Theo
Death Eaters were not his favorite sort of people.
Theo nodded and smiled politely at the guests dirtying his manor. Allies of the Dark Lord’s, all of them; and every last one invited here by the same. Ostensibly it was for safety but Theo knew perfectly well this rabble had never lived anywhere half so nice as Nott Manor and that it was being dangled as an employee benefit. Where Voldemort was finding so many utter lowlifes with a taste for violence and susceptibility to gold, Theo didn’t know. The wizarding world was not that large.
Yet here they were, eating the Notts’ food and tracking mud on the Notts’ floors and—Theo winced as a crash came from the dining hall—possibly breaking the Notts’ china.
Sure enough, this was followed up by a distantly heard reparo. My god, Theo thought, already altering his path from the library stairs, the idiots can’t even manage a wordless reparo as godsdamned adults.
He stalked into the dining hall. Seven faces turned towards him on a swivel: guilty, belligerent, smug. “Morning, gentlemen,” Theo said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Having fun, are we?”
“What d’you want, eh?” snapped one of them. The ringleader. Theo hadn’t bothered remembering any of their names; odds were half of them (and all men, honestly, it was disappointing) would be dead by the end of summer.
“I want you to stop breaking my things,” Theo said evenly.
Ringleader made a show of looking around at all the dishes on the table. Theo could not avoid looking anymore, either, and winced at the absolute mess of spilled food, scattered cutlery, and discarded dirty plates. He’d ordered the elves not to go anywhere near the dining room while these morons were eating after he caught Ringleader and one of the others casting crucio on Hinny for… well, no good reason that Theo could determine.
Theo had turned it back on them, of course, for daring to harm a bonded servant of the House of Nott; but there was no sense risking another such incident. The Dark Lord would be peeved if Theo tortured any of his little pawns into insanity.
“Don’t see nothin’ broken, do I?” Ringleader jeered. Theo shook off the violence that came so easily these days. “How ‘bout you, eh? Little nobby lad wants to know if we broke his mummy’s fancy plates.”
Apparently the cruciatus hadn’t taught them their lesson. Theo took another step into the room as Ringleader’s minions laughed obediently. Well, the Dark Lord was fond of the cruciatus as well: perhaps they were simply… desensitized to it.
Theo fancied himself more creative than that.
He flicked his wand and Ringleader cut off with a choke. His torso convulsed. The others petered off in confusion. Then, with a jerk, Ringleader collapsed to the floor and lay there flopping like a fish.
The others cried out and went for their wands, only to find them dead sticks in their hands.
Theo smiled. “Oh, didn’t we mention? The Manor is protective of its residents. Your magic won’t work here if I don’t want it to.”
“What’re yeh doin’ ter Rupert!” one of them bellowed.
“Nothing much.” Theo glanced over: a few long strings of drool hung out of Ringleader Rupert’s mouth. “He’ll be just fine.”
It was a healer’s charm in case someone ingested something toxic and needed to purge it. For most people, it would be a harsh but short-lived jinx—it caused vomiting but only until the stomach was empty.
Theo, however, had an advantage: his unusually delicate magic sense allowed him to feel the spell, cast and hold it at the same time, so that it never quite reached completion; the body never expelled anything, only convulsed, contractions rippling up and down the man’s esophagus, wracking his abdomen, drawing on and on and on—
“Please, my Lord,” gasped one of the new-marked Death Eaters, falling to his knees. “Please—it was me, I broke the plate, I’m sorry, only don’t—”
Theo ended the spell and slid his wand neatly away. Rupert the Ringleader finally vomited for real, spewing his half-digested meal across the stones. The other man shut his mouth with a click.
“Clean that up,” Theo said, pointing at the vomit, “and treat this place with respect. My elves deserve better than to spend their days in your filth.” He paused at the door, looking back over his shoulder at them; most terrified, but a few angry enough he knew the Dark Lord would be hearing about this, which was why Theo added, “and I am not your Lord. That is someone else, who would no doubt be… disappointed to learn that this is how his honored servants spend their days. Like Mudbloods wallowing with pigs.”
In the corridor, out of sight, Theo let himself slump against the wall and pressed the back of his hand to his mouth.
Merlin, that had been satisfying. But—he couldn’t get them out. He could only do so much to curb them, when the Dark Lord himself ordered the Notts, and his other loyal Death Eaters, to play host.
Theo didn’t have a choice.
He missed Harry.
***
Harry
Quality Quidditch Supplies sold a range of protective eyewear with a range of sixteen possible colors for the straps, from a demure dark brass to a few shades of violent neon, waiting to be selected at home. The spell would only work once but it was a handy bit of customization. Not to mention, they were self-sizing, another enchantment that worked only once but made it easy to shop for other people—especially valuable in Harry’s case, as he had several wards at home to shop for. Sirius had been entertaining Graham, Rio, and Veronica for the day in his garage. Hopefully Harry didn’t go home and find them all covered in soot.
He rang up his purchases and checked his watch on the way out of the store. There was still almost an hour before he had to meet Sirius and Hazel for a discussion of House Black’s proxy, so he turned up the street towards Flourish and Blotts, which had a new book release event today.
As he walked, he turned over the political snarl facing them. The Blacks were an ancient House with allies, feuds, business partners, and grudges dating back centuries. One such feud was with the Ogdens. Some Black had snubbed some Ogden in the sixteen hundreds over an Abraxan mare they both wanted. Purebloods got hung up on the stupidest things sometimes. Harry was hoping he could convince Sirius to patch it up, though, because Tiberius was a powerhouse, and right now firmly in Dumbledore’s camp.
Not that Harry especially wanted Voldemort to win, just—he wasn’t all that fond of Dumbledore winning, either.
He was optimistic about the Ogdens. Sirius and Tiberius both liked expensive alcohol. Harry was pretty sure alliances had been born on much weaker common ground.
A familiar mane of hair caught his eye as soon as Harry stepped into Flourish and Blotts. “Hermione,” he called.
She looked up, blinked, and saw him. “Harry! Hello! Come see!”
Some things never change. All the decorum drilled into her by the Greengrasses was totally gone, and Hermione was practically bouncing in front of the display of books with covers featuring an eerie display of moving strings of numbers. “It’s Thomas Loving’s latest on occlumency for the arithmancer! I can’t believe it—he’s talking about a lot of the same ideas as you see in Muggle computer science, except written for the mind.”
Harry blinked, suddenly glad he’d come. “Oh. Well then. That’s… going to change some things. I wonder if you could use arithmancy to encrypt your mind, instead of shielding it using traditional Occlumency.”
“Merlin, I didn’t even think of that.” Hermione grinned. “I was… well, wondering about how much easier advanced Arithmancy would be.”
“Well, that too. Bookworm,” Harry said, with a teasing note in his voice.
Hermione blushed furiously. “Harry Black, are you flirting with me?”
“And what if I was?” Harry said.
“I know you’re not,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And anyway, I’m… taken. Possibly.”
“Oh?” Harry leaned up on the display and smirked. “Draco dearest finally found his bollocks, then?”
She laughed and then clapped a hand over her mouth. “Don’t be cruel.”
“Come on, everyone’s seen the way he looks at you. Pretty sure Daph and Theo had a bet on.”
“They did.” Hermione sighed. “Daphne won. Theo said Draco would’ve asked me by the end of fifth year. She’s been absolutely insufferable about it.” Then her eyes slid past Harry, over his shoulder, and she winced. “Don’t turn—”
It was too late. Harry’s eyes landed on the distinctive figures of Julian Potter and Ethan Thorne. Icy rage flooded his body and he couldn’t quite feel his fingers.
“Bollocks,” he heard Hermione whisper.
“Ah, Mr. Blotts!” Thorne beamed as one of the two owners hurried from the offices behind the checkout counters, just to the left of the entrance. They must have some kind of monitoring spell, Harry noted distantly, so they could hop to it as soon as an important person came in.
Mr. Blotts, a slightly pudgy man with ink-stained fingers, went up to them with an obsequious smile. Hands were shaken. Mr. Blotts led Jules straight to the New Releases shelf labeled Defensive Magicks, while Thorne followed along behind, hands in his pockets and a genial smile fixed on his face.
“Harry, just go,” Hermione hissed, “I’ll buy you a copy of the Loving book—”
“I’m not getting run out of a store just because of a couple of puffed-up toadstools,” Harry said, but quietly. He snatched several copies of the book and turned towards the counter.
Behind him, Hermione snarled, “God save me from Slytherin pride.” Her footsteps followed.
Harry did not so much as look in Jules and Thorne’s direction as he got in line for the counter. A display of wizarding fiction stood to his left, waiting to catch the eye of anyone queued up. One of the books on it was the latest in a series Harry knew Graham and Rio loved. He grabbed two copies of it—one for each—and then, to balance things out, he asked Hermione what she would recommend for Veronica and Dylan.
Looking at him the way you might a hippogriff of dubious temperament, Hermione quickly found a stand-alone mystery novel for Veronica and a collection of short stories for Dylan. She shoved them into Harry’s arms.
“I’m sure they’ll appreciate it,” Harry said tightly.
The line inched forward. Then again.
Harry stepped up to the checkout counter as soon as he could. A charming smile had the young wizard behind it blushing and avoiding eye contact. Hermione tapped her toes behind him, clutching her own copy of Occlumency Techniques for the Ambitious Arithmancer.
Harry’s grip on the books tightened as voices approached from behind.
“—keep up with new Defense releases.” Thorne.
“Not about to let Dark wizards get the better of me.” Julian, his voice hard.
Harry kept his eyes on the clerk. He was blushing still, looking between the Potters and Harry, and seemed to be trying to add up the books’ prices as quickly as he could.
“Naturally, naturally,” said Blotts. “Step this way, Heir Potter, I’m sure you have things to be doing, wouldn’t want you to wait—by any chance are you planning to take up your family’s Lordship soon?—Eddard, set those aside, would you, I’ve got the Boy Who Lived here—”
Sorry, Harry mouthed at Eddard, as Thorne and Jules came up on his right.
“Thank you, Mr. Blo—Harry?” Jules demanded.
Thorne glared, then looked suspiciously at the titles Harry was trying to gather into his bag. “Not reading up on the Dark Arts, are you?”
“I assure you, we carry nothing of the sort!” Mr. Blotts squawked.
Jules snatched one off the counter, already cracking the cover. “This is just fiction.”
“Yes,” Harry said tightly, “it is, and I’ll thank you not to rifle through my belongings.”
“Merlin, it’s just a kids’ book,” Thorne said, peering over Jules’ shoulder, “go on, Jules, give it back—not quite what I’d have expected of you, Harry, I hear quite some rumors about what you get up to at school, and I have every right to ensure you aren’t getting into things you—”
“I have not granted you leave to speak familiarly with me, Mr. Thorne.” Harry knew his voice was glacial and didn’t even try to dampen down his eyes. “You will refer to me as Heir Black or, and this is my personal preference, simply refrain from speaking to me at all. As for the books—” He snatched it back from Jules’ hand. “I’m buying gifts for my wards. Eddard, how much will it be?”
“Oh—er—” Eddard quailed under Blotts’ glare, but he squeaked out, “Two galleons, eight sickles, and twenty knuts, please, Heir B-Black.”
Harry began counting out coins.
“He’s not Heir Black, he’s adopted,” Jules snapped. “And what d’you mean, wards?”
“He is too Heir Black. Were you hiding under a rock for the last year? The family magics accepted him,” Hermione said from behind them all. Thorne spun around to stare at her but Harry ignored them all. If he could just pay and get out of here— “It’s enormously rude of you to treat a fellow Peer like this, Heir Potter.”
Jules had the grace to flush, but Thorne’s face darkened. “Right, we all know about that illegal blood adoption—”
“I recommend you stop talking unless you want to meet me before the Wizengamot on charges of libel against a Peer of the Realm.” Harry slapped the last galleon down on the counter. “Keep the change, Eddard, as an apology for having to put up with this little display.” He cut one last sneering glare at Thorne—ignoring Jules completely—and turned to go.
Once in the Alley proper, Harry tucked himself up against a building with a Notice-Me-Not and tried to get himself under control. The barest sight of James made him want to kill things. Actually conversing—seeing the casual entitlement as they skipped the queue, the way Jules thought it was acceptable to just grab Harry’s things, the way his once-brother had let Thorne talk to him—that seriously tested Harry’s discipline.
“You alright?” Hermione said, coming to stand next to him in a way that subtly but neatly shielded him from easy sight of the rest of the Alley.
“I will be.” Harry rubbed a hand over his eyes.
“He’ll come around. And if he doesn’t, he’s not your problem.”
Harry sighed. “Isn’t he, though? We were brothers, and… he’s grieving. I can make… allowances. It’s Thorne I can’t stand. How Jules tolerates him, let alone likes him…”
“Thorne was James’ best friend for most of Jules’ life, and is no doubt stepping into the absence James left,” Hermione said. “Also, Harry, you’ve made plenty of allowances for Jules’ behavior. It’s not as though being a Gryffindor inherently makes someone unable to appreciate and understand a Slytherin’s way of thinking. Case in point.” She tapped herself on the sternum.
“He’d see me and Sirius dead if he thought he could get away with it,” Harry muttered darkly.
“And you feel the same about him,” Hermione said.
Harry lifted his head and looked hard at her.
Hermione snorted. “I’m not an idiot, Harry Black. You are going to ruin that man’s life and I am going to help you. Which reminds me. You mentioned some… legislation that your, ah, tutor showed you. I want it.”
It took a few seconds to process all of that. “Okay, one, your help is appreciated because you are a bit scary, and two, why?”
“Because I am not an idiot.” Something not quite anger was hardening her face. “I can see you slipping away from a certain side of things. I consider you a friend and… and the Vipers are the first real group I’ve ever had. I can’t in good conscience follow you unless I believe in where you’re going.” She smirked. “I already owled the Wizengamot Administration Office about those old bills and voting records from the sixties. They sent me a polite no. So I made Daphne send the exact same letter. Copies will be arriving within the week.”
Harry let out a strangled sound that might have been a laugh if he were anyone else. “Only you, ‘Mione.”
“Owl me.” She poked him lightly in the shoulder, telegraphing every movement, which Harry appreciated. “And now you should be going home before those… people leave the store.”
As he walked away, Harry thought that Hermione and Barty would probably get on like a house on fire, if they managed not to kill each other.
<>
Harry spent the rest of the week swimming in correspondence. As Heir Black, he could simply write to people and expect an answer; on top of that, the House of Black received a constant stream of mail from businesses and researchers seeking investors, socialites and social climbers hoping to draft off the House’s prestige, and political players trying to feel out the unknown Sirius Black’s policies. Harry fielded most of it because Sirius hated the task of putting quill to parchment almost as much as he did attending the two Wizengamot sessions that were mandatory for sitting vote-holders every year.
One of which, in fact, was rapidly approaching. Litha, the summer solstice, the date of solstice rituals and a mandatory Wizengamot session, preceded on June twentieth by a variety of parties and balls. The most prestigious solstice event was being held at the Longbottom home this year.
The Longbottom crest glared up at Harry from the invitation.
Neville hadn’t spoken to him.
Harry couldn’t not go. He was Heir Black, scion of his House and mentee of a Death Eater; he was the erstwhile brother of the Boy-Who-Lived and sort-of sleeper agent for the Order of the Phoenix. Harry could not afford to avoid an event that would be stuffed to the brim with Ministry loyalists and Voldemort’s opponents just as he wouldn’t be able to avoid the Malfoys’ Yule Ball come December.
But he would have to see Neville. Stand in a receiving line and greet his maybe-former friend like a stranger. He would have no way of knowing if Neville would publicly snub him until Harry was standing there in full view of dozens of their society’s most influential people.
Neville was a Gryffindor and one of the most honorable people Harry had ever known. Probably he wouldn’t be that petty.
The problem was that, if their positions were reversed, Harry actually might be that petty, so it would be unreasonable of him to hold someone else to a higher standard.
“You,” said Theo, heaving open the door to his study, “are brooding.”
“It’s three in the afternoon and sunny. Impossible conditions for brooding.”
“And yet you manage anyway. Must be a gift.” Theo spotted the envelope in Harry’s hands and grimaced. “Didn’t get one, myself. Father used to be invited every year—never took me along and he rarely lasted more than half an hour for canapés.”
“Wonder how many Vipers got one,” Harry said.
Theo threw himself into a chair next to the massive oak desk. He counted on his fingers. “Probably Finn, if he comes with his, what, uncle? Something. Luna. The Weasleys. Aaron, Mason… that might be it. Technically the Derricks and Puceys aren’t real political players, or aligned with the Dark Lord, but they had accused family members last time, so…”
Harry nodded. Things were heating up. Lines were being drawn. He could feel the political situation shifting around him even though he didn’t yet know the players well enough to see its shape. “I can’t not go.”
“Agreed. Your robes will make a statement too,” Theo said. “Too traditional and you look… well. But too modern and—the Longbottoms, Augusta at least, are certainly aware of their own status.”
“Merlin save me from people who’ll read into my political leanings based on my fashion choices.”
Theo laughed. “Well, if it’s any comfort, I think you’re actually the first Black to be invited to a Longbottom party in two hundred or so years.”
“Not very comforting.”
<>
With Pansy’s help, Harry wound up donning a semi-modern open robe of grass green over a white tunic and hunter green hose. He buckled a wide belt of supple dark brown leather over the robe and tunic. The whole ensemble would’ve been unbearably warm for a Muggle, but thanks to the wonder of thermoregulation charms embroidered into the hose and tunic, Harry was perfectly comfortable as he stepped out of the Floo into the Longbottoms’ open-air summer receiving room.
A house-elf greeted him, dressed in a clean white pillowcase belted at the waist with a buckle featuring the Longbottom crest. “This way, Mistress’ guest be coming, this way,” it said, bowing and showing him through the columns into the manor’s rear garden.
Grimmauld Place had a bigger-than-it-should-be garden that Harry quite liked—half-wild, moderately dangerous, easy to get lost in—but it had nothing on the sprawling Longbottom lands. The manor itself was set on a gentle rise so that the grounds were laid out in full view below the Floo point.
A manicured hedge maze loomed in the north of the house, somehow both menacing and inviting; to the west lay manicured walking paths in geometrically perfect patterned plots full of flowers and greens; to the south was a sea of grass with wooden walkways and platforms charmed to hover over the grass-tops, on which the party was being held. A large central dais supported several dozen round tables draped in white and arranged around a hole in the middle of the dais that looked down into the pit where the bonfire would burn in an hour or so.
Harry followed the flagstone path down from the receiving room to the point where the rocky, scrubby side of the hill transitioned into the field of tall grass, where a wooden platform obligingly swung into place at his feet. It kept moving gently, though he suspected the work of charms like those on Hogwarts’ moving staircases, that ensured no one would lose their balance. Of course, at Hogwarts, rumor had it the castle was enchanted to deliberately throw people off the stairs if they were hostile invaders, which was probably not a feature here.
The receiving line was only about thirty guests deep when Harry got to it. He chatted idly with the witch in front of him, a silver-haired official in the Office of Muggle-Worthy Excuses, though they kept their voices down as was polite. Harry tried not to miss Sirius as the line crept forward. They’d both agreed it wasn’t worth the hassle—not with the Prophet harping on Sirius’ supposed cold-blooded murder of his former best friend. Better to let some time elapse before Sirius went out in public. Especially since Sirius himself didn’t want to deal with high-society events like this.
Harry drew himself out of his thoughts as the witch in front of him turned to face Neville and Augusta Longbottom. The aging Viscountess was dressed in dark golden-yellow closed robes buttoned from throat to hem with about a hundred pearls; the sleeves drooped and merged into the same fabric as the rest of the robe where it fell around her legs. Impractical, in Harry’s opinion, but he imagined it would generate a lovely ripple effect when she walked, which was probably the point.
The Ministry official moved aside and then Harry could avoid Neville no longer.
“Lady Longbottom, Heir Longbottom,” he said, stepping forward into a traditional bow. “Merry meet, and blessed Litha.”
“Merry meet, Heir Black,” said Augusta. “Welcome. It is an honor to have you here this Litha.”
“I expect I am the first Black in some time to attend,” Harry said somewhat drily, echoing Theo and steadfastly avoiding eye contact with Neville.
“The first such in some time who is worthy of the invite,” Augusta said with a thin smile. “Lord Black could not attend?”
“He was indisposed.” Mindful of listening ears behind him, Harry said no more, only, “I will be representing our House today, and the honor is mine in attending.”
“I am sure you will uphold the dignity of House Black,” said Augusta.
Harry bowed again, shallowly now that they had formally greeted one another, and began to step aside.
“Harry, wait.”
And just like that it was inevitable. Harry steeled himself and looked at Neville.
Dressed in Litha-appropriate robes of pastel yellow that set off his healthy tan, Neville looked so much better than the cowed and stuttering first year he had once been. He hadn’t lost the soft youthful roundness of his body but there was a quiet strength under it now that might easily go overlooked by someone foolish enough to count only muscles that visibly bulged. Harry was unsure and he hated it.
“I don’t know how long you mean to stay,” Neville said, with searching eyes, “but there’ll be an announcement when we light the bonfire and… I hope you will wait to hear it. It would mean a lot to me to have you here.”
“Gladly,” Harry said, and meant it.
Neville hesitated, then nodded once. He didn’t look like he’d found whatever he’d wanted to see in Harry’s face; but it would be rude to linger longer with one guest, even a close friend, so he turned back to whoever’d queued up next and Harry was free to make his escape.
Several moving walkways fanned out from the one where Neville and Augusta stood like spokes of a wheel or the rays of the sun. Harry scanned them quickly, picked out a familiar figure waiting fifty feet away on a platform with an open bar manned by an elf, and went that direction.
Blaise had a glass of white wine waiting when Harry got there. “So, that could’ve gone worse.”
“He could’ve shunned me outright,” Harry agreed, taking a polite sip instead of knocking back half the glass like he very much wanted to. “Mm, this is excellent.”
“Italian.” Blaise sketched a shallow bow. “A contact of my family’s.”
Harry eyed him. “I imagine there’d be some logistical problems connecting Zabini contacts to a British party.”
“I have some leeway as the Heir,” Blaise said. “My mother allows me quite a lot of independence. Says I’m mature.”
“Her mistake,” Harry said lazily, which drew the amusement he’d sought to cover up their layered conversation. So Blaise’s mother didn’t necessarily know he’d been using the family contacts to do favors for his British friends, and might not approve if she did, which was… interesting. “And how is Romesse Baresi these days?”
“He’s well, I think.” Blaise stared into his wine. “I haven’t seen much of him lately.”
“Busy days for Casa Zabini?” Harry said carefully.
Blaise glanced around them. Only the house-elf behind the bar was near enough to hear them, which some people might have overlooked. “The busiest,” Blaise said with a cocky little lift of his glass.
Harry politely changed the subject to something less weighted.
They went to socialize after the first glasses had been empty. Harry nursed his second without really drinking for quite a while: it was polite to be seen with a glass in your hand, but dumb to actually get drunk. Blaise was a steady presence at his side, murmuring pithy observations about many of the guests who approached Harry into his ear. Harry inevitably found them useful.
Griselda Marchbanks had just tottered away to greet Bertie Williker (and after saying at a high volume that she couldn’t imagine anyone besting Albus Dumbledore’s NEWT scores) when Harry spied the Potter contingent. He made a face into his wine. James’ will had officially remanded custody of Jules to Andromeda Tonks, which effectively meant Jules was living with the most radical people in the Order of the Phoenix, and that was exactly who made up the Boy-Who-Lived’s entourage as he swanned in fashionably late.
“The bonfire’s in, what, half an hour? Do they think they’re too good to socialize?” Blaise hissed.
Harry sighed. “Probably. Let’s go greet Aaron.”
When he saw them coming, Aaron lifted his own glass of something dark brown and iced in such a way that his Vipers ring glinted in the dying sunlight. Harry acknowledged the gesture with a barely-there tilt of his head and a flicker of his own ring.
“Mother, Father, this is Heir Hadrian Black and Heir Blaise Zabini,” Aaron said. He turned to the younger Slytherins. “My parents, the Honorable Dame Ursula and Sir Robert Jigger.”
“Merry meet, and blessed Litha,” Harry said with the head-shoulders-only half-bow appropriate for a Lord’s Heir to a respectable but non-noble knighted family. The Jiggers had earned the honor three or four generations ago for advancements in potions and the Wizengamot had reconfirmed their title with each successive head of the family since then. He knew Aaron hoped to be the one to elevate his family to a Wizengamot seat.
Dame and Sir Jigger returned the greeting, and Harry invited them to call him Hadrian. Blaise similarly offered the use of his first name. It was polite, considering what exactly they were to the Jiggers’ son and heir, but something almost defiant in Blaise’s expression made Harry worry.
“How is the wider world treating you?” Harry asked Aaron once the pleasantries were out of the way.
The Ravenclaw alumni grinned. “Well, there’s the family business, but I need a Potions mastery first, and I’m considering attending a Muggle university to study business and finance.”
His mother made a face, but Sir Jigger gave a faint, probably unconscious nod of approval. Harry noted both reactions. “If you haven’t, I hope you’ll speak to Hermione about it.”
“That’s the Muggleborn girl, yes?” said Dame Jigger. “Brightest witch of the age and whatnot?”
Her tone was derisive, and Harry worked to keep his face neutral. “She’s certainly one of the brightest people I know. More to the point, her parents both attended Muggle university beyond a basic four-year degree, and run their own oral healing practice, so they would have experience both with the educational system and with operating one’s own business. I’m sure Hermione would be able to ask their advice on behalf of a friend.”
“I’ll do that,” Aaron said, studiously not looking at his mother.
“Pity there aren’t more institutions of higher magical education,” Blaise said smoothly. “There’s the Magical University of Rabat, of course, but few from England attend.”
“Well, naturally,” scoffed Dame Jigger, whom Harry was liking less with every word she said.
“They do have an excellent Transfiguration program and business classes,” Aaron said.
It was Harry’s turn to redirect. “Founding such a school here in Britain would be a worthy project.”
“Oh, yes,” said Sir Jigger, lighting up. “I run a program for potions mastery candidates myself, but unfortunately I don't have a license from the Ministry to oversee a full apprenticeship, so typically I employ them until they can get accepted to a recognized mastery program elsewhere. The range of skills I get from Hogwarts graduates are ridiculous. Even people who’ve all passed the Potions NEWT can be anywhere from a second-year apprentice level to what I’d expect of a Hogwarts fifth year.”
“Unsurprising,” Blaise drawled. “Snape only accepts O students into NEWT classes but once you’re there…”
“NEWT classes really are a whole different beast,” Sir Jigger said.
“I’d appreciate your insight regarding applications to mastery programs, sir,” Harry said earnestly. “I’ve been considering one myself—Lord Black plans to continue running the family assets for a while yet, and I hope to attain a Mastery and work in the field for a while before stepping up into his shoes.”
If the mention of Sirius made their faces shutter a little, at least the Jiggers had the decency to ignore it—though that may have something to do with the way Aaron glared at his father. “I’d be glad to offer my advice,” Sir Jigger said. “Owl me, Hadrian, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you.”
“Are any of your little friend group planning on going into the Ministry?” asked Dame Jigger.
“I believe Miss Granger is,” Blaise said with a sharklike smile. “Hermione, that is. The Muggleborn.”
“I could offer her some pointers,” Dame Jigger mused, “though without connections it really is difficult to get one’s foot in the door, as it were. Still, if she’s bright and willing to work hard, I’m sure there’s a position that would suit.”
As someone’s adjunct second researcher of currency deflation? Harry thought nastily, but he pasted on a smile and assured Dame Jigger that her support was much appreciated. Aaron looked a bit like he wanted to drown himself in his liquor.
A musical series of chimes drew the small party’s attention to the central platform, where Augusta and Neville had mounted a wooden dais that had not previously existed next to the unlit bonfire. Other guests began to make their way across the sea of grass to the central platform. Walkways obligingly shifted to make the journey more convenient and within moments nearly two hundred people had convened on a platform that Harry would have sworn could only fit a quarter of that number when he’d looked at it from the house.
“Blessed Litha,” Augusta said, magic strengthening her voice so that Harry heard it as though she were speaking at a normal volume right in front of him. The crowd echoed the blessing back to her in a rumble of sound. “It is as always an honor and a pleasure to have you all here for the summer solstice. Before we light the bonfire, however, my grandson and I have an announcement to make.”
Neville stepped forward. His eyes found Harry in the crowd. “As most of you probably know, my parents have been in long-term intensive care since 1981. They w-were not expected to ever recover.” He paused, visibly swallowing. Harry could feel sympathy running through the crowd like an electric current. “But recent medical discoveries changed that prognosis and a few weeks ago Lady Longbottom and I decided to put them in the care of private healers overseas.” Now the sympathy was turning to anticipation, excitement. Harry’s heart beat a steady drum in his chest. “It is my…” Neville swiped at his eyes. “It is my great honor to introduce f-for the first time in fifteen years, my parents, Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom.”
By the time he got to their names, the crowd was so tense you could’ve cut it with a knife. Harry didn’t breathe as Neville held out a hand and four people mounted the steps to the small dais, which widened to accommodate them.
Two of the newcomers wore the bright green robes of a healer and helped the other two climb the stairs. At the top, the healers stepped back, leaving a blonde woman and a brown-haired man standing on either side of Neville, who took his mother’s arm to support her frail body. The crowd erupted into applause.
Neville stood stalwart but even from a distance Harry could see the tears rolling down his face.
Frank and Alice said nothing, just waved, with enormous smiles. Alice was sobbing by the time the applause wound down and leaning heavily on Neville.
“They will continue healing in private care but we wanted to light the Litha fire together as a family for the first time.” Augusta put a hand on her son’s shoulder: Harry had never seen the old woman smile so broadly. No one mentioned that Algernon Longbottom was nowhere in sight. “Mother Magic bless us this night.”
Oh. A traditional phrase—more so than Harry was given to expect from the Longbottoms. “Interesting,” Aaron murmured, as the family descended from the dais and it vanished. The healers helped Frank and Alice take up positions at the south and east points around the fire while August and Neville moved to the north and west. “They haven’t done more than just light the fire in the past—it’s usually more of just an excuse for a big social shindig.”
“That,” Blaise said, “is a statement.”
Harry added it all up. ‘Blessed Litha’ being written as a greeting on the invite had cued him to use it on arrival, but he hadn’t known it was unusual to see. Neville, Augusta, Frank, and Alice were all wearing closed robes more traditional than Harry’s tunic-hose-and-overrobe getup. And now the appeal to Mother Magic before the fire…
He looked around as the Longbottoms found their places and the gathered guests went silent. Many faces showed the kind of studied blankness of a politician or socialite with something to hide. Others whispered to their neighbors, tense or speculative or intrigued.
Ethan Thorne looked thunderous, Andromeda Tonks utterly impassive. Jules was frowning.
Harry smiled.
“Incendio!” cried the Longbottoms in unison, and though not one of them held a wand, fire bloomed: the traditional way of lighting a solstice fire. Calling on the native magic of the Sabbat, which Harry had felt thrumming around him since he woke that morning.
Litha was about inner power and peace and abundance. As the musicians began to play lively music, and Harry spun into the dance with everyone around him, he let his quiet hope grow to a nearly painful force in his chest.
Later, Frank and Alice were the first to jump through the fire. One of the healers walked them to the jump point and another waited on the far side. The frail, almost ghostlike couple took a running leap. The fire bent around them and almost seemed to buoy them to the far side, where the green-robed healer caught them both, only for them to fall, laughing and sobbing, into each other’s arms. There was another round of applause.
A line formed behind them. Harry took a place in it behind Blaise. Sweat streaked their bodies from the dancing that had resumed more sedately after dinner. It was well after dark now and the bonfire blazed twenty feet high. Shouts of “Blessed Litha!” and appeals to Mother Magic could be heard on occasion as the more traditional guests dared show their hand after the Longbottoms’ display of deference to the old ways. Harry watched one such, an old wizard with a cane, shout something in what sounded like Old English before taking a running leap at the fire. He seemed to hover in its heart for a long second, limned with light, before landing on the other side where his son’s steadying hand waited.
“Jump with me?” said a familiar voice.
Harry turned.
Neville stood there, holding out a hand, his eyes fierce and hard.
“Yes,” Harry said.
They stepped up side-by-side when it was their turn. Harry reached out with his magic as he ran, one two three and push off into the fire. Around him he could feel summer in its full glory like a waxing moon on the point of tipping over. Blazing with life. Lifting and strengthening and filling him until he was nothing but a vessel for light and magic.
Then he landed on the far side, panting, staggering with the force of it. Neville was in no better shape. They leaned on each other as they made their way to the nearest free table and collapsed.
Light was not weak. It could be hard, merciless, blinding even. Harry was reminded of all of that when he looked at Neville and got a strong, bizarre sense of a sword freshly tempered in the forge.
Then he blinked and Neville was just his friend again.
“That was… something,” Neville said with a cautious smile.
“Really was.” Harry grinned back, and when Blaise came over, something impossibly free and open in his normally sly, reserved countenance, the three of them sat back to drink and talk of nothing important.
It was not forgiveness. But it was a start.
<>
The letter from Marcus Flint of all people fell on his desk and Harry looked at it with raised eyebrows. Then up at the owl who’d dropped it.
Haughty and proud, the bird clacked its beak at him.
“Demanding,” Harry muttered, but he handed it a few owl treats. Barn owls always seemed vaguely spooky to him with the heart-shaped ghostly faces. The owl happily crunched treats in its beak while Harry skimmed the letter.
It was hardly the first time he’d received a missive from a recent Hogwarts alumnus—mostly Slytherins, but a decent number of others. Some wished to trade on schoolyard acquaintances in pursuit of a job through the Black connections but there were others either blatantly or subtly seeking an alliance of one kind or other.
Flint’s letter was interesting mainly because Harry wouldn’t have expected it. He and Flint had never been close outside of their cooperation on the quidditch team, and of the boys who’d been flying when he joined, Bletchley had been the one to try and give Harry a subtle hand up when he needed it. Flint had ignored him until he was useful and then had not cared a whit for Harry off the pitch. Yet here he was, writing Harry from a position in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, about… nothing in particular. Office gossip. A witch in the gobstones club whose little sister had been a Hufflepuff who flew against the Slytherin team Harry’s first year. A bloke with a gambling problem. A witch and wizard who had been dating for a few months but whose first lovers’ quarrel had flooded the break room and made the chairs all dance an Irish jig for three days. And Flint invited Harry to lunch the next day at a nice but not especially exclusive restaurant in Tangent Alley.
Sirius frowned when he looked it over. “Flint? We’re related to one of them, a few generations back… somewhere. Big family. Lots of cousins. This bloke’s the Heir?”
“I think so.” Harry consulted a mental list. “His aunt holds the family Wizengamot seat, but her husband’s dead and I don’t think she has any kids.”
“A son, but he’s an Azkaban lifer. Jolinda Flint? She’s a Death Eater. May not be Marked but it doesn’t matter.”
“Marcus isn’t. Or… wasn’t. He didn’t give a flying shite for my blood status, anyway. Only quidditch.”
Sirius handed the letter back with a grim expression. “You never know. Family pressure can… just be careful with him.”
“Voldemort has no reason to want me harmed,” Harry said softly.
“I know.” Sirius studied him for a long moment. “But he does have reason to want to lean on you one way or another. Maybe he thinks Jules would walk into a trap for you.” Harry snorted, and Sirius shrugs. “Who knows what goes on in that batshite fuck’s head? And for all we know, Jules would. You strolled right into the Ministry for him. Or it could be that you’re the Black heir, or just that you’re a powerful wizard friends with a lot of his minions’ kids.”
“I’ll be careful. I promise.”
And Harry was, to the point of showing up an hour early and sending a disillusioned Eriss to scout the restaurant for him. He smirked in his tea when a shriek and a clatter came from the kitchen accompanied by a pulse of mischief down their bond.
Marcus Flint arrived before Eriss came back from whatever chaos the snake had wrought, though Harry wasn’t worried; all he felt from his familiar was peace. “Heir Black. Merry meet.”
“Merry meet, Heir Flint.” Harry gestured at the table; it was interesting that Flint had waited to sit down until invited. A show of deference from a graduated titled Heir, working a respectable job, to a student still in Hogwarts—
“Marcus.”
“Hadrian, then,” said Harry. “It’s been a while. Ministry treating you well, I take it?”
“Well enough. I don’t mind it—I work in the office that organizes little league quidditch. Didn’t think I’d like working with tots but they’re pretty neat, actually.” This meeting was just full of surprises. “I think I’m on track to be deputy head of the office in a few years.”
Marcus’ eyes slid sideways.
Casually, Harry popped his wand and cast a strong privacy ward while pretending to fiddle with it. “Speak freely.”
“Slytherins stick together,” Marcus said, looking at Harry with eyes as hard as his namesake.
Harry nodded slowly. “So they do. And we are both members of the honorable house of serpents.”
“My aunt… recommended… me for a certain… group.”
That was, perhaps, the least surprising revelation of this whole series of Marcus Flint events. “Congratulations. I’m given to understand membership is somewhat exclusive.”
Marcus grimaced. “I’m not sure congratulations are in order.”
“How’s your occlumency?” Harry said, because really, if a Marked follower of Voldemort was going to go ‘round having clandestine meetings about how he didn’t like following Voldemort, he ought to be able to guard his mind.
“Mind like stone, have I.” Marcus tapped his temple and flagged down a waiter. Harry dropped the ward long enough for Marcus to order a butterbeer and both of them to select something from the entrée menu then cast it again once the waiter left. “It’s a bit of a family gift. Flints aren’t deep thinkers,” you got that right, thought Harry, “but we’re solid of body and mind. He could break me but not without leaving me a gibbering wreck and really there’s no one left to take the family from my aunt.”
“Here’s to being valuable,” said Harry, raising his teacup to Marcus’ pint in honor of his own similar position. Since the Ministry he had doubled down on his mental shields to the point that he went to sleep with migraines almost every night and spent two hours of every day doing focused observation to build a store of detailed mental memories with which to trap or fool a legilimens.
Marcus toasted and drank deeply enough that Harry was mildly concerned. They sold alcoholic butterbeer here, not the student-approved version Madam Rosmerta peddled to Hogwarts students. It was comparable to Muggle beer in terms of alcohol content but drunken wizards caused a lot more chaos than drunk Muggle men.
“So you’re not sure how pleased you should be,” he prompted.
“Not at all. It—look. He’s not… right. Not all there. Aunt Jolinda talks about him like a bloody deity, alright, like the Muggleborns about their God, all ‘be good or He will smite you with fire and brimstone’ kind of shite. I don’t… it’s fucking terrifying. And supposedly he can’t bloody die.” Marcus took another swallow and his disturbed expression was so profound that Harry found himself unsettled quite against his will. “We’re gonna, what, install an immortal god-emperor who uses the Cruciatus on people for disobeying, and expect that to go daisies and sunshine? Don’t think so. Eventually he’ll get bored and then… did you know his animagus form is a cat? Great big bloody snow leopard. Snakes’ll kill and eat each other but cats play with their food.”
“Don’t say that around McGonagall,” Harry said, which got a snort out of Marcus and lightened the mood a little.
The waiter reappeared and Harry dismantled the ward again so he wouldn’t notice the way sound bounced oddly as he stepped up to serve their meals. It went back up as soon as the wizard was gone. Harry and Marcus picked over their food in silence for a few minutes.
“I mentioned a bloke in my department. Ferdy Cartwright. He’s head of my office, actually.”
“The one with the gambling problem,” Harry said, remembering the letter.
“Yeah, him. He’s in deep with the goblins. And… I’ve been ordered to lean on him.”
Harry had been wondering why someone in this particular department would be of much use to Voldemort. Now, having learned that little league quidditch was a thing, he put the pieces together in a flash and felt a slow, cold rush of anger. “He wants you to use this man to pressure people through their children?”
Marcus nodded unhappily. “It doesn’t sit right, y’know? I’ve got a second cousin who plays. Sweet little witch. I know Slytherins are supposed to ‘use any means’ and whatnot but… I don’t like threatening kids.”
“Why’d you come to me?” Harry said.
“You never let that sort of thing slide,” Marcus said with a shrug. “Never handled it like a lion, but I saw you make sure you and yours were safe. I’ll—if you want, I can… tell you stuff. I’m no one, really. Foot soldier. I know that. I’m useful ‘cause of my name and my wand and not much else. But I can… give you what I can, in exchange for…”
“I can’t take the Mark off,” Harry said softly.
“I know. Just… if you can… keep it from happening.”
Harry sipped his tea and pretended to think. Really, he’d decided to do something without any reciprocation, but Marcus was a Slytherin and he expected to have to play the game. The more Harry seemed to deliberate the more he’d be willing to offer in exchange.
There was just one thing to check first. Harry looked up so quickly Marcus couldn’t react and whispered, “Legilimens.”
And bounced straight off a shield of solid stone.
“Satisfied?” Marcus said sourly.
“Had to check.” Harry shrugged. “Do you have somewhere you can store an artifact safely?” At Marcus’ nod, he continued, “I’ll send you a journal within a few days. My owl will find you when you’re alone. Three drops of blood on the cover and speak the incantation I’ll put on the first page, and no one but you will be able to read it. Instructions for how to use it will be inside, but that way you can pass me anything you hear directly. Don’t endanger yourself.” He took in the relieved slump to Marcus’ shoulders and added, “We both know this is getting ugly fast. If it goes badly for your particular… group… I’ll testify on your behalf, okay? As long as you can keep yourself from doing anything too horribly illegal it should be alright. And if you have to do something horribly illegal make sure it’s something you can say was under duress.”
“Thank you,” Marcus said hoarsely. “I… thank you, Heir Black.”
“I make no guarantees. I don’t control the Wizengamot and won’t pretend to—and if this goes the other way, I hope you’ll speak for me in return,” Harry said delicately, which got him an immediate reassurance that yes, Marcus would do so. “I appreciate that. But if you’re mine, Marcus, I will do my best by you.”
“The Houses of Black and Flint are allies of old,” Marcus said. “Once we take our future places, I would be willing to renew that alliance.”
“Magic willing, I would be honored to do so.”
Harry took down his ward and they made careful small talk until their food was gone and they could politely depart. Satisfaction curled in his gut as he took the Floo home to Grimmauld Place.
Sirius wasn’t there when he got back but the kids were busy doing a summer assignment in Dylan’s room, spread out on a bed that was much too small for all four of them. He knocked on the open door and politely pretended not to notice Rio hiding a novel under his Potions textbook. “There’s a library, you know.”
“But this is more comfortable,” said Veronica with a grin.
“Hmm. Well, in that case…” Harry opened his mind, feeling around him for the magic of the house, and made a request.
With a shudder, the bed grew larger. Dylan squeaked and nearly fell off the edge. The room gave a shiver and expanded a bit to make space. “Whoa,” Veronica said, eyes wide. “I thought only Hogwarts did stuff like that!”
“Grimmauld Place can’t move around as much inside as Hogwarts does, but most really old magical buildings are sort of… spatially flexible,” Harry said. “You guys can probably ask for things like the lights to come on—small stuff, but the longer you live here, the more it’ll respond. It’s easiest for the owners in magic, though.”
“So, Blacks,” said Rio.
Harry nodded.
“Our manor was like that. Never listened much to me,” Graham said.
Rio and Veronica all began to pepper him with questions about the Pritchards’ manor. Harry left poor Graham to it and retreated to his study. He had to request a new journal from Hermione and a letter to send to Gringotts.
<>
Within a few days, arrangements were underway to buy Ferdy Cartwright’s debt with the goblins, who were happy enough getting their money and forking over an extremely binding contract. Reading it, Harry winced. The goblin collections team could have literally stripped the clothes off Cartwright’s back. Voldemort probably would’ve been more lenient.
Harry meant to be quite generous with the wizard. Honey caught more flies than vinegar and he’d also be forcing Cartwright to sign a binding agreement not to gamble in any way, shape, or form for the next five years or until his debt was repaid on penalty of losing his magic.
The enchantments notified Harry of Marcus’ addition to the network bare hours after he dispatched Aoife with a blank journal. The Flint heir’s first message followed minutes later, a simple Greetings, Hadrian.
Glad that you received it, Harry responded. He didn’t get anything back but assumed Marcus simply didn’t have anything to say.
Harry stared at the journals for a long moment. Promising to testify on Marcus’ behalf was… significant. There were real-world consequences, potentially major ones. He wasn’t about to risk his own House’s standing by speaking on behalf of an accused Death Eater unless he had proof.
It was time to learn more about memory retrieval.
<>
Justin arrived at Grimmauld Place two days later with a number of Muggle suitcases and his school trunk, all of which was unloaded from a hired car by an extremely harassed Muggle driver. Harry missed the entire spectacle and had to be regaled with it by the kids over dinner since he’d been eyeballs-deep in two separate projects at the time.
“You have more paperwork than my father,” Justin remarked when Harry invited him up to the study after their meal. Sirius was out again with Ian and the kids minding themselves, which meant Harry was free to pick his friend’s brain on a few things.
“About half this is research. I need to figure out how to duplicate and store memories so that they can be verified later by the Aurors,” Harry said. “Sirius still remembers enough from the Auror program that he could teach me, and the Blacks managed to get their hands on a lot of spells they legally shouldn’t have had.”
“Rich people,” said Justin.
“Pot, kettle,” Harry sniped back.
Justin smirked and took the chair in front of the desk. “So why d’you need legally verifiable memories? And why not just take ‘em from your own head?”
“If I take them out, they… fade,” Harry explained. “Become dull and dim—it’s a way to handle the aftereffects of trauma but risky when you might need to recall an important detail. You can take memories out if you need to protect them or share them on a temporary basis, especially since that charm is way easier than a copy, but this is a… long term project.”
There was a beat of silence.
“You haven’t said why,” Justin said.
“There’s a war coming,” Harry said bluntly. Justin blinked and straightened. “I don’t know yet which side is going to win. If it’s one… I have options. If it’s the other, though, I’ll need a way to keep—certain people out of Azkaban.”
“Contingencies. Smart. Alright, who are we protecting here? Unless you can’t say, in which case please don’t.”
Harry really loved Hufflepuff pragmatism sometimes. “Marcus Flint.”
Over the next half hour, he caught Justin up on the situation in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, the contracts, and the binding confidentiality agreement Harry had paid through the nose to get from Gringotts.
“This all looks alright,” Justin said, peering at the small cursive font. “Merlin, those little buggers like making this hard to read, don’t they? Still, I don’t see a way around it. Voluntary memory modification for all involved Gringotts employees save your oathbound account manager as to who bought the debt… and from here on Cartwright pays you directly… and you’ll be making him sign confidentiality too, I expect?”
“At wandpoint if I have to.”
“Smart. Huh. Flint. Wouldn’t have expected that, really. Imagine him working with little kids?”
“I literally can’t,” Harry said.
Justin laughed. “Never can tell with some people. I’m just glad he was surprising in a good way. So you’re saving memories of your conversation with him, complete with timestamp, so the DMLE can verify he was under duress from the start?”
“Exactly. It’s not actually illegal to have or take the Dark Mark—just to, you know, do crimes. I’m not going to copy the bit where I told him point-blank not to do anything horribly illegal or at least make sure he can claim it was coerced if he does.”
Justin laughed again. “God, yeah, please don’t. What’s your second project, then?”
“Getting patents on the journals and selling a version of them that doesn’t use illegal runes. I’m thinking families would love a way to keep faster touch with their kids. I… don’t want to file the patent until after things… settle down, though. The potential for…”
He trailed off, but Justin nodded, clearly getting it. “Right, it’s a hell of an advantage. Wait—didn’t you mention you use yours to communicate with your tutor?”
“Yeah. Ah… he… lied and said the magic was proprietary,” Harry said.
Justin blinked. “Oh. So… your Death Eater mentor lied to You-Know-Who to keep this magic secret for you?”
“Yeah.”
“...and you’re just mentor and apprentice, right?”
Harry threw a quill at him.
<>
Having Justin around led to some surprising conversations about Muggle finance, which Harry had never particularly studied, his own Muggle education having been abysmal compared to Justin’s private schools and hired tutors. Then Draco came over and spent eight hours holed up with Justin in the parlor. Even Kreacher couldn’t eavesdrop on them. Harry tried not to be amused about Draco Malfoy, pureblood prince, and Justin the Mudblood being so close. He failed.
<>
The native magic of Britain has been practiced around our land’s cyclical seasons for millennia. Winter, spring, summer, autumn: each framed by the cross-quarter days, each with its high holy Sabbat. The Founders four were individually powerful wixen; yet together, bearing between them four elemental affinities and four seasonal, they worked wonders.
Helga Hufflepuff walked in springtime. Hers were the victory of hope and life over despair and darkness; new beginnings, softness, rain and sun mixed. Vibrant, yes, and strong; but dirty, struggling, fighting. She was stubborn and nurturing as the earth in which her famed gardens grew.
Godric Gryffindor bore summer in his heart. Litha is our day of light, light that blinds and burns, light like a sword, defiant, lancing fearlessly into the dark. A child with a lens can concentrate sunlight to a point so fine it lights a wandless fire. Light brings life and death in turn. Gryffindors are pure of heart: the embodiment of blind Justice seeking those who have done wrong.
Rowena Ravenclaw was the introspection of autumn, quiet, a harbinger of that which you may not wish to hear. Like the air that buoyed her wings, she sought clarity not of purpose but of mind, the pursuit of knowledge in all its many forms. Autumn is the time for looking in and back. It is the time of endings and their new beginnings.
Salazar Slytherin, born to the cold, was winter. The Slytherins who have followed him are cold and dark like a knife, subtle and insidious, the way a winter wind finds its way past even the warmest of cloaks. They are patient in the way of the dark between the stars, which will outlast every effort, no matter how valiant, to hold it at bay. Like the light that opposes it, winter is a time of contradictions. Darkness offers peace and solace as easily as it shields the hired blade who walks by night.
Harry set down the book and blew out a long breath.
It had found its way to his bedside table by pure happenstance. Harry had a lot going on this summer and kept a stack of light, casual reading within easy reach at all times. This particular one, The Seasons of Hogwarts, was technically a collection of short biographies of notable Hogwarts alumni. He’d thought the year’s wheel embossed on the cover an odd choice but otherwise given it no thought.
Finding a detailed treatise on seasonal symbology of Hogwarts houses was not what he’d expected.
Unbidden, the image of Neville as he was right after the bonfire, recovered in near-perfect detail thanks to Harry’s occlumency, came to mind. Neville burning from the inside out with a smokeless, heatless fire. Neville as keen-edged as a sword. Neville, the Gryffindor.
Harry’s mind raced as he considered the implications. It didn’t seem that practical an idea, in the large scheme of things, but it was certainly interesting to consider how well the author, a witch who had lived and died in the eighteen hundreds, matched Harry’s own observations about the Houses and the sorts of people they tended to produce. Slytherin and Gryffindor, pure of purpose and pure of heart—in many ways, moral relativism versus moral absolutism. Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, the steadfast and the clear-seeing, associated with the seasons of looking outward and looking within.
Hermione fit the mold as well. Ruthless she certainly was; and bold, too, and often utterly uncompromising.
And then there was Jules.
Harry shut the book and put it back on his bedside table.
***
Andromeda
It was the third Order meeting since James had passed, and in Andromeda’s opinion, things got worse every time.
“We need to make sure we don’t lose the Wizengamot!” Benjy bellowed for the third time. “Last time, when His people had power—”
“It doesn’t matter if we hold the Wizengamot if the Aurors never catch the bloody bastards!” Garrett Robards yelled back. “Potter’s gone! Fucking Yaxley’s Chief Auror now! There’s no way—”
“—already lost Greengrass and Selwyn to the Dark—”
“—can’t keep playing defense forever—”
The Floo burned bright green, and everyone fell silent as Albus stepped out, smiling serenely around at the Order of the Phoenix. “Thank you all for being here.”
A general murmur of greetings rose in response, and slowly, they began to settle down around Molly’s expanded dining table, in the close and warded kitchen of the Burrow. Andromeda tracked who sat where. James’ death had shaken things up and by now they had begun to cool and harden into a new shape. New fault lines divided a once-united group. It was only natural, in the face of loss and rising sociopolitical tension, for opinions to polarize. Any Slytherin worth their salt would see it.
And use it.
The divide was largely generational. Pluto Dearborn, Elphias Doge, Rupert Runcorn, Massia Carmichael, and Kierney Towler, all septuagenarians or older, clustered at the foot of the table and spoke little. Benjy Fenwicke, Hestia Jones, Kathy Bell, Daedalus Diggle, and Roger McKinnon were the loudest supporters of a plan focused around defending key Wizengamot and Ministry officials. Some of the Aurors, like Kingsley and Nymphadora, were relatively neutral in the whole affair, along with those who didn’t necessarily know what to think, including the Crockett twins, Alvar Cornfoot, and Sturgis Podmore.
Andromeda was most interested in the last group, the one that formed around Ethan on one side of the table as Dumbledore transfigured the chair at its head into a colorful squishy monstrosity just shy of a throne. There was Robards, right at Ethan’s elbow and still glaring at Benjy; and Emmeline Vance, Ivar Dillonsby, and Zoey Sideris made sure to sit next to each other, heated looks passing between them.
As she took a seat between Ethan’s crowd and the group of Albus’ old friends, Andromeda privately lamented Remus’ absence. He was a weight to balance against Ethan’s hotheaded nature and he often had excellent insights after meetings.
Then again, if he was here, he would perhaps be able to bridge a gap that Andromeda thought best left to widen.
The meeting went well as long as mundane matters lasted. Andromeda spoke little, preferring to watch. They spoke of upcoming legislation. Patrol schedules. The Ministry was a lost cause, in her opinion, but many of the remaining Order disagreed, and she wasn’t about to burst their bubblehead charms on the matter, so on they prattled about random spot checks for the Imperius and putting compulsion-flushing draughts in the building’s water.
None of it would work. Not in the face of generational galleons and ingrained bigotry. Andromeda knew better than any of these middle-class progressive half- and purebloods just how little the Ministry ran according to what the populace chose. Bribes would be paid, livelihoods would be threatened, and most people wouldn’t have to do anything more than look away. The recalcitrant few would find themselves less a few extremities or, for the very stubborn, dead.
Albus’ plan of personally bodyguarding Wizengamot members had some merit. Most of them could bunker down behind old wards and sending an off-duty Auror and a Gringotts-trained cursebreaker ‘round to bolster those protections would go far. The rest could manage with safe houses, emergency beacons, alert wards, guards. The strongest would cast Fidelius Charms on their home but you needed advanced theoretical and practical training for that—it was an enchantment, not a simple charm—as well as a claim to ownership of whatever you hid.
Garrett, Ivar, and Emmeline were generating the more proactive ideas. Andromeda suspected Ethan and Zoey of helping cook up propositions like a surveillance detail on suspected Death Eaters and targeted raids to find evidence that could be submitted to the Aurors, though Ethan’s barrister training and Zoey Sideris’ time in Ravenclaw had made them circumspect enough to let their friends speak up. Benjy and Garrett went at each other. Ethan interjected blandly instigative statements now and then. Dearborn, Doge, and Towler called weakly for reticence and got repeatedly shouted down by the younger lot in between heated rebuttals of Jones and McKinnon’s insistence on defense.
The Crocketts, Cornfoot, Podmore, and, surprisingly, Kathy Bell were showing signs of agreement with a more active response as time passed. Albus’ presence kept a lid on the cauldron, but Andromeda tracked every subconscious nod and every twitch of a wand hand.
Molly was the holdout in every regard. Broken by Arthur’s loss, she was mostly concerned at this point with keeping her children safe, and objected shrewishly only to the thought of putting them in danger. Her oldest was here helping his mum and listening with a perfect poker face to the meeting. Her second oldest was a member but off recruiting on the continent. The third one was rarely mentioned, Andromeda understood he was some sort of Ministry flunky and not speaking with his parents, and the twins…
Well, as Albus wound down the meeting, Andromeda switched her attention to Fredrick Gideon and George Fabian Weasley. It was all too clear that Molly had seen her dead little brothers in her twin sons and clearer that she had unwittingly punished them for not living up to the men whose names they bore. This was the first Order meeting they’d attended officially, and it had resulted in a screaming match with their mother, though Andromeda was certain they had eavesdropped heavily before. Now they sat with Mundungus Fletcher. The association wouldn’t concern her if she could trust that they were only cooking up pranks in that workshop of theirs.
Or if she hadn’t heard rumors of their association with Harry Black at school.
There were others, of course—recruits from the intrawar generation, recent graduates. Diggory. Hopkirk. Meadowes. Brocklehurst. Willicker. Names Andromeda knew from her youth as those her family might favor with a conversation as a contract but never consider social equals. Those were not, however, invited to this meeting; presumably the Weasley twins had only come because they nominally lived here.
Andromeda had been subject to many a rant from Molly about how little time her children spent at home.
She came back to herself as Albus packed himself off, last to arrive and first to leave. Reinstatement as the Chief Warlock and the war-panicked demands of unhappy parents took up much of his time. There was still food on the table and the ones with families weren’t expected home yet, so the rest of the group stayed, the volume in the room rising as more than one conversation struck up in Albus’ wake.
Andromeda shifted around the table and had an amiable late dinner with Kathy Bell. She’d been a few years ahead of Andromeda in school and a Gryffindor, so they knew little of each other from their youth, but being so close in age was an automatic sort of camaraderie in a room with four generations represented and they were both mothers to boot. It culminated in an invitation for tea at the Tonks home on Thursday.
Eventually, of course, it got dark, and the Floo roared almost nonstop as Molly packed people off with as many leftovers as they could carry. Privately Andromeda thought their family would be a bit better off if Molly spent less money on absurd quantities of food but those weren’t her galleons to spend. The last to go was a large group off to the Leaky instead of home, to share drinks and talk more. Ethan was the last of that crowd through the hearth and he met Andromeda’s eyes before throwing the powder down with a barely-discernible nod.
The Crocketts were with him, and Podmore, and Cornfoot, and Sideris, as well as his new friends in Garrett and Emmaline. They would drink. They would talk, and air their grievances, and echo one another’s opinions back and forth until the lot of them were in a frothing rage. It was exactly what Andromeda had hoped when she suggested Ethan get a feel for them away from, as she’d said, the “old codgers” in the Order. Normally she wouldn’t use such language but it appealed to Ethan’s Gryffindor and consequently contrary nature to see his elders in such a way. Andromeda hadn’t bothered telling him that being off on their own would mean they’d feed on each other’s youthful fervor and go to sleep more radical than when they’d woken that morning—not quite the done thing, when Ethan was one of the people she intended to radicalize.
This war would not be won by playing it safe. They’d tried that last time, and look what that wrought. Chaos. Festering unrest. The Blacks were bad but by no means the only bigoted bastards just begging for a well-timed Avada. Too many of them got off with a stinging hex to the wrist. Too many of them walked right back in to the halls of power.
Andromeda didn’t mean to see that happen again. Sometimes you had to scorch the fucking earth to give new growth a chance.
***
Sirius
It was a beautiful night. The stars were clear and bright and lanced so directly into Sirius’ tattered soul that it was almost painful. He was a son of the House of Black, though. He and the night sky were kin.
Know the stars and know thyself. Up here, drifting with his motorcycle silent, the constant noise of the Muggle world a distant memory, Grandfather’s words were as clear as though the old man had said them only yesterday. Know the stars and you are never lost.
He’d meant it literally, but not only. Night flights had done more for Sirius than any mind healer to clear his head and remind him who and when he was, after Azkaban. Up here in the starlight there was no room to hide. Not even from himself.
Sirius lay back on the motorcycle’s long, padded seat, legs dangling, and let it float, while he listened to the symphony of the skies.
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