“How did you do this?” Harry said, looking around with respect that he didn’t try to hide. Fred and George had suffered enough of other people belittling their skills.
George ran a possessive hand over one of the walls. “We nicked some plans out of McGonagall’s office third year. Never understood them properly ‘til sixth—”
“—but it was a study of the way Hogwarts folds space in its dungeons,” Fred finished. “You might’ve noticed it’s not…”
“Logical,” Harry supplied. “Right.”
“We don’t know how you lot get around down there,” George said.
Harry grinned. “Practice.” In truth, it was a combination of memory and a little help from the castle. He’d never tested it but he’d be willing to bet his Firebolt that Hogwarts itself adjusted to the Slytherins when they were in the dungeons, and likewise for the Gryffindors on their moving staircases. Most Slytherins reported developing an excellent sixth sense for which turns to take by the end of their first year while the younger Vipers from other Houses had felt nothing similar. They had to memorize the route to the Potions classroom. It was no more than a tiny reflex almost indistinguishable from muscle memory to turn a certain way; but lacking any normal sense of distance when descending a certain dungeon staircase, or in which direction one was traveling related to the rest of the castle, you had to get good at listening to those hints.
Fred squinted at him. “I feel like that’s bullshit, but okay. Point is we copied that, because it’s way better than the Ministry-approved space-tweaking spells for buildings—”
“—not like those worked super well on our house anyway—”
“—and we made this.” Fred gestured around the underground room. It was dark and the air tasted slightly stale and the walls were bare wood. Unlabeled crates and shelves of boxes filled it wall to wall and floor to ceiling, turning an otherwise reasonably spacious room into something very cramped. Paths barely wide enough for one person led between the stacks and shelves.
“Diagon building codes don’t allow underground spaces, because Gringotts takes up so much,” Harry said. “Treaty with the goblins.”
Fred’s smile was a white slash in the gloom.
“We kept it small,” George said. “And paid off Dargok, the goblin who manages the tunnels nearest us.”
“We’re not encroaching on their space—”
“—or disturbing the structural integrity of the tunnels, or—”
“—the Gringotts enchantments—”
“—so they were willing to accept a bribe. It’s officially a contract to lease the nonexistent magical space from an owner who doesn’t exist. The Ministry will never know.” George flung his arms wide and knocked a box off the shelf nearest him.
Fred let out a wordless yell and lunged for it, catching the box at knee height.
“Fuck,” George said, hovering while Fred cautiously slid back the lid. “All right?”
“Yeah.” Fred glowered at him. “Be more careful.”
“You set the place on fire last week,” George said, rolling his eyes and snatching the box back. “Don’t give me that.”
Fred grinned reluctantly. “Okay, fair.”
Harry looked between them. “What would’ve happened if that box hit the floor?”
“Possibly nothing,” Fred said.
“Possibly every minor ward within half a click collapsing on itself,” George said. “Violently.”
“Um.” Harry was suddenly very conscious of the six inches between his left elbow and a very large crate.
“It’s a work in progress.” Fred closed the box and put it back. “We’re hoping to get it so that when it detonates, every ward within range just sort of dies.”
“Right now they just explode,” George said. “It’s hard to test because we can’t—”
“—risk blowing anything up in Diagon, so—”
“—we have to Apparate somewhere out in the country, set up random wards, and then detonate it.”
“Turning wards into bombs isn’t a useless thing,” Harry said.
“We’ve more efficient ways to blow things up,” George said dismissively, gesturing into the room. Harry squinted around and wondered what exactly was lurking in all the boxes. “This is supposed to be more of a… covert thing.”
Harry cocked his head, thinking. “What’s the issue? Runespells, charms…?”
“Runes,” Fred said. “We need a better understanding of the shared properties of wards.”
“You could outsource that,” Harry suggested.
“To who? A consultant?” George scoffed. “Bill?”
“Theo,” Harry said. “He’s got the time, and my trust.”
George and Fred shared one of their patented communication-heavy glances. “You’re sure on the trust?”
“His loyalty is to me,” Harry said, tone loaded with the unspoken just as yours is. “Your skills lie in creative combinations of existing runic and charms-based magic, not so much the heavy theory behind it. Let Theo handle the complicated runic theory for you.”
“Why not you?” Fred said.
Harry’s lips curled. “Do you need to see a written version of my ongoing to-do list?”
The twins laughed in unison. It bounced oddly in the small, magically created space under their store, and Harry resisted the urge to shiver. The longer he stayed down here the more he felt like he’d stumbled into a faerie circle out of children’s tales. Enchantments often took on a bit of the personality of whoever had cast them, especially large complicated workings like this, especially when it was an invented, improvised spell. This place had an indefinable sense of the twins to it, but not the harmless fun of the inventions they sold upstairs. This was the capricious cruelty of their nastier pranks and the gleam in their eyes when they swore fealty to Harry for the sake of avenging their father. This was nothing kind, nothing merciful, and just because they liked Harry and were loyal to him didn’t mean he could be at ease here.
Abruptly, he wondered if spending too much time in the Chamber felt like this to his friends.
“Fair point,” George said. “You’re doing a lot.”
“Too much, maybe,” Fred added.
Harry smiled grimly. “Someone has to do it.”
“You should delegate.”
George tried to stare him down but Harry levelly held his gaze until George looked away. He could delegate but that didn’t mean he should. The rest of his innermost group had their own responsibilities, and some things could best be handled by Harry.
“How long have you been working on this?” he said instead.
“Since we set up the shop,” George said.
Fred shrugged. “We’d been… brainstorming this for a while, but—”
“—we only started seriously planning and producing this sort of product—”
“—after we got the business running.”
“Do you have an inventory?” Harry asked.
George nodded.
“I’d like a copy, if you don’t mind,” Harry said. “Just so I have an idea of where you’re going.”
“We’ll owl it to you,” Fred said.
“Thanks.” Harry glanced around again and again suppressed a shiver.
George checked his pocket watch. “It’s about time we got back to the shop floor.”
“We like to be there to talk to customers,” Fred said. “It’s fun interacting with clients.”
“Plus we get a better sense of what people like, what we should change.”
“Hands-on business model and all that.”
“Seems to work well,” Harry said. “Good work.”
“Thanks,” George said.
Fred slung an arm around Harry’s shoulders as they started back up the cramped staircase. “We know.”
Delighted by the discount, all four of the kids left Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes laden with brightly-colored purchases. Even Rio had caved and bought more than Harry expected. They argued in loud voices about who they’d prank first, and how, and Harry meandered along behind them without joining in, just letting them bond with each other and watching how they interacted. Dylan, he suspected, had a crush on Veronica, who was either oblivious or cleverly pretending to be, laughing with all of them and arguing with Graham. The estranged Pritchard clearly returned her esteem. Their closeness was obvious, as was the fact that for now it was wholly platonic. Rio clung to Dylan’s side but his shyness slid away over time; without Harry involved in the conversation, he eased out of his shell and joined the others more and more.
Busy thinking about surprising Sirius with the U-No-Poo poster, Harry almost missed the turn. “Guys,” he called, and the kids stopped and turned.
“Aren’t we going… to the, you know, other bookstore?” Veronica said.
“Yes.” Harry raised an eyebrow at her and pointed sideways, at Dmitri’s Fine Home Furnishings.
They looked between Harry and the storefront almost in unison. “That’s not a bookstore,” Veronica said.
“Brilliant, aren’t you,” Harry said with as much dry sarcasm as he could muster, holding the door open with a mocking bow. Passers-by largely ignored them; this was a less-pricey shortcut through Diagon than the main thoroughfare and it was full of locals rather than tourists.
Graham shrugged and walked into the store. Veronica still looked skeptical, but she followed, and where they went Dylan and Rio did too.
Harry gently closed the door behind them and set off at a brisk pace for the back of the store. It had a more Muggle vibe than most magical shops, with the furniture neatly spaced and on display and organized so that similar things were in similar places around the store. On the other hand, some obviously magical touches ruined the effect, such as the fact that the air was full of gently floating throw pillows and some of the furniture had special effects.
“Can you… sleep in that?” Rio said tentatively, pointing. Harry followed where he was looking and almost laughed.
“Presumably.” The bed was a solid block of black glass with gleaming witchfire burning in its depths. Even the mattress had the look of glass, though when Harry poked it, it felt like any normal mattress, and was cool to the touch.
Of course, it was also obscenely expensive. Rio made a faint choking noise when he saw the price tag.
Harry waved them along, winding towards the back of the store. “Specialty enchanted items are pricey,” he murmured. “Through here, come on…”
The shopkeeper took the galleons Harry palmed her and looked away while he opened a particular door against the back of the store. It was drab and dusty and designed for attention to slip right over it, and the first time he opened it there was nothing but a cleaning cabinet on the other side. Harry winked at the young Vipers, closed the door, and opened it a second time, to a completely different sight.
Eyes wide, they slipped through one by one.
“Watch that lot,” the woman said in a low voice. “’Specially the Muggle-borns.”
“I’ve got them,” Harry said. “And in any case, they can watch themselves.”
She nodded approvingly. “As I’d expect, from wards of the Blacks.”
Wards… yeah, he guessed that’s what they were. Harry offered her a grin before he followed his Vipers into one of many passages to Knockturn.
They piled into a cramped underground room on the other side of the door, which disappeared as soon as Harry closed it. He listened at the hatch in the ceiling. Voices—too many. This side of the passage was hidden inside an anonymous mail service shop, full of bird sounds, and quiet for the simple reason that people sending covert anonymous messages don’t tend to linger in the store. He was pretty sure it wouldn’t be viable if not for the passage tolls out of Knockturn.
“Why all the secrecy?” Rio asked in a near-whisper.
“One-way sound wards, they can’t hear us,” Harry said in a normal tone. “And it’s not technically illegal to visit Knockturn but there’s lots of shady business that goes on here and certain people prefer to avoid the main turn off Diagon. The Ministry watches that one. These little bolt holes are all over. Some of them just exist; some, like this one, are hidden behind real shops and guarded by people on either side. I’d rather not be seen strolling into Diagon and I’d really rather Graham’s parents in particular don’t find out I’ve brought you lot here.”
“Is it… you know, safe?” Veronica said, looking up. For Muggle-borns went unspoken.
“Completely.” Harry considered how to put it. “Knockturn is… where you go for lots of illegal things, yes, but the majority of the businesses are legit and most of the lawbreaking is just people dodging Ministry regulations on selling certain magical items, books, and potions ingredients. There won’t be… I don’t know, Death Eaters strolling around in costume, or vampires kidnapping people off the streets. There is a higher crime rate here than in Diagon mainly because it’s near the poor areas of wizarding London and the Ministry turns a blind eye as long as crime stays off the main thoroughfare.” He couldn’t quite keep his lips from twisting into a sneer. “Just stay alert and with me and it’ll be fine.”
Veronica grinned.
Graham laughed suddenly. “Toby would be insanely jealous, he’s wanted to explore Knockturn for years and Father never allowed him.”
“Telling everyone how forbidden Diagon is basically just sends signed and sealed invitations to teenage wizards everywhere that they should sneak off and get into trouble,” Harry said. Actually, he should see if Fred and George had found the passages to Knockturn on their own, or if they needed help from him. Between Theo, Blaise, Sirius, and Harry’s own connections, it hadn’t been difficult to track down the various unmonitored passages in and out of Knockturn.
“When can we leave?” Dylan asked.
Harry listened again. “Sounds like there’s no one there.”
He knocked gently on the underside of the hatch.
A few seconds later, it lifted silently, and an older wizard in a pointy blue hat and well-worn robes beckoned them out. Harry slipped over a few sickles—the toll was much lower on the way in than the way out; he’d be paying in galleons to return to Diagon—and ushered the kids out a side door into an alley that connected with an outdoor food court. “Don’t eat there, it caters to species who like their meat raw; you’ll probably get indigestion,” Harry warned, herding them back towards Knockturn’s main street.
It had a shabbier feel but the tang of magic in the air was if anything more potent than in Diagon. Harry inhaled deeply. After his day in Muggle London, the aura of magical spaces was even more refreshing than usual. Rio and Veronica looked like they were having similar thoughts, while Dylan and Graham, born and raised with magic as their birthright rather than learning of it as a privilege, just looked around in blatant curiosity.
Harry nodded to a group of hags by a fountain, who he’d spoken to on his last trip here about Romanian potions traditions. One of them half-lifted a vial in his direction, offering a sale, but he returned a minute tilt of his hand to indicate he wouldn’t be doing business today. Best to keep the kids away from shady potions deals on their first trip.
“Quite a little flock you’ve got here,” Pica murmured, watching with Harry as the young Vipers scattered into his bookstore. “Or should I say a knot? Little serpents, all tied together, no matter that one wears a badger’s fur.”
“They’re good kids,” Harry said simply.
Pica’s smile was unsettling as ever but there was something approving to it, too. He darted behind his shop counter with the strange, jerky scuttle Harry still hadn’t gotten used to, and came back with a precarious pile of books in his arms. “Some things I’ve been saving, Heir Black, for your… interest.”
Harry scanned the title. Pica was clever, and he’d chosen well. Of course this was largely Pica trying to increase his sales, but Harry didn’t begrudge him that, and he preferred spending his galleons here when possible. He only rejected one of Pica’s selections since it was already in the Black library.
The kids took longer since he’d told them to explore. Pica cut off a strangely interesting diatribe about bookbinding spells as Veronica popped around a corner and held up a book. “Harry, do you think this is too advanced?”
“Eh… no,” Harry said, scanning the table of contents. “A little Dark, but not bad. Some of this is related to second and third year Transfiguration topics.”
“Awesome, thanks!” Veronica slipped away again.
Pica tilted his head and there was nothing human in the movement. Harry wondered whether the wizard had deliberately adopted mannerisms to mimic his namesake, or whether there was some kind of ritual magic involved that made him so—eerie. In this moment his glittering eyes tracked Veronica’s departure like she was not a person but a shiny bauble to be collected.
“Muggle-borns aren’t allowed to purchase that particular text,” Pica observed. “It contains old magic, of a variety no longer taught… one certain powers might like to see forgotten.”
“And how do you determine the blood status of your clients?” Harry said, holding Pica’s unsettling gaze. Unsettling—but he’d looked Voldemort in the eye, and Dumbledore, and he’d grown up in the care of people more directly threatening to his welfare than a bookseller. No matter how strange.
Pica smiled. “The mundane-raised somewhat… stand out. Even you… mm. The clever eye might spot certain discrepancies here and there. But a clever girl with a Slytherin robe pin, in the care of Heir Black, seeking Dark-leaning books?” He whistled a few notes and Harry could swear the shelves leaned towards them. “Why in Albion would I think to challenge the blood status of such a child?”
“Pragmatic of you,” Harry said. “I imagine some of your clients might not react favorably should you challenge them to a blood test.”
“Not as much.” Pica waggled his fingers in Harry’s direction, and skipped off around the edge of the shelves. By the time Harry turned the same corner, Pica was out of sight, and he had to try three times before he figured out the path back to the front of the shop.
Escaping back into bright daylight was a relief.
They returned home, the kids still buzzing about how Rio had won a random selection contest for a Nimbus 2000— “Outclassed by the Firebolt, but it’s as good as any of the Comets, still, and the 2001 has better acceleration but everyone says it doesn’t attune to the rider’s magic as well, skilled fliers on the 2000 will usually be better,” Rio told everyone over and over—to Sirius in the middle of the front hall with a heavy scroll.
We need to talk, he mouthed to Harry over the kids’ heads, and Harry nodded minutely.
As soon as he could chivvy the young Vipers through the Floo to a public Quidditch pitch in Wales, with brooms and enough sickles for a two-hour free flight pass for each of them, Harry followed Sirius up to the study.
“The manor searching?” Harry guessed.
Sirius shook his head. “I know you’ve got that under control. Although—an update, Cotswold House and Polaris House are off the Ministry’s books and Vanessa got the castle exempt since no one’s lived there in generations and any Dark shit wouldn’t be the fault of anyone alive. As long as we leave it shut up, we don’t have to worry about that. No, I’ve just learned they’re going to be introducing a crackdown at Azkaban.” He plunked the scroll down on the table hard enough to rattle the lamp.
Harry eyed his godfather. Something was definitely off, something unrelated to the scroll or Sirius’ unhappy body language would’ve been more directed towards it. He had a feeling he knew what. “Is it a good or bad measure?”
“Good? Bad? I don’t know. More sensible than anything else they’ve done of late.”
“Low bar to clear.”
Sirius laughed his barking laugh. “No kidding.”
Harry elected to deal with the scroll before they moved on to the other issue, which he knew shouldn’t be left to fester any longer. No matter how much he didn’t want to have that fight. “What’s in it?”
“Apparently that old bastard that created the place—”
“Ekrizdis,” Harry supplied, remembering his history lessons.
“Yeah, him. There’s some kind of dementor containment tomb way down under the tower. No one’s figured out how it works because the Ministry’s scared shitless if they try to deconstruct it to study the runes carved in the bedrock, they’ll break it beyond fixing. Shacklebolt’s having all the Aurors go in en masse with patroni out and force the dementors down there. Once it’s sealed they’re stuck.”
Harry’s eyes were wide by the end of this summary. “How the hell are they going to guard the place? Without dementors sucking the prisoners’ magic…”
“Magic containment runewards,” Sirius said. “All over the building.”
Harry whistled. “Expensive.”
“The Potters are donating a massive chunk of gold and encouraging other Light families to do the same.” Sirius smiled a humorless rictus grin. “Funnily enough, they donated almost the exact amount of gold that was left in your trust account after you pulled out the legal compensation fees James paid you.”
“So they spent the money they stole back from me on warding Azkaban.” Harry shrugged. “Could be worse. This is more humane than dementors, though I’d argue loads of the people in there don’t deserve humane treatment.”
Familiar darkness descended over Sirius’ eyes and face, and when he spoke, his voice came out an Azkaban-roughened rasp. “Tell me about it.”
If Harry thought Sirius capable of harming him, he’d have been afraid in that moment.
Sirius shook himself like a dog climbing out of the water. “Anyway. I’m going to contribute, I think, because it looks good and in the absence of dementors we do kind of need to keep that lot contained.”
“Not a bad plan. How are they going to guard it? I don’t think there’s enough Aurors…”
“There’s not. I don’t know. It’s not specified.” Sirius frowned at the scroll.
Angles and conversational diversions raced through Harry’s mind for a few seconds before he decided, fuck it, and took the direct approach. “Something’s bothering you.”
Sirius’ mouth opened and closed a few times. “Yeah.”
“Let’s work it out,” Harry prompted.
“You really want to have this talk?” Sirius’ voice came out halfway to a canine growl but Harry held his eyes.
“Yeah. I do.”
“Okay. Fine. Remus.” Sirius folded his arms. After a year out of prison, working with engines and going for runs, he had impressive muscles and a powerful stance. “You threatened to have him killed, and you meant it.”
Yeah, exactly what he’d thought was going on. “I did.”
“How?” Sirius’ voice deepened again. Nearly shaking with rage. “He’s—an innocent man! Kind—fair—never done anything to you and you just—like that. I saw it in your eyes. You can’t—can’t just—arrange for people to die!”
“Can’t,” Harry said, “or shouldn’t?”
“Shouldn’t!” Sirius bellowed. “And shouldn’t be capable!”
Harry let the silence sit for a few seconds. He refused to let this escalate. “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
“I—a sorry would be nice, or—I don’t fucking know! Something!” Sirius gestured wildly. “Don’t just—just fucking stand there blankly, it’s me, you asshole, you can drop the Merlin damned act, do something—James is dead and Remus almost ended up following him because of my godson!”
“This isn’t an act,” Harry said. “I don’t regret it. I can’t say sorry because I wouldn’t mean it and I don’t want to lie to you.”
There was a problem, in that he wanted his face to not be so fucking blank, but he couldn’t—couldn’t change it. Couldn’t bring himself to show exactly how angry he was with himself, because no matter how pissed Sirius was, Harry couldn’t regret. Couldn’t recant. Couldn’t even resolve to act differently in the future, to be better in Sirius’ eyes, couldn’t—change what he was. Or even want to.
“Would you really have done it?” Sirius’ eyes searched his face.
Harry twisted his hands together and tried for something genuine. “I can’t help what my childhood made of me, Sirius. I can’t—I don’t care about Remus, he’s never done anything for me, he was a dick to me and my friends third year, he bends over backwards for James and Dumbledore, I—don’t have anything against him exactly but…”
Sirius’ face hadn’t changed and Harry trailed off in the face of that stoic, barely contained fury. Claws punched out of Sirius’ fingers and he clenched his hands into fists. Blood dripped between his fingers from where the claws had presumably gouged his palms. Even now, Harry wasn’t the slightest bit afraid. Sirius wouldn’t hurt him. Sirius could never.
“Would you really have done it?”
Harry lifted his chin and held Sirius’ no-longer-human eyes. “To save you? If it was a choice between you or him? Yes.”
For a few long seconds they stood facing one another.
Sirius spun on his heel and stalked out of the room.
How long Harry stood there, he didn’t know. Hands shaking as tension and anger and pain left them. Thoughts swirling and eyes focused immovably on the drops of blood on the floor.
Graham was the one that found him, hours later, poring through endless piles of financial records. “Uh. Harry.”
“Yeah?” Harry said distractedly.
“You… thought you might want to know… Sirius has been in the dueling chamber since we got back at seven and he won’t talk to anyone.”
Harry glanced at the clock. Nine twenty-eight. “He’ll exhaust himself and go to bed eventually.”
Graham hesitated in the doorway.
“Join me for a bit?” Harry said, sensing reluctance to either leave or stay.
He was rewarded by Graham’s brilliant answering smile, visible for half a second before the boy’s admirably-progressing Slytherin mask clicked back into place.
“Where’re the others?”
“Rio’s in his room poring over his broom, and Dylan and Veronica are downstairs doing something in the kitchen. Some kind of model they bought at the twins’ shop.”
“Kreacher will keep them from causing any explosions,” Harry said. “Hopefully. How was Quidditch?”
Graham grinned again. “Awesome. I really want to be Keeper this year, and I think Rio might try out. He loves it.”
“I could tell,” Harry said. “When we walked into Quality Quidditch, hell, any time anyone so much as mentioned brooms.”
“Yeah… lucky about that random prize,” Graham said leadingly.
“Quite.” Harry leaned back in his chair and eyed Graham with amusement. “You might want to work on a less overtly leading tone of voice, Graham, that wasn’t the least bit subtle.”
Graham flushed a dull red.
“You’re twelve, it’s fine. And you’re correct…” Graham perked up. “Quality Quidditch does have truly excellent customer service.”
“Oh, screw you,” Graham muttered, slumping again.
Harry allowed himself a brief laugh. “Want to help?”
“With what?” Graham said, squinting warily at the papers.
“Read this,” Harry said, tossing him the scroll about the Azkaban initiative. “Tell me the main points when you’re done. While you read, think about the pros and cons of this plan, and the best ways to implement it as well as ways it might go wrong.”
“Homework in the summer,” Graham complained, but he looked nearly as happy as he had in Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes as he unrolled the hefty scroll and determinedly began to read.
Sirius was gone by the time Harry came down for breakfast the next morning, and so was his latest project, a prototype flying car.
Harry thought he’d hidden his reaction but Vanessa gave him a knowing glance over her tea when he came back from checking the garage. “Had a row?”
“Minor one.”
“Wasn’t minor. What?” She waggled her eyebrows at the look he shot her. “He told me what happened, you know. Threatening to kill Lupin and so forth. Did you really expect him to react well to that?”
“I didn’t care, so long as he was alive.”
Vanessa pointed her toast at him. “There’s my Slytherin son. He’ll come around. This is still the grief making him unstable. Well. More unstable.”
Harry nodded grimly. Twelve years in Azkaban did more damage than could ever truly be fixed by even the best mind healers, it seemed. They’d just have to help Sirius cope.
“I’m off. Anything you want me to look at today?” Vanessa maintained her old responsibilities as well as standing in as Black family legal counsel, and unless Harry or Sirius had something specific for her, she still went to the offices of Greengrass, Tate, & Morris.
“Try to find out anything else about what Shacklebolt’s doing in Azkaban, if you can. Otherwise no.”
“Done.” Vanessa disappeared through the Floo in a swirl of lilac robes and green fire.
Harry pulled out his journal. He’d been out of touch with his friends for a few days. Might be nice to see what they were up to. Plus he could talk to Theo about the runes work with the twins. Then after that, he really needed to spend the day cataloguing everything in the house that should be shipped off to Black Manor before Grimmauld Place got searched. Maybe he could rope his houseguests into the effort, and use it as a learning opportunity.
June 9, 1996
WIZENGAMOT MOVES TO SECURE AZKABAN WITH CONSCRIPTED GUARDS
Dementors have been known in the past to prefer the leadership of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to that of the Ministry. Rather than attempt to restore the control we once had over these loathsome creatures—control which previous administrations have squandered and let weaken—Minister Shacklebolt elected to do away with them altogether. Recently, he signed the Ministerial Order on Azkaban Security, announcing that the dementors will be contained in an undisclosed location and the security of the prison maintained by Aurors. Many in the Ministry and the general population wondered how the Minister intended to guard both Azkaban and the Ministry with an already-overworked Auror Corps. Last night, we at the Prophet received his answer, in the form of an advance copy of this morning’s amended Ministerial Order on Azkaban Security. It contains all the relevant clauses of the original Azkaban Security Order as well as a description of the extra initiative.
Under the purview of the dementors, there have already been two escapes from Azkaban, the supposedly impenetrable fortress: first Lord Sirius Black, then presumed terrorist and mass murderer, now Black Lord and killer of the late Lord James Potter; then the mass escape last year, which the previous administration attempted to conceal. The second escape included a number of convicted and highly ranking Death Eaters. Clearly, Azkaban’s reputation was ill-deserved and changes must be made. In lieu of dementors, magic-dampening runes of the sort used in Ministry containment cells are being carved into the prison as this is written. This project will be done promptly and well. Heir Julian of House Potter, the Boy Who Lived, donated a significant quantity of his vaults to the project for the Runes Masters’ fees and to equip the new Azkaban guards. When asked for comment, Heir Potter stated “This is an issue that affects everyone, noble or not, magical or not. These people, if they escape, they’ll attack anyone who disagrees with them, Muggles for being Muggle, Muggle-borns because of stupid blood prejudice. The dementors obviously can’t contain them so we need other options.”
Heir Potter also asks that anyone with the wherewithal to do so send any donations they might have passed on to the Boy Who Lived, or any sickles lying around to spare, to the Ministry Budget Office marked for the Azkaban Security Project. “If it’s not done well, it doesn’t count,” he insists, adding that “Ministry funding doesn’t move quickly enough for a project like this.”
Minister Shacklebolt has followed in Heir Potter’s footsteps and donated a significant portion of his private income to the Azkaban Security Project. So have other leading families including but not limited to the Macmillans, the Boneses, and Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore.
But magic-dampening wards may not be enough. Undersecretary to the Minister Hestia Jones put it this way: “We are currently in a state of war. Keeping the prisoners in Azkaban contained is a vital role but the skills and wands of our highly-trained Auror Corps are needed elsewhere. In order to ensure security for the prison and the larger wizarding world, we will be calling on the ready wands and minds of Wizarding Britain. “Compensation will be offered to the best of the Ministry’s ability,” Minister Shacklebolt said. “We as a government have never resorted to conscription before but in times like this we must all come together to prevent hate and fear from taking over our world.”
Azkaban guards will work in 3-week shifts; during their off time they may return to their former employment. They will be equipped, fed, and housed at the expense of the Ministry, as well as receive compensation for time spent in Azkaban. Further details of Azkaban’s internal security are held confidential, and all interim security personnel will be required to sign secrecy oaths to maintain that security. Minister Shacklebolt stressed that this initiative will last only as long as there is an active threat from blood supremacist terrorists, which requires the Aurors be ready elsewhere. “Once we have eliminated this threat, and our Auror Corps is less pressed, we will phase out the Azkaban Security Initiative and expand the Auror Corps to include an Azkaban Division,” said Amelia Bones, Head of the DMLE. “We simply don’t have the time or resources to be training new Aurors at the moment. Fighting deranged Dark wizards requires all the time our Auror Corps has, with none to spare putting our best wands on training duty.”
Harry tossed the Prophet down with a noise of disgust. He didn’t need to read more.
Graham finished reading with a frown. “People aren’t going to like this.”
“Nope.” Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. Not at all.
“This Ministerial Order,” Veronica said. “It doesn’t come from the Wizengamot?”
“It’s a power of the Minister,” Harry explained. “Originally it was supposed to just be the Minister imposing rules on the Ministry’s internal bureaucracy and how it worked, but the Wizengamot keeps passing laws that require new Ministry offices or commission to form, then those groups take over enforcing the law that created them, and then next thing you know the Wizengamot’s delegated all jurisdiction on that issue to the bureaucracy. So because the Minister controls how the bureaucracy works, he can control policy on any issue over which the Wizengamot has abdicated control. Including Azkaban. All Shacklebolt had to do was tell the Corrections Office the new policy and it goes into effect straightaway. Conscripting guards… I’m not sure how they’re justifying that; I assume some old law still on the books, but I’ll have Vanessa dig into it.”
Veronica grumbled.
Harry nodded. “I agree, but it’s effective. And clever of Shacklebolt—makes him look like he’s taking action, and to be fair getting the dementors clear of Azkaban was a smart move. It would’ve just been a matter of time until the Death Eaters caught in the Ministry got out—now any escapes will be a lot harder to enact.”
“But we…” Veronica hesitated. “Are you… happy with that?”
“I don’t have to have an opinion,” Harry said slowly. “Given that I’m an Heir with no real social or political power.”
“Bullshit,” Veronica said flatly. Rio looked at her in alarm but Harry didn’t react and the kid settled uneasily back into his couch, back in one of the corners of the study. “You always have opinions. And you’re not just going to sit there and let adults sort this out, either.”
Harry let his lips curl in a cold half-smile. “Very well. Yes, I have an opinion. Are you sure you want to hear it?”
Veronica hesitated. “Yes.”
“As far as I know the Dark don’t want to kill Muggle-borns, or force them into an inferior position within the magical world,” Harry said. “Their policies make more sense to me than those of the Light, and seem more likely to bring about both my own personal power and benefits for wizarding Britain. As things stand, I’d rather support the Dark than the Light… but I do not trust the Death Eaters in the slightest and for now all I’m doing is staying neutral and trying to position myself well and protect my people.”
“You’ll have to choose eventually.”
Everyone glanced over at Dylan. The quiet Hufflepuff rarely joined in this sort of conversation, content to listen and let the Slytherins argue about politics. It gave his words disproportionate weight.
“I know,” Harry said after a pause. “But for now I benefit more by staying neutral.”
“Makes sense,” Dylan said, and changed the subject, but Harry didn’t really listen. Dylan was right. This middle ground between Order and Death Eaters was a precarious line to walk and he’d known when he started down it that he couldn’t stay there forever. Eventually he would have to pick a side. Not to join, but to support, because he was no one’s lackey—but he was only a teenager, only an Heir, he had no foundation on which to create a third side that could face off with the Order or the Death Eaters on their level. He had to attach himself to one of them to get through this war, and if he was being honest he was already pretty sure which it would be.
***
Roger
“Expecto patronum!”
An oversized silver butterfly burst from the end of Roger McKinnon’s wand. As always, his heart contracted painfully at the reminder of Marlene, but he set it aside and focused on the task before him. Phalanxes of dementors were packed into the corridors of Azkaban and the miasma of their presence was so strong two prisoners had been driven to seizures. The overtaxed Auror Corps, however, was barely keeping the foul things from overrunning their front lines and had no Patronus energy to spare protecting the inmates.
Roger had done his first hour-long shift earlier, driving dementors down from the upper levels towards the basement and the cursed tomb left behind by a Dark wizard centuries before. At that point, early in the afternoon, it hadn’t been much more difficult than any trip through the prison, with his Patronus patrolling the air around him and shielding him from the creatures’ auras. Now, though, the creeping, overwhelming apathy was orders of magnitude stronger than he’d ever felt it. Roger highly doubted anyone had ever encountered this many dementors concentrated in so small a space.
And the things were furious.
“Hold!” Kingsley’s voice bellowed over the lines. “Hold fast! Two more levels!”
Jaws set and expressions firmed on either side of Roger. Kingsley had been here all day, taking no breaks, leading the Aurors against the dementors with unfaltering strength. The wizard was a beacon up at the front of the line with his elk Patronus stamping and tossing its antlers.
Roger gripped his wand tighter and focused on his butterfly, fighting past the dementors’ influence to remember the happiest years of his life: Marlene, three, flailing after a practice Snitch; Marlene, six, waving a toddler’s wand and cheering when it spat sparks; Marlene, ten, shrieking with joy as he spun her in circles on the back lawn; Marlene, eleven, running around Diagon Alley with the excitement that a Hogwarts letter always created; Marlene, thirteen, bringing home Lily and Mary and Frank and Alice and Kingsley from school, all of them laughing so hard around the dinner table that butterbeer came out of Marlene’s nose.
The butterfly brightened visibly, and its wings flapped faster. The dementors faltered. Retreated a fraction.
That’s right, Roger snarled in his head, you can’t take her from me, and took a step forward.
Then another.
And another.
Sweat poured down his face. Roger would’ve asked to be cycled out if there was anyone left to replace him in the line. Gladys had collapsed from magical exhaustion already; she was going on one hundred and fifty and her core had never quite recovered from curse damage in the first war. They’d dragged Trainee Dougan out of the way after his sparrowhawk Patronus faltered and a dementor got hold of him for a second. Grey-faced Aurors littered the path back to the surface, too weak to stand and walk, much less fight the dementors back.
If the line broke, they’d be sitting ducks for legions of irate soul-sucking magical creatures. If that wasn’t motivation, Roger didn’t know what was. He held on and fought for another step forward.
Somehow he ended up at the very front of the line. Five meters away, the first row of dementors writhed back and forth, all the nasty things fighting for a spot, pressing against the Patronus barrier, seeking any opening at all. Roger’s butterfly flapped near the ceiling next to Erin’s peregrine falcon and Marcus’ fruit bat. A Siberian husky, a lynx, a seal, and an iguana darted back and forth along the floor, and in the center of the line Kingsley’s elk snorted and stomped its hooves. Roger stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Kingsley and Hestor Savage, all of them pouring magic into their Patroni.
One more step, he told himself, whenever the task seemed too much. Just—one—more—step.
One more.
One more.
Then he took another step and his foot found not a step down but solid floor, and he stumbled. His concentration faltered and so did his butterfly, the silver glow weakening, dementors surging—
“Roger!” Kingsley bellowed, and Roger had known this man when he was a gangly pubescent ball of hormones, had watched him grow into one of the best men Roger had ever known; all of that went through his mind in a flash and he straightened with a snarl twisting his face. Marlene, he thought. For Marlene.
They took her from me in the last war and they don’t get to take anyone else.
The butterfly strengthened and whirled and flew straight into a dementor’s face. The creature made some horrendous whistling shriek and jerked backwards into the crowd of its fellows. Hundreds of them, forced backwards.
More Patroni slipped through the Aurors’ ankles and over their heads. Roger chanced a look over his shoulder and found four Unspeakables, anonymous and androgynous in their warded robes. Their hands shook around their wands and one of them was clinging to a nearby cell to stay upright. Every last able-wanded Unspeakable had been holding temporary dementor-wards around the prison to keep any of the creatures from flying off and escaping, and Roger had heard rumors they weren’t sure they could manage it. The fact that they’d spared four of their number to help down here meant they knew the Aurors were faltering.
Roger couldn’t even be angry that they’d needed help. This was bigger than pride, than inter-departmental rivalries. He managed a fierce, tight smile over his shoulder, trying to convey his gratitude and determination. One of the robed figures nodded back jerkily.
The last thirty meters down the hall was the hardest journey Roger had ever undertaken. Each one was five times the walk up the hill to Marlene’s funeral pyre, as the dementors tried to suck away all his happy memories and force him to relive the worst moments of his life. Grief wracked Roger’s heart but he had been carrying that grief for seventeen years and it was as fresh as the day she died.
So no matter how strongly they forced the memory into his mind of her body burning, of the ashes on the ground that were all he had left of her, Roger held out. His Patronus gleamed. His good memories stayed in his head, as vivid as ever. The dementors wanted to take them and leave him nothing but the grief, but they couldn’t. He had conquered it a decade ago and taught himself how to live despite it.
Then the wall of despair pushing on him lessened and Roger staggered forward, unaware he’d been leaning into a physical force shoving him back. He blinked sweat out of his eyes and his Patronus fluttered back to his shoulder, exuding comfort and reassurance. Other Patroni returned to their casters, save Kingsley’s, which continued pacing fierce and unmovable in front of them.
It took an effort to focus his eyes. The Unspeakables were up ahead now, Patroni holding a round stone plate in place while the Unspeakables carved runes into its surface. Their motions were jerky, urgent; their Patroni strained and trembled.
Roger wanted to collapse just at the thought of sending his Patronus away again. He leaned on the wall, held his wand in two shaking hands, willed it back to the front. The butterfly darted through the air and landed on the stone with frantically beating wings.
An Unspeakable looked up at his butterfly for a fraction of a second, then kept working. Roger’s eyes widened slightly as one of them slashed their palm open with a jerk of a wand and began smearing blood into the runes carved in the stone.
Hestor’s husky looked as though every step was an effort but it staggered to the front, stood on its hind legs, leaned its front paws on the stone and strained.
The massive elk snorted and lowered its head, planting its antlers straight into the center of the stone. The Unspeakables worked through and around the Patroni as though they weren’t even there.
Erin managed to send her Patronus to help. It flitted through the air and landed next to his butterfly, clinging to the stone with stubborn claws, not pushing but helping hold against the dementors on the other side by sheer presence.
Roger didn’t know how long he stayed there. At some point he realized he’d ended up on the floor, leaning on the wall. Most of his muscles had given out on him but not his hands, never his hands, they shook as though with palsy but they held onto his wand, and Marlene was as strong and bright and good in his mind as she’d ever been, and his butterfly stayed bright and pure.
One of the Unspeakables collapsed. The others’ motions got more frenzied, more desperate. Marcus’ Patronus had given out as soon as that tomb’s seal slid into place but he had enough strength left to inch forward and drag the fallen Unspeakable out of the way.
“Hold,” Kingsley gritted through his teeth. He looked like he was talking more to himself than the others, now. His brown skin had taken on an ashen undertone.
The seal on the massive stone flared the same silver-white as the Patroni and Roger jerked as the dementor influence suddenly all but disappeared.
No, not truly. It had sunk into the stones of this place over centuries of dementor infestation and he could still feel it, but after hours of pressing against the concentrated force of hundreds of dementors, it was nothing. He called his butterfly back to him and reveled in its presence for a few more seconds before letting it fade.
The elk was the last of the Patroni to go.
“What,” Erin rasped, coughed, and tried again. “What was that spell?”
“A ritual,” one of the Unspeakables said. Their robes were spelled to turn their voices into unrecognizable, androgynous tones, but Roger detected something heavy in their voice. Something very like grief. “And one we hoped never to have to perform.”
Roger was familiar with rituals, and with grief. He knew no ritual came without its price. “What did it cost?”
“Happiness,” the Unspeakable said. “All of Unspeakable Eleven’s happy memories, and all of their capacity to be happy. They volunteered once we knew what must be done.”
The remaining Aurors, no matter how exhausted, all sat up and took notice. A somber mood befell the group as everyone’s eyes fell on one of the three Unspeakables still standing. Their posture was the physical equivalent of a monotone. Pure apathy. Roger recognized that; he’d worn that posture every day for two years after the war ended and he couldn’t hide from his grief in hatred of the Death Eaters anymore.
“We thank you for your sacrifice,” Kingsley said, his deep, even tones rolling through the underground corridor like a death knell.
The Unspeakable tilted their head. “And we honor your strength.”
Slowly, every step an agony, leaning on one another’s shoulders, they began the long walk back up to the light.
***
Sirius
“Hey.” Sirius knocked lightly on the doorframe. “Want to help me with something?”
Harry looked up warily from an ancient potions grimoire in a language Sirius didn’t even recognize. There was something tense in Harry’s eyes. Hesitant in a way he rarely showed. “What’s up?”
Sirius held up a fistful of letters. “Been getting a deluge of these from Riasmoore.”
“Tenants?” Harry perked up. Sirius held in a smile—he knew Harry enjoyed his responsibilities as Heir Black more than Sirius ever had.
“Yeah. They’re not happy about the whole conscription thing.”
“I mean, I wouldn’t be, either. When do they start at Azkaban?” Harry flicked his wand and conjured a small strip of green ribbon, which he used to mark his place in the ancient potions text.
“Tomorrow. The twelfth. They sent out conscription notices yesterday—people are supposed to report to the Ministry by midnight tonight or they’re in violation of the law.” Sirius flicked through the four letters he’d opened before coming to find Harry. “Apparently the salary’s not great and some people have gotten laid off from their former jobs because the Ministry didn’t guarantee job security.”
“Right, one sec, I just want to check these,” Harry said, gesturing to two cauldrons burbling in the back of the room.
“Yeah, go for it.”
Sirius leaned on the wall while Harry prodded at the cauldrons, sprinkled some leaves into one of them, stirred, made notations in his personal grimoire. The room had really been transformed. It was clean, brightly lit, and smelled like he’d always thought potions labs should—herbal, potent, heavy with magic waiting to be used. Magical plants thrived along the shelf under the windows and Sirius spotted evidence of at least three different projects going around the room. Stacks of books lined the shelves that didn’t contain potions ingredients. Some of them were obviously Dark as hell; Harry had even wrapped one in what Sirius recognized as the Chains of Ardor, one of the Darkest containment spells out there and very difficult to cast. The book in question was straining against the chains.
“Found that one hiding under some shelves in the library upstairs,” Harry said, following Sirius’ gaze. “I’m having Kreacher move all these out tonight; the rest of the house has been cleared for the search.”
“Great job.” Sirius passed Harry the letters. “Study?”
“Sure.”
Harry read the letters as they walked. Sirius let him go first and tried not to let his gaze be too heavy on the back of Harry’s head. Even here, at home, in safety, there was a controlled deliberation to Harry’s movements that caught Sirius off guard. He never relaxed. Not really. And it had been especially pronounced lately, since… since they’d fought.
Sirius pressed his lips together. Harry was the product of a shit childhood, of time in Slytherin, the manipulations of adults who’d made him into what he was. It wasn’t his fault exactly that he was capable of talking so heartlessly about murder. Hell, Sirius had killed, and not just in the heat of the moment. In the last war—well, he’d gone farther than James knew of. But still. Every time he looked at Harry now Sirius saw him in the Atrium again. Eyes blazing Killing Curse green, cold as the deepest parts of the ocean, and just as pitiless. He’d looked Sirius square in the face and threatened to arrange the death of an innocent man in cold blood.
Not his fault, Sirius reminded himself. Harry was what the world had made of him. And it wasn’t as if he would go out of his way to be a murderer. It was just, as he’d pointed out, that he would choose Sirius’ life over Remus’ every time, and it wasn’t like Sirius could blame him for that.
No. They were family now. He had to be there for his godson like Harry was there for him. Sirius just had to accept who and what Harry was.
Even in the Atrium when Sirius first saw why people were so frightened by Harry, he hadn’t been. Even then, in his anger and his grief, he hadn’t loved Harry any less.
“Are there many of these?” Harry asked, glancing over his shoulder, and Sirius rapidly schooled his expression.
“Oh, loads. Study’s a mess.”
Harry huffed. “Figures. Merlin,” he added, pushing open the door to the study and seeing what Sirius meant.
The window was open, and four more owls had shown up while Sirius was downstairs, all jostling for space on the sill. The desk was piled with letters and another, smaller pile had been relegated to a chair off to the side.
Harry went straight to the window and started getting letters off the owls there. “Are they all the same?”
“So far. Tenants of Black land, mainly in Riasmoore and the surrounding farmland, petitioning us to fight the conscription.”
“Don’t blame them. I wouldn’t want to head to Azkaban either, especially since they don’t get to come home overnight.”
Sirius felt the creeping cold of Azkaban steal over him and fought it like the mind healers had taught him, thinking about the happy memories. It only sort of worked. There was a part of him that he thought would always be marked by that foul place and when he was reminded of his time there…
He closed his eyes. Fought the apathy and coldness. If he let himself fall prey, even now, it’d be all too easy to just… stop caring, stop letting anything affect him, and he knew if he quit caring he had the potential to spiral rapidly.
At sixteen, when told to do his worst, he’d arranged for the murder of a classmate at the unwitting claws of one of his best friends.
At thirty-six, he didn’t want to know what he’d do, reduced to that.
The incantation was barely a whisper but when he opened his eyes Harry’s wolf Patronus was padding over. As it curled up at his feet, and the pressure of Azkaban faded, Sirius summoned a grateful smile.
“What’s your Patronus?” Harry said.
“Same as my animagus form. It’s… difficult… for me to cast now,” Sirius admitted. He grimaced. “My memories from before are…” Fuzzy, tainted, distorted, damaged. Thinking back on anything pleasant before Azkaban still felt like looking at someone else’s life and not his own, key details faded, the emotions more reconstructed than true. The bad things—those he could remember all too vividly. “And there’s been good things since, but it’s still a struggle.”
“You survived,” Harry said. “That’s what counts. And now you’ve plenty of time to learn to cast it again.”
“I’ll get it back,” Sirius agreed with a grin. “How should we sort these? I don’t remember Mother and Father getting this sort of thing—pretty sure they pissed off all the tenants.”
“They don’t seem to mind you too much,” Harry said absently. “We can probably make a standard reply to most of these, and then write personalized responses to some of the longer and more thoughtful letters.”
“Sounds good.” Sirius noted with amusement that Harry had slid into the lord’s chair behind the desk without even thinking about it, and seemed as comfortable there as if it was truly his own.
Well, it might as well be. Sirius conjured an extra chair with a flick of his wand and settled in to help go through the letters. Harry was better suited to all of the Heir and Lordship nonsense than Sirius ever had been, and he enjoyed it, and whether Sirius liked it or not Harry wasn’t really a child. Hadn’t been in years. There was no sense trying to exclude him from this on the grounds of his youth.
Sirius watched his godson work for a few minutes. The intensity of his eyes, the focus and confidence of his posture. No, Harry was certainly no child.
***
Harry
One last check of the house. Harry started in the library, stalking down every single shelf with his senses alert for books dripping the kind of magic that could get them fined. From there, he checked the fourth floor, poking through Sirius’ and Regulus’ bedrooms, Dylan and Rio’s bedroom, and the bathroom. Third floor: just the study, because he’d had Hazel and Vanessa go through the master bed and bath that morning rather than invade their space. He spent a while in the study. Sirius and Kreacher had shown him no fewer than five hidden compartments and hiding places in Orion Black’s former headquarters, and all of them had been full of the kind of artifacts that would get Sirius thrown straight back in Azkaban. All of them were empty now, of course, but Harry still went over it in detail one more time.
The second floor, with his and Veronica’s and Graham’s rooms, was likewise easy enough to clear. Neither of the younger set was prone to keeping Dark things in their belongings and Harry knew his possessions in enough detail that he wasn’t too worried about having forgotten something, although he still gave his room one last pass. Kreacher had already taken everything of his that was even slightly questionable to Black Manor packed in the expanding trunk Harry bought first year, plus, of course, the library trunk full of a copy of Slytherin’s library and duplicates of whatever Harry had gotten his hands on in the Restricted Section.
He spent almost forty minutes in the potions laboratory, going over every single ingredient one more time to make sure none of them was even remotely illegal. Then the drawing room—easy, since they’d basically stripped and sterilized it in their quest to make the house habitable—and finally the ground floor dining and living rooms. The only things down here that might cause issues were the portraits of old members of House Black, a number of whom had unpleasant opinions about Aurors, the Ministry, Muggle-borns, et cetera, et cetera. Harry paused in the entrance hall to remind them what he’d done to Walburga Black, and point out that he’d happily give them all Muggle paint thinner baths if they didn’t play nice with the Aurors.
Portraits successfully cowed, he swept the kitchen and pantry, checked on Kreacher, and found Sirius entertaining the kids in the basement dueling hall. They’d magically expanded the basement so it fit a ritual room and the dueling hall with combat-enchanted dummies. Ritual rooms were a staple of old manor homes. Luckily they’d gone by the book to add this one, with full Ministry approval and documentation. Sirius had wanted to skip the bureaucratic hoops and just add it, but Harry said they needed to be careful.
“The Aurors are scheduled to be here in ten minutes,” he said, as Sirius cut off a bit of dueling advice and everyone turned to look at him. “I just swept the house one last time. Can anyone think of anything else we need to do before the search?”
Graham, Veronica, Dylan, and Rio swapped glances. “Nope,” Veronica said. “We’re good.”
“My room’s clean,” Sirius said. “I can’t remember any old shit we haven’t already moved out.”
Harry nodded. “Kreacher says he got it all. Luna’s waiting at the Rookery—she’ll take you all flying, so go grab your brooms.”
“Yes!” Graham took off instantly, Rio hot on his heels. Sirius laughed as they vanished up the stairs.
“Thanks,” Veronica said, grinning. “Good luck with the search!”
She and Dylan followed at a more normal pace, and Harry waited while Sirius put two training dummies back to sleep and wiped the room’s records. The enchantments on the better dueling halls stored knowledge of different duelists’ skills and dueling patterns so they could adjust to each person and provide adequately challenging opponents. Sirius liked spending money, so their dueling hall had the most advanced runic enchantments available, but they’d have to erase all knowledge of their patterns to keep the Ministry from getting its hands on it. Especially since Harry’s habits in particular included some spells that were decidedly Dark.
“You sure you want to be here?” Sirius asked in a low voice, as he and Harry made their way up to the kitchen. “They’re not likely to be nice.”
“I’m sure. I’m Heir Black,” Harry said simply.
Sirius pulled him into a brief hug, moving deliberately slowly so Harry would have time to push him away if he wanted. Harry didn’t, and let Sirius’ arms wrap around him, and cautiously returned the embrace. “A better Heir I couldn’t wish for,” he said gruffly.
Harry shut his eyes and made himself relax into Sirius’ arms. This got easier every time but it wasn’t yet what he’d call easy.
After a few seconds, he pulled back a little, and Sirius let go instantly. Harry smiled, a little strained. “Thank you. For everything.”
“You deserve it,” Sirius said.
“Harry!” Graham skidded down the steps into the kitchen. “Should I take Quidditch balls or do the Lovegoods have a set?”
“Take my practice set, it’s under my bed,” Harry said.
“Thanks!”
Graham bolted again.
“Vanessa and Hazel?” Sirius asked.
“At work, both of them. I had them go through the master bedroom one more time this morning.”
Sirius grinned. “So responsible.”
“It’s the trauma,” Harry deadpanned.
Sirius was still laughing when the kids clattered back into the kitchen, trailing brooms and Quidditch gear and, in Graham’s case, a featherlight-charmed box that rattled slightly with the motion of the Bludgers inside, which would’ve woken up as soon as the box started moving.
“The Rookery, right?” Veronica said.
“Yep. Have fun,” Harry said, summoning the jar of Floo powder to his hand with a thought and passing it around.
One by one, they disappeared into the fireplace, Rio clutching his new broom with a possessive pride Harry recognized too well.
Sirius huffed out a breath once they were gone. “That’s that, then. Let’s go play with the Aurors.”
“How much do you want to bet they’ve sent all Order members?” Harry said as they climbed the stairs back to the entrance hall.
“No bet,” Sirius said instantly. “They’ll definitely all be Order.”
Three minutes later, when the doorbell rang, they were proved right. Aurors Proudfoot, Dawlish, McKinnon, and Dearborn, plus Auror Trainee Savage, all of whom Harry recognized from George, Fred, and Ginny’s intel, stepped into the house with the postures and facial expressions that suggested they were gearing up for battle.
“Lord Black,” McKinnon said.
“Auror McKinnon.” The space between the two men crackled with tension and Harry remembered, rather abruptly, that Marlene and Sirius had been in school together, had been dating when she died in the war.
Auror Proudfoot cleared his throat. “Shall we begin?”
“Of course.” Sirius clasped his hands behind his back. He and Harry had both dressed in traditional styles, floor-length high-collared robes of acromantula silk. Sirius’ were Gryffindor red accented with black thread, and Harry had gone for simple black with silver accents. The Aurors’ heavy black battle-runed robes looked comically extravagant and unnecessary compared to Sirius and Harry’s understated clothes and what had become a tasteful, elegant townhouse. Judging by the discomfort on Proudfoot, Savage, and Dawlish’s faces as they looked around the entrance hall and dining room, they felt as out of place as they looked.
Harry and Sirius drifted after the Aurors as they ransacked the dining room and living room. Sirius’ lips thinned and Harry’s eyes narrowed as they searched with halfhearted care for the furnishings of Grimmauld Place. Walls were scratched, a dish was broken and carelessly repaired, and Kreacher popped into the living room to pick up throw pillows discarded on the floor with an ugly expression.
The Aurors went down to the basement first and spent a solid thirty minutes poking through the dueling hall and ritual room. Dawlish insisted that Sirius and Harry wait in the kitchen the whole time. They sipped pumpkin juice and didn’t say a word, but when the Aurors finally came back looking irritated as hell, Harry was very glad they’d thought to wipe the dueling hall.
“Wait here, Lord Black, Heir Black,” Dawlish said tersely. “We’ve found it’s easier for the homeowners not to accompany us on our search.”
“What, you feel uncomfortable going through people’s homes while they watch?” Sirius snapped.
“Sirius.” Roger McKinnon’s voice was somber, weighty.
Sirius barely looked at him. “Lord Black, please, while you invade my family home.”
McKinnon’s face tightened alarmingly.
Harry couldn’t see a way to defuse that particular interpersonal disaster. Time to move on. “We’ll wait,” he said smoothly, stepping forward and drawing attention off of Sirius’ disconcertingly calm expression, disconcerting only because he knew Sirius was not calm. “We would appreciate if you could be careful in the potions laboratory—some of the ingredients are rather sensitive. And please come to us with any questions or concerns. The house has belonged to some rather unpleasant people in the past.”
“Oh, yes, we’re quite familiar with the Blacks,” Dearborn said with an ugly sneer.
Sirius’ wand hand twitched.
Harry lifted his chin. “Lord Black and I hold no more affection for previous generations of this House than you do.”
“Understood, Heir Black,” McKinnon said, laying a hand on Dearborn’s shoulder. “Geoffrey, let’s go.”
Dearborn held Harry’s gaze for a few more seconds before he allowed himself to be drawn away.
“What’s Dearborn’s story?” Harry asked after they’d left.
Sirius let out a long breath and visibly forced his shoulders to react. “His husband, Caradoc, disappeared in the last war. Body never recovered—presumed dead. Geoffrey never really got over it.”
“Got it.” Harry examined Sirius for a few seconds, then went over and wrapped an arm around him. Sirius returned the half-embrace and leaned his head on Harry’s.
“I hate them coming in my home,” he said after a few minutes, voice half a growl.
Territorial canine, Harry thought, grinning on the inside. “I know, but it’ll be fine. We cleaned this place top to bottom when we moved in.”
Sirius shot him a questioning look.
Eavesdropping enchantments, Harry mouthed, slowly.
Understanding dawned and Sirius nodded.
A tense hour later, they both sat up straight at the kitchen table when they heard the Aurors tramping down the stairs.
Dawlish led the way into the kitchen. Harry immediately knew something was wrong. His face was too smug.
Proudfoot, Savage, and McKinnon filed into the room. McKinnon alone looked pensive rather than self-righteous and pleased.
Dearborn was last in, and he slapped a massive book down on the kitchen table with a thunk.
Harry held himself back from flying out of his seat and seizing the book. It was ancient and valuable and not Dark, merely an old copy of an Auror’s account of the First Goblin Rebellion.
“This text is illegal,” Dearborn said flatly.
“It’s a history book,” Harry said, nonplussed.
Dearborn met his eyes and Harry could tell this was a man who’d never gotten closure, who still hated the Dark with all the force of a grief so visceral it refused to fade with time. “It’s an edition that has been outlawed for four years.”
“All editions of history textbooks published before eighteen seventy six are illegal to own and should have been recalled to the Ministry four years ago,” McKinnon said.
Sirius rose from the table. “You mean when neither of us lived here and I was still wrongfully imprisoned in Azkaban?”
“It’s still your responsibility to know and uphold the laws of the Ministry,” Dearborn said, ugly triumph glittering in his eyes. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us, Lord Black.”
“Geoffrey, it’s a history book. Bring it with us as evidence but I hardly think this is worth an arrest,” McKinnon said.
Dearborn swung around to glare at him. “Possession of banned written texts is a Class E offense for which violators can be arrested at the discretion of the Aurors on duty.”
McKinnon stood up straight. “And my discretion tells me it’s not worth it.”
For a few seconds Dearborn faced off with him.
“Don’t make me pull rank on you, Geoffrey,” McKinnon warned.
Dearborn’s hands tightened into fists, but he backed down. “Very well.”
“Lord Black, you’ll be charged with a Class E section three violation of the Decree on Restricted Texts, for which you will be fined and which charge will appear on your record with the Wizengamot. If the fine is not paid by the date set by the Department for the Regulation and Oversight of Magical Texts, further action may be taken against you. The text in question will be repossessed by the Ministry and handled according to its contents.” Proudfoot slid the book into some kind of enchanted bag as McKinnon spoke.
Sirius nodded so jerkily Harry thought his head might snap off.
“Will that be all?” Harry asked.
“It will. May we use your Floo to return to the Ministry?” McKinnon said.
“You may,” Sirius said.
One by one, they vanished into the hearth, until only McKinnon was left. “Watch yourself, Sirius,” he warned, eyes searching for something in Sirius’ face. “You were Order last time but that doesn’t count for much with some of us. I might not be able to step in next time.”
Sirius’ jaw worked for a few seconds. “Thank you.”
McKinnon’s eyes flickered uncertainly over Harry for a few seconds, before he half-bowed and disappeared into the Floo.