28.Looming Turmoil

14th of June, 1992, Sunday

Juno

Being prepared for years to do something was a far cry from actually doing the thing. Being the head of House Black was exhausting in a way that studying or practising magic couldn’t compare. Her future now rested on her shoulders; the legacy of House Black was what she made it, and there was nobody else to take responsibility. Each of her actions and decisions were no longer restricted but felt infinitely more complicated. Each success would be her doing, and each failure would be her failure.

Her destiny was her own, but Juno found the burden of the future almost crushing.

She stared at Augusta Longbottom’s face. It was an old face, brow heavy with worry and wrinkles, adorned by harsh dark eyes and crowned with well-kept greying hair and a frozen vulture hat lying on the hanger. Despite the summer heat, a fox fur scarf remained wrapped around her neck, and her green robes looked heavy. Doubtlessly, multiple layers of cloth were sewn to it, each enchanted.

The Longbottom dowager’s eyes were bereft of feelings, and her mind was just as inscrutable.

But just as Juno observed the stern old woman, she was being studied. The young witch knew what things looked like from the side. A twelve-year-old girl was doing the negotiating, which meant that the Longbottom Dowager had the advantage. But she also couldn’t be too harsh, or the public would see her as an old, crotchety woman who was utterly unreasonable.

“So, you wanted to meet me here, under the eyes of everyone, Lestrange,” Augusta grunted, her voice as prickly as she looked. Yet her gaze cautiously glided to Cassiopeia, who lazily sipped some wine from a nearby table despite being clad in dragonhide from top to bottom. The Longbottom madame was not alone; one of Neville’s granduncles, Algie Longbottom, was also here, duelling robes peeking beneath his coat.

Neither side had come unprepared.

They were at the upscale establishment called The Cauldron Cuisine at the highest end of Diagon Alley. It was a very prestigious restaurant with reservations only, and its balconies provided a view of Muggle London and the River Thames. Yet she had chosen a table in the courtyard open towards the cobbled streets of the Alley to provide a full view to the passing crowd—a public and neutral place where neither side could attempt to make trouble overtly.

Despite the expensive reservation, the Beef Wellington, elvish wine, and butterbeer on the varnished mahogany table remained untouched.

Her heart hammered in her ears, but the young witch tried her best to keep her mind calm.

“It’s Miss Black now, if you would,” Juno inclined her head stiffly. With Lord Black’s final will, she could abandon that name. The same name that her thrice-damned parents carried.

“Ditching your wretched father’s name, eh?”

The young witch agreed with the statement inwardly, but the crotchety tone still irked her. She took a deep breath to push down her irritation, but the apprehension returned with full force in its stead. “I did not come here to trade insults.”

“Precocious little thing, just like that old lech Arcturus,” Augusta huffed. “Very well, get on with it. I have better things to do than deal with you and your lot.”

Why were all the older generation so damn dismissive of simple courtesies? First, it was her late granduncle and aunt Cassiopeia. And now this greying, unpleasant witch was doing the same.

“I want to end this feud,” Juno admitted. Morgana, her palms were sweaty. “The senseless tension between our families need not continue.”

The old witch scoffed.

“You? You want to abandon the feud? The spawn of killers and butchers, each one darker than the rest?!”

The intangible pressure in the air thickened, and Juno had no doubt that the old witch’s wand could be pointing at her in a heartbeat. Morgana, she had the desire to draw her wand or leap away and run. Only barely did she manage to remain as still as a statue.

Augusta Longbottom was dangerous. No matter how much you prepared, facing someone stronger who could destroy you in mere moments stretched Juno’s skills and training to the limit. Even the common courtesies she was supposed to fall back on did not work because the old woman was unashamedly rude. The worst part was Juno couldn’t do anything about it. All the influence and wealth meant nothing before magic power, and Augusta Longbottom had far more than a young witch did.

And the old crone knew that fact and unashamedly used it. A petty but very effective intimidation tactic.

Breathe in, breathe out. Let the emotions drain away like a river around a steadfast rock.

Clamping down on her emotions proved much more challenging today, but she succeeded.

Juno narrowed her eyes, “I can no more control who my parents are than the weather in a week. Peace or not, Lady Longbottom?”

There was no doubt in her mind that the Longbottoms would have tried to kill her off or buried her if they could. But with Cassiopeia in the picture, they dared not act. Even now, the wand twirling between her aunt’s fingers started glowing a sinister purple, and the old witch stopped trying to suffocate her with raw magic.

The silence stretched uncomfortably as the flinty gaze observed her dispassionately.

“Peace sounds good,” Augusta Longbottom leaned forward, her eyes squinted. “But would peace give back my son? What about all that gold, connections, and businesses the old lech ruined because of a schoolyard spat?”

So, she wanted restitution. Yet Juno would not give any. She refused to be intimidated by this old, annoying woman. Not after that cretin Neville truly tried to get her killed. She could forgive it, but she would not forget it, not now, not ever.

“Peace will not give me my parents either,” Juno said slowly. Not that she wanted Bellatrix or Rodolphus Lestrange, her uncle Rabastan, or her cousin Barty Crouch. They could all rot to death in Azkaban for their love of that hypocritical dark lord. “Whatever crimes have been committed, justice has been served. Or do you dispute the ruling of the Wizengamot on the matter?”

It was a slippery slope; both of them knew Neville was the one who had reignited the old spark of hatred, and Arcturus Black was the one who poured oil into that fire out of pride. The Longbottoms had demanded recompense after the vile murder of Frank and Alice Longbottom, but Juno’s other grandfather, Corvus Lestrange, had forked out the bare minimum weregild before he died.

Both Juno and Augusta knew that, legally, the Longbottoms had no reason to make or seek trouble with her. And now, she was offering to end the current woes. The threat was hidden there, and the greying dowager could see it.

If she did not accept, Juno would continue what Arcturus had already placed in motion: grind down the Longbottoms, their connections, businesses, positions, and properties despite the cost, and there was nothing they could do to stop her aside from killing her. And their only chance was here, out in the open, where Cassiopeia was watching and ready to attack. And doing so would label them criminals and murderers in the eye of the public and place them in an even worse position.

It was a resolution that was amiable and, frankly said, beneficial to the Longbottom family. Concluding the pointless feuding at this point would be a matter of pride.

And Juno was here to see if Augusta Longbottom had more pride than sense.

As her great-aunt was wont to remind her, it was still a considerable risk. “A foolish gamble,” she had called it, and perhaps rightly so. “You’re too young to play these sorts of games.”

All it would take of the Longbottom dowager was a flick of her wand, and no matter how fast Cassiopeia was, there was always that slight chance she would be too late. Yet Juno still chose to come here.

No reward came without risk.

After a minute of silence, the old witch gave a begrudging nod, “The old fox has taught you well, yet it seems you have more sense than him. Very well. Let us hear of your peace.”

Her legs trembled in relief, and she was thankful for the table and thick robes hiding her weakness. Her hands felt like lead, her back covered in cold sweat, but Juno smiled.

Disarming, Body Binding Charms and Knockback Hexes erupted from Juno’s wand in a rapid fire, but Cassiopeia just lazily swatted them aside as if they were flies.

Some were deflected back to Juno, forcing her to dodge. But after the last year, she had gotten better at dodging. It was an unfair tactic, for Juno’s spells lacked enough power to force the older witch to shield or avoid. But then, the world wasn’t fair, showing the gap between a young witch and an older, experienced one.

“My turn,” Cassiopeia giggled in her raspy voice.

Juno even managed to duck under the Bone-breakers and the Stunners, even if the hairs on the back of her neck rose at the sheer power of the spells. Juno could dodge some of her aunt’s curses, unlike last summer. And unlike before, they were far more brutal. If one of the nastier ones landed, she would have to nurse broken bones and swallow down Skele-gro or something just as disgusting before recuperating for a handful of days, thus delaying her training further.

Of course, the old witch did not really intend to kill or overwhelm Juno, or she would have already died.

Despite being over seventy years old, Cassiopeia was still as agile as a Wampus cat. Juno found herself unable to keep up with the rising speed and trickier combinations, and the wand flew out of her hand within a minute.

“Impressive,” her grandaunt admitted. “This Professor Quirrell must have been something despite being so young. You have a far more solid foundation than I expected.”

Her frustration from earlier only mounted, however. The meeting with Augusta Longbottom was nerve-wracking, and the duties of the head of House Black, the daunting summer ahead, and Cassiopeia’s ruthlessness allowed for no respite.

“He was good,” Juno agreed reluctantly. His death and Petrov’s actions had caught her off-guard. It was not the violence and murder that had surprised her as much as the suddenness of it. She knew the monster hunter was dangerous but thought him amiable enough to behave in Dumbledore’s domain. And he had… while the headmaster was in school.

“A pity it would be someone else next year. I don’t think Dumbledore can find a better teacher lest he teaches himself.” Cassiopeia shook her head. “And you say you’re not first in the year?”

“I am not.”

Her grandaunt paused, blinking at her with incomprehension.

“You’re not first, despite easily passing third-year exams and getting the hang of silent casting?” With each next word, her eyebrows rose higher, almost disappearing into her luscious dark hair. “You’re not first despite being one of the oldest in the year, having more time to mature your magic than the rest of your peers. Despite all my lessons and tutoring before Hogwarts… not first?”

“No,” Juno rubbed her brow, feeling somehow abashed. “Harry is first. I tried to beat him, but he kept pulling ahead, no matter how hard I trained and studied.”

“The Potter boy? Impossible,” Cassiopeia denied. “His birthday is at the end of July, and he would be almost a year younger than you, making his magic and body far weaker. Girls mature physically earlier than boys, after all. Besides, where would he learn anything while living with his muggle relatives?”

The young Black witch snorted.

“It’s clearly possible. Weren’t you the one who told me there’s always someone better?”

“I did, but not like this.” Her aunt exhaled slowly, holstering her wand and closed her eyes but grudgingly let the topic go. “Forget it.”

A part of her wanted to go to her bed, lay down and sleep. The exhaustion from the maddening pace throughout the year had come back with full force today. But rest meant she’d lag behind Harry, and the mere thought lit a fierce fire in her gut.

“I don’t want to forget it,” Juno tensed. “I want to beat him. Teach me more.”

“Good.” Cassiopeia’s disbelief gave way to dark amusement. Some days, Juno thought everything was a game to her aunt, but it didn’t matter. “We’ll start tomorrow, I suppose. I need to prepare some things.”

The young witch nodded solemnly and took a scalding bath that washed off most of her exhaustion before entering her new personal study room. It had stunk of cigars and smoke, and it had taken Wally two days to completely remove the acrid stench from the furniture and the walls.

It had been a week since the previous Black of Black had died. Juno’s nerves were stretched taut for those seven days, and she was too busy to train or study.

Being the next head of the Blacks was exhausting. Or the Lady of the House of Black, as Arcturus would pretentiously call it if he were still alive. A grand-sounding title meaningful only in the Wizengamot that gave them far more self-importance than the Blacks were worth. Of course, eschewing the trappings of power was counterproductive, but the real foundation of the family was always in power, knowledge, and the willingness to be great. The fleeting prestige a title could give you paled before a strong wand.

The fact many Houses were forced to address the Head of House Black with their desired title spoke of the power that enforced such authority.

Besides, Juno was technically not even the head of the Blacks until her seventeenth birthday, even if Cassiopeia let her do whatever she wanted, which meant a ton of work. Contracts, whether legitimate or skirting the law, had to be maintained, properties had to be taken stock of, business deals, wealth, ledgers, allies, and subordinates had to be either reaffirmed or reviewed, and so much more.

“Pah, why make peace with the Longbottoms-” A flick of her wand had Arcturus’ portrait frozen. Just as Juno thought she had gotten rid of him, only for his enchanted portrait to greet her when she first opened the door to the House head’s office.

“Could still remove the damn portrait and chuck it in some cellar,” Cassiopeia proposed with a snort.

Juno’s lips thinned. “I tried. Permanent sticking charm. Even burning didn’t work; it’s somehow spelled indestructible. Taking off the wall won’t work; it’s conjoined with the wards, and you know how much trouble renovating the house or rooms affects the wards.”

“Peh, the old grouch doubtlessly paid a small fortune just so that he could sit around and irritate us after kicking the bucket. Knowing him, he has a spare or two hidden somewhere, even if you succeed in destroying this one.” It was probably the case, and the waste of gold irked Juno greatly. It was her gold now. Mrs Norris sensed her distress and prowled over, rubbing her neck over Juno’s ankle and purring. “If you wanted a cat, I could have found you a nice kneazle instead of this stray.”

“No, I like this one,” Juno shook her head and crouched to scratch above her neck, just as the cat liked. Not only was Mrs Norris cannily intelligent, but the grey cat’s presence was soothing, and her grey coat turned sleek and shiny after a month of proper care. Even Hagrid had no idea what Filch had been feeding the poor thing.

Cassiopeia shrugged, “As you wish. Are you done with all the…” An insistent pecking at the window made her aunt stiffen. Even the cat tensed. “How the hell did a snowy owl bypass all the protections of Black Manor? I could swear Arcturus put anti-owl wards three decades prior.”

“It’s a smart owl,” Juno chuckled, pleasantly surprised as she went to latch open the window and let the beauty in. “I know her personally, and she’s been invited. Isn’t that right, Hedwig?”

Hedwig perched on the window sill, chirping a greeting, and a talon with a letter reached out for her, yet Cassiopeia Black still looked tense.

“One of your new friends?”

“Indeed.”

Her grandaunt holstered back her wand, though the suspicion on her face did not lessen. “Shouldn’t you check the letter first? What if it’s jinxed like the one from Avery?”

“I doubt Harry Potter has any reason to send me an enchanted marriage offer,” Juno muttered, remembering the insidious letter two days prior. It was a tricky compulsion that would have made her travel to a certain location, where the fools would have undoubtedly waited to coerce her. The Avery family owed House Black tens of thousands of galleons, but now that Arcturus was dead, they thought they could run roughshod over her instead. Juno had yet to decide how to repay the insidious attack and insult, but it would not be merciful.

Yet the words seemed to melt away her guardian’s worry.

Cassiopeia leaned over with interest, and Juno had to shield the letter from her curious eyes. “Come on, niece. What does the infamous Boy Who Lived want with poor little you?”

Juno frowned as her eyes glanced over Harry’s scribbles. “Advice for the Malfoy gala. It seems my errant cousin has invited him to attend in my absence.”

“Lucius and Narcissa are not ones to miss the chance to make connections,” her aunt sat on one of the chairs, looking bored. “Having the boy who vanquished the dark lord show up at their gala will lighten their reputation after the recent woes.”

“Indeed. I think I’ll go,” the young witch tilted her head. The thought of seeing her friend in this dreadful summer seemed most welcome.

“You weren’t planning to attend before,” Cassiopeia observed. Rightly so, because Juno was still wroth with her aunt Narcissa and her husband. Neither Malfoy nor his wife were half as subtle as they thought; Juno had realised their plans weren’t much different from Avery’s. The Lestrange and Black fortunes and influence were enough to attract greed on their own, especially when in the hands of a young twelve-year-old witch.

The only thing that deterred them had been Cassiopeia’s presence. It was a bitter reminder that Juno was still weak. They wouldn’t have even considered making such plans if she had been strong.

“Indeed. Attending the Gala served no purpose before.” Juno grabbed a thunderbird quill and the pot of Sumi ink from Japan from her grandfather’s prized collection and carefully drafted a reply. “But perhaps it would be better if I did show my face. If the Malfoys can lighten their reputation with their closeness to Harry, so can House Black.”

“It’s been over half a century since I last visited such events,” Cassiopeia yawned, lazily sprawling herself on the dark sofa. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to see who else still lingers on from my classmates.” Yet there wasn’t even a trace of enthusiasm in her tone.

It would also show that Juno was not afraid, and House Black was not on its last leg and was willing to turn over a new leaf. The more she thought of it, the better it sounded.

Besides, getting to see Harry again wouldn’t hurt. A part of her was also curious about what made her friend attend a gala. Harry liked crowds, attention, and the spotlight as much as Cassiopeia did, which was to say not at all.

When the letter was finished, Juno critically inspected her calligraphy for any imperfections and found none. Relishing in the feeling of her countless hours of practice with a quill bearing fruit, Juno rolled up the letter as soon as the ink dried, pressed the crest of the Black family ring into the wax and sealed the roll of parchment.

Hedwig was impatiently looking at her with a pair of golden eyes. Alas, the proud snowy owl had no patience for things like calligraphy, yet it did not deduce from the bird’s majesty.

She ran her long fingers through the beautiful snowy plumage, careful not to approach the razor-sharp beak. “Wally, bring me some bacon.”

16th of June 1992, Thursday

Harry

Harry awoke, drenched in a cold sweat again; the damned red eyes kept haunting his dreams. Was he to suffer Voldemort’s shadow in his mind forever?

Sighing, he dragged his feet up to brush his teeth and get dressed for a morning run despite feeling drowsy. Sirius was still asleep so early in the morning.

Scribbling down a note that he was out, Harry left, locking the door behind with his spare set of keys.

The flat was in one of those old flats with a rustic red brick facade you could see in many places across England. It was an entirely mundane place, filled with muggles going on about their lives without a whiff of magic. Most locals spoke similarly to Hagrid, which made Harry think the half-giant had been raised around these parts.

Yet, for all of it, the city was peaceful, calm, and welcomingly boring.

It let Harry get his mind off things, especially as his feet brought him to the closest park. The cool morning air felt invigorating to his sluggish body, and his thoughts drifted as his legs and lungs groaned under the strain again.

Living in a city was stifling. During the day, Bristol’s air was heavy with car exhaust, and by noon, the grey concrete jungle was radiating heat under the sweltering sun. The only respite was the handful of parks scattered around the city. The damned mosquitos from the River Avon were a menace at night or early in the morning when Harry went out for runs.

Yet, despite everything, it was leagues better than Privet Drive and the Dursleys. Sirius’ apartment was not nearly as big as a house, but with four large rooms, there was more than enough space to go around. Harry had a bedroom far larger than Dudley’s all to himself, furbished with a comfortable bed, desk, tapered chairs, drawers, and everything else a boy could ever want.

Living with Sirius was just as he imagined. Carefree and easy. Food was available anytime at any amount; be it some simple roast, fry, or simply ordered from some restaurant, Harry didn’t have to pay or cook for it or worry about anything like chores. However, he did his best to help around the house. His godfather had no annoying demands or rules aside from, “You should have some fun every once in a while. Go make some trouble and mischief as kids ought to do. Or perhaps we can watch a quidditch match or spectate a broom race.”

Yet Harry didn’t want to have fun.

“I want to become a great wizard,” he had told Sirius then.

“If what Flitwick tells me is half true, you’re already a third on the way there, Mr. Best-Grade.”

Harry shook his head. “I want more. Just being good in schoolwork is not enough.”

“What, you want to become the next coming of Dumbledore?” Sirius had chuckled, eyes dancing with mirth.

“No, I have no desire to become the next Dumbledore.” Harry had stated with all the seriousness he could muster, making his godfather choke on his laughter. “But I do want to be as strong as him. Or as Grindelwald or Voldemort.” If being as strong as them was not enough, he’d simply have to be stronger.

His godfather had stared at him for half a minute.

“Damn,” Sirius had chugged down a can of beer in one go. “That’s quite the ambition. At least you don’t dream small.”

“So… you’ll help me, then?”

“Of course, you’re my godson.” There had been no hesitance in the words, which almost made the boy cry. It had been that simple. To Harry’s immense relief, there had been no further questions—just… pure support and understanding.

He could see it in Sirius’ gaze. There was a tinge of hollowness, regret, and unwillingness that he always tried to hide, but Harry spotted it anyway. Azkaban and the war had left its mark, and Sirius Black understood the importance of personal strength.

It was the truth, but not the whole truth. Despite everything, Harry Potter was a selfish boy.

No matter how he mulled it over, he was not ready to explain his problems or the other world’s future that would never be to his godfather. It was selfish, but Harry wanted to maintain the sense of normalcy and happiness he had managed to achieve. Even now, he feared it was just a dream, and he would wake up again to that grisly world where the Dark Lord had already won.

Besides, even if he told Sirius, what would he do? The traps around Voldemort’s Horcruxes were lethal and clever if they were even the same in this world. Harry simply did not want to risk losing his godfather. Not again.

It was selfish, but Harry was more than willing to risk his own life instead of the lives of others. Perhaps it was stupid, but so many had died the last time. Too many had perished, and even more had been all too close to death. It was a heavy burden to carry, but it was a burden that was already upon his shoulders. A burden that he understood all too intimately.

Harry wanted to be powerful, not because of greed or ambition but because it was the only way to freedom. Free to live as he wished, without any dark lords, ministries, or the like trying to kill him or push him around.

Besides, things were too different, and the last year irrevocably changed too much. Perhaps with Pettigrew in Azkaban, Voldemort would never return.

Even so, Harry had to ensure such a thing never occurred, which meant dealing with the Horcruxes in due time. As he steeled himself, his jog turned into that final sprint.

Soon enough, his legs began to grow numb from the exertion, his lungs were aflame, and Harry finally halted after squeezing every ounce of effort from his body.

Returning to the flat, he found his godfather awake in the living room, looking troubled.

“What a prickly wand,” Sirius scratched his head, warily glancing at the yew land on the table as if it would jump and bite him.

“Haven’t removed the Trace yet?” Harry asked, trying to ignore the uncomfortable lump forming at the back of his throat.

“Well, that’s the thing, you see. I tried everything I could, but nothing worked. I don’t think this one even has a Trace.”

Harry almost dropped his cup of water. “What?”

“Well, it jolts me when I try to touch it,” Sirius motioned at the table. “I think it dislikes magic other than yours. My attempts to dispel the Trace failed because your wand had already shrugged it off. There’s nothing to dispel.”

“Well, let’s test it, then,” Harry grabbed his wand and waved at the open beer can near the counter. “Glacius.”

“I’m here, so even if the Trace still applied, they would think I was doing magic,” Sirius reminded wryly, grabbing the beer with a thankful nod. “Just keep casting, and if you get any letter from the Improper Use of Magic Office, we’ll deal with it appropriately. Can always just tell them I borrowed your wand or something.”

Harry bashfully rubbed his head; he had skipped three days of magic practice because of this already. The summer holiday had started, and he had stopped casting magic by habit, cultivated after seven years with the Dursleys.

Coughing, Harry brandished his wand while focused on attempting to summon his rune book silently. There was no better time to catch up on his practice than now.

“Just don’t-” Whatever Sirius wanted to say was interrupted by a loud bang as the telly exploded.

Harry jumped, wand in hand, as he looked for a hidden enemy while his godfather rubbed his face tiredly. “As I was going to say, just don’t start casting ’cause muggle electrons explode in the presence of too much magic.”

“Sorry,” he bowed his head guiltily as the room was filled with smoke and the stench of burned plastic. “I just…”

“Yeah, you want to become the greatest wizard ever,” the man chuckled with amusement and opened the window to let the smoke out. “Suppose that would be mighty hard if you don’t practice all summer.”

Harry only grimaced, but at least his godfather did not look angry, only pensive. “Say, Sirius. If too much magic makes electronics explode, how is Diagon Alley unnoticed in London? Stuff ought to be blowing up all the time around it!”

“Protective enchantments of some sort, according to your mum. I didn’t pay much attention then, but Lily explained something about preventing magic from leaking into the muggle side of things.”

“Can’t a flat be enchanted the same way?”

“Far harder, and the protections at Diagon were custom make by the Department of Mysteries.” His tone turned wistful. “You know, your mom wanted to earn a Mastery and go and work there after the war.”

“Really?”

Sirius’ grey eyes grew distant as he stared through the opened window.

“Yeah, Lily was crazy about magic, Charms especially. She loved learning new spells or finding what made ’em work,” he sighed. “James was no lesser, but in Transfiguration, but he wanted to fly for Puddlemere United.”

“What happened?”

“The war happened.” His face darkened. “Men, women, and children were disappearing each week—attacks in broad daylight, raids on muggle villages. All of us were young and idealistic and decided to join the fight against Voldemort instead of pursuing any careers.”

Harry’s eyes began to sting at the words. They felt bittersweet, a peek into a world he would never possess.

“Forget it,” Sirius coughed, looking abashed. “Those dark times are gone now, if at too great a cost.”

“I want to visit their graves,” Harry admitted hoarsely. “Not yet, but soon.”

He wasn’t ready, but he wanted to pay his respects. James and Lily Potter were something he would forever desire in his life but never have. The more he heard about his father or mother’s brilliance, the more he got infuriated–it sounded like a fairy tale that would never come true.

“Of course,” his godfather nodded solemnly. “Just say the word, and I shall bring you there.”

The words only made him want to cry harder, but he suppressed the tangle of rage, sorrow, and happiness that bubbled in his chest. His wand vibrated in his hand as if feeling his distress, but the feeling of warmth was soothing just as much as running Occlumency exercises.

“Thank you.” For being everything he ever wanted in a parent. Sirius looked uncomfortable with the words, so Harry took a deep, shuddering breath and changed the topic to something more urgent. “What now? How can I practice magic if I’m going to fry the muggle electronics?”

“Suppose we’ll have to move,” he muttered thoughtfully. “To one of the Potter houses.”

Harry suppressed a grimace as he had almost forgotten that those existed.

“Right,” he said, sighing. “Where are they?”

His godfather smiled fondly. “Aside from the place where it all happened…I know the location of only one—the one where James was raised. It’s a great old place near the Clywdian Range in Wales with a sprawling estate with a small lake, stream, pasture, and, of course, a Quidditch pitch. Or, well, it was great before your grandfather Fleamont blew it up trying to concoct a new cure for Dragonpox when your grandmother fell deathly sick, and nothing the healers tried worked.”

“If the house is blown up, where will we stay?” Harry rubbed his face.

“An enchanted tent will do,” Sirius cracked his knuckles. “It will be like a long camping trip until we figure something out. The place is not only rather secluded but charmed unplottable and against muggles, so there will be no trouble casting magic there.”

“We’re moving out of this dreadful grey trap?” Nyx’s dark farm slithered out of her lair, a rat dangling from the serpent’s mouth. Sirius gave the snake a thumbs up. The two of them got along swimmingly, especially since he had found out she was the one who had captured Pettigrew.

“Yep,” Harry reassured. “That still means you will have to be cautious.”

Sirius shivered.

“Merlin, that sound still gives me creeps,” he sighed. “I know it’s nothing harmful, but I still can’t believe you got to speak Parseltongue. My arsehole family would have loved you for it.”

Of course, his godfather had not minded his ability to speak to snakes. He considered it mostly cool, if only because of Nyx.

“That’s why I am keeping it a secret.” He also knew the scrutiny and distrust that followed his outing as a Parselmouth and had no desire to go through it again.

“Hey, look, isn’t that Harry Potter?”

“The Boy Who Lived?”

“Mr Potter, can I have an autograph?”

Harry’s hand grew numb from shaking in the Leaky Cauldron, and it took him half an hour to escape the crowd’s enthusiasm, even with Sirius’s assistance. Harry had wisely avoided all the commotion surrounding his thrice-cursed moniker last summer, but somehow, witches and wizards now knew his face. They also knew he didn’t wear glasses, and Harry had forgotten to charm his hair a different colour.

“Merlin,” Sirius groaned once they pulled away from the crowd in the Leaky. “They’re like rabid beasts. Damned folks should get a life instead of bothering children, I say.”

“Let’s grab that tent and get out of here quicker anyway,” Harry urged as they walked through Diagon’s cobbled streets.

“Wow, not so fast. I know it’s annoying, but we should probably get you some fancy robes if you’re still set on going to the Malfoy gala.”

Harry grimaced inwardly but nodded, “Yes. I want to go, at least this once.” In fact, he had no desire to go at all; the last time he had visited Malfoy Manor had been a total disaster. Yet, could Harry pass up on the chance to see if Tom Riddle’s diary was even there? To get it before Lucius Malfoy could slip it into Ginny’s cauldron and prevent the release of the basilisk in the school.

He needed to do something after his failure at Hogwarts, and this was a good first step.

“Well, since you invited the little Black lady, you must look your best,” Sirius nodded wisely.

“I didn’t invite her!”

That did not stop his dogfather from wiggling his eyebrows. “But she’s coming with you, is she not?”

“As a friend to help me,” Harry protested weakly. “So, what are you going to wear?”

“Me? I’m going in a muggle tux to rankle all those stuffy purebloods. But since you’re going with a girl and this is your first official public appearance, you must look your best! Besides, you can’t look like some slob while accompanying the little lady on an official function.”

No matter how much Harry argued, he was dragged into Night Stars for official custom-made garments, a shop supposedly owned by Tonks’ mom. At least he did not have to go to the posh and stuffy Twilfitt and Tattings.

17th of June, 1992, Wednesday

On a green hill below an old, twisted yew tree, Albus Dumbledore stood garbed in a plain black robe. He stared at the funeral procession from a hill atop the cemetery with a heavy heart. Thousands of men, women, and children, all dressed in black, looked like an endless river of sorrow. Even the sky was overcast with dark stormy clouds, ready to drench the world in their sorrow.

Hundreds of freshly dug graves would find new owners today. Well, not all; a quarter were symbolically empty, for the centre of the blast had left nothing to bury. Even bones had been vaporised. What had killed far more was the following shockwave, levelling everything over a mile radius, and even the Salisbury Cathedral had been half a ruin. He had seen the aftermath; it looked like a hurricane had gone through the city, and the only reason there had been so few deaths was that his pupil had been on the outskirts of the city.

The muggles called it a clean bomb or something along those lines, pointing fingers at the freshly dissolved Soviet Union as a scapegoat. Tensions in the muggle world rose higher, but things seemed like they would settle down without war. But it had been a close brush.

The wizarding world thought it was some dark ritual that had gone wrong. They were technically close to the truth, yet Dumbledore knew better. It was him, his hubris that had killed so many people. Anna and Josh Thompson. Henry Baker, Margary and George Burton, Daniel, Elene, Patrik Jones, and hundreds more. Memorising all of their names was the least he could do.

They were not the first to die for his folly and probably would not be the last, directly or not. Albus owed them some respect in death, whether out of a desire for inner peace or to assuage the feeling of guilt threatening to drown him.

“So here you are,” a crotchety yet familiar voice echoed behind him.

He turned only to see an ageing gentleman with well-combed snowy white hair and a closely trimmed beard garbed in a stylish red muggle vest that had gone out of fashion half a century prior.

“Nicolas,” Albus greeted, choking down his tears.

“I would expect you to come sulking around,” Flamel snorted. “Come now, you know nothing worthwhile has been achieved without sacrifice.”

“It’s too much.”

A bony hand grasped his shoulder, “It’s always too much, Albus. Nothing great is ever easy, and no sacrifice is without loss.” The words were callous but reassuring. The centuries had hardened the immortal alchemist; he had seen far worse than Dumbledore could have imagined and had lost far more than he could fathom. “So I take it your student killed Petrov, unlike what your newspaper claims.”

Of course, his mentor had seen through him. After six centuries, his wits were still as sharp as goblin-wrought silver. “What gave it away?”

Nicolas laughed, but it was a bitter, hoarse sound like his mentor.

“I know you, boy. You have a penchant for making things blow up, even after all that time. It is the fiery affinity of your magic which leaves its imprint on alchemy. I forgot more about Alchemy than you ever knew, and I know your skills even better after you failed to replicate my stone thrice. If the monster hunter had gotten ahold of your fake stone, he would try to make gold with it, which wouldn’t blow up. No, for such an explosion, someone attempted to use it as a catalyst for an elixir of life or the like.”

There were no questions about why he had covered up things; the old alchemist cared little for the struggles of power. Albus was grateful for the lack of questioning, for doing what was easy rather than what was right still burdened him.

He could have unveiled Quirrell as the culprit, but the public backlash would drown him. It would hurt his position as headmaster, striking at Hogwarts’ prestige more than it already did. Ultimately, the children would suffer, and the school would be gutted if a headmaster had to be replaced along with so many staff members. He knew those ambitious types from the government or the board; they only cared about appearances, not for the actual pursuit of education and knowledge or the students’ well-being.

Worse, he could acknowledge the hypocrisy in his train of thought, but it only meant he had to do better than before and hold himself to a higher standard.

There was another reason for his decision, one that would never be admitted outloud. The educator in him respected Tom for his teaching prowess and the ease with which knowledge was unveiled before the young minds. Albus had spent tens of hours in the pensive going over Quirinus’ lectures, looking for something malign or the like, but his lessons had been truthful, without a shred of deception, if in quite the ruthless way.

In the end, in his hubris, he had ridden the dragon until the end, to that painful crash with all that it entailed.

“It was a bait,” Dumbledore admitted sorrowfully. “To see if my wayward pupil still lives. But the cost…”

A flash of lightning split the dark skies, and it slowly started to pitter as the thunderclap tore through the solemn quiet. Dumbledore absentmindedly waved his hand, creating a dome to ward off the rain above.

“It’s just some muggles,” Flamel waved dismissively. “Within twenty years, many more of them would have died, yet there will be more of them than before. Besides, what use is blaming yourself? It’s not like you forced Voldemort to try his hand at alchemy that he could not possibly comprehend?”

The words were crude and cruel, yet not wrong. Nicolas Flamel was not the one for politeness; he had long ago disassociated himself from the mundane world. He had outlived all of his peers, witches, wizards, and alchemists by far, and the lives of the muggles were even more fleeting to him. It had desensitised him to death long ago.

Yet the old headmaster stared at his wrinkled hands. As always, they were clean yet covered with too much blood.

“I could have done things better,” Dumbledore sighed, defeated.

“Perhaps. Hindsight is troublesome like that. Regardless, Perenelle and I agreed to destroy the stone,” his mentor sounded relieved more than anything else. “Left enough elixir to get our affairs in order.”

“For real this time?”

Nicolas had the decency to blush. It was far from the first time he had claimed he and his wife would do away with their greatest accomplishment and their only lifeline. It happened every two decades or so, or if someone got close enough to stealing the stone or killing them.

“This time for real,” he grunted sourly. “If Voldemort is alive, the bastard would keep trying to get his hands on my stone. I do not have the strength to scare off dark lords like you, nor do I have the allegiance of that wand to boost me along, even if you never needed it.”

And so came the end of one of the greatest alchemists ever lived. Dumbledore was unwilling to lose more, but it was a selfish feeling he squashed. “The wizarding world would be lesser without you.”

“Aye, but they can sod off.” Nicolas frowned fiercely. “Thousands have died in pursuit of the stone over the centuries, and it’s better to do away with the accursed thing finally and have some peace. Though, I shall be leaving the formulae for its make to you.”

Albus’s heart almost leapt in his throat. Immortality was everything he and Gellert had dreamed of once upon a time. Foolishly so. Now, he had the Elder Wand, and eternal life was at the tip of his hands, should he reach out and grasp it. How powerful could he grow if he had centuries more?

“You mustn’t,” he croaked out. “The temptation… I am not sure I can resist.”

“Tsk, you resisted the Death Stick’s corruption well enough.”

Dumbledore shook his head. “For now.”

The whispers had grown quieter again after his resignation as a Chief Warlock, but they still lurked at the edge of his consciousness. Insidious and tempting.

“It’s a mighty handy thing to have,” Flamel frowned. “But suit yourself.”

18th of June Thursday

“How are you feeling, Minerva?” Albus looked at the bedridden transfiguration mistress.

“Better than yesterday,” she muttered. Streaks of silver had found their way into her immaculate black hair, and the wrinkles on her face had nearly doubled as if she had aged a decade overnight. “Poppy says she managed to force the curse into hibernation, if only because Petrov had barely poured enough magic in it.”

“I can still try to purge it with the Elixir-“

“No,” the witch refused immediately. “Do not finish that sentence, Albus. I know the Flamels never gave even a vial for a king’s ransom, no matter who asked. There is no guarantee it would even work, and I shall not be pitied like that.”

The words were spoken out of pride, but he could not deny them. While the students only saw a stern, demanding teacher, Albus knew Minerva McGonagall was a proud witch through and through.

“What of your health?” He asked, feeling sorrowful. “What if the curse acts up, and Poppy fails to defeat it again?”

“Then my time would have come,” Minerva sighed. “I also have to go to Olivander and get a new wand since probably nothing could be salvaged from the old one. Let my pain and woe be a lesson to you, Albus. Playing games in school can get your students killed.”

“I know,” he sighed. “I know all too well. Shall you continue teaching Transfiguration next year?”

“Of course, even if it kills me. It’s the only thing I have left.” The words were spoken with iron surety.

And they called him stubborn. Yet he knew Minerva was not one to change her mind once it was made up. Albus left the hospital wing before Poppy could chase him out for disturbing her patient too much.

He was waylaid on his way to the headmaster’s office by a worried Trelawney. Quirrell’s death had struck her hard, and she looked worse for wear.

“How may I help you, Sybill?”

“I must ask for leave for next year,” she wrung her hands nervously.

Hogwarts was already dreadfully short-staffed, with a deputy, caretaker, and defence teacher missing, yet this was the first time the Divination Professor had asked for leave, and he couldn’t deny her, even if it meant more work for him.

“I would be willing to grant one,” Dumbledore sighed. “But I must ask you for a reason.”

“I am with child,” she almost wailed, her glasses turning foggy as she clutched her belly. “Quirinus’ child.”

It took nearly an hour to reassure the hysteric witch and send her to Madame Pomfrey for a proper check-up before retreating to his office.

Dumbledore knew that assuming could prove fatal, and this was yet another case. Voldemort siring a child caught him like thunder out of the blue. It went against everything he knew of his former pupil.

Yes, he had suspected the prophecy was already compromised, but not that Sybill was left with such a hefty burden.

No love potions were used in this child’s conception, just old-fashioned charm. Yet, was it truly a burden? Children were a gift, and it would not do to judge an unborn by the sins of his father, even if Quirrell had been undoubtedly possessed.

Would the child be Quirrell’s child or Tom Riddle’s child? Or an unholy mix of both?

Only time could tell, and he resolved to reserve his opinion until seeing the newborn in person. Regardless, Dumbledore had promised to give the poor, deceived woman all possible aid and watch how things developed carefully.

His previous problems had become a tangled web of woes. The bait had been taken, and his question was answered, but now he had dozens more instead.

Why would Voldemort leave Harry alone?

Why would he keep the relationship with Trelawney if it was a ruse?

Why would Harry Potter dislike him so?

Why would the boy push himself so hard onto the road of excellence?

Did the prophecy even matter if Tom did not believe in it?

How exactly had his wayward pupil clung to life?

And most importantly, how could Albus ensure that he died properly this time?

He had no answers to those questions and many more, but he intended to find out.

“So, you have finally decided to close off all those secret passages,” Phineas’ self-satisfied voice echoed from the wall. “About time, I say. You should not have indulged those trouble-makers-“

A wave of his wand silenced the annoying crotchety headmaster. It was true that Dumbledore had decided to seal all passageways, for the gap Quirrell had exploited in Hogwarts’ defence had irked him.

But that did not mean he would not make new ones if more… protected this time. There was enough orichalcum left for a few more golems, after all.

“He’s not wrong, despite being an insolent boor,” Dippet muttered from the other portrait. “But without a deputy, someone must go to the muggle world to introduce the new students, Albus.”

“I suppose it’s been a while since I’ve done the rounds,” Albus sighed. Even after resigning as a Chief Warlock, there was so much work and too little time. And he had to find a caretaker, a deputy, and a damned DADA teacher again, all trustworthy.

It looked like he would not get to enjoy the summer this year, but he had not been deserving of any respite lately. Yet a part of him rejoiced at the prospect of seeing children’s eyes light up as they saw what the magical world could offer for the first time.