to kill Monty again. Monty was an unknown. He was prophesied. The Dark Lord had failed once before and lost a war he was on the cusp of winning. That, more than anything, motivated the Dark Lord’s behavior. Once more, he was on the cusp. 

“Yaxley, take Avery and Rookwood with you,” the Dark Lord commanded. “There can be no room for error. If you must kill Scrimgeour in the middle of the Atrium, then do so. I will take the Ministry by subterfuge or by force, but I will take it.”

Yaxley opened his mouth to object, then thought better of it and nodded. “Yes, my Lord.”

“Go,” the Dark Lord snapped. Yaxley nodded again and hurried out of the room. The Dark Lord turned to Bellatrix and Lucius. “If we fail to capture Monty Potter at this wedding, I want a simultaneous attack on every known member of the Order of the Phoenix and anyone even remotely affiliated with Dumbledore. Lucius, you will select whoever is the fittest among us and ensure they acquire wands. Now.” 

“Yes, my Lord,” Lucius said hastily, then he fled the room. 

“Bellatrix,” the Dark Lord said, “You will work with Severus to plan the assaults. I want no casualties. Every drop of magical blood must be preserved.” The Dark Lord laughed to himself. “This is a bloodless coup, Bella.”

Despite killing Dumbledore, Bellatrix was still skeptical of Severus. Severus was not the only one who disavowed the Dark Lord—everyone who had not gone to Azkaban after the first war did, including Bellatrix’s brother-in-law—but Severus worked directly under Dumbledore for years. Worse, he was a halfblood. 

Bellatrix gave Severus a triumphant look. She thought of being given the dirty work of torture and interrogation as a reward. Severus thought of it as pointless. Monty was living under Fidelius, and Black was the secret-keeper. No amount of the Cruciatus Curse would force the secret out. No, Monty had to be lured, and only Severus was in a position to do so.

Severus gave Bellatrix a thin smile, then set about outlining a plan of assault while they waited for Yaxley to return with the Minister for Magic.

 

---

 

The Ministry was quiet. 

Percy gazed at the poster of Harry that hung from the wall opposite his desk. He considered putting another poster at his desk, in a place of greater prominence, then sighed and sorted through some papers he already sorted. 

Most of Percy’s workday had been spent on him waiting to leave. The Minister had few appointments. A surprising number of employees were attending Bill’s wedding, The only office fully staffed was the Auror Office as, believing the Ministry to be infiltrated, aurors were no longer being used to guard Monty Potter. Not that they were of much use, as no one knew where Monty actually was. 

Percy checked his watch, his anxiety growing. He took even breaths, gradually cleared his mind. Any agitation he displayed would be attributed to attending his estranged brother’s wedding. Rather, Percy was the estranged one. He had become a stranger. He was, in truth, always a stranger to his family. They never really knew him, not if his leaving came as a surprise. 

Upon hearing the loud clatter of a lift, Percy sat up straighter and smoothed his expression. Harry had told him that the planned coup would happen today. Nearly every Order of the Phoenix member would be at the wedding, as well as many prominent members of the Wizengamot, Ministry, and wider magical community, and, of course, Monty Potter. Having a large wedding with so many important attendees on the brink of war was utterly mad to Percy. If it was him and Harry, their wedding would double as a trap, an ambush, every insult and indignity suffered by Harry washed away by the blood of their enemies, and they would dance upon their fallen foes, tread upon that brutal slaughter as Harry laughed and the stars themselves would be caught in the silver crown upon his noble brow, and Percy’s mother would weep in the damning light of Harry’s glory, for she would see the enormity of Harry’s grace, his beauty, the overwhelming force of his magic, and in the eternal blackness of Harry’s eyes would be reflected her ignorance, her shame, her mean, petty, delusional—

Someone cleared their throat.

“Good afternoon, sirs,” Percy said, fighting down a blush. The lift had brought up Pius Thicknesse, who looked less detached than when he was first placed under Imperius. The hold over his mind was stronger. With Thicknesse were two aurors, Adrian Pucey, who grinned at Percy, and an older auror named Albert Runcorn. 

“Is the Minister available for our meeting?” Thicknesse asked. 

“I believe so, Mr. Thicknesse,” Percy said, standing. That was his primary role in this coup. Scheduling a meeting with Head Auror Pius Thicknesse for two-thirty on Friday, the first of August. Had Bill chosen to get married on a Saturday, things would have proceeded less smoothly. 

Percy walked to the Minister’s office and knocked on the door. 

The door opened. 

“What is it, Prewett?” Scrimgeour growled. He was squinting at a scroll, likely another report on odd occurrences in the muggle world. Unexplained accidents, disappearances, deaths. The assaults against witches and wizards had stopped after Dumbledore’s death. It was the Dark Lord’s one-sided ceasefire, the calm before striking the Ministry. 

“Mr. Thicknesse is here for his appointment, sir,” Percy said evenly. “As a reminder, I’m leaving early today. You have no other appointments this afternoon.”

Scrimgeour frowned. “None at all?”

“It’s a Friday, sir,” Percy said. “And many people are attending the wedding, including myself.”

Scrimgeour nodded absently. “Right, right. Well, send Thicknesse in. Give my congratulations to... Phil.”

Percy looked at Scrimgeour for a moment—he was a terrible Minister, but at least he remembered Percy’s name—then turned to the Imperiused Thicknesse and his entourage. “The Minister is ready to see you.”

Percy waited until Thicknesse and the others were in the office, until the door was shut, until all noise cut off under a silencing charm. Then Percy checked his watch, packed his briefcase, and left work for the day. 

 

---

 

“Excusez-moi,” Harry said to a group of middle-aged witches. They tittered at him, but moved aside so he could grab one of the books on display. Copies were selling out fast.

There was a queue going out of the door of Flourish and Blotts, reminiscent of the madhouse of a Gilderoy Lockhart release. Lockhart had not released any books in five years. Harry wasn’t entirely sure where the man was. Hopefully in MACUSA custody, though last Harry heard Lockhart was still on the run after they caught him with a niffler in his luggage.

Harry grabbed a copy of The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore, by Rita Skeeter, and continued discreetly magicking his way through the shop. 

There hadn’t been time to track down Skeeter, or threaten her publisher, or destroy every copy of the book in existence for Skeeter having the gall to include his brother in her shitty book and steal all the pre-order money, but it wasn’t the first time someone had written about his brother, nor would it be the last. Nearly every book about the first war, about Voldemort, about dark arts in Britain, mentioned Monty. 

After sneaking his way into the front of the queue, Harry only had a few minutes to wait for a shop assistant to be freed up. When it was his stolen turn, he set the book on the counter and reached into his robes. 

“That’ll be fifteen galleons,” the harried shop assistant said. 

Harry stared at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

The shop assistant cleared his throat. “That’ll be fifteen galleons, sir.”

“Fifteen galleons,” Harry repeated flatly. “You’re having me on.”

“I’m afraid not, sir,” the shop assistant said. “If you are unable—”

“Oh, I’m able to afford it,” Harry said acidly. “I’m only the bloody captain of the Canadian National Gobstones Team.”

The shop assistant blinked a few times. “Is that a… lucrative career, sir?”

“Fifteen bloody galleons,” Harry scoffed, picking up the book again. “I’m not fucking paying that. That’s seventy-five pounds, mate.”

“Sir,” the shop assistant began.

“Va te faire enculer,” Harry snapped, walking off. “I’ll put the bloody thing back. Fifteen galleons, incroyable.” Harry discreetly cast a doubling charm and dropped the fake copy on top of the pile on display, then slipped the real book into his robes. “Sur la vie de ma mère, je vais mettre le feu à ce putain de magasin!”

When he fought his way back out of Flourish and Blotts, he found Astrid and Captain Lament waiting for him on the street. 

“What took you so long?” Astrid asked. 

“They wanted fifteen galleons,” Harry said, still annoyed at the ludicrous price. “They can pry it out of my cold, dead fucking hands.” Harry glanced at the growing queue, disgusted. Skeeter’s latest book was drawing people in while other businesses were still shuttered. “Let’s go.”

“This is the rot at the heart of magical society,” Captain Lament said loudly, her steely gaze eviscerating the crowd. “You mentally destitute plebians care more about some dead twat than the living gobstone!”

“Gobstones aren’t alive,” Astrid muttered as they dragged Captain Lament away. “They’re just enchanted, like a bludger, or a snitch.” Astrid shot him a quelling look. “Don’t even start.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Harry said, tucking the book more securely into his robes. There was no time to read it today.

The rest of Diagon Alley was fairly deserted, and even Knockturn was subdued. Down the street. Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes was closed, with a sign telling customers that the shop owners were at a wedding and not dead. Fred and George weren’t in any danger yet; Harry was fairly certain their U-No-Poo constipation pill hadn’t got back to the Dark Lord. Harry thought it would be funnier as a suppository. 

It didn’t take long for them to reach the south side of Diagon Alley, and the main offices of the Daily Prophet. 

“Does everyone remember their story?” Harry asked, checking his watch. “Charity, you’re here to complain in person about the lack of National Gobstones League tournament coverage.” 

Captain Lament cracked her knuckles. 

“Astrid, we all know that the Prophet has a Puddlemere bias.”

Astrid nodded, then also cracked Captain Lament’s knuckles.

“Right,” Harry said, looking up at the yellowed sign hanging over the street. The Daily Prophet was written in a curling script. “And remember, I’m Henri Leprince. If anyone asks, my portkey was delayed. I long for the sultry air of Montreal.”

Astrid plucked one of his charmed blond strands. “You still look like Haz.”

Harry smiled, then rubbed Astrid’s buzzed head for luck. He turned back to the door. All the windows were shuttered, but he could feel the subtle vibration of a printing press through his boots.

“Time to storm the castle,” Harry said, crossing his arms. “Captain Lament, if you would do the honors.”

Captain Lament raised a fist and punched it into the door. 

“No, like this,” Astrid said, pushing Captain Lament aside. Astrid swung her leg back and slammed her boot into the door. 

“Weak broom-sitter legs!” Captain Lament barked. “A stoner’s legs are crucial to the core strength required—”

“Weak broom legs?” Astrid snarled. “You bloody wankstain, how the fuck do you think I stay on the broom when I’ve got the quaffle?”

Captain Lament laughed. “I wouldn’t ride a broom into battle!”

Harry took out his wand. 

“You’re talking mince,” Astrid said dismissively. “What else would you ride? A gobstone? May as well shove it up your arse.” Astrid kicked the door again. “Open up, you cunts! I don’t pay two bloody sickles for—”

The door cracked open, and an annoyed-looking wizard stuck his head out. “The Daily Prophet offices are not currently open to the—”

Before Captain Lament and Astrid could strong-arm the man, Harry flicked his wand. The man’s expression went slack. 

“Andy?” someone shouted from within the building. “Is that the goblins again? How many times do I have to tell them? They bloody well know we can’t edit after publication! I don’t know the bleeding difference between bladvak and blodvik, and those squiggly runes of theirs are damn hard to print! Ragnok needs to do his own editing!”

The Confunded wizard, Andy, slowly blinked. Astrid gave him a gentle push and he backed inside. They followed him in, and Harry shut the door. 

They were in a wide room with a low ceiling, far larger than the narrow edifice suggested. The room was filled with desks, piled with papers and parchment and back issues. A curving front desk was stacked with correspondence, and for the moment had no one sitting at it. The walls were covered with wanted posters, advertisements, a massive production schedule, deadlines. A tall fireplace roared with green flames, and several scrolls shot out of it, landing in collection basket. Owls, feathers, quills, and smoke filled the air. About a dozen people sitting at desks—various editors, Harry assumed—turned to look at them. 

“Andy!”

“I think he’s the Ministry Affairs correspondent,” Harry said quietly as the Confunded man wandered off. He smiled. “That’s convenient.”

An older woman stood up, and Harry could see others shifting nervously. 

“How did you get in here?” the woman asked. “Who are you three?”

“We’re here to talk to whoever the Sports and Games editor is!” shouted Captain Lament. “And file a complaint! My owls have been ignored! Gobstones is more than a game!”

“Fucking hell,” they heard someone grumbling from one of the few offices. “Bloody wedding… secretaries… Is Deborah still at lunch?”

One tired-looking wizard with a Puddlemere United pennant at his desk asked, exasperated, “Charity Lament, correct? The gobstones fanatic?”

Astrid glowered at him. “So this is the Puddlemere prick.”

An older man with a tuft of grey hair and an impressively stiff collar emerged from an office.

“Have fun,” Harry murmured as Astrid and Captain Lament stormed over to the editor who spurned them. He walked over to greet the man coming out of the office, ignoring the wands discreetly being drawn under desks. 

“What the hell is going on out here?” the older man demanded. “Andy? Did you let these kids in?”

Andy was trying to sit in the fireplace. Harry grimaced. He might have been heavy-handed with the Confundus. He was trying not to do this like too much of a Death Eater. Half of the people in the room would be tied up and forced to watch the others get tortured. 

“Bonjour,” Harry said amiably. “Are you Mr. Cuffe?”

The older man looked at him, frowning. “Who are you?”

“Mr. Barnabas Cuffe?” Harry asked. “Editor-in-chief of this fine publication?”

“Yes,” Mr. Cuffe said irritably. 

“I’m Henri Leprince,” Harry said. From within his robes, he flicked his wand. “Given the lack of gobstones reportage, I imagine you haven’t heard of me.”

Mr. Cuffe gave him a blank look. “My apologies,” he said, sounding confused. “I… I must have forgotten. Did we have an appointment?”

“Why don’t we speak in your office,” Harry said, putting an arm around the Confunded man and herding him back into the room. Astrid and Captain Lament were making a racket, and no one tried stopping him. They didn’t look like Death Eaters, they weren’t acting like Death Eaters, and it was broad daylight. 

When the office door was shut and silenced, Harry dropped into a chair and lit a cigarette. As Barnabas Cuffe took his well-padded chief editor seat, Harry dispelled the charms that made his hair blond and his eyes green. 

Mr. Cuffe blanched. “You—”

“You have a few options,” Harry said, kicking up his legs. He took a drag from his cigarette and met Mr. Cuffe’s eyes. “You get put under Imperius, you get replaced, or you cooperate. Whatever you choose, the Daily Prophet will be going for a new angle, starting today.” Harry checked his watch. “You have fifteen minutes to decide. I’ve got another meeting to get to.”

 

Notes:

Pardon my French

If you notice any typos/errors/etc, let me know in discord

Va te faire enculer - go fuck yourself

incroyable - incredible/unbelievable

Sur la vie de ma mère, je vais mettre le feu à ce putain de magasin - on my mother's life, I'm going to burn this fucking store down

Chapter 22: Not Standing on Ceremony

Summary:

August 1st, 1997

The Wedding

Part III

Notes:

Sorry for breaking this into multiple parts, but it would be like 20k+ as a single chapter. It won't feel as long on reread.

Thank you for your comments, feedback, support, etc <3

“You know what program I really hate?”

Charity tensed, nearly snapping her own wand in half in a white-knuckled grip. She had been loitering around Hogsmeade, waiting. While Charity had seen a few people walking down the street, going in and out of the Three Broomsticks for a late lunch or drink—Charity had skipped lunch, she didn’t have any appetite—no one had approached her, for obvious reasons. She was Disillusioned. Then Harry Evans appeared out of nowhere, blond-haired and green-eyed—how had she not recognized him from the off? The kid was barely trying to disguise himself—smoking and strolling down this narrow alley as if he owned the place. That wasn’t far from the truth, not if things went to plan. Charity didn’t have a doubt in her mind. 

“The Witching Hour, with Glenda Chittock,” Harry said, looking directly at the invisible Charity. “First thing every bloody morning they play Celestina Warbeck for an hour straight.” He took a drag from his cigarette, his gaze growing distant. “Can’t stand Celestina Warbeck. Percy’s mum loves her, but she sounds so generic to me. And it’s always the same songs. They only play the hits.”

Charity decided to overlook that Harry knew she was there despite what she knew was a near perfect Disillusionment Charm. She tapped herself on the head to dispel the evidently useless spell. 

“Usually people owl in if they want to make requests,” Charity said drily. 

Harry snorted. “What, so they can play the Weird Sisters? The Hobgoblins?”

“The Rhythmic Runes,” Charity said. “Spellbound.”

Harry grimaced. “I’d rather listen to Spice Girls,” he said. “At least they don’t need charms to sing.”

“You know the Spice Girls?” Charity said. “Weren’t you in Az—”

“I escaped Azkaban after a week,” Harry said. He took another drag from his cigarette. “It’s impossible not to know them.” He looked at Charity. “If you want to play Spice Girls, that’s up to you. I would definitely consider them a muggle menace.”

Despite... everything, Charity laughed.

Harry smiled, then sang, “Taking is too easy, but that’s the way it is.”

Charity raised her eyebrows. “You’ve got a good voice.”

Harry shrugged, then walked onto the street. “During the first task, when I fought that dragon, I considered ensorcelling her with a song. It wouldn’t have sent the same message, though.”

“What message?” Charity asked, following him. She looked up and down the street, but there was no one else out. She could see the towers of Hogwarts Castle in the near distance. Severus explained that he was convincing Voldemort to use Hogwarts as a detention center for all underage magical children, regardless of blood status, as well as squib children. In reality, Hogwarts would serve its purpose as a castle and act as a stronghold. A place to protect the kids, keep them out of the war. 

Harry paused outside of the door of the Wizarding Wireless Network, then looked at Charity again. “To not fuck with me.”

Charity met his eyes. “I’m not going to—”

“What you and dad don’t seem to understand,” Harry said, “or care about, is that, in the end, it’s going to hurt my brother more.”

Charity felt uneasy at the coldness in Harry’s voice. She didn’t believe she was in any danger from him, even after he participated in her torture. Harry had little choice in that, not without risking exposure. Charity’s memories of Malfoy Manor were still vague. She didn’t think she was ready to confront them. What Charity was more worried about was what Harry was doing to himself.

Severus had told her, in confidence, that Harry cared more about his younger brother than he cared about himself, and he was taking that to an insane extreme. Charity didn’t know the full story, and knew she wasn’t entitled to it, but she did know that the Triwizard Cup had been turned into a portkey, and that it was intended for Monty Potter. Harry burned Barty Crouch alive for the honor of being taken to a graveyard, overpowered, and used in a grisly resurrection ritual. Then he had to look into the eyes of the man who enslaved his father, killed his mother, hunted his brother, and lie. Harry pledged himself to serving Voldemort to save his own life, and did horrific things to cement his loyalty. To prove himself. The Mudblood Death Eater. 

“I’m a legilimens like dad,” Harry said quietly. “I can see the thoughts behind your eyes.”

Charity quickly looked away. “I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s not your fault,” Harry said, pulling down his fingerless gloves. Charity noticed Harry wore them all the time, but hadn’t asked why. Because it was cool? “I think I should have stayed hidden. I hate being seen like that.”

“I’m not judging you,” Charity said, chastising herself for doing exactly what Severus asked her not to. “I don’t think—”

“We’ve been out here too long,” Harry said, looking up at the sky. It was a nice day, a few clouds, not too hot, especially up here in the mountains. “I could talk my way in, but this is faster.“ He flicked his wand, and the door popped open. “Remember, you’re a hostage.”

Charity nodded, keeping her wand concealed inside of her dress pocket. Harry motioned for her, and they walked into the studio of the Wizarding Wireless Network. 

Charity had passed this building so many times and always wondered what went on inside of a magical radio station. The first thing she saw was a desk, and a surprised secretary sitting behind it.

“Can I—”

Harry stunned the woman before she could get another word out. With a wave of his wand, the woman was bound in ropes. Charity was taken aback by how fast it happened. She wasn’t a duelist by any means, another thing she bitterly regretted. She had hidden herself and her family during the first war. Charity had hidden her family again, and she was being protected too. Severus was keeping her. 

“Homenum revelio,” Harry murmured, sweeping his wand out. Charity felt something like a shadow passing over her and shuddered. “Most people don’t recognize that spell for what it is.” His head turned to a door on the right, and his eyes narrowed. “They’ve got some enchantments up, something to do with sound. Soundproofing, sound quality.”

Charity nodded. That was a reasonable assumption. 

Harry wrinkled his nose, then gripped his left forearm. Charity took a step towards him, tentatively reaching out. Harry moved away, and Charity’s hand fell. She had no idea how to deal with her boyfriend’s secret nineteen-year-old son. Charity hadn’t interacted much with Harry while he was a student, and now she wondered if that was intentional. Not that it was hard to avoid her; Harry never took Muggle Studies.

“It’s started,” Harry muttered, his expression hardening. “I’m not being summoned yet, merely informed.” He sighed. “I wouldn’t have been able to go anyway.” He glanced at Charity, then moved towards the door to what she assumed was a magical sound booth. Charity hung back, eyeing the stunned woman. She couldn’t imagine it took many people to run the Wizarding Wireless Network. The secretary, the various hosts, a producer, owners, marketing, or at least someone to facilitate advertisers. A dozen people?

Harry grabbed the doorknob, and it readily turned for him. The door swung open, revealing a haphazardly decorated office that looked more like someone’s living room, if that person was a hoarder. Books, magazines, plants everywhere, stacks of records, wood-paneled radios, brooms, cloaks, cushions, teacups, a sleeping cat.

Dominating the room was a cluttered round table, and at it sat a middle-aged man with a thick red beard, stroking the leaves of a potted plant and speaking to a golden ball on a stick. It resembled a microphone, if drawn by a child. The man hadn’t seen them come in. 

“Hello and welcome back to Toots, Shoots ‘n’ Roots with me, Tilden Toots!” the man said into the ball-on-a-stick.

Tilden had been in Hufflepuff with Charity, a year above Severus. Charity remembered him being rather popular for a Hufflepuff, given his three thumbs and habit of caring for all of the plants in the common room. Tilden’s wife, Daisy, had written My Life as a Muggle, and various other books where she masqueraded as the other. Daisy gave up magic for a year while still living fully in the magical world. It was a terrible book, which Charity had her seventh-year students analyze. 

“Our first owl today is from an anonymous listener who wants to know the best charm for silencing honking daffodils,” Tilden said, twiddling his three thumbs. “My advice is that if you don’t want your daffodils to honk, don’t plant honking daffodils.” Tilden laughed heartily. “The honking is a defense mechanism, which is why honking daffodils are such a popular choice these days, one I’ve recommended here on the program. Honking daffodils act as an intruder alarm.” Tilden leaned forward, his expression turning serious. “Listeners, I understand if the honking is waking you up, or your children, or disturbing your neighbors. If that’s more important to you than your safety, there are other protective magical plants you can integrate into your garden. Fanged geraniums can be trained to recognize relatives, the family owl or toad—”

Harry pressed his wand to Tilden’s neck.

“The Wizarding Wireless Network is currently experiencing some broadcasting issues due to a flock of poisonous ducks,” Harry said smoothly, while Tilden remained frozen. “Please stand by as we chase them off the roof. Thank you for your patience.”

Harry pressed his wand deeper into Tilden’s neck, and Tilden quickly fumbled with the microphone. 

“It’s off,” Tilden said frantically. “It’s off, I swear! I just talk about herbology. I’m an herbologist! I’m a halfblood! I have a wife! Please! My wife’s pureblood! I don’t—”

Tilden broke off when he saw Charity hovering awkwardly near the door. Charity gave him a blank stare; she was supposed to pretend to be under the Imperius Curse.

“What—”

“The Dark Lord is taking over this station,” Harry said. “Now, we’re going to take a little walk, Mr. Toots.” 

Harry suddenly hung his head, and his shoulders shook. It took Charity a moment to realize he was trying not to laugh. Because of Toots? It struck Charity again how very young Harry was to be doing this. 

After a moment, Harry snorted, easily summoned Tilden’s wand from within his robes, and had the man stand up. 

“I need to speak with whoever’s in charge of this place,” Harry said, prodding Tilden out of the room by wandpoint. “There are going to be some programming changes, mister…” Harry snorted. “Mr. Toots. You can keep… tooting about herbology.”

Charity trailed after Harry, then silently watched as he made Tilden get on his knees and make several floo calls. When Tilden was done, looking terrified and completely out of his depth with a teenager who wouldn’t hesitate to torture and kill to get what he wanted—what Voldemort ostensibly wanted—Harry tied Tilden up and set him behind the front desk, next to the unconscious secretary. 

As soon as there was movement in the fireplace, Charity pointed her wand and petrified the first person to come through, then the next, until they had a group of frightened hostages and a pile of wands.

“Much easier than killing everyone and trying to get Death Eaters to run this place,” Harry said, sounding pleased with himself. He checked his watch, and his expression fell. “The guests are arriving now.” 

Harry conjured himself a chair, then sat down. After a moment, Charity did the same. Harry took out a cigarette and snapped his fingers to light it.

Charity had nothing to contribute, so she tried to look intimidating. She didn’t want to do this, but at least no one was getting hurt. 

“I’m going to tell you lot the same thing I told them at the Daily Prophet,” Harry said, looking at his hostages. “You’re no longer going to be reporting on any Death Eater activities. No more maligning the Dark Lord, or it’s going to end badly for you.” Harry grinned at them, which several of the WWN employees recoiled at. “You’re going to incorporate several new segments. One will be hosted by me…” Harry waved his wand around his head, and his eyes and hair both bled into black. “Your favorite Death Eater. The other will be hourly bulletins recorded by my new associate, Professor Charity Burbage.” Harry’s smile grew. “The Muggle Menace Minute. Catchy, yeah? Everyone following so far?”

One of the hostages made a gurgling noise. 

“Great,” Harry said. “The Dark Lord is always listening.” He took a drag from his cigarette, then leaned forward. “If a single one of you slips up, this station will be permanently occupied by Death Eaters. Instead of dealing with me, you’ll have to answer to the Lestranges.” Harry chuckled darkly. “I can promise you, Bellatrix is much less forgiving of blood traitors than I am.”

Charity touched the scars on her arm without thinking, and her fingers tightened as Harry continued gleefully explaining, in explicit detail, what would happen to these people and their families if they failed to comply.

 

---

 

Severus watched placidly as Yaxley bodily dragged an unresisting grey-haired man across the drawing room. 

Lucius and Bellatrix were no longer present, having gone to rally anyone capable of holding a wand. There were people in the Ministry sympathetic to the Dark Lord—blood purists whose bigotry didn’t rise to the level of torturing and killing muggleborns, muggles, and squibs, but who used their positions to oppress, discriminate, and disenfranchise—but Death Eater presence was still required to stop any armed resistance to the Dark Lord’s reign. Yaxley was being tasked with the Ministry’s general operation, through his Imperiused puppet Pius Thicknesse. Similarly, Severus was being given Hogwarts. 

Much to his son’s delight, and months of slipping it into conversations and meetings with the Dark Lord, Harry was taking the role of a propagandist, stomping his dragonhide boot on the necks of major magical media outlets. 

Unlike the Ministry and Daily Prophet, they anticipated Gringotts need to be taken by brute force in order for it to be fully under the Dark Lord’s command. There was already a barely tolerated Ministry presence there, so it wasn’t an immediate concern. According to the information Severus had—through Black, gleaned from Bill Weasley—the goblins wanted nothing to do with this conflict. They would not fight with the Ministry or against the Dark Lord’s occupation, apparently due to some gambling debt owed to Gringotts by one Ludo Bagman.

Rufus Scrimgeour was thrown at the feet of the Dark Lord, his arms tied behind his back, unconscious. Yaxley kneeled before the Dark Lord, a hunter crouched over his mildly impressive trophy kill.

“Only took a few of us to subdue him, my Lord,” Yaxley said proudly, yanking back his victim’s head to better display him. “Scrimgeour didn’t see it coming. Thicknesse is currently in the Minister’s office, getting the other department heads under control. I’ve got Pucey and Runcorn rounding up the Department of Magical Law Enforcement with Dawlish. Couldn’t find Shacklebolt. Reckon he’s with the Prime Minister.” Yaxley released Scrimgeour’s hair and grinned. “I’ve been promoted to Head Auror.”

The Dark Lord gave Yaxley a thin smile, ignoring the man at his feet. “Have you discovered anything regarding Monty Potter?”

Yaxley stood, scowling. “Hate to say it, my Lord, but Snape was right. Potter’s under Fidelius, and the Ministry’s got nothing to do with his protection anymore.” He kicked Scrimgeour in the side. “If anyone knows what enchantments they’ve got at that wedding, it’s this one.”

The Dark Lord laced his fingers together. “The Taboo will pierce any protective enchantments.” He chuckled. “Though I doubt anyone will be saying Lord Voldemort’s name during a wedding.” His red eyes darted down to Scrimgeour. “Wake him.”

“With pleasure,” Yaxley said, brandishing his wand. A red light struck Scrimgeour in the back, and he shot upright. 

It only took seconds for Scrimgeour to process the situation he found himself in. Severus crossed his arms as the grizzled auror tried to rise to his feet. Yaxley planted a boot in his back and sent Scrimgeour sprawling again. 

“Where is Monty Potter?” the Dark Lord asked.

Scrimgeour’s yellow eyes glared at him from the floor. “I’m not telling you anything, Voldemort,” he spat.

The fire crackled. 

Severus took a small step back.

“Crucio,” Yaxley snarled.

Scrimgeour shrieked, his back arching, his limbs twisting, flailing, spittle flying from his mouth, his head cracking against the stone floor. The screaming was unpleasant, and not a sound Severus ever imagined hearing the man make. He stoically watched the torture, as he had watched many others, including Charity. Including his son.

The Dark Lord had the face of one listening to a pleasant melody, a soft smile that was uncanny on his flat, colorless features, the soulless smile of a porcelain doll.

Minutes passed before Yaxley relented. The man looked slightly dazed, flushed with pleasure. Meanwhile, Scrimgeour gasped on the floor, lying in his own urine-soaked robes. Nagini slithered over to investigate, her forked tongue flicking out to taste the rank stench. Could she sense magic? Dark magic? The snake did the Dark Lord’s bidding, but the extent of her abilities was unknown.

“Where is Monty Potter?” the Dark Lord repeated.

“You won’t,” Scrimgeour panted, “get anything from me, Voldemort.”

The Dark Lord raised a hand to stop Yaxley from punishing Scrimgeour again for saying his name. 

“Severus,” the Dark Lord said. “The Veritaserum.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Severus said, sick of repeating those words. 

Lord. Pretentious piece of shit. 

Severus was his son’s age when he was marked, and he became a Death Eater for a far less noble purpose. He hated everything. He lost the mother he resented, the father he loathed, his best and only real friend. He was poor, a constant target for bullying, his abilities overlooked. The Dark Lord offered a place, a sense of purpose, the acknowledgement that was so lacking in Severus’ life. He got to take out his anger, his violent urges, was encouraged to do so. 

The small vial was already in Severus’ hand. He uncorked it, then stepped towards Scrimgeour. Yaxley seized the man, wrapped an arm around his neck, and grabbed Scrimgeour’s jaw to force his mouth open. Severus tipped the vial so three drops fell on Scrimgeour’s bloody and bitten tongue. Scrimgeour’s face immediately slackened, and his eyes glazed over. Severus backed away again and tucked the Veritaserum into his robes. He expected they would be going through his entire stock in the coming weeks, and months.

“Where is Monty Potter?” the Dark Lord asked a third time.

Severus knew the Dark Lord asked Lily to stand aside, three times. Lily refused.

Scrimgeour shuddered, but he couldn’t resist the potion. He lacked the ability. 

“The Weasley wedding,” Scrimgeour said tonelessly.

The Dark Lord’s expression soured. “Where does Potter live?”

It took longer for Scrimgeour to respond. “With Sirius Black.”

“I know that!” the Dark Lord screeched. “Where, Scrimgeour? Where? Where?”

What followed was all information Severus had given the Dark Lord.

“They cast the Fidelius Charm,” Scrimgeour said. “No one can know. It’s not possible. I was not told. Dumbledore was uncooperative. Potter and Black despise the Ministry. They undermine me. They’re against me. Against the Ministry.”

The Dark Lord grabbed Scrimgeour’s throat. “Who is the secret-keeper?”

“I don’t know,” Scrimgeour said. 

The Dark Lord pressed his face close to Scrimgeour’s, his wand stabbing the man’s temple. “Do not lie to Lord Voldemort!”

Scrimgeour was dosed with Veritaserum. He couldn’t say anything he thought was untrue. The Dark Lord, aware of this caveat, plunged into Scrimgeour’s undefended mind. Scrimgeour immediately began screaming again.

Yaxley glanced at him. Severus raised an eyebrow and Yaxley looked away, mildly amused at this unproductive interrogation. Scrimgeour didn’t know anything useful about Monty. The wedding, perhaps, but it would take some time to extract all the information from him. Even with legilimency. 

The Dark Lord released Scrimgeour, his face twisted with fury.

“Severus,” the Dark Lord hissed. “Your arm.”

Severus approached the Dark Lord’s throne, pulling up his left sleeve. The Dark Lord jabbed a finger into his dark mark, and Severus clenched his teeth as it burned.

“Yaxley,” the Dark Lord said, kicking Scrimgeour away from his throne with a bare foot. His feet were as pale and unnaturally long as his hands. “You will identify everyone who placed an enchantment at the Burrow. When Harry arrives, I will initiate the Taboo. Then, we will attack.”

Severus tugged down his sleeve, his arm still aching. He knew his son secretly wished to attend the wedding. Now, Harry would get the opportunity.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 23: Spare Pricks at a Wedding

Summary:

August 1st, 1997

The Wedding

Part IV

Ron tugged on the collar of his dress robes, feeling too hot even under the shade of the orchard. No one had bothered casting any cooling charms on Ron’s robes, and sweat was already trickling down his back. His head felt oddly cold in comparison; fed up with the extreme oiliness, Ron had asked his mum to cut most of his hair off. His mum had done the same to Charlie’s, so Ron didn’t feel he stood out that much.

Ron glanced at the seating chart his mum had forced into his hands, all the tiny names in sparkling calligraphy. Ron barely recognized any of them. Not far away, clustered under a tree, were a group of white-robed waiters and musicians in golden jackets, smoking and talking. The blue haze of smoke had a shimmer to it, and it was making Ron’s head spin. He, Fred, and George were standing outside of a massive white marquee that stretched over the orchard, waiting for the wedding guests to arrive. 

“I’m not going through this nonsense when I get married,” Fred muttered, also tugging on his collar. Ron frowned, but didn’t mention any cooling charms. If Fred didn’t remember any of the magic he learned, Ron wasn’t going to help out. What did a squib know, anyway? It’s not like Ron grew up with magic, or learned it for five years before losing everything. “Someone needs to put a fully Body-Bind Curse on mum, these robes are a crime against humanity.”

“She’s not that bad,” George said, looking completely at ease. “At least she’s not crying about Percy anymore.”

Ron scowled. “Who wants him here, anyway?”

Fred and George both looked at him, and Ron’s scowl deepened. “What?”

“Nothing,” George said, turning away from him and looking across the yard. He grimaced. “Brace yourselves, lads. Here they come.”

Ron stood up straighter as people began popping up in the distance. Soon, a procession formed, winding its way past the house, through the garden. As they neared, Ron thought they resembled more a flock of motley birds than wedding guests. His own robes were a solid blue. Ron wondered if he should be wearing robes at all. Wizards wore robes. He wasn’t a wizard. Ron felt like a fraud. 

The procession drew closer, headed by a group of middle-aged witches in hats enchanted with enormous exotic flowers and birds, and it burned Ron that a bloody hat was more magical than he was. 

“Are those some of Fleur’s veela cousins?” George said, adjusting his robes. “Perhaps the mademoiselles need some assistance with our English—oi!” 

Fred darted forward to intercept two pretty girls. “Enchantée,” he said to the giggling girls, taking each of their elbows, his seating chart abandoned. “Permettez-moi to assister vous.”

Ron’s hand tightened on his seating chart. His mum made him take a potion that was supposed to help control his reactions around veela, according to Fleur’s mum, but potions interacted differently with muggles and squibs. It seemed to be working so far; he wasn’t turning into a gibbering idiot. 

“Git,” George muttered, bowing to the group of middle-aged witches who seemed just as charmed by him as the girls were by Fred. “Please allow me to escort you lovely ladies to your seats.”

Ron was left with Perkins, the elderly bloke who used to work for his dad in the Muggle Artifacts office.

“This way,” Ron said, stomping down the aisle as Perkins hobbled as fast as he could to keep up. 

 

---

 

Outside of the ostentatious gates of Malfoy Manor, Harry paused. He stared at the complicated scrollwork of black iron with a frown. He was glad to be out of robes and back to looking like himself. By the end of the day, his need for subterfuge in the magical world would be gone. He’d be able to walk around Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade or anywhere, really, without the threat of attack or arrest. 

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Harry didn’t change his expression as he pulled back his left sleeve, exposing his dark mark. It was a searing black, indicative of the Dark Lord’s urgency. It hurt like hell, but Harry didn’t let it show. He had an audience.

Harry walked forward, passing through the now insubstantial gates. It was a neat enchantment, but one easily circumvented. A bit like following someone through a turnstile to evade paying the fare, if your timing wasn’t terrible.

Harry smirked, lit a cigarette, then ambled up the drive. 

 

---

 

“Piss off, you cunts!” a garden gnome shouted at Monty and Luna. 

“Hello,” Luna said, crouching down to smile at the garden gnome. She held out her hand. “My name’s Luna. Nice to meet you.”

The gnome leapt forward and bit Luna’s finger. Monty was tempted to seize the little arsehole’s legs and hurl the gnome over the hedge, but Luna gently tapped the gnome’s head. The gnome released her and ran off, diving into one of the gnome holes in the Burrow’s garden.

“Look at that,” Luna said, holding her bleeding finger up to Monty. “The saliva of the gernumbli gardensi has many benefits, according to dad. He’s been researching gnome magic for years.”

“I remember,” Monty said, taking Luna’s hand. He wanted to kiss the wound, but that would interfere with any alleged magic in the gnome saliva. “Will you start singing in Mermish?”

“Do you want me to?” Luna asked, her pale eyes bulging. 

Monty stared stupidly at her.

Luna was slightly pink after their walk from her house, and her soft skin captured the warmth of summer. She was wearing a bright yellow dress that made her look like a flower, and she had an actual sunflower in her hair. The sunflower had attracted a few bees and butterflies, and they fluttered around Luna as she smiled at him. Monty leaned forward, as if he too was a butterfly drawn in by Luna’s resplendance. 

Luna kept looking at him. She liked looking at him. She didn’t seem to mind that his hair was charmed a dark red for the wedding. Monty hadn’t wanted any disguise; he welcomed a Death Eater attack. Luna complimented on his charmed hair, and Monty didn’t know how to feel about that. Harry had charmed Monty’s hair red before. Sirius said it made him look more like his mum, even with his glasses. 

Why was he thinking about his hair? Luna was right in front of him, smiling like the sun. A pale blue butterfly landed on her nose. 

Monty swallowed nervously, lacing Luna’s fingers with his own, completely entranced, distantly aware of the litany of swear words directed at them by the annoyed garden gnome. He moved closer to Luna, her face filling his vision, there was nothing else in the world, and—

There was a loud series of crunches, followed by a shouted apology. Monty tried to look around, but Luna suddenly grabbed his ears and kissed him. Monty’s head spun. He wanted to stay in this magical garden with Luna forever. 

“It’s almost our turn,” Luna whispered, gazing into Monty’s eyes. 

“Our turn for what?” Monty whispered back, mystified. Luna couldn’t possibly mean…

“To be seated,” Luna said, standing. She drew Monty up with her, then gently pulled him back to the queue in front of the marquee. Monty was nearly a foot taller than Luna now. He liked looking at the top of Luna’s head. She always had such interesting things in her hair. 

“There you two are,” Sirius said, giving Monty a knowing smile. “Shame Sybill couldn’t make it. She kept going on about grave danger.”

“Well, she’s not wrong,” Monty said, resisting the urge to flatten the hair over his scar. They were getting a lot of attention, but it didn’t feel like it was for him. It was Sirius, former alleged mass murderer, and Luna’s dad, who was dressed in yellow like Luna.

Mr. Lovegood’s robes, and Luna dress, both had a sheen to the fabric, like an egg yolk. Mr. Lovegood had accessorized with a large gold amulet that looked like a triangular eye, and a yellow fez with a long golden tassel. 

Monty felt a pulse of anxiety. Sirius was attracted to eccentricity. Case in point, trying to invite Professor Trelawney to this wedding. Sirius was already calling her Sybill. 

“Sorry for the wait.”

Monty looked around to see who was speaking, then froze. 

“A few chairs broke,” Ron said, exasperated. “Dad’s fixing it so it’ll be—”

Ron finally noticed him standing next to Sirius. Ron’s brow furrowed, then his eyes widened with recognition. 

“Hey,” Monty said, feeling awkward. “How—”

“Your seats are over here,” Ron said stiffly. He spun around, then tripped on the hem of his robes and caught himself on one of the support poles. Ron stayed there for a moment, his ears turning a painful red.

Sirius glanced at Monty. Monty shrugged. He was only going to the wedding because Luna was. His friendship with Ron had been deteriorating well before Ron lost his magic.

Sirius had strong convictions about friendship. He had lost his closest friends to death and betrayal. It wasn’t like that with Monty and Ron. They just didn’t get along like they did when they were eleven, before they really got to know each other. And, true, Ron was a squib, but it wasn’t a death sentence. Everyone bent over backwards to accommodate him.

Ron pushed himself back up then marched down the aisle.

Monty quietly sighed, kept a firm grip on Luna’s hand, and followed Ron to their seats.

 

---

 

Harry walked into a fairly normal scene for Malfoy Manor. The Dark Lord was torturing someone. That it happened to be the Minister for Magic was incidental. 

The stench of snake musk was thick in the air. Nagini’s diet of humans was not doing her digestive system any favor, and the fire stoked to a blistering height made the smell all the more horrifically pungent. Something like burning cat fur, rotting pork, spoiled eggs, and melted rubber. It was nauseating, and Harry was glad he skipped lunch. 

Scrimgeour was at the foot of the Dark Lord’s throne, his limbs jutting out at odd angles, his face pinched and pale, his yellow eyes unfocused, dimmed.

Veritaserum. 

“What protections did the Order of the Phoenix implement?” the Dark Lord asked venomously, his hands gripping the arms of his throne. 

Harry quietly walked through the drawing room. His dad noticed him straight away, but pretended not to. Yaxley was off to one side, his wand clutched in his hand, looking smug. It really wasn’t that hard to kidnap the Minister, Harry knew. Stun, Disillusion, carry him out. They had maybe twelve hours until Scrimgeour’s absence was noticed, though with someone from the Order skulking outside of Malfoy Manor, Harry estimated they had until dinnertime. 

“I don’t know,” Scrimgeour said, his voice stripped of emotion. Definitely under Veritaserum. 

“And I don’t know if we can bring someone from the Order in to question them,” Harry said, coming to a stop between his dad and Yaxley. He wanted to stand next to his dad, but that wasn’t a card he was ready to play yet, if ever. “They’re all at the wedding.”

The Dark Lord turned his red eyes on Harry. He was fuming, but not quite at the point of killing Scrimgeour when he might still have useful information. 

“Well, Harry?” the Dark Lord said, his eyes boring into him. 

“I’ve got the Daily Prophet and Wizarding Wireless Network under control,” Harry said. “The Prophet’s already working on an Evening Prophet, and the WWN’s getting on with their regular programming and is on standby for any breaking news.”

“Excellent,” the Dark Lord said, his lips spreading in a ghastly smile. He flicked his wand at Scrimgeour and the man began screaming. Scrimgeour’s voice was cracking, hoarse, distressing. Harry hid his distaste and watched the old auror thrash around. 

Harry had a soft spot for kids and old people. Watching old people cry upset him, even someone like Scrimgeour. Harry didn’t like Scrimgeour at all. Scrimgeour didn’t know how to do the basic functions of his job as Minister, creating more work for Percy. He ordered the arrest and incarceration of innocent people. He wanted to use Monty like a mascot. Scrimgeour had managed very little in the way of protecting the public, both magical and muggle, from Death Eaters. That was mostly Percy publishing self and home defense notices in the Prophet, having posters put up, distributing the defensive products Fred and George were making. The Order was more focused on protecting itself. Dumbledore had left no instructions. Another shitty example of leadership. Harry had an entire line of succession for a gobstones team. 

“Are we trying to infiltrate the Burrow?” Harry asked in the silence following Scrimgeour’s torture. He was already under Veritaserum, and the Dark Lord was a legilimens. What was the point? “We left a few bodies with dark marks at Hogwarts, and Bill Weasley’s a decent cursebreaker. Unless they’re wasting all of their time on this fucking wedding, they’ve had over a month to analyze the dark mark. I don’t think it’s a stretch to assume they’ve got some enchantment up to keep any with a dark mark out.”

The Dark Lord stared at Harry for a long moment, then looked at Scrimgeour again. “Are you aware of any such enchantment?”

Scrimgeour was breathing heavily, his stern features damp and pallid. He was badly shaven; obviously the stress of his office and his inability to actually do anything about the Dark Lord was getting to Scrimgeour. Harry noticed the man’s wire-rimmed glasses had fallen off and been kicked away. Harry felt the strange urge to pick them up and give them back. 

“I know of the dark mark barrier on the Astronomy Tower,” Scrimgeour said in that same empty tone. “The Ministry is working on a countercharm.”

“Crucio!” the Dark Lord shrieked. Yaxley flinched. “You dare counter Lord Voldemort? You dare defy me?”

An animagus could probably sneak into the wedding, unbeknownst to anyone. Since Sirius was going, Harry was confident no one had bothered with anti-animagus enchantments. Harry wanted to ask if McGonagall was going to the wedding, since that would be more confirmation, but not in front of the Dark Lord. 

Harry glanced at his dad, who looked incredibly unimpressed for someone suppressing any facial expression. 

“My Lord?” Yaxley said, taking a few cautious steps forward. Scrimgeour was still screaming. “Should I return to the Ministry? Continue interrogations?”

The Dark Lord lowered his wand, then reclined on his throne. “Go.”

Yaxley bowed his head, then walked to the door. 

“Harry.”

“Yes, my Lord?” Harry said, once again the sole focus of the Dark Lord’s attention. 

“Retrieve the map,” the Dark Lord said, his eyes alive with rage. “It is time to initiate Lord Voldemort’s Taboo.”

 

---

 

Aunt Muriel had an entire flamingo mounted on her hat. 

“That girl’s ankles are too skinny for those shoes!” she shouted, swinging her head around to insult, of all people, Hermione Granger. Hermione had paused by the garden to show her muggle parents some magical plants. “And that posture! Stand up straight, girl!”

Percy evaded another whack from the glassy-eyed bird’s head as he determinedly guided his aunt through the garden. Her claw-like fingers were sunk into his arm, which Percy stoically bore. The garden had undergone a transformation, pruned and virtually gnomeless. It didn’t feel like the Burrow, overgrown and sprawling and undeniably magical. It felt like his mother was trying to make a good impression. 

Mafalda and Derek were walking ahead of them, Mafalda was in a puffy, light magenta dress, the hair Percy so painstakingly styled swept into a bouncing ponytail, and Derek wore robes of dark, shimmering green. Both Mafalda and Derek were clothed in shades uncannily resembling their gobstones. For his part, Percy opted to wear a suit of deep, lustrous purple. He felt rather like an oversized aubergine, but adored the color. Harry said dark colors flattered him. 

Percy knew he stood out for not wearing robes. He stood out for being taller than everyone else. He stood out for showing up at his brother’s wedding after publicly disowning the entire Weasley family. Percy knew some people would not be happy to see him, and as they reached the entrance of the marquee he was confronted with one such individual. 

“Ronald!” Aunt Muriel barked. “What happened to your hair? You’re as bald as Bilius!” Her red-rimmed eyes scoured those already seated. “Merlin’s beard, what is Xenophilius wearing? He looks like an omelette! Why are we still standing? Where is my seat? I’m one hundred and seven years old! Where is Monty Potter? I was hoping to meet him. I thought he was a friend of yours, Ronald! Have you been boasting? Well, boy? Speak up!”

Ron looked poleaxed by this onslaught. 

“He couldn’t come,” Ron said shiftily. He pointedly was not looking at Percy, and seemed to not have noticed Mafalda and Derek running past him. “We’ve got your seat over here.”

Percy didn’t say anything at all. Talking to Ron had never been easy. Among his siblings, Ron was always the most unfriendly towards him. Percy was too ambitious, too swotty, too nosy, too bossy, too fastidious, too arrogant. Ron didn’t like Percy at all, even before he left.

Percy couldn’t change who he was. He didn’t think anyone in his family liked his personality. They thought he was annoying, that he was a joke. If anything, Percy’s leaving had only validated their beliefs about him. 

As Percy helped Aunt Muriel walk down the aisle, he was struck with a terrible realization.

Percy’s suit was precisely the color of the wedding aisle runner. 

He wanted to laugh. Percy was, in many ways, like this carpet. Something for his family to walk all over. 

Unfortunately, Aunt Muriel noticed too. She chuckled and patted his arm, and in a rare display of consideration didn’t say anything about it. 

Percy overcame the trauma of matching the carpet and eased Aunt Muriel into the seats Ron showed them before running off. He needed to track down Mafalda and Derek before they started a fire or, worse, a gobstones game.

“Purple, gold, and white,” Aunt Muriel shouted, gripping her flamingo-head walking stick. Why she used Percy for support instead of her walking stick, Percy couldn’t say. “And they wanted my silver tiara!” Aunt Muriel cackled, then patted Percy’s knee. “We’ll do black, silver, and purple for your wedding, Percival. Much more tasteful!”

Percy manfully refused to blush. 

Aunt Muriel swung her head, and Percy ducked under the flamingo as it whipped around. “Which one is that, Fred or George?”

Percy reluctantly looked over. The twin in question grinned at him. “George,” he said flatly.

“Lopsided ears!” Aunt Muriel shouted at George. “Should’ve fixed those when he was born, or is that how your mother tells the difference?”

“I’m going to go find Mafalda,” Percy said, standing. He was worried his mother might seize Mafalda and hide her somewhere. That, and Ginny was giving him an accusatory look that he didn’t feel like putting up with. 

“Ginevra!” Aunt Muriel shouted. “That dress is far too low-cut! What do you think you have to show off, you silly girl?”

Ginny’s jaw dropped, and she went red as a beet. 

“I’ll be right back,” Percy said evenly, walking away before another of his siblings showed up for Aunt Muriel to insult. As amusing as his aunt was, this was Bill’s wedding and Percy didn’t wish to actively ruin it.

 

---

 

Scrimgeour was suspended upside down in the air, his face turning red as blood rushed to his head. Beneath him, on a large table conjured for this purpose, was spread a map of the British Isles. Harry had to confine the Taboo to this map. Having the spell react to someone on the other side of the world saying Voldemort would be funny, but also render the spell bloated and near useless. 

It was a ritual, and possibly the biggest ritual in recent history. That they were enchanting every British, Irish, Scottish, Welsh, Manx, everyone with magical blood, including squibs and non-humans, their whole magical population, a spell of such vast scale, was something Harry didn’t think the Dark Lord fully appreciated. The Fidelius was a spell cast on one person—on their soul—that affected everyone, even muggles. The Taboo was also a spell that affected everyone, confined to a geographic region. 

The Fidelius was one of the only types of magic capable of blocking the Taboo.

The Dark Lord didn’t deserve a spell like this.

Harry stood back as the Dark Lord placed his hand on the center of the map. Black tendrils spread out from the Dark Lord’s palm, weaving his magic, his mark, into the parchment.

Harry gripped his dark mark, growing cold as the Dark Lord laughed triumphantly. 

 

---

 

Ron escaped from Muriel and Percy, his throat tight, trying not to let his anger boil over. Lavender was supposed to come with her parents and Parvati, but she wasn’t there yet and the ceremony was about to start. Instead, waiting at the front of the marquee, Ron saw Hermione standing with her parents. His dad was talking animatedly to Hermione’s parents, clearly distracted from getting ready by the appearance of muggles. 

Ron looked at Hermione and came to a dead stop. 

Hermione was wearing a pale lilac dress that floated around her like petals and made her skin look golden in the sunlight. She was wearing high heels. Ron had never seen her wearing high heels before. He was transfixed by the sight.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Ron said, hurrying forward. “I had to seat my Aunt Muriel, she’s a bloody nightmare.”

“Is she the elderly woman with the flamingo hat?” Hermione asked, smiling. “She told me I had skinny ankles.”

Ron laughed awkwardly. “She’s rude to everyone,” he said apologetically. “Don’t take it personally.”

“Talking about Muriel?” George said, popping up next to him. Fred materialized on Ron’s other side.

“Yeah,” Ron said. “She said I was as bald as Uncle Bilius.”

George snorted. “She’s just told me my ears are lopsided.” He patted Ron’s shoulder. “Shame Uncle Bilius isn’t with us, though. He was a right laugh at weddings.”

“Isn’t he the one who saw a grim then died the next day?” Hermione asked. Her parents were being walked to their seats by Ron’s dad. There were a few more people crossing the yard, but Ron was too distracted by Hermione to tell who they were. 

“He did go a bit funny at the end,” George admitted. 

Fred grinned. “He was really the life of the party. He had this trick where he’d down a bottle of firewhiskey then pull flowers out of his arse.”

“How charming,” Hermione said drily, while Ron laughed. He only had vague memories of Uncle Bilius before he died. 

“Never married, for some reason,” he said, smiling at Hermione. She really was quite pretty, and she never treated him any different for being a squib. Then Ron noticed Fred and George weren’t laughing. They were each giving him a funny look. 

“You realize Uncle Bilius was gay, right?” George asked. “He always brought that bloke around—”

“Ron wouldn’t remember that,” Fred said, clapping Ron’s shoulder. “He was too young. Isn’t that right, Ronald Bilius Weasley?”

Ron gaped at George. “He was? How come no one ever said?”

“Mum wouldn’t talk about it,” George muttered. 

Hermione’s smile grew strained. “I should probably find my—”

“Ron-Ron!”

Ron looked away from Hermione, his thoughts spinning, to see Lavender running through the garden. She was wearing a form-fitting red dress, and dragging Parvati with her.

Lavender wasn’t the only one making a sudden appearance. The next thing Ron heard was Hermione shrieking, “Viktor!”

“Is this a love square?” Fred asked George. “A love rhombus? Some sort of love quadrilateral?”

George laughed, then gave Ron a push towards Lavender. “You handle your girlfriend. Me and Fred will take care of the rest.”

“Alright,” Ron said, still off-balance. He was being pummeled by emotional bludgers from all sides. He wished his mum had made him take a Calming Draught too, but for all Ron knew it’d put him in a bloody coma.

 

---

 

The marquee was buzzing with whispered conversations, laughter, excitement. Percy tried not to perch on the edge of his spindly gold chair, instead running through occlumency exercises to stop his thoughts from going to the silent coup taking place at the Ministry. His boyfriend running around in the middle of it all.

Mafalda bounced in her seat, while Derek crossed his arms and glared at the golden balloons that marked where Bill and Fleur would soon stand. 

Percy had found Mafalda and Derek harassing the waiters. They seemed to think the cloud of smoke indicated that The Captain was hiding among them, or perhaps they had read too many stories of people sneaking into places disguised as servants. Harry was, in a sense, disguised as a servant, though one of the Dark Lord. Mafalda and Derek had also hunted down the musicians, but tragically none of them played hurdy-gurdy.

Harry didn’t have time to gatecrash a wedding. Percy refused to get his hopes up.

The seating was awkward. As immediate family, they were in the same row as Fleur’s parents, his parents, and Percy’s younger brothers. Thankfully, his cousin, aunt, and Derek formed a barrier. Behind them were the Tonkses, the Lovegoods, Sirius Black, and, directly behind Percy, an oddly hostile, red-headed Monty Potter. 

Percy was already regretting accepting the invitation. He blamed Aunt Muriel. 

Did Bill even want him here?

A hush fell over the waiting wedding guests. Percy looked over his shoulder to see his mother and father walking down the aisle. Like him, his mother was wearing purple, a set of gorgeous amethyst robes and a matching, pointed hat glimmering with small gold stars. His mother smiled and waved at all the red-haired relatives she spotted, until she saw Percy. She immediately began crying. Percy looked away.

Bill and Charlie appeared at the front, under the balloons. Percy doubted he would ever be asked to be one of his siblings’ best men. He couldn’t imagine who would be his, or Harry’s for that matter. Astrid Urquhart? She’d fight to death for the honor. 

Bill was wearing black dress robes, as was Charlie, which made the giant white roses pinned to them all the more prominent. Percy wouldn’t have roses, unless they were sweetbriars like Harry’s tattoo. Instead, he would have lily-of-the-valley. Or lavender. Mint. An entire apothecary in honor of Harry’s father.

String music rose up in a stirring melody, strangely emanating from the balloons tied above where Bill stood. Gabrielle Delacour walked down the aisle, wearing a gold slip dress and holding a bouquet of white roses. Ginny followed shortly after, identical save for her freckles and red hair. People gasped, sighed, cried, oohed and ahhed, and Percy looked around again to see Fleur Delacour being escorted down the aisle by her beaming father. Fleur was wearing a simple white dress, and it radiated a silver light. 

“The tiara would’ve been too much silver,” Aunt Muriel muttered. “Do they want that girl to look like a sickle?”

“They do work for Gringotts,” Percy muttered back.

Aunt Muriel gave a wheezy laugh.

An old, tiny wizard appeared at the front of the marquee, the same one who did Dumbledore’s funeral. Percy could not imagine anyone prestigious enough to officiate his own vows. Perhaps they could somehow summon Merlin’s spirit—he was a Slytherin—or an ancient being from another dimension. A demon bound to obey Harry’s will. Would that make a good wedding gift? No, that was too impractical, and pure fantasy. Perhaps a unicorn, or a phoenix, or, better yet, a sphinx. Someone that could actually speak.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the small wizard said in his sing-song voice, “We are gathered here today to celebrate the union of two faithful souls…”

“Two faithful souls,” Aunt Muriel repeated, sounding pleased. “Not a man’s soul and a woman’s soul. You hear that, Percival?”

“Yes, auntie,” Percy whispered.

“None of that silly muggle fuss,” Aunt Muriel said. “We get straight to the point! The soul, Percival! The soul!”

Percy nodded. Harry quite obviously had a superior soul. Harry was a gift of magic itself, and the universe trembled in the wake of his passage. Percy would entwine his soul with Harry’s for all eternity. Not even death would part them. Such a feat might necessitate the fraying of dimensions. Could that be encapsulated in a ring?

“Do you, William Arthur, take Fleur Isabelle…”

People were crying in earnest now. Percy’s mother was openly sobbing while his father had an arm around her shoulders and dabbed at his eyes. Fleur’s mother was also crying, and looking very artful while doing so. 

Percy was not moved to tears. Instead, he was mired in jealousy. For years he had wanted to openly acknowledge his relationship with Harry, and now Bill was flaunting his marriage. Part of Percy wanted to overthrow the government just so he could date his boyfriend. He suspected that desire formed a significant portion of Harry’s motivation.

“...then I declare you bonded for life,” the small wizard finished.

Percy blinked a few times. He had completely missed the exchange of vows. Well, that mattered little. He and Harry would compose their own. An ode. A magnum opus. It would take a lifetime to recite.

The small wizard waved his wand and silver stars fell upon Bill and Fleur as they kissed. Percy had only kissed Harry in public once. He sighed and applauded with everyone else. He couldn’t stop thinking and worrying about Harry, even when the golden balloons exploded, like gobstones, as Mafalda declared, releasing a flock of red-feathered birds-of-paradise with sprays of fluffy gold plumage, along with a cacophony of golden bells.

“Tacky,” Aunt Muriel grunted.

Percy silently agreed. His balloons would explode with thestrals.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” the officiant called. “If you would please stand up!”

Percy helped Aunt Muriel get to her feet as she loudly grumbled. 

How had his family afforded this?

“Let’s find a table,” Percy said, grabbing Mafalda before she could run off. “And we’ll see if there’s anything I can eat here.”

 

---

 

Monty had spent most of the ceremony glaring at the back of Percy’s head. Percival Prewett had the audacity to show his extremely punchable face here. 

Now, Monty watched Percy lead his cousin Mafalda and elderly Aunt Muriel towards Bill and Fleur, while the golden chairs rose up to hover under the canopy, the canvas walls of the marquee vanished, a pool of molten gold spread out to form a dance floor, and waiters in white robes appeared with trays of drinks. Pumpkin juice, butterbeer, firewhiskey. Tarts and sandwiches.

“I shall deliver our present to the bride and groom,” Mr. Lovegood said solemnly, pulling what appeared to be a golden gurdyroot from his robes. Or perhaps a golden onion. It was hard to tell under the paint.

What did Percy mean by finding something he could eat? Did he have allergies like Harry? Harry once said something about Percy needing a well-paying job. Was that related?

A hand fell heavily on Monty’s shoulder.

“We should get a table,” Sirius said. The golden chairs were floating down to encircle white-clothed tables. “Or at least get off the dance floor, unless you’re dancing.”

Monty looked down at Luna, who was already swaying. The band was still setting up. There was no music to dance to.

“What do you want to do, Lunaper?” Monty asked quietly.

Luna slowly opened her eyes to look at him. “We must secure a territory to defend.”

“Alright,” Monty said, squeezing her hand. “Table it is.” 

Monty looked around, easily spotting Percy as he was a head taller than almost everyone else, and moving slowly with his Aunt Muriel. Monty narrowed his eyes, then led Luna across the empty dance floor. On the way, Monty secured both a tray of butterbeers and a tray of tarts. 

“Did you not have enough at breakfast?” Sirius asked, taking a sip from a glass of firewhiskey. “Or lunch? Or pre-wedding snack?”

“That was hours ago,” Monty said. “And I’m not going to eat the whole bloody tray, Sirius. It’s to share.”

When they reached the table, which happened to be adjacent to the table that Percy and his aunt were sitting down at with his cousin and another kid from the Slytherin gobstones team, Monty set the trays near the edge of the table and sat down.

Monty grabbed a bottle of butterbeer and popped the cork. 

“What’s there to do at a wedding?” Monty asked, handing the cork to Luna. 

“Dance,” Sirius said, taking the seat next to Monty. “Socialize, get drunk.” Sirius glanced at him. “Which none of us will be doing.”

Monty took a sip of butterbeer. The only person he wanted to dance with was Luna, and the only person he was determined to talk to was Percy.

Percy, after settling his complaining aunt, was carrying a package over to where a pile of presents waited on a long table.

“Or we could leave,” Sirius told him. “We don’t have to stay for the whole thing.”

Monty shrugged and took another sip. It had been ages since he’d been around other people. It was just him, Sirius, and Kreacher in Grimmauld Place. Sometimes they saw Professor Snape or Andromeda, but they weren’t going anywhere or doing anything. Not that Monty minded. Most people pissed him off.

The band started playing. Luna was immediately captivated. Bill and Fleur broke away from a crowd and were the first on the dance floor, elegantly spinning around. Mr. Weasley and Fleur’s mum, then Mrs. Weasley and Fleur’s dad, joined them. 

“I like this song,” Luna said, swaying in her seat. After a moment, she stood and drifted onto the dance floor. Monty hastily set his bottle down and hurried after her.

 

---

 

“Avada kedavra!”

Scrimgeour dropped headfirst to the floor. There was a sickening crack as his neck snapped, then his abused and broken body tipped over and hit the stones with a dull thud. 

Harry sniffed, then rubbed his nose. The interrogation had gone on for hours. It was horrible, but torture grew boring after a while. Repetitive. There were only so many ways you could hurt someone. Harry had sat down at some point, dutifully recording what information the Dark Lord scraped out of Scrimgeour’s abused mind. His death was a relief. It put Scrimgeour out of his misery. 

Harry almost wished the Dark Lord would put him out of his misery too. 

“Nagini,” the Dark Lord hissed. The snake raised her head. Then the Dark Lord hissed something Harry thought was dinner. Nagini slithered forward, coiled around Scrimgeour’s corpse, and unhinged her jaw. 

It was all part of a bigger plan, all the frustrations and delaying tactics and reducing the Dark Lord’s options. Making him more amenable to Harry’s dad’s suggestions. Harry couldn’t imagine his brother would still be at the wedding. Scrimgeour’s torture had gone on for nearly six hours, only occasionally interrupted by other Death Eaters coming in to report. 

Nagini began choking down Scrimgeour headfirst. It was a long process for Nagini to work an entire human down her gullet, at least half a day. She looked ridiculous while doing it, her jaw stretching out, her neck becoming several times as wide as her head. Like a snakeskin bodysuit was being pulled over Scrimgeour. 

Harry sniffed again, then lit another cigarette. He was hungry, and thirsty, and felt pretty miserable. He would have liked to go to Bill’s wedding with Percy. He would have liked to have fun with his brother, and Luna, and all of his friends, and his dad and Professor Burbage. They could have taken over the music and played Erasure. Spice Girls. Anything. Instead, he was in this fucking drawing room turned torture chamber, indulging the Dark Lord’s aimless sadism.

Killing Scrimgeour wasn’t magically significant. There wasn’t any magical power over the Ministry that attached to the Minister. The Dark Lord simply had no use for Scrimgeour anymore. And what else were they going to do, let him go?

“Harry.”

“Yeah, master?” Harry said, looking over at the Dark Lord. His dad closed his eyes. He had been forced to stick around too, pouring potions down Scrimgeour’s throat. 

“Rendezvous with Yaxley at the Ministry,” the Dark Lord said. “Once the enchantments around the Burrow have fallen, you will invade the wedding.”

Invade. 

“Alright,” Harry said, getting to his feet. He left all the notes he made on the table. He didn’t need any of it. “What if we don’t get Potter? He might not even be there. The ceremony’s been over for hours.”

The Dark Lord’s eyes flashed. Harry gave him a flat look. If the Dark Lord wanted to infiltrate the wedding, he could have gone to the Burrow and assaulted the enchantments himself. If the Dark Lord was such a brilliant fucking wizard, why had he spent six hours dicking around with a half-dead man who they broke in the first half hour? But it was to Harry’s advantage that the Dark Lord was irrational, prone to emotional outbursts, impulsive. Wasted time. Nearly a year trying to get the prophecy when he could have strolled into the Ministry at any point and got it for himself. 

“Then you will detain any guests, search the property, and interrogate them,” the Dark Lord said. 

“Understood, my Lord,” Harry said. He held his hand out to his dad.

“What?” his dad snapped. 

“Veritaserum,” Harry said. He smiled. “Please, professor?”

“Give it to him, Severus,” the Dark Lord said. 

His dad sneered, then dropped a vial of Veritaserum into his hand. “Only three drops.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir,” Harry said, sticking the vial into a pocket and walking to the door. “Not like I got an O on the N.E.W.T. or anything.”

“Impertinent,” he dad began. 

Harry flipped him off. 

“Enough,” the Dark Lord said. “We need to coordinate the attacks against the Order. Severus, your arm.”

Harry reached the door, then glanced back into the room. The Dark Lord seized his dad’s arm. Harry didn’t like that. He looked away and walked out of the manor. 

There wasn’t any point in thinking about the way things could have been. It only made Harry feel worse than he already did. 

Outside, the sun was sinking below the horizon. The yew hedges were silent. The white peacocks were asleep. It was a peaceful evening. Only a handful of people had any idea what was happening. 

Harry finished his cigarette, then melted through the gates and apparated to the Ministry. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 24: Bad Reception

Summary:

August 1st, 1997

The Wedding

Part V

Percy took off his glasses, which obviously didn’t help the blurriness of his vision. Sighing, Percy slipped them back on and resumed leaning against the bathroom wall. 

Getting away from the interminable wedding celebrations had been a feat unto itself. Percy wasn’t surprised that, despite knowing he would be in attendance, his mother had failed to provide any food he could eat without medical intervention.

Percy wasn’t surprised, but it still felt like prodding a sore wound. A soreness that pulsed in his abdomen. Percy was glad that he, unlike his family, was capable of thinking ahead. Rather than derobing, he merely had to untuck his shirt for an easily accessible injection site. 

Did his parents even remember his condition?

Percy pushed aside the thought. It was irrelevant. He was no longer under their care, and hadn’t been for several years. Managing his condition was his responsibility, as it had been since he was a child. Presenting himself to Madam Pomfrey, injecting himself with litorin during every holiday, eating sparingly or not at all, desperate thoughts of sneaking down to Ottery St. Catchpole and stealing muggle food from the village’s sole supermarket. 

Harry would have done it. 

Harry had done it as a child. A child in far more dire circumstances than Percy had ever been.

Harry rarely spoke of his childhood, but Percy knew it was one of privation, of surviving on his wits and magic alone. 

As often happened, thoughts of Harry left Percy in a cascade of warmth and longing. It was strange to miss someone who Percy saw so often. 

Percy had wanted to attend Bill’s wedding with Harry. Unless Fleur came to her senses, Percy doubted his eldest brother would ever get married again. This was only happening once, and Percy was missing out on sharing that experience with the person he was in love with. 

There was a knock on the bathroom door. 

Percy closed his eyes in annoyance. He had walked from the orchard all the way up to the house specifically for privacy. There were toilets more convenient to the marquee for guests, but Percy didn’t want anyone banging on the door while he took a few minutes to recover. He had endured six hours of butterbeer and pumpkin juice and pies that made his heart ache for his mother’s cooking, cooking he had never fully enjoyed knowing what it cost him, knowing how deep his mother’s negligence ran, her belief that magic could fix anything. That it could fix him.

Six hours of avoiding his family, avoiding awkward questions, folding himself into the other guests, a terse exchange with Fleur while Bill was distracted by other well-wishers, watching two phoenixes take flight in a trail of chocolate and fire as Bill and Fleur cut the wedding cake, accepting the smallest possible slice, trying to keep an eye on Mafalda and Derek and make sure Aunt Muriel didn’t say anything too outrageous, all while his thirst and hunger grew worse, his hands and feet went numb, his vision blurred, exhaustion weighed his limbs down, his head pounded, and he wanted to claw his skin off. 

“Percy? You alright?”

Percy sucked a breath in through clenched teeth. He pushed himself off the wall, turned the tap on and wetted his hands, straightened his purple jacket, then opened the bathroom door.

Charlie was waiting for him. He was still wearing his black dress robes, and that ridiculous white rose. Percy looked down at his older brother, who was watching him with a concerned expression. 

“May I help you with something?” Percy asked stiffly. He internally winced at his tone. His headache made occluding difficult, and it was dangerous to use occlumency to ignore his physical condition. Percy was certain Harry did so frequently, and had since he learned the art. It was how Harry survived being a Death Eater, how he could detach himself from the realities of it. 

“Mum wanted me to check on you,” Charlie said. 

Percy stared at him. “How gracious of Mrs. Weasley.”

Charlie gave him a flat look. “Come off it, Percy. We’re all worried about you.”

Only a considerable exertion of will stopped Percy from laughing outright. 

“I very much doubt my presence has been missed,” Percy said drily. “I daresay you and William were eager enough to flee the country.”

Charlie narrowed his eyes. “We never—”

“You left me behind,” Percy said bluntly, “to deal with them alone. Fred and George didn’t care, and Ron and Ginny were too young. Are too young.” Percy sniffed. “It no longer matters, just as I am no longer a Weasley. Not that I ever was.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Charlie says. “We didn’t… I wasn’t abandoning you, Percy! I wanted to work with dragons, and there aren’t many opportunities in Britain, or anywhere, really. The Romanian sanctuary was the only one hiring.”

Percy took a steadying breath. “I’m not faulting you for pursuing your career. I would never do such a thing, and that you assume I would only emphasizes how little you know me or comprehend my motives.”

“Then explain,” Charlie said earnestly. That was the problem with Charlie. He was always so earnest. “I’m listening, Percy. I’ve always been open to listening to your side.” Charlie cracked a smile. “Didn’t I listen to you when you went on about the International Ban on Dueling?”

“You remember that?” Percy said, hating how choked his voice came out. Running into Charlie in Romania felt like a lifetime ago, though it was only two years. Two and a half years. So much had changed. 

Charlie’s smile grew. “Of course I do.” He reached up and put a hand on Percy’s shoulder. Percy flinched. His siblings rarely touched him, except Fred and George and that was usually related to some prank. “I don’t hate you for wanting to get away from mum and dad. From us. I know mum didn’t react well about you having a boyfriend—”

“You weren’t even there,” Percy said, feeling more rattled than he already was. 

“Bill told me about it,” Charlie admitted. He took a breath. “And I wanted to apologize if I ever made fun of your work. I know Bill and the others were taking the piss out of you about cauldron bottoms.” Charlie snorted. “You’d think they’d blown up enough cauldrons in Potions to care about that sort of thing.”

Percy stared speechlessly at his brother. He knew his family expected him to apologize to them. Never had he imagined anyone apologizing to him. 

Why couldn’t they gracefully accept he no longer wished to be associated with the Weasleys? Why couldn’t they understand how precarious his dad’s position in the Ministry was, and had been even when Fudge was still Minister? They had no subtlety whatsoever, and even Fred and George were ill-suited to subterfuge given how frequently their various exploits landed them in trouble. His family, the Weasleys, were openly, proudly, blood traitors. Ron and Ginny were still underage, and Ron could no longer use magic. Mafalda was fourteen. Did they expect children to fight on the front lines? 

It was a stupid question. Percy knew the answer. Did the Order of the Phoenix recruit students? Emphatically yes. Dumbledore did it during the first war, and he did it again for this one. Dumbledore could not be a headmaster, a vigilante, and preside over their justice system. Dumbledore had rejected the position of Minister, which would have given him more power to address the issues he claimed to care about. Nearly half a century as Chief Warlock and their laws still heavily favored purebloods. 

Percy knew his family followed Dumbledore, trusted Dumbledore, believed in Dumbledore’s myopic vision of the world. A world free of the Dark Lord. Not that Dumbledore would be alive to see it. 

What about what came after?

It was so single-minded it drove Percy mad. 

Could he trust Charlie? 

Should he trust Charlie?

“You’re part of the Order of the Phoenix,” Percy said, shaking off Charlie’s hand. “An organization which I ideologically oppose.”

Charlie’s eyes widened, and a look of pure fury crossed his face. Percy had never seen Charlie so angry before, and he was momentarily stunned to see the usual sunny disposition of his brother so darkly clouded. 

“You don’t support You-Know-Who,” Charlie said, stepping closer to him. “Don’t tell me you followed your boyfriend—”

“I am not a Death Eater,” Percy said, his voice thick with contempt. “And I believe this conversation is over.”

Percy brushed past Charlie, ignoring his brother’s attempts to call him back. He swept through the Burrow, his childhood home, closed his heart against the familiarity, the nostalgia, hurried out into the garden, and strode towards the orchard and its obnoxiously white marquee. 

There was no telling how long Aunt Muriel intended on staying, but Percy wanted to leave immediately. So far there was no news regarding the state of the Ministry. Nearly the entire Order of the Phoenix was present, as were hundreds of other guests. An event so large could not go unnoticed by the Dark Lord. Large gatherings were a perfect opportunity to wipe out a number of inconvenient people. 

Percy smiled grimly. For his and Harry’s wedding, they would place the venue under Fidelius and include the secret with an invitation cursed to burn after the addressee had read it. Harry would cast the charm himself, the black resplendence of his glorious soul unfolding to embrace every pathetic fool who gazed upon him in uncomprehending wonder. 

A pang in Percy’s heart made him miss a step. Secretly, he hoped the wedding was raided. He wanted to see Harry. He wanted the ten thousand galleons on Harry’s head to become a fine for anyone with the gall to insult him. 

Straightening his jacket again, and double checking that his shirt was properly tucked in, Percy resumed the game of avoiding any uncomfortable conversations. 

 

---

 

Harry glanced up and down the dark street. This late, there were few people around, and fewer interested in whatever a delinquent like him was up to. A street lamp flickered, and its orange glow cast an odd, rippling shadow on the pavement. Smiling around his cigarette, Harry stepped into the dilapidated telephone box. 

That the Ministry thought people would avoid using it for missing a few panes of glass and being a bit rusty, well, Harry had never thought much of the Ministry’s collective intelligence. The telephone box smelled strongly of urine, and a syringe broke under Harry’s boot. He shut the broken door, though it couldn’t close all the way, picked up the receiver, and dialed 6, 2, 4, 4, 2. 

Magic. 

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic,” a detached, feminine voice said. Not through the receiver, which would have been the smart thing to do, but filling the entire telephone box. “Please state your name and business.”

“Harry Evans,” Harry said easily. He took a drag from his cigarette, ignored the prickling along his spine. “Death Eater. I’m here to inform the Ministry that Minister Rufus Scrimgeour has died a very, very painful death at the hands of the Dark Lord.”

“Thank you,” the voice said neutrally. Harry snorted. “Visitor, please take the badge and attach it to the front of your robes.”

A square, silver badge tumbled out of the coin chute. Harry picked it up, then laughed. 

 

Harry Evans, Harbinger of Death

 

“Succinct,” Harry said, pinning the badge to his shirt. “And to the point.” He dropped his cigarette and ground it out with his boot, then pulled a mask out of the old red flannel shirt he was wearing. Harry considered it his lucky shirt. 

“Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium.”

“Not going to happen,” Harry said, turning his head to smirk at his invisible stalker. “The Ministry has already fallen to the Dark Lord. It’s too late.”

The telephone box shuddered, then began to sink. Harry crossed his arms. 

“I wonder what’s faster,” he mused as the darkness closed over him. “Me, or a patronus?”

He already sent his own patronus to Yaxley. Delaying this Order member, but not so much that they couldn’t give a timely warning, was the important part. He felt a dull pulse in his dark mark and smiled.

“Stupe—”

Harry rolled his eyes, put his mask on, then apparated. 

 

---

 

It didn’t take long for Monty to work out what the slippery git was up to. He had been keeping an eye on Percy for hours, watching him take small sips of butterbeer with a look of mild distaste, following his aunt around and interjecting whenever she started yelling, circulating the marquee and assiduously avoiding anyone with red hair. Monty currently had red hair, and however easy Percy was to spot above the crowd, Percy also had an infuriating height from which to detect any red-headed figures. Minor as Monty’s so-called disguise was, no one associated the Boy Who Lived with red hair. In other words, no one associated Monty with his mum, other than for his eyes, which pissed him off. 

When he snuck close enough, Monty saw that Percy looked peaky, and slightly dazed. It was concerning, and Monty was annoyed at being concerned about someone who had manhandled Harry in public. 

The gold watch felt heavy on Monty’s wrist. He refused to check the time. 

So, Monty waited. He danced with Luna, and Sirius, and Mr. Lovegood. He was routinely mistaken for a miscellaneous Weasley cousin. He, like Percy, was avoiding what he thought of as the main Weasley family, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and their children. He was avoiding Ron. He talked to Hermione and Viktor Krum. He watched a heated game of gobstones break out, and felt a wave of grief that lasted through the glass of firewhiskey he cajoled out of Sirius. It was exhausting, and boring when Monty wasn’t being distracted. There were a lot of older people, and dozens of conversations Monty stayed out of, not wanting anyone to get too close of a look at him. The wedding was huge, and, given the past year, one of the few chances people had to socialize outside of home or work. 

Monty wasn’t a patient person, but he had learned patience from hours locked in the cupboard and hours toiling over cauldrons. He was tempted to Stun Percy and drag him off, or tackle him and beat the answers he wanted out of him, but those things would draw unwanted attention. Nor could Monty disappear without causing alarm.

As darkness fell, and the guests grew steadily more drunk, the party grew more wild. Floating golden lanterns cast soft light from the canopy, and jewel-winged moths fluttered about them. Monty’s eyes danced with fractured rainbows, and he saw them reflected in Luna’s moon-pale gaze. The sunflower in her hair nodded its head, petals closing like drowsy eyes.

Amid the growing chaos, Monty saw Percy quickly walking out of the marquee and up to the house. Monty started to follow him, until he saw Charlie taking off as well. Monty gritted his teeth. He wasn’t supposed to get too far away from Sirius, and he was reluctant to let Luna out of his sight. So, Monty waited some more. He doubted Percy would fully leave the wedding reception without his aunt and cousin, and Mafalda was in a heated, three-way gobstones battle with Luna and Derek Wilkes. A group of several gobstones fans, who were notably more fanatic than any quidditch fan Monty had met, cheered them on. 

Percy took his sweet time coming back to the reception. He avoided the front of the marquee, walking around the perimeter, taking shelter among the dark apple trees like the craven cunt he was. Monty dodged an inebriated Weasley uncle, who tried to grab him and babbled about his son, and maneuvered to intercept his quarry. He muttered a silencing charm, then stepped in front of Percy just as he passed a tree several meters from the three-way gobstones mayhem. 

“Mr. Prewett,” Monty said coldly. 

Percy drew himself up, a gesture which enraged Monty. Percy was over a head taller than him, and while Monty never cared about his height relative to other people he was suddenly, deeply offended by this disparity. 

“Mr. Potter,” Percy said, with a small frown that Monty wanted to slap off his face. “I confess, I am shocked you would reveal yourself to me, given my position in the Ministry.”

“I don’t give a single solitary fuck what your position in the Ministry is,” Monty said, trying for the aloofness that came so easily to Harry and Professor Snape.

Percy narrowed his eyes. “That’s redundant. I think single implies a solitariness—”

Monty pointed his wand. 

Percy cleared his throat. “May I ask what the nature of this confrontation is? If you are acting as an envoy, I’m afraid Charles has beaten you to it.”

“What?” Monty said, confused. 

Percy sighed. Monty noticed he was looking less ill than when he left the party. Had he taken a potion? Monty sniffed, but the smell of pies, spilt firewhiskey, and pipesmoke pervaded the orchard. 

“What do you want to talk about?” Percy asked tiredly. “You don’t need to threaten me with a wand.”

“I think I do,” Monty said, his expression hardening. “Have you seen Harry?”

Percy blinked. “I do not associate with—”

“So you broke up with him?” Monty demanded. “Just because he’s a Death Eater?”

“I work for the Ministry,” Percy said evenly. “I know some people struggle to comprehend this, but not joining the Order of the Phoenix doesn’t automatically make me a villain, or someone who supports the Dark Lord.”

Monty stepped closer to Percy. “You call him the Dark Lord.”

“Many people who are not allied with him do,” Percy said. “Would you prefer Voldemort?”

Monty’s eyes widened, then he shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. Have you seen Harry or not?”

Percy watched him for a long moment. “No comment,” he finally said. 

Monty’s grip on his wand tightened. “You’re still avoiding the question! I know he fancied you for ages. I know you were seeing him after he got marked. For a full year—“

“Until he was arrested,” Percy said, closing his eyes. He sighed, then looked at Monty again. “Do you think I would continue a relationship with him following that?”

“If you actually cared about him,” Monty said heatedly. “Unless you were messing around with him like Cedric Diggory.” The thin stick of wood in his hand squealed.

Percy loomed over Monty. “Do not compare me to him.”

There was a groan of disgust as someone got splattered with some gobstone fluid. One of Monty’s side projects was creating a fluid that was less disgusting to get in your mouth. It defeated the purpose, but he thought gobstones would be more popular if it induced less vomiting.

“Sorry,” Monty spat out. “But the way you’re abandoning Harry just for being a Death Eater sounds a lot like how he broke up with Diggory.”

Percy’s expression hardened. “You know why they separated?”

Monty smirked. “Harry told me. I know everything about him.”

“I very much doubt anyone does,” Percy said, his posture relaxing. “And it is unwise to brag about such a close affiliation with a man who serves the Dark Lord. Particularly when one is the Boy Who Lived.”

“I don’t care,” Monty said. “Harry said I don’t have to care about being the Boy Who Lived. You still haven’t answered my question honestly.”

“And I will not acknowledge any wild accusations about a short-lived relationship only a handful of people were aware of,” Percy said. “Why are you so insistent?”

“Because I want to talk to him,” Monty said. “He ran away from me the night Dumbledore died.”

“I imagine he was fleeing the aurors,” Percy said. 

“No,” Monty said, his wand dropping. “He was avoiding me.” 

He wasn’t going to curse Percy, not if Harry still cared about him. Not if, as Monty suspected was true, Harry was still seeing Percy. Spending time with Percy, and not him. 

Monty touched the watch on his wrist. He knew that Harry wasn’t a real Death Eater, no matter what anyone said. He knew Harry still cared about him. That Harry was still looking after him, from far away. Monty hated it. He wanted to help Harry too, and he had no idea how. He swallowed, then looked at Percy again. 

“I want to help him,” Monty said. “Whatever he’s doing. I want to help.”

Something in Percy’s expression changed, and a realization staggered Monty. Percy wanted to help Harry too. He did care.

“I don’t think you can, Monty,” Percy said. “Not with this.” He cleared his throat, then pushed up his glasses. “I won’t give you any information on him, and I believe that conviction is mutual.”

Monty let out a frustrated breath, then ran a hand through his hair. “You’re right,” he muttered. “I wouldn’t betray him.” He glared at Percy. “If you do anything to hurt him, I’ll feed you to my occamy.”

For some reason, Percy smiled. “Plausible deniability,” he said. 

Monty stared at him blankly. Before he could connect the words to the rest of their conversation, or be more annoyed by how much of a politician Percy was, Percy suddenly pulled out his wand and with a flick dispelled the silencing charm around them. He was staring at something over Monty’s shoulder.

“What?” Monty said, turning around. He noticed that the dancing, music, and conversations had stopped. The only sound was one gobstone knocking into another. 

“The Ministry has fallen,” a sonorous voice said. Monty looked around. He recognized it as Kingsley Shacklebolt, but he wasn’t at the wedding. 

“It’s a patronus,” Percy whispered. “Monty, you need to leave.”

“Scrimgeour is dead,” Kingsley’s voice continued. “They are coming.”

As the words faded, a profound silence fell over the revelry, the calm before a storm. It took a moment for people to understand the words, what they meant. It took too long. 

A lone figure appeared in the middle of the party. He was wearing muggle clothes, a red flannel shirt over a Wigtown Wanderer’s shirt, a bloody cleaver swinging down. He had a skull mask on, and, bizarrely, a square, silver badge pinned to his shirt. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing a searing black skull and snake. 

“That cheating bastard,” the masked figure said irritably, in a horribly familiar voice. “He must’ve sent the bloody patronus right after I left the Dark Lord!”

Monty took a step forward, not knowing what he wanted to do. Percy grabbed his shoulder. 

Then, someone screamed, and all hell broke loose. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Updates will probably slow down. Maybe. I don't know. I hope not, but I have cats to feed.

Chapter 25: Mudblood on the Dance Floor

Summary:

August 1st, 1997

The Wedding

Part VI

Monty didn’t know Percy that well, mainly through the various complaints and slights against him from Ron and the others, and Harry’s bizarre infatuation, but one thing he did know was that Percy could be really pushy. 

“Let me go,” Monty snarled, trying to yank his shoulder away. 

Percy’s response was to apparate. 

They landed on a dark, empty country lane, in front of a grand and sprawling estate that Monty didn’t recognize. Monty finally managed to free himself and stumbled away from Percy.

“Stay here,” Percy ordered, looking more serious than Monty had ever seen him. 

“Luna—”

“I’ll get her,” Percy said, taking his wand out. “The priority is keeping you safe from the Dark Lord.” Percy met his eyes, nodded once, then apparated again. 

Monty gritted his teeth. He could apparate. He could go back. He could fight. It was just Harry. Harry would never hurt him, or Luna. Unless he had to. 

A chill passed over Monty. He felt useless, childish. In the way. Now Harry’s boyfriend was protecting him. He wanted to fight Harry. He wanted to make Harry fight him. 

Sirius would panic if he went missing. If he did something stupid and got hurt. If he got captured by Death Eaters. If he got killed.

Would Harry intervene? What would Voldemort do to him? What was Harry doing at all?

Was it selfish to want to save someone?

Monty sank to the ground and wrapped his arms around himself. He hated this, he hated everything, and all he had were bad choices. Monty laughed bitterly. He and Harry had that in common. 

 

---

 

A wave of nausea made Percy stumble out of his apparition. He directed that stumble towards a table of three gobstones players, all underage, all unable to apparate. He didn’t know where his aunt was, nor Sirius Black, nor Xenophilius Lovegood. 

Percy glanced at Harry, who had remained in the center of the dance floor while everyone fled him. Harry hadn’t even cast any spells yet, his mere presence was enough to cause a stir. A frenzy. There was a looseness to his posture, an ease. Confidence. 

“Pip!”

Percy tore his eyes away and hurried to Mafalda and Derek. He had to get them out first. Lovegood could run home. She didn’t even seem aware of what was happening around her, smiling absently and flicking a gobstone. 

“You’re not finishing this game,” Percy said, placing his hands on Derek and Mafalda’s shoulders. 

Percy took a few breaths. At the moment, he wasn’t in the best condition physically.

Two teenagers. It wasn’t hard. 

Thankfully, Mafalda and Derek were wise enough not to protest. They didn’t even try to get their gobstones, as Percy feared they might. Maybe they knew Harry would see that they weren’t damaged.

Percy chanced another look at Harry. He had a cant to his head, which Percy read as irritated, even with the eerie skull mask in the way. Then Harry flicked his wand. Others might interpret it as dismissive, but to Percy it seemed more listless. This wasn’t a thrilling, challenging duel. This was kicking people who were already down. This was perfunctory. Then flames fountained out of Harry’s wand, and Percy tightened his grip on the two kids and apparated. 

 

---

 

People sprinted away from Harry, screaming their heads off. He was relieved they retained enough of their animal instinct to recognize a predator in their midst. He knew there wasn’t much time until Yaxley and other Death Eaters began arriving, now that all the protections around the Burrow had collapsed. Kingsley Shacklebolt’s patronus—Harry was glad he caught the tail end of that; he had thought it was Shacklebolt, but it was nice to have confirmation—should have been enough warning, but without a proper threat people wouldn’t really get moving. Now they were, and the sounds of disapparition were music to Harry’s ears. He hoped he could get through the rest of this without killing anyone else. 

Harry started laughing, which only increased the panic. It didn’t take long for a space to clear around him, but the fleeing guests unintentionally formed a human shield. Harry wasn’t entirely sure what to do other than start cursing everything in sight, as a proper Death Eater would do. He glanced at the white marquee, gave a half-hearted shrug, then flicked his wand and set the thing on fire. 

“Sorry about the deposit,” Harry called out, not knowing if that was a thing in the magical world. Did people pay for utilities, or conjure their own? He and his dad certainly didn’t waste money on that sort of thing. Percy didn’t either, but Percy did pay rent and in general was exceptional. 

“Stupefy!”

Harry sighed and idly blocked the Stunner. He doubted it would actually work if it hit him. The red spell bounced off his shield and struck someone trying to get away. Dense smoke was starting to fill the golden dance floor, and pieces of burning fabric were falling like autumn leaves. Harry stayed where he was, cast a few hexes to trip people, searching for someone to capture for interrogation. 

“Evans!”

Harry looked over his shoulder and was unsurprised to see Tonks pushing their way through the crowd. Why they didn’t transform into someone much bulkier to make it easier on themself, Harry couldn’t fathom. Then again, he had always thought Tonks was an unimaginative metamorphmagus. 

“Nymphadora,” Harry said pleasantly, raising his wand. 

Tonks’ hair turned a burning red. “Don’t call me—”

Levicorpus, Harry thought. Calling him out was a stupid idea. Tonks was lifted into the air, dangling from their ankle. With another wave of his wand, Harry sent Tonks flying over the crowd. Hopefully their mum would pick them up and apparate them out of danger. If Tonks wanted to maintain their cover as an auror, they needed to leave. 

There was another series of pops. Cloaked, masked figures appeared, scattered among the guests who had yet to apparate, who couldn’t, who were looking for someone.

“Shit,” Harry muttered, pointing his wand at the ground. “Glaciatum.”

A rush of coldness spread out from under Harry’s feet, coating the golden dance floor in a layer of rime. The entire surface froze near instantaneously, and Harry grimaced when he saw a few older people slip. He kept casting minor spells, stinging and tickling and prodding people along like they were cattle. It was getting hard to see with all the spells being cast, blocked, deflected, and the growing smoke, so Harry conjured a spiraling wind to carry it away. The canopy was nearly gone now, exposing the clear night sky. 

Harry wanted to dance with Percy under the stars. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling self-conscious. He was in the middle of a raid. He was exhausted, he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and breakfast with his dad and Professor Burbage felt like ages ago. He spotted Fred and George running out of the trees with two blonde girls—part-veela, based on their pale, lustrous skin—and Harry quickly Stunned the pair before they could do something idiotic like chuck Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder into the mix. Or get themselves killed. 

Was there no emergency plan? Harry assumed there would be an organized means of evacuation. An exit strategy. Harry knew the fall of the Ministry, the appearance of Death Eaters, would cause panic. It was shooting fish in a barrel. It was depressingly easy. He could have conjured Fiendfyre, or pumped some horrid potion into the air, or any number of acts of mass destruction. The Dark Lord’s directive to not spill magical blood stopped the other Death Eaters from casting lethal spells. It didn’t stop them from causing pain.

Harry just wanted everyone gone, other than any Weasleys or Order members he could capture. Unless someone was going to pull a Tonks and try to duel him—it wasn’t going to happen, people were trying to get away, not become targets—there was little for Harry to actually do but laugh maniacally, look scary, and cast some jinxes and hexes. Not five minutes had passed, but each second dragged. 

A sensation like being doused in ice water made Harry shudder. His eyes were inexorably drawn to a table that had yet to be overturned. No one was sitting at it, that he could see. The crowd parted for him, or perhaps had already been avoiding this little scene. Smiling to himself, Harry slowly approached. 

From a glance, Harry could see a three-way gobstones game was in progress. He could even tell the players from the stones. Chrome tourmaline. Ruby corundum. Kyanite in marble. Derek, Mafalda, and Luna. 

Harry reached out a hand and placed it on Luna’s invisible shoulder. 

The screaming and shouting around Harry faded to the background. 

It was strange how he could tell when someone was wearing the Cloak of Invisibility and when they weren’t. Even with a glove on, Harry could feel it. 

He wasn’t ready yet. 

Harry placed his other hand on the table, charming the gobstones to keep their configuration. 

“Percy took them,” Luna whispered from beneath the cloak. “And Fleamont.”

Harry didn’t let that affect him. “Your dad will be looking for you.”

“The nargles will lead him to me.”

Harry smiled. “Reckon I’m the nargle.” It made sense. He was a mischievous thief. 

Closing his eyes—he had to be fast—Harry apparated.

 

---

 

Monty nearly shouted when Percy appeared with two people, and then nearly shouted again when Percy dropped to the ground, breathing heavily. 

“No!” Mafalda shouted. “Nesty!”

“What’s wrong with him?” the other kid, Derek Wilkes, demanded. 

“He needs something,” Mafalda said frantically. She grabbed Percy’s arm. “I don’t know if he had too much or too little! We don’t eat magical food at home!” Mafalda swung her head around, her face pale and fearful. “Nesty!”

A house-elf appeared, squeaked, then hurried to Percy’s side. “Master Percival!”

Monty’s eyebrows shot up. “Kreacher!” he snapped. 

Kreacher was immediately at his side. “Yes, young master?”

“Go get—” Monty didn’t know. Luna, but her dad… Sirius? All? Could Kreacher apparate all of them?

Then a table appeared in the middle of the lane, and Monty froze. Standing next to the table, one hand on something Monty couldn’t see, was Harry. Harry, wearing an anatomically correct human skull mask. Harry, the Death Eater.

No one made a move to attack him, or even get their wands out. Monty just stared.

“Well, this is bloody brilliant,” Harry muttered. He grabbed something, then lifted his hand to reveal a smiling Luna. 

“Hello, Fleamont,” Luna said. 

Before Monty could respond, the invisibility cloak Harry held was thrown at him. Monty caught it, his thoughts racing, not knowing what to do. If Harry was under orders to catch him, if it got back that Harry hadn’t…

“Harry,” Percy murmured. 

Harry ripped off his mask and ran to Percy. 

“What does young master need?” Kreacher asked urgently, tugging his sleeve. 

“Please bring Sirius and Luna’s dad here,” Monty said numbly, watching as Harry brushed the house-elf and Mafalda aside and cradled Percy in his arms. 

He knew it. 

 

---

 

“I’m being stupid again,” Harry murmured, cupping Percy’s cheek. 

Percy sighed in agreement. They both were. His present condition was his own fault. He hadn’t consumed enough of the wedding repast to compensate for the dose he took. He had fallen back into old habits of going without. So easy around his mother.

“I could Obliviate them,” Harry said, his voice still low, meant for Percy only. Percy was fully in Harry’s lap, and Harry was reaching into a pocket to retrieve a vial. 

“Calming Draught,” Harry needlessly explained as the vial uncorked itself, reacting to Harry’s desire. Reality itself would rearrange to accommodate Harry Evans. “A potent one. Sip it sparingly until you feel better.”

“Thank you,” Percy whispered, looking into Harry’s eyes. 

“God,” Harry said, sounding dazed, “you’re gorgeous.”

Percy tried to chuckle, but Harry blew every thought out of his head with a soft kiss. 

“Here, Nesty,” Harry said, passing the vial to her. “I need to go. I shouldn’t be here. It’s dangerous for all of us.” 

“Captain?” Mafalda said anxiously. “Is Pip…”

“He’ll be fine,” Harry said, wordlessly—wandlessly?—conjuring a cushion for Percy to rest on. It felt like velvet. “Might be better if you stayed out of it anyway.”

“Why? Plausible deniability?”

Harry stiffened, and his face went blank. He slowly stood, reaching out his hand. His mask slapped into it. Nesty pressed the vial to Percy’s lips, and he took a small sip. The relief was immediate, both the calming and the regulation of magic. It was always a surprise to learn how much pain he had been in. How familiar it felt.

“Are you going to ignore me again?” Monty demanded, taking a step towards Harry. 

“Yes,” Harry said flatly, putting his mask back on. “You’re not worth my time.” Harry tilted his head, and Percy mourned the loss of his dark, striking features. “Nor the Dark Lord’s.”

Percy sighed, then at Nesty’s prompting took another sip of Calming Draught. Much as he would love for Harry to parade him around his family, Percy knew it was wiser to stay out of whatever happened at the Burrow. He had to think of the future. A future with Harry still in it. 

Monty took another step forward. “But—”

Harry vanished without a sound. 

 

---

 

Sirius had got drawn into a group of warlocks with Nym and Charlie Weasley, singing Odo the Hero, which Sirius was decidedly not drunk enough for but went along with anyway. Monty was still in sight, it wouldn’t take long to reach him. The kid was under a tree, talking to Percy Prewett of all people. 

Then Kingsley’s lynx patronus showed up, then Harry bloody Evans materialized. Sirius would not be surprised if Harry had been at the wedding the entire time, but he didn’t think so. More likely the kid had spent the day cursing his way through the Ministry. He probably single-handedly took the whole government down.

Sirius’ shock didn’t last for long. People lost their fucking minds and started screaming and running around, knocking each other over, splinching, stumbling, falling, making themselves hazards, making themselves targets. And Harry stood in the middle of it all, wearing that creepy skull mask of his, and set the entire bloody marquee on fire, then Nym took off before Sirius could stop them, and he looked at Monty again, knowing his only concern was getting Monty away, but Monty was gone. 

“Protego,” Sirius growled, when he wanted to shout for Monty. Monty knew he was supposed to leave at the first sign of trouble, but of course Monty wouldn’t leave without Luna, and Sirius couldn’t see her either. 

“Luna!”

Sirius spun around, then continued to spin as the bloody dance floor had been turned to ice without him noticing. 

“Luna! Where is my daughter? Luna!”

Xeno was easy enough to spot, wearing all that bright yellow, and Sirius shamelessly cursed people out of his way to reach him. 

“Luna!”

Sirius grabbed Xeno’s arm before he could shout again. 

“She’s with Monty,” Sirius said in Xeno’s ear, hoping the man could hear his conviction. Even if Monty disregarded his own safety, he would not want Luna in the middle of a raid. 

Death Eaters in cloaks and masks were popping up. Harry had been more of a warning than Kingsley’s patronus. People were apparating left and right. Sirius blocked a spell that came at him, then another targeting people who were running into the orchard. 

Sirius looked back at the table where the kids had been playing gobstones, just in time to see Percy for a split second. He could only see him due to the kid’s height. 

“Mafalda! Percival!”

A flamingo was wading through the panicking guests. 

“Mafalda! Percival!”

Many couldn’t apparate. Some were too drunk. Sirius tried to get a look at Harry again, but gave up. The kid was in the thick of it. Frustrated, Sirius tightened his hold on Xeno and turned to apparate. 

Kreacher appeared before them. Before Sirius could ask what the hell he was doing, Kreacher seized his hand and apparated. 

 

---

 

“Let’s finish our game,” Luna said abruptly. Mafalda was hovering around Harry’s betrothed, and Derek looked very uncomfortable. It hurt less to look at them than at Fleamont. Luna didn’t want Fleamont to have a broken heart on a wedding day.

Luna was the one who wanted to attend the wedding, even though she knew it might end in tears. 

“War in the time of gobstones,” Luna said. It was the right thing to say as it drew Mafalda and Derek’s attention away from what Percival saw as a moment of weakness but what Luna knew was a triumph of survival. People who Harry loved were safely away, in a lovely country lane, and they would play gobstones.

“It’s dark,” Fleamont said dully as Mafalda and Derek walked to the table. 

Fleamont was still holding his father’s cloak, and his wand. His watch showed all the mysterious faces of the moon. Luna knew the secret of the watch. She knew how much it hurt Harry every time he turned away.

This was dangerous for all of them. 

“The light of the stones shall illuminate our path,” Luna said.

Mafalda gasped, then turned to Derek. “Blindfolded gobstones!”

From behind them, Percival chuckled. Luna smiled at him. Then her smile grew when her dad, Auntie Muriel, and Sirius appeared and asked why they were playing gobstones in the dark and made them all go inside the Prewett home.

As they carefully levitated the gobstones game over the moat, Luna took Fleamont’s hand. Later, they would talk about what Harry’s words meant, and how much it meant that he trusted the people he loved with the secret of each other. For now, they would finish the game.

 

---

 

Harry dropped heavily onto what used to be Percy’s bed.

A small room. A patched red duvet. A crocheted throw blanket. An old desk. An empty shelf.

Harry bent over and gripped his hair, his face twisting in agony that grew and grew in his chest until he feared it would consume everything. 

Everything was going how he wanted and nothing was going how he wanted. He wanted Percy to be at his side. He wanted to sneak a dance, a kiss in front of his family. He wanted to cause a scene, and he had caused a scene. He wanted people to escape, and they had escaped until all that was left was a few stubborn idiots and Weasleys. 

Harry hadn’t wanted to see Monty. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Percy had taken Monty to Featherby House. And now Monty had seen him, had seen him with Percy, and Percy had seen Monty, and if the Dark Lord got hold of either of them, or Luna, Mafalda, Derek, there was a chance the Dark Lord would know that Percy helped Monty escape and that Harry had not caught him. Had not even tried.

Traitorous tears tried to fall, but Harry angrily swiped them away. He lit a cigarette, then threw himself back on Percy’s too narrow, too short bed. 

Percy, who implicated himself to protect Monty.

Harry laughed humorlessly. 

What did Monty expect him to do? Stop being a Death Eater? Undo years of work? What was the point if he walked away now? How could he save anyone at all? It was too late. 

What did Monty think he could do? He was only seventeen. A potioneer. The only person who could help was someone like Dumbledore or the Dark Lord, and they would both try to stop him.

Everything with his brother was a mess. He’d fix it, after he fixed Monty. 

He was so close.

The Burrow was still being searched. It was easy enough to subdue the people who remained and march them up to the house. After Harry ran away from his brother again, the wedding party was nearly broken up. It had only taken ten minutes. With his mask on, with his mind closed, it was simple for Harry to Disillusion himself and disarm the people making a last stand. Defending their home. Harry had an idea for a revealing spell that would strip away Disillusionment, but that was on the backburner with everything else. 

Harry got off the bed and hung out of Percy’s old window to finish his cigarette. The marquee was a charred frame over the orchard.

He just needed a few minutes, then he would go back to being the person his boyfriend’s family hated.

 

---

 

Percy gazed into the fire. It wasn’t giving off any heat, and was mostly lit for comfort. He indulged in a fantasy of stepping through the fireplace at the Burrow, brazenly allying himself with Harry, mocking his family’s lack of foresight in keeping their floo connection. Percy knew they had, until he intervened. He broke into the Floo Network Authority to check the record, then disconnected the Burrow. 

Monty hadn’t stayed long. After a whispered exchange with Aunt Muriel, and Xenophilius Lovegood, Sirius Black had taken him away. 

The Prewetts were politically neutral. Their property wouldn’t be raided or occupied by Death Eaters, but they also weren’t open to hosting anyone associated from the Order. Percy had taken a risk apparating Monty to safety, a risk he wasn’t happy with, not when it implicated everyone involved, but Monty was right there and it was more important to get him away before he was spotted. Percy hoped Harry would understand, maybe even appreciate it. He hoped his occlumency would never be tested. 

Percy sighed, then looked away from the fire. He knew there were some things Harry didn’t want him to see, many things Harry didn’t want him to be part of. The destruction of his childhood home. The torture and interrogation of his family. Percy didn’t think Harry would let it get that far, but interceding would weaken his position with the Dark Lord. 

He tried to focus on the positives. After the war, Percy could say he rescued the Boy Who Lived. He could argue that Harry openly defied the Dark Lord. They had four witnesses to that. 

Harry got to see him in his suit. Harry kissed him.

Harry had to reject Monty just as thoroughly as Percy rejected his own family. 

Percy put his hands over his face, his chest growing heavy. It was a silly, trivial thing, but he had wanted to dance with Harry. He wanted to concoct some pretext to search the garage, confiscate his father’s Ford Anglia, and fly off into the sunset. Take Harry away from all of this. 

The Ministry had been captured by Death Eaters, and all Percy could think about was his boyfriend. 

Percy had the weekend to recover. A weekend to come to terms with how, deep down, he was selfish. 

 

---

 

Harry looked over the people they had rounded up, people who had been the last bastion to ensure the guests got away, a few who had surrendered. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Bill, Fleur, Charlie, Fred, George, Ginny, Ron. Lavender Brown, who had run off from her parents to defend Ron. Lee Jordan, who had tried to revive the twins. Bound and silenced. All purebloods, with the possible exception of Fleur, but Harry thought the Dark Lord was coming around to magical creature blood being prima facie magical blood. The rest of the Order had disappeared into the night. 

Yaxley was still stomping around, breaking shit, laughing with some other Death Eaters and allies from the Ministry at the lack of treasure hoard or however they measured wealth. Yaxley had brought about a dozen, and it was horribly tragic that twelve people could so easily control a crowd of several hundred. Adrian was leaning against a wall, wearing a smug expression. 

Harry took a drag from his cigarette, then ashed on the carpet. Mrs. Weasley glared at him. 

This interrogation was going to last the entire night. For whatever reason, Yaxley was convinced they needed to do this rather than track down Order members. Harry knew for a fact that no Death Eaters had seen Monty. He was already gone before the others arrived. 

Harry looked over the group again, and met Mrs. Weasley’s eyes. He had to start somewhere, why not with his greatest nemesis?

Interrogating his boyfriend’s mother. What a lovely way to end the day. 

“Is there any food left?” Harry asked, reaching into a pocket. He pulled out a folded piece of parchment and shook it open. “I’m famished.”

“Could check the kitchen,” Adrian suggested. 

Harry wrinkled his nose. “I’m already filthy enough without defiling myself with blood traitor slop. I assumed the wedding was catered, but on further thought I doubt this lot could afford it.” He glanced at Adrian. “Do you know what catering is?”

Adrian gave him a flat look. “Yeah.”

Harry shrugged, then looked back at Mrs. Weasley. Her face was pink. Smiling to himself, Harry crouched in front of her. 

“Percy likes the food I make better,” he said quietly. “How does that make you feel, Mrs. Weasley? That a mudblood Death Eater can provide for your son better than you can?”

Mrs. Weasley’s eyes were red-rimmed. She was still silenced, and couldn’t respond. That was fine. Harry had little interest in hearing her justifications. He sat back on his heels and cocked his head. 

“I’m supposed to ask you where a,” he glanced at the blank parchment in his hand, “Mr. Fleamont James Potter is.” Harry snorted, then looked at Mrs. Weasley again. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Weasley, the dossier on you is quite extensive.”

“Dossier?” Adrian muttered. 

“The one I’m compiling,” Harry said, taking a golden quill from his breast pocket. “Molly Weasley, known blood traitor,” he said as he wrote the words. He glanced at Bill, then Fleur, then looked back at Mrs. Weasley. “Promotes bestiality. Supports breeding with nonhumans.”

Bill gave him a hateful look, but nothing compared to the hellish fire that burned in Fleur’s eyes. It’d be more impressive if she could actually conjure it. 

Harry chuckled. “What else? Oh, that’s right.” Harry jotted down another note. “Objects to buggery.” 

He underlined the word buggery, then grinned at Mrs. Weasley. She was crying now. Harry leaned closer. 

“That’s going in your file, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said. She couldn’t cope with a few minutes of being mocked. Percy had withstood it for years. 

Harry stood up. As much as he was disgusted by Mrs. Weasley, he also pitied her. He felt bad for all of them, and how effortlessly they were subdued, and he ruthlessly suppressed that feeling. He tucked the parchment away, then pulled out a small vial. 

“This is Veritaserum,” he said. “You will each be dosed with three drops, then questioned on the whereabouts of Potter.” Harry met each of their eyes. “You’ll be forced to divulge what you think of as the truth. The potion doesn’t give you a choice. Is everyone clear on that?”

No one moved or said anything. They couldn’t. 

“Fantastic,” Harry said, uncorking the vial. “Let’s start with the squib.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 26: Playing Along

Summary:

August 1997

Harry was on the sofa, unconscious, his arm thrown out. His dark mark was an intense red, somehow more vibrant than the mark on Severus’ arm, like hot blood spilt onto snow. His son had purple shadows under his eyes, and a lassitude to him that spoke of hard-earned trust and vulnerability. 

Wounded. His child was wounded. 

The house was blessedly silent, a quietude which Severus reinforced with a few discreet charms. He waved his wand through the air, tracing invisible shapes, carving his will, his magic, into the world. It was beautiful, and cruel, and Severus hoped his son never lost his love for magic despite everything it took. 

Harry twitched in his sleep as the enchantment sank into the sitting room. 

Severus lowered his wand, frowning. He watched Harry for several long moments, numb with concern. Harry had grown increasingly sensitive to magic over the years, but the thought that struck Severus was so outlandish he was inclined to reject it out of hand. Sensing magic in one’s sleep, outside of some prophetic dream or the visions that had plagued Monty, was no ability Severus was familiar with. When Harry didn’t move again, Severus decided it was merely coincidence and left his son sleeping on the sofa. 

In the kitchen, Charity was puttering around, availing herself of Severus’ pantry. He felt a frisson of annoyance, but it was nothing worth mentioning. He was mostly annoyed on his son’s behalf; Severus knew that Harry liked Charity, and approved of their relationship—something which mattered more to Severus than he cared to admit—but Harry was also upset. He was upset that Charity knew who his mother was, he was upset that he had to participate in Charity’s capture and torture, he was upset that Spinner’s End had a guest. 

Spinner’s End was one of the few places where Harry felt any modicum of safety, and Charity, through no fault of her own, was intruding on that. Even if she was doing something kind, like making breakfast. Severus could appreciate that, but he also wanted to be alone with his son. His son, who had stumbled into the house at dawn and collapsed onto the sofa.

“I’m going to Hogwarts,” Charity said without preamble. She was in the process of making scrambled eggs, and dumped grated cheese into the pan. “I need space.”

“Very well,” Severus said. 

“I have to plan for seven classes,” Charity said, aggressively folding the cheese into the eggs. “I have no idea what to teach the first- and second-years. The third year curriculum is already pretty bloody basic. Maybe we’ll just read muggle books or something.” Her eyes widened. “That’s brilliant. I’ll just do an English class. God knows most of our students can’t write an essay to save their lives.”

“I’ll approve of whatever you choose,” Severus said, taking a seat at the table. “So long as, if the Dark Lord deigns to visit Hogwarts, it can be construed as anti-muggle.”

“That’s easy enough,” Charity said disdainfully. She began portioning the eggs onto plates. Severus was impressed by how shamelessly Charity was using his kitchen. Some would be too nervous to get so much as a glass of water without bowing and scraping. “How’s your kid?”

“Exhausted,” Severus said. “Understandably so.” 

Charity’s expression was troubled. Severus appreciated her concern for his son, a boy she barely knew, but there was nothing Charity could do for Harry. What Harry needed, and what no one could give him, was the permanent defeat of the Dark Lord. Severus knew that it was not a definitive solution to all the problems his son faced, but the Dark Lord, the continued threat to his brother’s life, had consumed Harry for years. It had to end. 

Severus was also exhausted. While Harry had raided the wedding at the Burrow, Severus had been made to aid in coordinated attacks against all known Order of the Phoenix locations. Some were under Fidelius, or otherwise hidden, many were unoccupied as the residents were at the wedding. It was not the dramatic cleaning house that Lucius and Bellatrix had envisioned. The most exciting thing that happened was burning down Dedalus Diggle’s home, but the man hadn’t been in at the time, making for a less satisfactory conflagration. 

And, of course, Severus had been with the Dark Lord when the reports began coming in. Monty Potter had not been captured. No one knew where Monty Potter was. The only information, after torture and interrogation and searching the Ministry’s records, was the information they already had. Monty lived with Sirius Black, and the location was under Fidelius. 

“I’m going to see if I can salvage anything from my flat,” Charity said, sitting down across from Severus. There were three plates on the table, and cups of coffee. Charity was constructing a sandwich with toast, cheesy eggs, bacon, and tomato sauce. Severus was not particularly hungry, but he enjoyed watching her eat. He quietly sighed, wondering if he could coax Harry into eating at all that day. Severus didn’t want to guilt Harry into it—the boy was already riddled with guilt—but he would if he had too. 

“I would offer my assistance,” Severus began. 

Charity shook her head. “Thanks, but I can handle it on my own.” She took a bite of her bacon butty, her eyes closing in pleasure. Severus took a sip of coffee, watching Charity and glad someone could derive enjoyment from something as simple as a sandwich. The world was falling apart around them, but at least there were sandwiches. 

As Severus was pouring himself a second cup of coffee, and Charity was piling what had fallen out of her butty onto another piece of toast, an owl flew into the kitchen.

“Bit late for the Prophet,” Charity observed, offering the owl a piece of bacon before it went after their breakfasts. 

Severus grudgingly slipped coins into the pouch tied to the owl’s leg and accepted the copy of the Daily Prophet. He scoffed at the article on the front page.

 

MINISTER SCRIMGEOUR RESIGNS

 

“That’s the official story?” Charity said flatly, leaning over to look. She frowned. “Is that Corban Yaxley?”

“Yes,” Severus said, sneering at the photograph taking up most of the front page. It was a picture of Pius Thicknesse, standing next to a smiling Yaxley in what was clearly the Minister for Magic’s office, shaking hands with Scrimgeour.

“How’d they pull that off?” Charity asked.

“Polyjuice, presumably,” Severus said, scanning the article. “Likely from the Ministry’s own stock.” His eyes caught on another announcement, an order for all Ministry employees to present themselves for Thicknesse’s first address.

“Why not just polyjuice as Scrimgeour, then?” Charity asked. “Thicknesse isn’t a Death Eater, or sympathetic to the Dark Lord. He was the bloody Head Auror!”

“He is also under Imperius,” Severus said, “one of several in the Ministry used in the plot to unseat Scrimgeour.” He set down the paper. “It ultimately doesn’t matter who the puppet is. If Lucius were not so publicly disgraced, I imagine we would all be fêting Minister Malfoy. As it is, the Dark Lord believes it is beneficial to not openly control the Ministry and to perpetuate this veneer of legitimacy.”

“Why?” Charity asked. “International backlash?” She laughed. “No, I know the answer. He wants collaboration. Submission.”

“Yes,” Severus said, glancing at the article again. He didn’t think that Harry’s presence would be required, but perhaps Harry would want to see the Imperiused Thicknesse give his speech, or at least see Prewett. 

Charity pushed aside her plate and picked up her cup of coffee. She twisted it in her hands for a moment, then looked at Severus.

“What are you doing today?” she asked.

“Waiting for the Dark Lord’s summons,” Severus said. He had no immediate tasks. What he wanted to do was spend a quiet day with his son. He wanted to talk to Harry. Severus knew Harry had spent the night on a spurious, fruitless interrogation of the Weasleys. Harry’s expression when he came home, the dead look in his eyes, disturbed Severus. 

“That’s it?” Charity asked incredulously.

Severus gave her a thin smile. “Is it so surprising? Even in the Order of the Phoenix there are lengthy periods of inactivity, punctuated by the occasional, surprisingly brief encounter with the enemy.” He crossed his arms. “Guarding various assets, interminable, repetitive meetings, a constant undercurrent of apprehension.” He glanced at the kitchen door, and decided to let his son sleep for as long as he could. “I suspect one reason the Dark Lord encourages muggle-baiting and torture is as a means of entertainment. To alleviate the persistent boredom of war.” Severus smirked humorlessly. “Boredom, terror, and unrelenting horror. That is the glamor of being a Death Eater.”

Charity gazed into her cup. “I thought he’d start a war against muggles.”

“Some wish for that,” Severus said. “To what end? If we killed every muggle in Britain, if we even attempted to, that would attract international attention from both muggle and magical governments. We have a small population, as you well know, and no means of fully isolating ourselves from the rest of the world.” 

Severus knew, with dedicated effort, taking over the entire country was possible, but the Dark Lord had never suggested such a thing. From what he gleaned, the Dark Lord wanted to control magical Britain while leaving the rest as an open hunting ground. Thus far, no effort had been made to subvert the muggle government. What was the point in preserving such a structure when wizards ruled?

“Eventually start a war,” Charity amended. She sighed. “Rule the world.”

“Voldemort doesn’t want anything that mundane.”

Severus closed his eyes against the burning pain in his arm, then looked over at his son. Harry walked into the kitchen, his cat trotting behind him. He was wearing yesterday’s clothes, and his hair looked as messy as his brother’s. He dropped into a chair, making a face of disgust at the plate of food. Severus would spell the damn meal into Harry’s stomach if he didn’t willingly eat. Perhaps it was time to explore potions to encourage appetite.

“Good morning,” Charity said, taking his son’s rumpled state in stride. Harry’s entire existence was being taken in stride. Charity’s life had been upended, and she was adapting to it at a worrying pace. 

Harry shrugged, nudging the plate away from himself. “Not really.” At a hard look from Severus, Harry rolled his eyes and picked up a fork.

“What do you think he wants?” Charity asked.

Harry poked at a cheesy clump of eggs. “He wants to be a god. Immortal, omnipotent, worshipped, obeyed, punishing those who oppose or reject him. He’ll rule over his pantheon of Death Eaters, but he’s not going to fucking have a hand in the daily operations of the government. He doesn’t give a shit about that.” Harry dropped his fork and ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up crazily. “He doesn’t think of himself as human. I don’t think he ever has.” Harry looked over at Charity. “Imagine being a little kid in an orphanage in the 30s and a fucking snake comes up to you and starts talking.” Harry leaned forward. “This is pure speculation, but I reckon the only talking snake Voldemort knew about was that snake in the Garden of Eden.” Harry smiled unpleasantly. “He probably thought he was talking to Satan. What other context would he have?” He yawned, then picked up his fork again. “Voldemort thought he was evil well before he knew that magic was real, a product of sin like the other unwanted kids he was with, and everyone around him constantly reinforced that.” Harry glanced at Severus. “Including Dumbledore.”

Severus gave him a flat look. “Eat. Charity made it.”

Harry grimaced, but obediently began eating.

“He grew up in an orphanage?” Charity asked. “During the War?”

“He did,” Severus said, keeping an eye on Harry as he mechanically ate. “The Dark Lord doesn’t concern himself with good and evil. As my son said, he believes himself above such things, or outside of them.”

“Then why does he care about muggles and muggleborns at all?” Charity asked. “What does that matter to a god?”

“That goes back to his childhood too,” Harry said between bites. “He was in Slytherin, everyone thought he was muggleborn for years, and they made him go back to London the summer before the Blitz. He hates muggles because he has personal grievances, and he hates muggleborns—or claims he does—because he was perceived as inferior, because it attracts powerful and wealthy sympathizers, and because he’s a fascist piece of shit who needs an underclass to suppress.” Harry picked up his cup of coffee, which began to steam. “House-elves and goblins don’t cut it for him. I think Voldemort perceives them as little better than animals, and in his worldview man has a natural dominion over beasts. It’s more powerful to dominate humans.”

“Jesus Christ,” Charity breathed.

“No, that’s Monty,” Harry said scathingly.

Charity drew back, giving Harry an alarmed look.

“What?” he demanded. “They’re calling my brother the Chosen One. Are you stupid enough to—”

“Harry,” Severus snapped.

Harry closed his eyes, took a breath.

“Thanks for cooking,” he said, pushing himself away from the table. “I’m going… elsewhere.”

“No, you’re not,” Severus said firmly. “You’re going to finish eating. I don’t care if you’re not hungry.”

Harry gave him a hateful look, but remained in his chair. Lady Madeleine jumped onto his lap, and Harry hugged her to his chest.

Charity looked between them, then carefully said, “I don’t think your brother is a hero who’s going to save us all.”

Harry scowled. 

“I think he’s a sixteen‐year-old—”

“Seventeen,” Harry interrupted. “His birthday was two days ago.”

“I think he’s a normal teenager,” Charity finished. “Or he should be allowed to be one.”

Harry stared at Charity, his expression unreadable. Severus knew that Harry could hear the truth of Charity’s statement. That very, very few people disregarded the Boy Who Lived mythos.

“The eggs are really good,” Harry said abruptly, turning back to his food. “Dad always overcooks them.”

“It’s the cheese,” Charity said, smiling. “Straight from the sheep’s teat.”

“It comes out as cheese?”

Severus shook his head, then got up to pour a third cup of coffee.

 

---

 

Harry held his left arm over his head and stared at his dark mark. He was back on the sofa and hoped to make it his permanent residence. 

Professor Burbage had left shortly after breakfast, which was a relief. Harry liked her well enough, but he didn’t want to be around her. He didn’t want to be around anyone. Harry was tempted to cut off his arm just to avoid being summoned. He didn’t want to be part of the torture circus for failing to catch Monty. 

Harry covered his face and groaned. He was tired—he was always tired—and sick to his stomach. It wasn’t the food Professor Burbage made, though it was hard to eat and made his stomach cramp. He had spent the entire night at the Burrow, tearing the house apart, dosing Percy’s family, his sister-in-law, even Lavender Brown and Lee Jordan, with Veritaserum. He had to be sure no one actually knew where Monty was, that there was nothing dangerous in their heads. 

Do you know Monty Potter?

When was the last time you saw Monty Potter?

Was he at the wedding?

Who was he with?

Where does he live?

Are you in contact with him?

Will he contact you?

On, and on, and on, going in circles.

There was a lot he could do with a bottle of Veritaserum and eight uninterrupted hours. There was a lot he had to say to Percy’s family, but Monty’s safety was more important. The Weasleys’ safety was more important than getting one over on them. None of them were tortured, which Harry wished he could feel better about. Humiliating them, insulting them, convincing Yaxley they needed to stay alive because Monty might contact them, the Order might contact them, that they were wasting time with a dead end. 

Fred and George were the biggest liabilities. It was worse because a part of Harry wanted to be friends with them. He envied them, envied their family and their freedom, and they weren’t bad people. That’s what made it so hard to deal with the Weasleys. They weren’t bad people. Mrs. Weasley was particularly loving and kind, until she found out he was gay. Even then, she was more distant than outright cruel. Until she found out he was dating Percy. Until she found out he was a Death Eater.

An ominous presence loomed over Harry. He pretended not to notice. 

“What happened last night?”

Harry shook his head.

“I thought you would relish the opportunity to draw secrets out of Prewett’s former family.”

“They’re still his family,” Harry said quietly. “Percy cares about them.” He sighed. “I’m not going to air their dirty secrets in front of a bunch of Death Eaters. I had to control the information they revealed, a dozen people, and stop anyone from going too far.”

There was a light touch on his shoulder. 

“I don’t want to talk,” Harry muttered.

“Did you see your brother?”

Harry rolled onto his side.

“I could ask him instead.”

“Yes,” Harry spat out. “I told him he was a waste of time.”

“I doubt you phrased it that way.”

Harry clenched his teeth. “I told him that he isn’t worth my time. That he isn’t worth the Dark Lord’s time.”

It was horrible. Harry had only spent a few minutes on that lane, and he had never felt more exposed in his entire life. He should have Obliviated everyone, but it wouldn’t have made any difference about how they thought of him. Even if he had a dark mark, even if he hurt people and killed people and did all the things a Death Eater was supposed to do, and did them better, none of his friends were convinced. They still thought he was a good person.

“You don’t sound convinced of that. I doubt your brother was.”

Harry gripped his hair. “Can’t you just leave me alone?”

“No.”

“I fucking ate like you wanted me to,” Harry said bitterly. “What other hoops do I have to jump through?”

His dad took a seat on the sofa, making Harry draw his legs up.

“You’re not going to drive me away,” his dad said. “I know you miss your brother.”

“I’d rather miss him while he’s alive than while he’s dead,” Harry said heatedly. “I didn’t want to see him again. Not until—” He viciously bit his lips together. 

“I know,” his dad said. Harry shuddered, and hugged his knees to his chest. “I doubt it will happen again, unless he seeks you out.”

“Right,” Harry said tonelessly. “He doesn’t care how I feel about that. He doesn’t care how hard this is. He probably thinks it’s my fault. It is my fault. He hates me—”

His dad put a hand on his shoulder again.

“None of that is accurate,” his dad said. “Your brother has had ample opportunity to accost you or lie in wait, but he has thus far respected the distance you wish to keep.” His dad sighed. “Which I’ve encouraged.”

“He’s not going to forgive me,” Harry muttered. “No one is. I…” 

Harry broke off. He didn’t want to repeat how he denigrated Ron, or what he had implied about Fleur. If anyone bothered to read what he said during his trial, it was obvious he didn’t think veela were subhuman beasts. But, Fleur didn’t really know him. None of the Weasleys really did. They hated him for the simple reason that he was a Death Eater. He was a different sort of blood traitor, a traitor to muggleborns.

“He will,” his dad said.

Harry didn’t respond. It didn’t matter how he felt, or how Monty felt, or anyone. He had never once doubted what he was doing, what he was going to do, and he told himself he had come to terms with never having a real relationship with his brother before they had ever met. The Dark Lord had to die, and Harry would be the one to kill him. Everything else was incidental. Even the future he wanted. Even his life.

His dad gripped his shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”

“What?” Harry said, looking at him. 

“You remind me of Lily,” his dad insanely continued. “Too much, sometimes.”

“I haven’t done anything to be proud of,” Harry said. “How am I like mum at all?”

“You’re foolishly brave,” his dad said, standing up. “And recklessly devoted to those you love.” His dad looked down at him. “We need groceries. Get up, and get your skateboard.”

Harry squinted at his dad, confused. “You want me to go shopping? Right now?” He pushed himself up. “I haven’t taken over Gringotts yet.”

“That can wait,” his dad said. “We’re going to Tesco, I’m getting you a bloody Mars bar, and you’re going to enjoy it.”

Harry gaped at his dad. “Are you trying to make me feel better?”

“Yes,” his dad said bluntly.

Harry choked on a laugh, then put his head in his hands.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll play along.”

 

Chapter 27: No More Heroes

Summary:

August 1997

Severus watched his son attempt to leave the house. The boy had been at it for some time. The first hurdle was getting off the couch, which Harry only achieved after being incessantly meowed at and then ultimately attacked by his cat. Then it was getting into the shower, which Severus only paid attention to in the event Harry tried to drown himself. Getting dressed was an entire ordeal, and Harry looked unhappy and uncomfortable in the borrowed suit. He vehemently rejected robes. His tie resembled a noose more than an accessory. Then Harry tried to avoid eating, claiming he had forgotten.

“Don’t you wish to see Prewett?” Severus asked pointedly as Harry dithered over the doorknob. 

Harry sneered at him. ‘’That’s the only reason I’m going. Everyone else can fuck off and die.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. 

“I’m sick of caring about people,” Harry said, the ire going out of him as he sagged against the door. “Do you ever feel that way?”

“There are very few people I care for,” Severus said. “I have never tired of doing so.”

“Lucky you,” Harry muttered. “It’s exhausting. And they don’t care about me, so I don’t know why I bother. It doesn’t make a difference whether I live or die. They’d probably throw a party at my funeral.”

“There are certain benefits to notoriety,” Severus said drily. 

Harry snorted. 

“Many people do care about you,” Severus said more seriously. 

“Well,” Harry said, pushing himself upright again, “I wish they wouldn’t.”

Severus said nothing as Harry straightened his suit then seized the doorknob. The contradiction didn’t bother him so much as Harry’s disregard for himself. Harry spoke as if he were an afterthought. 

“I’m off to the capital, father,” Harry said in an atrocious affect. “Courting my dearest darling Percival.”

Harry paused with the door half open, then grinned in a familiar, mischievous way. Severus could not tell whether the expression was authentic.

“I hope his dad’s there,” Harry said. “Bet I could make him lose his rag.” His smile faded as he looked at Severus. “You know, Mr. Weasley wasn’t against us being together. It’s Percy’s mum. I think she thinks that if you don’t have kids, or can’t have kids, it’s a failure of a relationship.” Harry rubbed his arm, then looked to the side. “Not that I can have them either way.”

Severus didn’t know what to say. He never had any desire for children, and he acquired one through happenstance. This was something they had never discussed before, what options Harry had, what he wanted. He was still a teenager. What room was there to discuss such things? What time did they have?

“When she was my age, mum already had one kid,” Harry said, his gaze unfocused. “Isn’t that a strange thought?”

“Don’t compare yourself to her,” Severus said firmly. 

“I’m not,” Harry said, looking at Severus again. “What would be the point? She chose to stand and die. I chose to kneel and live.”

“You needn’t emulate her at all,” Severus said. How else could he say it? How could he make Harry see that he didn’t need to give his life for his brother? 

Death was not the only way to take a life.

Harry sighed, then headed through the door. “I’m going to make sure no one gets dragged out of the crowd and executed,” he said flatly, waving over his shoulder. “Or maybe a few public executions is what they need to take a bloody hint.”

“Will you be returning this evening?” Severus asked.

“Unless I get summoned,” Harry said with a shrug. “I need to go to the station too, but that shouldn’t take long.” He rubbed his arm. “I could do it tomorrow. Just need to get everyone towing the Dark Lord’s line.” 

On a whim, Severus summoned one of his Tesco purchases, something which both he and Harry rarely had as children. He tossed the bag to Harry, who caught it with a surprised look. If Harry was reluctant to eat full meals, an intermittent snack would have to do. Loathe as he was to admit it, Prewett could be an ally in this. Severus recalled a certain summer of homemade lunches and suppressed a shudder. 

“Cheers,” Harry said, smiling again. “If I see her, I’ll tell Professor Burbage you long for her lamb chops. Tata!”

Harry apparated before Severus could respond. 

After a few minutes, once Severus was certain his son was gone, he pulled on his cloak and left the house for his own errand. If he was going to be headmaster, he needed to know what the job fully entailed. There was only one person Severus could ask who was willing to speak with him, if he could find the bastard.

 

---

 

Percy strode purposefully down the purple-carpeted corridor, shuffling papers simply to have something to do with his hands. One particularly gilded paper kept surfacing, a Ministry missive he had agonized over during the interminable weekend. 

It hadn’t been the worst weekend in Percy’s life. Nothing so harrowing as cutting himself out of his family, those first days learning to live without what he once thought was so vital. Nothing near as devastating as when Harry was arrested and condemned to Azkaban. Distantly, Percy was aware it could happen again. One could not walk away from a war totally unscathed, unsullied, honor, pride, dignity untarnished. This was, after all, the outcome they had sought. The Ministry was bound to fall, and they had controlled its collapse and minimized the damage. The only death was that of former Minister Scrimgeour, which Percy only had confirmation of through Harry. The coup was a success. They just had to see it through. 

Percy’s mouth twisted bitterly. Everything was easier said than done. It was all well and good to say muggleborns were equal, that goblins were people, that house-elves didn’t deserve abuse, but saying was not doing, and there had been very little doing in the Ministry in the years since the first war. 

From the top to the bottom, from Cornelius Fudge to Percy’s own father, the Ministry had the stated directive of maintaining the Statute of Secrecy. Left unsaid was the almost rote entrenchment of power. 

Percy came to a stop before a golden grille. He pressed the button for the lift, then looked down at what he had written. It was an announcement meant to be printed next morning in the Daily Prophet. A call for people to surrender themselves to the Ministry. The Muggleborn Registration Committee. 

Rereading his words, turning them over in his head, anxious over whether the message within the message would make it to its intended recipients and not land him in front of the Dark Lord and wondering whether Harry would be forced to torture and kill him, took Percy’s mind off the what was happening far beneath his feet, deep underground. 

Rufus Scrimgeour was dead. Amelia Bones was dead. Albus Dumbledore was dead. The Order of the Phoenix was scattered and gone to ground. Hogwarts wasn’t safe. They were cut off from the international magical community. The ICW was turning a blind eye. 

All at once, Percy felt incredibly alone in a hostile world. 

A lift rattled up to him. Percy gathered himself, not wanting to show any weakness, or anything at all, to an observer. Unless quite a few people were placed under Imperius to counter the Dark Lord’s agents, Percy only trusted himself, and Harry. His mother would have a heart attack if she knew how subversive he truly was. 

The grille opened, and Percy felt his own heart leap into his throat. Leaning against the side of the lift, digging around a bag of crisps, was Harry. 

“Alright, my duck?” Harry said, pulling out a cheese and onion crisp. “Or, my goose? My lovely gosling? My gorgeous gander?”

“Mr. Evans,” Percy said solemnly, a vain effort to conceal his fluster. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Harry gave him a knowing smile. Scowling, Percy stepped onto the lift, and the grille clattered shut. 

“Fancy a crisp?” Harry offered, holding the saddle-shaped potato snack out to him. “I’ll even feed it to you.”

“I am not being handfed a crisp,” Percy hissed, grateful that he and Harry were alone. It only occurred to him once the lift began descending that Harry’s sudden appearance could not be a coincidence. How he had ended up on the exact lift Percy called for at that precise time?

“Suit yourself,” Harry said, shoving the crisp in his mouth and licking the tips of his fingers. His eyes roved appreciatively over Percy, who was grateful for the providence of robes. “You could fetch ducks off water.”

“Thank you,” Percy said. He had no idea what to do with all of the papers he was holding. Throw them away? Burn them? Drop them into the lift shaft?

“I’m serious,” Harry said, reaching into the bag for another crisp. “That suit you had on at the wedding? You could be on the cover of Attitude.”

Percy made a strange, spluttering sound, then looked away to hide his blush. 

The rustling of the crisp bag stopped. 

“You know what that is?” Harry asked. 

Percy cleared his throat, then looked back at an amused Harry. “Fred and George have been increasingly…pointed with their gifts over the years.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “They’re really hard to hate sometimes.” He pulled his hand out of the crisp bag. Instead of the crisp one might expect, he had a small, glossy, cheese and onion flavored disk between his fingers. “Oh, I got a tazo.”

“A what?” Percy asked. He rarely purchased muggle snacks, and some muggle terminology remained impenetrable.

Harry turned the disk around to show Percy the image on it. It appeared to be a large, drooling slug. 

“That’s Umbridge,” Harry said with a grin. 

“The resemblance is uncanny,” Percy said drily. 

“Here,” Harry said, passing the disk to him. 

“You’re giving this object to me?” Percy asked, looking at what he suspected was cardboard. Cheesy, oniony cardboard.

“You can’t have Chocolate Frogs,” Harry said. “I know you never collected the cards. So, have a tazo.”

“I still don’t know what it is,” Percy said, taking the seasoned disk between two fingers.

“I’ll ask Professor Burbage to add it to her curriculum,” Harry said, rolling the top of the bag of crisps and shoving it into his jacket. He was wearing a suit. A black suit, with his hair pushed back. He looked like an indecent funeral director. 

The lift began to slow, rumbling and squealing to stop at the Atrium. Percy pulled out his watch. It was a quarter to noon, but already the Atrium was filled with people, resonating with the rising murmur of the crowd. 

Harry brushed off his hands, then gave Percy a kiss on the cheek. 

“We just need to let it run its course,” Harry said, taking a step back to let Percy off first. “You just have to stand there and look pretty.”

Percy slipped the disk into his robes. Whatever it was, it was a precious gift from Harry and he would cherish it until the heat death of the universe and thereafter. 

“And you?” Percy asked as the grille slid open once more. 

“Crowd control,” Harry said lightly, tugging his gloves down. 

Harry had a badge affixed to his lapel, one Percy had seen that night when he fled the wedding. Harry Evans, Harbinger of Death. 

“An éminence grise,” Percy said. 

“More like an éminence noir,” Harry muttered. He tilted his head towards the Atrium, at the new statue that had been raised. “Go on, Perce. I’ll be right behind you.”

 

---

 

Harry had never liked the golden Fountain of Magical Brethren. A wizard standing above a witch, a centaur, a goblin, and a house-elf, all looking up at the wizard in adoration. It was a sickening display, one that dominated the center of the Ministry since nearly its inception. It was a symbol of oppression, not one of equality. And even if one gave the fountain the benefit of the doubt, it was still a symbol of magical supremacy. Harry wasn’t sorry to see the ode to wizard supremacy torn down, or more likely vanished.

The statue that had taken the place of the fountain was an immense slab of black stone upon which sat a towering witch and wizard on two ornate thrones, glaring down at the weak witches and wizards of flesh and blood who huddled together, awaiting the news that the Ministry had what could charitably be described as a change in leadership. Their haunted eyes avoided the foot-high words chiseled into the base of the stone. 

 

MAGIC IS MIGHT

 

It was a more honest message, Harry had to admit, a little proud of coming up with it. He could do without the throne being made of naked muggles, men, women, children, all piled, twisted, straining to support those sat upon them, but it was practically a fetish among Death Eaters. He did wonder what happened to the kelpie that lived in the pipes under the fountain. The possibility of getting attacked by a kelpie in the middle of the underground Ministry was never zero.

Harry leaned against the statue, blending into the black stone and giant shadow it cast. The stone was conjured, no good for gobstones, or anything other than reminding everyone how they got here. So many of them, these Ministry witches and wizards, had denied Voldemort’s return for over a year. Two years, if he counted from the muggle-baiting at the Quidditch World Cup. The violent green skull and serpent that rose above the trees. The marks on their arms getting darker, and darker. 

A part of Harry, a part of himself that he hated, felt vindictive, felt like these people deserved it. They were content to live in the world his mum died to create, and did nothing to change the things that allowed Voldemort to get so far in the first place. If Monty died for them, they’d carry on the same way, complicit, apathetic. Guilty. 

They weren’t bad people. Harry closed his eyes. Many of them were not bad people. They did not actively go out and make the world a worse place. Instead, they were content to let it fester, to stand aside and let horrible things happen, no one willing to claim responsibility for putting a stop to it. Too weak, selfish, afraid. Indifferent. 

Harry knew he was a bad person, but it was for a good reason. You couldn’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. Or a quiche, for that matter. 

There was a loud bang, and Harry looked up in time to see a curse collide with the peacock-blue ceiling. Arcane golden symbols skittered away from the impact site, though when the smoke cleared the ceiling was undamaged. Harry itched to know why. To discover why. Ever since he had seen it, the Atrium’s ceiling puzzled him. But, there was no time for mysteries or curiosity, and his interest dwindled as Yaxley stepped forward to confront the crowd of hundreds. A moment later, Pius Thicknesse moved to stand next to him. Percy was several paces behind. Harry couldn’t see his face, but from Percy’s posture he knew his boyfriend looked as cold and distant as the gruesome edifice above them. 

“Thank you all for joining me today to celebrate my ascension to Minister for Magic,” Thicknesse said, his voice inflecting oddly. “It is an honor to serve the people of Magical Britain, to be tasked with upholding the laws and traditions that keep us safe from muggles and the dark and dangerous creatures of the world…”

Harry listened to Thicknesses’ speech with half an ear, not very interested in hearing the same poisonous rhetoric he’d lived with ever since putting that bloody hat on. No one who served Voldemort in the first war thought they were wrong. They thought they were unlucky. As far as Harry knew, his dad was the only traitor, and even that was for personal reasons. His dad hadn’t objected to the Dark Lord’s politics until years later. Sometimes, Harry wondered if his dad had actually changed his mind, and hated that he wondered it. Did his dad think the Dark Lord was wrong, or that his methods were wrong, flawed in that he lost due to an unpredictable fluke? Did his dad disapprove of the term mudblood in general, or because it was wielded against women he happened to fancy?

Would Harry have stood against the Dark Lord if his brother wasn’t a target? He thought he would. He hoped he would. But right now, standing against the Dark Lord looked exactly like standing with him. 

Thicknesse droned on about magical heritage. Harry leaned against the statue, the monument to misery, wondering if he could get away with smoking. That people couldn’t tell Thicknesse was under Imperius at a glance spoke to the decades of inadequate Defense education Dumbledore countenanced. Harry wanted to bring the old twat back to life just to fake kill him again. 

Harry reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his crisps. The crinkling of the bag was embarrassingly loud, but Harry went in for a crisp. 

“Where’s Rufus?” some idiot shouted. 

The muscles in Yaxley’s back bunched up. 

“Taking a much deserved holiday,” Thickness said, more smoothly. 

There was movement in the crowd, and Harry watched as several Death Eaters converged on the speaker, an elderly witch, and dragged her off. 

“Any other questions?” Yaxley asked, almost gleeful at the prospect. Silence met this implied threat. 

Harry finished his crisps, his eyes scanning the crowd. He picked out the people he recognized. Elphias Doge, Griselda Marchbanks. Sirius Black, which was a shock. Adrian. Kingsley Shacklebolt, a bruised-eyed Tonks. Basil Montgomery, Ladislaus Cram. Cedric and his dad. Captain Lament. Astrid’s mum. Mr. Weasley.

Harry walked forward, drawing a few gasps, melting out of the shadows as he did. He was the only person wearing muggle clothes. It occurred to Harry, in that moment, that he would never be able to lead a normal life in the magical world. That had never and would never be an option for him. 

“That’s it?” Harry said into the silence. Yaxley shot him a quelling look. “None of you? Not a single one of you has anything to say?”

“Harry,” Percy whispered harshly.

Harry ignored him. “No one is even going to try?” He looked at Mr. Weasley. “What happened to courage?” He met Shacklebolt’s eyes. “What happened to bravery?” He glanced at Tonks. “To integrity?” He laughed. “It can’t be this easy. It can’t.”

“Evans, shut up,” Yaxley snapped.

“Piss off,” Harry said, turning to look up at the statue. Witches and wizards and muggles all in their rightful place. “There aren’t heroes anymore. There are only martyrs.” He laughed again. “Is that what you all want? Another fucking statue?”

A hand touched his arm. Harry tensed, then forced himself to relax. Occlude. Compartmentalize. Focus. He was losing the plot. He had to focus.

Harry started walking to the banks of fireplaces, the crowd backing away from him. Watching, content to let others suffer and die so long as it wasn’t them.

It was the last day the public floo network would be active before the new security measures were in place. They deserved it. They deseved everything.

“I need to get out of here,” he muttered to Percy, who had left the puppet Minister’s side to trail after him. “I’m gasping for a fag.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of The Evans Boy