44.Glowing Embers

22nd December 1992 (same day)

Albus Dumbledore

Twice slain, thrice risen, the herald of death shall once again face destiny.

It didn’t make sense. Twice slain implied the herald of death would be… well, dead. But then again, prophecies rarely made any sense.

His meditation sessions had become significantly more effective in suppressing the Death Stick’s influence after All Hallows’ Eve. Whatever had happened that day had brought a significant change in the Hallow, and the bloodthirsty artefact had grown subdued. For once, everything in Hogwarts was running smoothly, and there were no mishaps greater than the usual teenage drama and the expected disgruntlement of children denied their Hogsmeade visit.

The Azkaban breakout had been a concern for Albus, but he had gone to great lengths to ensure the strife did not reach Hogwarts. It was the time of Yule and Christmas, of family and celebration, but Albus couldn’t shake off the dread looming in his heart.

“The school is as safe as a fortress,” Moody declared, coming over to do his daily report after dinner. “Better than the Ministry itself, I’d say, even without your presence. You’ve done a fine job sealing the old passageways, but did you have to open three new ones?”

“The tradition of having a secret escape route should things go awry is as old as the school itself,” Albus reminded. “But fret not, my friend, the passageways are very, very, well-defended and better hidden than the previous ones.”

“As if that would stop determined troublemakers for long. I’ve seen those fancy orichalcum golems you placed there, but the Weasley Twins haven’t at all been dissuaded from sneaking into Hogsmeade.” His harsh voice softened ever so slightly. “As bad as Fabian and Gideon, those two, with the potential to be just as great. But Hogwarts is safe—or well, as safe as it can be with Eros attracting all that attention from the doe-eyed schoolgirls.”

The young wizard in question flipped his silver-gold hair away, revealing a dashing smile that would make any woman swoon. Even the soft curls were the exact mixture of messy and silky that struck a balance between careless charm and deliberate attention to his appearance. “Is it my fault that I look so good, and they have eyes to appreciate true handsomeness when they spot it?”

Moody scoffed. “Don’t get smarmy with me, you little shapeshifting shit. Look at your sister—prim and proper and sensible, and nobody knows she’s got the same talent as you because she doesn’t show off every damned second!”

“A shame to House Black’s pristine name!” Phineas Nigellus Black growled from one of the portraits.

“What is? That she doesn’t flaunt her abilities? Or that our noble powers have not manifested in your wretched, inbred line in a dozen generations until some muddy blood was introduced?” Eros sneered at his red-faced ancestor. “Besides, my Mum’s disowned, you old, washed-up relic. It’s Tonks now—you know, my father’s name. A far better name than a colour. Such a droll name.”

“Why, you little—”

Albus coughed loudly, and the ancient headmaster swallowed his insult, mumbled something and excused himself before disappearing from the painting. ‘Eros was hardly the first case where beauty went hand in hand with a venomous tongue,’ Albus mused.

“One day, you’ll let down your guard to a pretty face, thinking you have her all enchanted, and you’ll get cursed for your troubles.” Moody barked out a laugh. “Hopefully, it won’t be too serious, so you get to learn from your mistakes. If it weren’t for Fawley personally asking me to teach someone with your potential, I would have dropped you like a hot potato, Tonks.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The trainee waved away the barbed words. His hair turned an angry shade of red, betraying his true emotions. “You’re just antsy from sitting here in Hogwarts and looking after children when we could have been out there catching dark wizards.”

“Catching dark wizards isn’t as easy as catching some airheaded witch’s heart,” came the biting response. “I know you’re eager for blood, boy, but that’s what your crazy aunt wants. Bellatrix is not only as mad as a nutter but the Dark Lord’s right hand, dangerous even after over a decade in Azkaban. The fact that she attacked your parents’ house while they were at work two days prior should make you cautious, not mad and eager to rush into some trap.”

Eros Tonks deflated, and his red mane turned mousy brown. “I know,” he mumbled. “I know it all too well. I’ve heard it a hundred times already. But it doesn’t make me feel any less angry, knowing that this vile woman wants to murder my mother and father.”

“Your mother is every bit as dangerous as her sisters,” Albus reassured the young man. “Staying out of public scrutiny certainly helped her weather Voldemort’s rise, but her skills with a wand served as another deterrent.”

“Your father is not a slouch either. Being a damn good healer also spared him much grief,” Moody added gruffly. “He would treat anyone brought to him with no complaint, whether criminal, pureblood, creature, half-blood, or Muggle-born, so the Death Eaters conveniently started closing their eyes about his existence and lineage.”

“Then why attack them now?” Eros angrily tugged on his hair. “What changed?”

“Your mother started her own business with fabrics and has a small measure of renown. And Azkaban… it changes people. Years of constant despair, darkness, and loneliness have their way of eroding the reason of many. For all we know, Bellatrix may simply have missed her sister and is showing her own twisted form of love.”

Unspoken was the fact that Bellatrix still didn’t attack when Andromeda and Ted Tonks were at home. Whether she was wary of the consequences or doubted her skills were sufficient to take the two of them on was the question, or perhaps the mad woman had lost the ability to express herself beyond inflicting suffering and destruction.

“I’ve seen Sirius Black numerous times over the last year. He looked quite fine to me after a decade in Azkaban,” the trainee pointed out, his voice filled with frustration. “They even praise his Divination classes, of all things!”

Albus popped a lemon drop in his mouth and enjoyed the easy mixture of sour and sweet before answering, “Sirius received rigorous treatment in St Mungos, by your own father, no less. Over three months of the best healing Wizarding Britain had to offer was one of the ways the Ministry tried to apologise for his wrongful incarceration. And even then, he is a special case, I daresay.”

Any self-respecting master of Transfiguration knew that dementors preferred to feast on humans and avoided beasts, which meant that Sirius Black managed to weather the worst of Azkaban. Dumbledore also knew he had yet to register as an Animagus in the Ministry. While he didn’t know the specifics, and the exact form the former Marauder had taken eluded him, James, Peter, and Sirius had taken great lengths to accommodate the unfortunate Mr Lupin.

Even something as pesky as breaking the law and risking their lives had not barred them for long. A pity that such a beautiful story of friendship and unity had turned tragic and bitter by a betrayal most vile. Yet Sirius Black had not used his animagus abilities in Hogwarts. The new protections Dumbledore had set up had yet to alert him to new Animagi roaming the school, which meant that Sirius was content to keep his ability as an ace up his sleeve.

“Off you go, boy.” Alastor ushered his trainee towards the door. “Get back to your quarters and remember: no needless heroics and—”

“Constant vigilance,” Eros muttered unenthusiastically as his hair turned a shade of black as dark as the midnight sky, as dark as any trueborn Black. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve got this, old man. Good evening, Headmaster, Auror Moody.”

Alastor just grunted while Albus gave the trainee a solemn nod. “A restful night to you, Mr Tonks.”

The two older wizards sat in silence long after the door closed after the young Metamorph.

Eventually, Alastor sighed, tugged the flask free from his belt, and sipped. “That lad will be the death of me, I swear.”

“If my memory doesn’t fail me, you had the same youthful daring and desire to prove yourself,” Albus offered with a chuckle. “Don’t tell me you forgot what it is to be young?”

Alastor did a double-take. “Funny to hear you speak about the follies of youth, Albus. But aye, I remember. I was properly foolish, with all the trophies to go with it.” He tapped his enchanted eye and his peg leg. “I know where that road leads, and I was one of the lucky ones.”

“He understands deep down, even if he doesn’t like it,” the headmaster reassured. “I suspect a part of Eros’ foul mood is his sister’s desire to avoid his presence completely.”

“Well, maybe his sister would respect him if he stopped acting like an incorrigible flirt.” The Auror chortled. “At least he has the sense not to lead the schoolgirls astray, though I expected them to be more smitten.”

“Lockheart’s false smiles and carefully crafted dashing facade jaded and instilled a new sense of caution in many young hearts and minds.”

“It’s a surprise to see that fraud actually be good for something. Truth be told, that Snyde girl you took as caretaker has caught his fancy, but she seems to be smitten with Black—”

The fireplace roared to life as Kingsley’s tired face appeared in the green flames. As a headmaster and a man famous for his moderate stance on many matters, Albus Dumbledore had nurtured many promising connections over the years. Kingsley Shacklebolt was one of these, a surprising development considering his uncle Errol Shacklebolt had perished in service of the Order of the Phoenix.

“Oh, headmaster Dumbledore, Alastor, just the two men I was looking for!”

There was an urgency in his voice that grabbed their full attention.

“Come in, Kingsley,” Albus urged. “What happened?”

A few moments later, the hearth bloomed with a burst of green fire, and the dark-skinned auror hastily entered the cabinet, still clad in his red Auror robes.

“Another attack, Shacklebolt?” Moody prodded, all cautious.

“Indeed, but things have taken a turn for the worse, as we feared. Some of the escapees have gotten their hands on decent wands, probably taken from the vault of some pureblood family. While Bellatrix Lestrange and a few of her lackeys led the whole Auror Department on a merry chase around York after setting three buildings and a park on fire, Tiberius Selwyn and Rabastan Lestrange orchestrated an attack in Diagon Alley.”

“I told you it would come to this sooner or later.” Moody’s eye stopped spinning. “Voldemort’s Death Eaters have truly organised a good part of the escaped prisoners. But I’ll bet my next salary that they’ll splinter into a bunch of factions without their master’s dark presence if they haven’t already.”

“Any clues on how they escaped just yet?” Albus asked.

Kingsley’s face turned regretful as he slumped on the chair.

“I’m afraid not, headmaster. Or, well, if there’s any result of the investigation, the Minister keeps it close to his chest.”

“Sleazy bastards like him will always try to save their hide first and foremost,” Alastor said disdainfully. “But such an organised attack coupled with a diversion must have been pretty important. Do you know their goals in Diagon?”

“Oh yes—they tried to raid Ollivander’s shop for wands, not realising how well protected it was. They seem to have set a few buildings on fire in frustration, assaulted the patrons and clientele of the Alley for their wands, and even tried to kidnap a few passersby for hostages. They managed to recruit some of the riff-raff of Knockturn, too.”

Dumbledore grimaced, but for some reason, the dark-skinned Auror looked more tired than concerned.

“A disaster. Yet I believe it is not nearly as bad as I fear it is, for you do not seem too worried about the prospects of hardened criminals getting their hands on dozens of proper wands,” Albus noted. “What are the casualties?”

Kingsley rubbed his shaved head.

“It would be easier to show than explain,” he said, fishing out a vial of swirly memories.

“Stealing evidence from an ongoing investigation?” Alastor’s voice turned suspicious.

“No, this was merely a personal favour from Florean. If he happens to give two copies, then it isn’t tampering with evidence.”

“Heh, true enough.”

Albus opened his desk and carefully presented the Pensieve to the auror.

The headmaster had expected mayhem and destruction, but the sheer scale of the brutality and seeing Killing Curses flying out in the open again sobered him up. Moody observed the brutal fight without a word or emotion, but Albus began to doubt his decision to let the Ministry handle it.

“I’m surprised someone had the stones to fight back,” Alastor chortled as soon as they left the memory. “Well, they pressed the bloke into a corner with all those Killing Curses, forcing him into do-or-die. He’s the real deal, too, not another fool up his gills in boosting potions.”

“Six dead assailants in Diagon. One bled out after his arm was severed, two died from a punctured heart or brain due to conjured ice or launched splinters and debris. Two more died from deflected curses, and the last one broke his neck after getting knocked off his feet and crashing into a wall,” Kingsley elaborated. “All but one were Azkaban escapees, and the last one was a dodgy character from Knockturn. Only one civilian died during the whole incident, Alan Pennyworth, to a stray Entrail-Expelling Curse. Thirteen more are in Saint Mungo’s spell damage ward getting treatment for dark magic exposure.”

“The destruction would have been far greater if not for the cloaked figure and his abducted friend that attracted all the danger,” Dumbledore noted sorrowfully. “I noticed the accosted didn’t use any known spell chains. His wand appears blurred, as if resisting being remembered. Any clues to their identity?”

“None.” Shacklebolt sighed. “The fighting style is a complete mystery on its own. The footwork gave us just as few clues, which is to say none. Our department identified a few unique spells nobody had seen before, to boot. One would think such a powerful individual would be well-known. Professor Dumbledore, you have seen more than any of us. Do you recognise any of it?”

“I’m afraid not, Kingsley.”

Moody snorted. “There’s plenty of powerful folk who don’t go showing off needlessly. What about the other kidnappings?”

“One Elisabeth Riley was taken by them, but the rest were barely saved by Florean and some of his braver clients. The youngest Weasley son had managed to knock out two of them with his bare fists and a metal chair, a feat of necessity born out of Molly’s habit of taking her children’s wands when going out to prevent mischief. The Greengrass twins were covering him with hexes and jinxes, and their father is probably already putting pressure on Cuffe to keep their names out of the Prophet.”

“A surprising show of bravery for Slytherins. But I’m not surprised young Ronald has made such a valiant showing.” Albus stroked his beard, even as Alastor whistled in disbelief. Clearly, Mr Weasley had just gained a fan. “What about the cloaked figure that was spirited away?”

“We don’t know, but his identity is surely important, considering how his bodyguard exploded like an angry Erumpent. Even the goblins refused to say a word. Those we captured are just a bunch of grunts used as muscle, kept in the dark, and used to simply follow orders and not ask questions. Even then, given the time and place of the attack, we learned nothing useful from the lot.”

“Doing things the same way Voldemort did,” Alastor grumbled. “This will be a pain in the arse to root out properly.”

“Indeed. But back to the matter at hand. Scrimgeour considers the cloaked figure might be behind the decapitated corpse of Rabastan Lestrange, and you should have seen the body. Our coroner can’t pinpoint the cause of death.”

“Well, it seems quite straightforward. Even the best of us will die once their head has been chopped off,” Albus murmured, shaking his head.

“That might be so, but his manhood had also been smashed, his family jewels ruptured, and the rest of his body was riddled by curse wounds; they detected traces of Killing Curse residue and fished out fragments of a cursed knife from his torso. And whatever curse was used to behead him was nothing we have seen before. Someone really, really wanted him dead, and Merlin, this amount of hatred can only be personal. The missing head was collected as a trophy to boot. All the suspicion would fall on the Longbottoms if they weren’t on holiday in Tunisia.”

“The Longbottoms stopped collecting the heads of their enemies three centuries ago.”

“You know as well as I do how easy it is to rekindle old practices, Albus. No, even with that alibi, they’re still our top suspects. Our only suspects, in fact.”

The veteran Auror was still looking at the Pensieve, scarred face scrunched in thought.

“They didn’t apparate.” Moody’s raspy voice gave them pause. “Everyone who left Gringotts apparated at the risk of splinching, but those two didn’t. I would dare say that they couldn’t, but that short bugger wiped the floor with those scum, with a control far greater required than something like apparation. But even he seemed surprised that magic bounced off him. This is too odd, even by wizarding standards. It’s not the way dragonhide robes would resist spells, and it lacked the telltale glow of enchanted protections. Even I might struggle to defeat someone with such weird abilities.”

“That trick with vanishing bones is quite ingenious,” Dumbledore noted. A part of him was glad that the Death Eaters had failed so spectacularly in their attempt to get wands that would have made them so much more dangerous. Another part mourned the senseless violence. But another, darker part in his mind that suspiciously sounded like Gellert whispered, ‘Any of that wouldn’t have come to pass if the Ministry had executed those rebels and murderers instead…’

“Scrimgeour has issued an arrest warrant for the cloaked figure,” Kingsley said, shuffling uncomfortably. “Even those we captured know nothing of importance both about their escaped comrades or the cloaked figure, and Tiberius Selwyn, who was found near Rabastan Lestrange’s corpse, has been Obliviated so heavily and crudely that his body can’t even remember how to function and the best of St Mungo’s are still struggling to try and keep him alive. There’s a heavy suspicion that the short bodyguard is half-goblin. They have no name, so for now, he’s known as Diagon Suspect Number One.”

Albus rubbed his beard, even as his lips twitched in amusement at the Ministry’s poor naming sense. He would have chuckled out loud if not for Kingsley’s serious countenance.

“The memory doesn’t show anything damning, and all of it can be considered self-defence, considering he was cornered by multiple opponents. Even that dark curse is a grey area at best,” Moody grunted as his fake eye began to spin. “Scrimgeour would be hard-pressed to pin him for any crimes beyond dragging him through DMLE interrogation cells to squeeze out as much knowledge from the man, especially his ability to resist magic better than dragonhide robes and protective enchantments.”

“As you say,” Shacklebolt agreed, voice filled with frustration. “They should pour in all the effort in dealing with the escaped Azkaban prisoners, yet both Fudge and Scrimgeour zoned in on the cloaked figure.”

“Scapegoats and distractions are the bread and butter of politics,” Albus said sorrowfully. “Once you hold onto power, it’s hard to let it go voluntarily, and many would do everything to maintain their power and prestige, turning it into an obsession. There’s a reason why I have stepped down from my other positions. I had hoped that a strengthened DMLE and an energetic minister would have been enough to deal with such a problem, but alas.”

Moody’s face lit up. “We’ll gather the old squad again?”

As usual, Alastor was quick on the uptake.

The headmaster couldn’t help but look at his desk. Underneath the polished tabletop lay that iron box containing Tom Riddle’s diary. A vile proof of Voldemort’s survival, one he had yet to decide how to deal with. While the exact cause of the Azkaban breakout was still unknown, Albus Dumbledore heavily suspected the reason. After the Wiltshire Explosion, Tom’s most rabid followers doubtlessly had a confirmation of their master’s survival and would seek to bring about his return.

“I’m afraid The Order of the Phoenix will be necessary in these trying times,” Albus Dumbledore said. The Death Stick thrummed in anticipation of the coming violence and destruction, and Fawkes’ soft trill did nothing to alleviate his apprehension. But the time to act was now, and even his abilities were insufficient to deal with the mess or the coming struggle. “From this moment henceforth, the Order of the Phoenix will resume activities. Will you two join me?”

“Aye, it’s about damn time!”

“It would be an honour, headmaster.”

“Even after your Uncle’s demise, Kingsley?” Albus prodded kindly. “I would understand if you wish to stay away from such dangerous activities bordering the letter of the law.”

“Uncle Errol died fighting for what he believed,” Shacklebolt declared proudly. “We Shacklebolts don’t shy from adversity. If I wanted to avoid danger, I would have never become an Auror!”

“Hah!” Moody exclaimed, eyeing his colleague with newfound appreciation. “Good man!”

“This might not be as easy or straightforward as the two of you expect,” Albus warned, deliberating how much he wanted to reveal things.

“That goes without saying.”

“Then, I would request you search for like-minded and trustworthy individuals of staunch character to join us.” He grimaced, remembering his failures with Severus and Pettigrew. “I will take my time to vet each of them myself.”

“A wise precaution after that traitor,” Moody gruffed out.

“Oh, and Alastor? Refrain from approaching young Mr Tonks with an invitation for now.”

“You don’t trust him?” Moody stared at him strangely, yet Albus merely smiled.

“I would not want to provoke his mother into thinking we’re stealing away her child. Let us wait until we broach the topic with his parents first. A Metamorph of his talents would be beyond valuable, yet recruiting him can wait at least until he finishes his training in the DMLE.”

“Good idea. Any word from Snape yet?”

Albus grimaced.

“I’m afraid that road is now closed to me. Severus knows he will be beholden to my requests if we meet, so he avoids such a possibility, whether out of spite or hatred for his stay in Azkaban, I cannot say.”

“Double agents like him are more trouble than they’re worth,” Moody tutted. “You should know that even vows are not foolproof, Albus.”

“I know.” The headmaster sagged on his chair. “Merlin, I know it better than everyone else.” How many vows had they sworn together with Gellert? “This time, the Order will operate under greater secrecy than before. Caution is paramount.”

“Well then, I should probably return home for the night.” Shacklebolt’s hand failed to cover his yawn. “Diagon and York’s mess will probably keep the whole DMLE busy for the holidays, but at least I’ll have the chance to scout like-minded colleagues.”

“Make sure both of you are well rested,” Albus urged. “Weary minds are prone to mistakes and missteps.”

With that, the first Order members excused themselves for the evening, leaving the headmaster with his thoughts.

A part of him still wanted to stay in Hogwarts and ensure the smooth running of the school and do nothing else. But the Ministry was too blinded by the petty reality of politics and the clash of countless self-serving politicians to see the danger, let alone prevent it.

As much as Albus Dumbledore loathed the looming bloody struggle where he would be forced to the battlefield, it had to be done. He hated ordering people to walk in danger and risk their lives; he despised how each mistake could see needless death within friend and foe alike, but it had to be done, for the alternative was worse. And if nobody else would take the burden, Albus Dumbledore had no choice but to do so.

At least by starting earlier and unfettered by additional duties in the Ministry and the ICW, Albus would have the time to devote himself to running the Order more effectively now that he was certain Hogwarts had become a true bastion of safety.

If only he could find a deputy headmaster to relieve him of some of the school duties.

23rd of December, 1992, Thursday (1 day later)

The White Sheep

“You want to stay with Juno for the rest of the holidays?” Sirius echoed thoughtfully.

“Yes.” Harry’s voice was filled with conviction. As his godson had said, he was unscathed from the mess that had taken place in Diagon yesterday.

But his posture was defiant. The same defiance and stubbornness that Sirius himself displayed when confronting his mother. The same defiance he had when he escaped from home. Sirius Black suspected that if his answer were negative, Harry would go and do whatever he had in mind anyway, to the point that the boy would run away.

“Sure, go ahead. And contact me if there’s any problem,” Sirius agreed, giving him the most reassuring smile he could muster. “And Harry, you should know you can always come to me for help with anything.”

His godson froze in his steps.

“I…” he licked his lips, the twitch in his fingers betraying his tension. “Thank you, Sirius. But right now, Juno needs some help, and I promised to give her a shoulder.”

“I understand.” Sirius couldn’t resist wiggling his eyebrows as he leaned in and ruffled his godson’s messy hair. “And make sure you use protection—you’re too young to be a father just yet. Do I need to give you the talk about the birds and the bees again?”

Harry ducked away from his hand and huffed, his face flushed red. “No! And it’s not like that—”

“Sure, sure.” His voice grew stern, “But no matter what Juno tells you, you should know that when a girl invites you to her house, that sort of thing has definitely passed through her head. Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do—actually, don’t do anything I would do, just in case.”

“As if that’s any better,” Harry muttered, swiping up the expanded backpack housing his meagre possessions.

A part of Sirius hoped the two of them would do the lovey-dovey stuff teenagers their age ought to instead of studying and training themselves to the bone for the next week and a half. At least some kissing, if not snogging. But that killjoy Cassiopeia had no sense of romance, so it would never happen under her watchful gaze.

“Want me to apparate you there?”

“Thanks, but no need. Black Manor has all of its defences ramped up to the limit,” Harry declined. “I’ll just take a taxi or the Knight Bus.”

Sirius’ face grew solemn as he watched his godson walk out of the hotel room’s door.

Some Muggles would probably say something silly about letting a child out alone, but Harry knew how to navigate the Muggle world far better than Sirius, and he possessed his father’s invisibility cloak. He knew how to defend himself pretty well, too—the Marauder could only win duels due to his advantage in magic and age. And as of late, he had to work up a sweat to earn those victories.

Black Manor was a fortress to any intruders, and Cassiopeia Black was one of the most dangerous witches alive, so he wasn’t worried about his godson’s well-being. But that was not what worried him.

Contrary to what some might think, Sirius Black was neither blind nor foolish.

He knew something was up with Harry since that mishap on All Hallow’s Eve, where his godson hadn’t been entirely honest. Sirius had spotted the deception after doing it a thousand times himself, but Harry would deflect the topic when he prodded. Sirius knew very well why a child would lie to their parents—or, in his case, guardian.

They would lie to either avoid disapproval, avoid punishment by covering up some mischief, or have a desire to do things on their own without meddling. Sirius had done all of the above plenty of times. It was ironic that he was being met with the same treatment he had given his parents, but perhaps it ran in the family. James was much like Sirius in his desire to cover up all of his mischief and deeds in school.

A part of Sirius wanted to lay down the law. Forbid Harry from going to Bellatrix’s daughter and demand his honesty in whatever secret endeavours he had undertaken. But he had spent much of the past months in deep thought on the subject and decided otherwise.

The forbidden fruit was all the sweeter, and his godson might stubbornly entangle himself with Juno Bellatrix Black despite any looming danger. They were already as thick as thieves, Harry completely uncaring about her parents’ vile deeds, even if they were now on the run.

James had been much the same in his single-minded pursuit of Lily, and Sirius could see the similarities as both father and son didn’t care about the lineage of the witch they fancied. And while Harry wasn’t acting like a smitten fool, seeking out his friend spoke louder than anything else. Sirius might have been more worried if Harry had a fascination with Dark Magic or the rubbish pureblood rhetoric, but his godson had a healthy dislike for such a spew and could cast a powerful variation of the Patronus at twelve.

None of his friends had darker inclinations, either. Even Juno was, at best, a more competitive and hardworking Ravenclaw.

Harry felt distant as of late. But then again, the two of them had never been that close, and it was Sirius’s fault. In the end, it all boiled down to this: Sirius Black didn’t know how to be a parent, especially to a boy who had mostly raised himself for the first ten years of his life.

He didn’t know how to deal with a little monster who was so earnest in his desire to surpass Dumbledore. Nor his attempts to hide a secret or do things on his own. He wasn’t equipped to deal with this.

“James, Lily, why did you leave me all alone?” he lamented, looking at his friend’s portrait. “And damn it, Remus, I could use some advice right now.”

In the end, there was no help for Sirius Black. His friends and companions were all dead or missing, and the connections afforded Sirius at birth had all been severed by choice. Then there was Wormtail running free somewhere, but Sirius would not make the same mistake twice. The itch to venture out and hunt the traitor was ruthlessly squashed. The indecision and disgruntlement settled in his chest like a rock weighing upon his heart.

And he thought being a teacher was hard…

As evening rolled in, Sirius Black made his way to Ted’s house in rural Kent. But things were different; the tingling of his spine as he passed the front yard spoke of new magical protections. Powerful ones. There were subtle signs of destruction: the new slant of the mailbox that was still mangled, the three missing branches of the tree, the disappearance of the flower hedge around the pathway, the new window frames and tiles on the roof.

Sirius tensed, palming his wand, and it took all of his self-control not to lash out after the door was opened and he was met with a glowing wand to the face.

“We weren’t expecting you, Sirius,” Andromeda greeted him warmly, but her wand remained pointed at his chest. “I hope you understand these are trying times with my sister and her lot on the loose. Tell me something only you know.”

“When I was a first year, I saw you and Ted snogging in a third-floor abandoned classroom, and you threatened to hex my bollocks off if I didn’t stay silent.”

“You’re Sirius, alright,” she huffed.

“What happened?” he asked, torn between anger and concern.

An angry scowl soured her face.

“Bellatrix visited when there was nobody home,” she muttered. “We’ve strengthened the defences, of course—as much as we can for a house in the Muggle world.”

“I’m glad to see you’re all fine,” Sirius offered. “But I’m not here for that.”

“I won’t join Dumbledore’s roast chicken club either,” she growled, eyes narrowing dangerously. “So don’t try to convince me or my children either.”

“I care even less about that, too,” Sirius said with a frown. “I have nothing to do with Dumbledore, I have a child to take care of myself.”

“Thank God,” Andromeda chuckled. “Suppose a decade in Azkaban was all it took to find responsibility?”

He grimaced. “Sort of. Actually, Harry is the reason I’m here,” he begrudgingly admitted. “I need some parenting advice.”

He hated asking for help, advice, or assistance. If he were alone, he would never even contemplate any of this, but for his godson, he would swallow his pride a thousand times.

“Well, come on in then,” Andromeda invited as she opened the door widely. “I just finished roasting some lamb chops if you’re hungry.”

Ted was in the living room, but his usual easygoing cheer was replaced with a quiet tension, though the meal was delicious. Andromeda was a surprisingly skilled cook, considering she had not learned that particular skill in House Black or Hogwarts.

“So, where are the sprogs?”

“Hogwarts. And before you ask, yes, both of them,” Ted answered as they started on dinner. “Nymphadora was supposed to visit us for the winter hols, but after my sister-in-law’s…visit, we asked Dumbledore to find quarters for Eros in the castle as Alastor’s trainee and Hogwarts protection detail, too.”

Sirius nodded, no matter what, Hogwarts was the safest place in Wizarding Britain, especially now that Dumbledore had abandoned everything else to focus on his role as a headmaster. Half an hour and a solemn dinner spent in silence later, Ted was the one who spoke first, “So… advice for Harry?”

“I’m in a bit of a pickle,” Sirius began, grimacing. “I’m pretty sure my godson is up to something, but he won’t tell me what. He keeps pretending everything is fine and occasionally hides or deflects what he’s been doing, but I know what deception looks like.”

“Perhaps he’s doing drugs?” Ted asked suspiciously.

“What? No! Harry would never!”

“Dark magic?” Andromeda chimed in.

“Absolutely out of the question,” Sirius groaned. “Harry’s a good boy.”

“He’s up to your kind of mischief, then?”

“If only,” the Marauder lamented. “He’s entirely too serious.”

“Takes after his godfather’s name,” Ted ribbed with a smile, and even Sirius let out a dry chuckle.

“Hoisted by my own petard,” he lamented. “But Harry’s actually—genuinely—a serious boy. He could give Lily or even Snivellus a run for their money.”

“I don’t think it’s anything to worry about, then,” Andromeda concluded. “Harry’s a young wizard, not a Muggle. They are far sturdier and can heal from almost anything. Perhaps he’s reached that rebellious moment when he wants to do everything on his own to prove he’s no longer a child.”

“But he is a child,” Sirius noted unhappily. “He should be playing and doing mischief, not… training his arse off. He’s barely twelve, yet half the teachers think he can take his O.W.L.s if he sat them tomorrow. Harry considers magical exercise to be rest, and when he gets tired of that, he reads up on some advanced magical theory. I know he’s a talented flyer and a decent chess player, but he never indulges in those hobbies. He’s best friends and rivals with Bellatrix’s daughter, and I’m pretty sure he’s the only thing that prevents the girl from growing a big head.”

“I’ve heard of my niece from Nymie,” the former Black witch sighed. “I’m still not sure what to think.”

“A talented lass with a chip on her shoulder, I’d say, but she has nothing on my godson. At this rate, he’ll beat my arse in a duel in a few months.” His voice grew hysterical. “I, Sirius Black, am about to be defeated by a twelve-year-old boy. Even that’s not a problem as much as the fact that I feel useless!”

“Sounds to me that Potter wants to be the next Dumbledore,” Andromeda said, her grey eyes torn between amusement and disbelief.

“No, he wants to be better—he told me himself,” Sirius explained, and Ted choked on his wine. “Better than Dumbledore, better than Grindelwald, better than Voldemort or even Merlin. Frankly, it scares me to see such a drive in a twelve-year-old boy.”

“Wasn’t he raised by his Muggle relatives?”

“He refuses to speak of them, but I’ve seen Vernon and Petunia—an unpleasant couple and just as boringly mundane, by the way. Though there’s nothing in them that would push him to such lengths. I expected some hate or at least dislike for Muggles, but Harry simply doesn’t seem to care.”

“You forget the most important part,” his cousin sighed. “Harry Potter was orphaned by the tip of Voldemort’s wand. That’s not something he would ever forget. The whole wizarding world looks upon him as the Boy-Who-Lived, but to him, it wouldn’t be a cause for celebration but a reminder that he survived where his family and many did not.”

“I did study some Muggle healing, even earned a medical degree or two,” her husband added. “That sort of trauma imprints on the psyche. A baby might not understand what happens around it, but it definitely can feel the intent of things, and magic is all about intent. I bet talented wizarding babies probably feel the intent of more powerful spells subconsciously. And I doubt there’s a more intent-heavy spell than You-Know-Who’s Killing Curse.”

“Wait!” Sirius shook himself as terror gathered in his throat. “You mean to tell me that Harry knew since that day that someone tried to murder him?”

“Perhaps.” Ted shrugged. “It’s all speculation by me, really. Wizards avoid dipping into Muggle methods, so it’s just me groping in the dark. Trauma in the subconscious mind is something esoteric and not too well-studied, both on the Muggle and magical side. But it would certainly explain your godson’s drive.”

“Should I take him to a mind healer, then?” he asked, desperately tugging on his hair.

“There’s a good chance they will do nothing or just make the whole mess worse.” The response chilled him. “But hey, I could be wrong entirely. You shouldn’t worry too much, wounds of the mind heal by themselves, especially if you provide a relaxing environment for the boy to grow up. Unless your godson is obsessed with gaining power to the point of madness and seeking dangerous shortcuts, I wouldn’t worry.”

After a painfully long minute of contemplation, Sirius sighed. “It’s not like that, either. Harry has a level of self-discipline that even I lack. It’s not just that—forget about magic for a moment. Harry can cook, clean, set up the tent when we go camping, and do all his assigned chores and house duties without complaint. He even reminds me if I forget something in the rare case he doesn’t do it himself. Some days, it feels like I’m the child.”

“Well, I see no problem, then,” Ted concluded.

“No problem? Are you deaf, Ted? There are plenty of problems!”

But the Muggle-born wizard was undaunted by his outburst and merely smiled.

“Just let the young Potter spread his wings,” he offered, not unkindly. “Clearly, he knows what he’s doing, and if you feel he’s more responsible than you are, you only need to support him unconditionally. A welcoming home, advice in matters of adulthood, where a young boy, no matter how intelligent, will come short or be caught unawares. And most importantly, be there for him when he stumbles along the way and help him up.”

“That simple?”

“A proper parent will always worry about their child,” Andromeda said, her eyes growing sadder. “But yes, that simple. You should know as well as I do that a caged bird can never learn to fly. You and I managed to escape, but Bella and Regulus… they broke. Let Harry Potter spread his wings and fly.”

“I… thank you.” Sirius bowed his head after the dishes were cleared.

“There’s no need for that, Sirius. We’re amongst friends here,” Ted chided. “Family, even. You’re practically one of us!”

“No, for the sake of my godson, I’m willing to bow my head,” he remained unmoving even as a pair of hands tried to lift his face from the tablecloth. “I owe you for this.”

In hindsight, bowing had been very embarrassing, but Sirius didn’t regret it.

The next day, he called the wizard mason and told him not to spare any expenses on Harry’s house and property’s defences.

“Four hundred thousand galleons,” the pale-faced Scandinavian wizard had gruffed out. “Included erasure from all Muggle and magical records, the most advanced double anti-charting enchantments, anti-apparition and anti-scrying protection, the strongest magic and Muggle Notice-Me-Nots, magically resistant property and building walls, and all amenities a household might ever need, including a fortified potion lab and underground duelling room. The foundations of all buildings will be built in defensive runic clusters with hand-crafted materials to enhance defences further. As you requested, several underground escape tunnels will be excavated towards the mountains.”

“Excellent! A third upfront, and the rest I’ll pay immediately if you finish it by April,” Sirius declared. “And ensure all the drafts, plans, and concepts of the property are either handed over to me or destroyed. I’ll have that bound by magical contract, too.”

“You got yourself a deal, Mr Black.” The mason shook his hand.

Perhaps a cerberus or two for a guard dog wouldn’t hurt? Hagrid would certainly know the proper way to raise them. Maybe Pomona or Pandora could help him grow a Devil’s Snare, too.

Christmas Eve saw Sirius Black sending a gift to his godson and then returning to Hogwarts.

After a moment of hesitation, he made his way to Flitwick’s office.

“Ah, Sirius,” the Charms Master greeted warmly. “I didn’t expect you to return so soon.”

“Harry decided to spend the holidays with a friend,” he said, chuckling. “Doubtlessly, the two of them are studying together, so I found myself with quite some free time. Seeing my godson so hardworking makes me feel somewhat lacking and antsy, truth be told. I wonder if you can spend some time to indulge me in some good old duelling?”

Flitwick’s eyes hardened. “Duelling or fighting?”

Sirius could feel an old fire inside him rekindle, a desire to grab the world by the horns and ride on the crest of the storm. A fire that had long been snuffed out somewhere in that cold cell in Azkaban.

“I prefer duelling, but I’ll settle for fighting.” He smiled, showing all his teeth.

Winter Holidays

Harry Potter

Four wizards and two witches.

That’s how many Harry had killed yesterday if the Daily Prophet was to be believed. But… why didn’t he feel remorseful at all? He had told himself that he wouldn’t just murder someone like Voldemort did because they were in the way, but looking back, his past self was foolish.

Was it because they had tried to murder him with no provocation on his part? The fact that they were not some innocent souls but unscrupulous murderers, criminals, thieves, and lowlifes? Or had he grown numb to death and killing after being on the receiving end of it more than once? Was such a callous disregard for life an effect of that Animagus Ritual that had gone so wrong? The very one that Harry still wasn’t sure what the effects were beyond feeling a bit stronger and being able to run longer.

The thought chilled his blood, and Harry quickly shook his head. He had killed without remorse before, and this was not his first time. Quirrell, in his First Year, and Yaxley and his friend in the Forbidden Forest as he walked to his demise.

He had long discarded the delusion that any struggle against Voldemort and his bloodthirsty followers would be bloodless. Was it when he accepted his fate as a lamb to the slaughter? Or perhaps when Harrymort tried to take over his body? Or when he realised that simply catching someone and tossing them in jail would just see them potentially escape and sow death and destruction again?

No, the killings didn’t trouble him half as much as the fact that he was wanted by the Ministry. But his hooded cloak seemed to have done its job well enough, and his identity was still protected. Harry thought that being on the wrong side of the law would fill him with worry, but instead, it filled him with a faint sense of disdain. If the Ministry had been competent, it would never have reached this point. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to familiarise himself with the magical law in his spare time. It would be even more prudent to be well-prepared and cautious going forward, too.

Unlike the demise of those who had tried to kill him and kidnap his friend, the death of Juno’s great aunt made Harry as sad as it made him feel guilty. A small part of him was glad for no other reason than to confirm that he had not become some heartless monster. Harry promptly squashed that joy.

An urn of ashes was all that was left of Cassiopeia Black, Grindelwald’s shadowy hand. Juno’s only family had died. She still had living relatives, but Harry Potter knew all too well that blood mattered little without love and warmth.

“I didn’t expect you to return, Potter,” Juno had greeted him coldly when he showed up at Black Manor again.

It was as if a shell of frost covered Bellatrix’s daughter, and her eyes felt like two orbs of ice trying to drill a hole in him. It shouldn’t have been such a surprise, but it hurt Harry slightly. This was different from when she was in good control of her emotions—in those cases, Harry could observe the slight twitch of the lips or some amusement with a slight quirk of her eyebrows. No, her face looked like a mask or a statue, completely expressionless. Occlumency.

“It’s the least I could do.” Especially after being the reason she was orphaned. Her parents might be alive, but the last of her family was not.

“If you’re here because of guilt, leave,” she hissed, looking like a rankled cat. Her usually calm eyes were bloodshot, her silky black hair was a tangled mess, and the bags under her eyes betrayed her lack of sleep; even Mrs Norris’ yellow eyes glared at him from behind her legs. “Cassiopeia Black made her choices, and so did I, and we do not need your pity.”

“It’s not about pity,” Harry replied, undaunted by her posturing. “You said we’re in this mess together, and I can hardly ditch you when things get tough, can I?”

He even discarded the shields that protected his mind and bared his earnestness, and Juno’s eyes thawed. It confirmed his suspicion of her skill in mind magic. Not the wandless Legilimency that would easily be detected and repelled by Occlumency, but probably something as subtle as empathy or the ability to distinguish truth from lies, judging by the diary he had purchased in Knockturn.

“I… thank you,” she muttered stiffly after half a minute of stubborn silence.

“Shouldn’t we bury her first?” He gently nodded at the urn, holding Cassiopeia’s ashes, which had yet to leave Juno’s hands.

“She always said she would rather not rest in the dreary Black Graveyard,” Juno said wistfully. “Not only did she think it too dark and foreboding, but even the fleeting possibility of her corpse being raised as an Inferius disgusted her beyond all reason. No, she wanted me to spread her ashes over some warm beach. ‘For too long, I’ve lived in the shadows; might as well my remains rest in the sun,’ she said to me once. The beaches in Greece were her favourite, only…” A dark chuckle escaped her pursed lips, “it’s difficult to travel abroad now with my mother on the loose, especially since I have no guardian and Bellatrix aims to ‘retrieve’ me. As if I’m some pet or object that has been lost.”

Hatred and fear clashed in Juno’s eyes, and Harry loathed it.

“Have you eaten yet?” He changed the topic. “Having no appetite after the cremation is understandable.”

Apparently, it was the wrong thing to say as her eyes narrowed. “I don’t see how it concerns you.”

Wally, the surprisingly reasonable and polite elf dressed in his dark butler suit, popped in and coughed, “Mistress has been refusing to eat still—”

“Bad elves get clothes.” Juno frowned, looking down at the house elf. “I don’t need your babying—”

“If you dismiss poor Wally, I’ll take him in and force him to serve you food anyway,” Harry countered just as stubbornly. “Wally, bring us a warm serving of food. And Juno, no matter how angry or sad you are, you need energy. So eat, or Merlin help me, I’ll feed you like an unruly toddler!”

The threat seemed to work, for a flush-faced Juno reluctantly swallowed a serving of hot beef stew ten minutes later, served by the stern elf. Soon enough, the quiet grew unbearable, and seeing that Juno refused to meet his gaze, Harry left her to her meal and decided to explore the manor instead. After the previous frantic day, he had barely paid attention to his surroundings, but now he could finally relax and look around. Juno’s home was similar to Malfoy Manor in size and class, but far darker.

Black curtains, black blinds, black carpets, tapestries, and most wooden boards, planks, and furniture were either lacquered in black oak or ebony. The only other colours that could be seen were silver and a few green paintings, which reminded him of poison more than anything else. Black Manor was ridiculously gloomy, and even the hedge garden he could see through the windows outside looked full of shadows on the cloudy winter day.

The dim lighting didn’t help the atmosphere either. No wonder Juno never talked of her home; the grimness was oppressive despite the luxurious veneer of velvet, silver, and jewellery. Grimmauld Place was just as dark but less pretentious—probably because it had been abandoned for a decade.

“You’re not a Black.” The sudden gruff voice startled him. Harry spun around, wand drawn, only to see that the one who snuck up on him was a portrait frame on one of the hallway walls. The very portrait frame he could have sworn was empty just a moment earlier. From it, a dignified old wizard dressed in dark robes inspected Harry with curiosity. Behind the wrinkling skin, Harry noticed the aristocratic cheekbones, piercing grey eyes, and the stubborn slant of the greying eyebrows that reminded him of Sirius. Still, it meant little, considering it was probably a family trait in House Black.

“I’m merely a guest,” he muttered, lowering his wand.

The man scoffed. “You wouldn’t be able to enter otherwise. Neither my cousin Cassiopeia nor that unfilial heir of mine deigns to visit me other than to freeze my portrait. But now that they have a guest, they grow sloppy. A disgrace!”

“Shouldn’t you be happy you’re no longer… knocked out?”

“It is fine if they want to suppress a painting like me,” the wizard ranted shamelessly. “I was never the most pleasant man,” at least he was aware, “nor the most generous, but I always upheld the image of House Black first and foremost. If they wish to keep me hidden, they should at least be consistent. Such a show of incompetence is unacceptable!”

The young wizard just… blinked. None of that made any sense at all.

“And I wouldn’t know about it if you hadn’t brought it up,” Harry pointed out at the puffing painting.

“Well, sit frozen like me, and you’ll get angry and bored! Besides, you must be Fleamont’s grandson, Juno’s newest ally. I can recognise the crooked smile of Potter and that crow’s nest you lot call hair from a mile away after seeing it in Charlus for years. The shape of the lips, the nose, the eyebrows, only the eye shape and colour are a bit off, but that must be the mudbloo—hey, what are you doing?”

“Wondering if Juno will be too mad if I blast off half her wall,” Harry mused as he pointed the wand at the painting. “But a rude old thing like you will probably just hop into another portrait.”

“Fine, fine, I apologise for calling your mother what she is.” The apology sounded as reluctant as it did insincere. Then, the wizard nodded to himself as he puffed up his chest like a peacock. “It’s good that you have some spine, boy. I suppose I never introduced myself. My name is Arcturus Black the Third, the previous Lord of the Great and Noble and Most Ancient House of Black!”

“Yeah, whatever.” Harry shrugged and turned around. He could see why Juno disliked the man who raised her. “I’m going to take a walk through the garden instead of listening to a dead echo’s stuck-up nonsense and insults.”

“Even if it would help young Juno?” The sly voice halted him in his tracks.

Reluctantly, Harry faced the portrait again. Arcturus Black was not gloating as he expected; instead, his face had grown stern.

“Speak, and if I hear even a single word of codswallop, I’m going to burn down every portrait in this damned manor,” Harry threatened. “Might make Juno smile a bit and bring some proper warmth and light to this viper’s den.”

“Fine, fine, threaten a helpless painting if it makes you feel like a big man.” Arcturus raised his hands, smirking annoyingly in a way that reminded Harry of Sirius, yet not nearly as friendly or charming. “I can be respectful, too, you brat. Now, onto my little heiress: why is she alone and crying, and where in Morgana’s name is Cassiopeia?!”

“Dead.”

“Oh.” The painting rubbed his brow, his face filled with annoyance. “That complicates things.”

“Thank you, Lord Obvious,” Harry replied. “Being orphaned sucks, I should know.”

“Not that, boy. As the heiress of a noble family, the law requires her to have a regent acting in her name because noble houses are intertwined with the Wizengamot and the Ministry. A regent that would either be her useless drunkard grandmother Druella or her grasping aunt Narcissa.”

Harry scratched his hair.

“Can’t Sirius or Tonks’ mother do it instead?”

Arcturus scoffed. “I had forgotten how little Potters cared about the finer aspects of wizarding tradition and law. Those disowned by the House Head no longer hold any legally recognised connection to the family and cannot sit as a regent unless reinstated by another House Head, something that Juno would not be capable of doing until she is of age. The problem is that Druella and Narcissa will have neither Juno nor House Black’s interests in mind.”

“Can’t we just skip them entirely?”

“And let the Ministry or the Wizengamot meddle in the affairs of House Black?!” Arcturus’ outraged roar made Harry cringe. Could a painting run out of breath to heave like this? “Look, boy. That’s the worst possible scenario. The Ministry is full of greedy, self-serving arses that would love to see my life’s work undone!”

“Takes one to know one,” Harry drawled.

To his surprise, the old Black proudly nodded, “Of course. They would have done the same with you and your family if it weren’t for that meddling old bastard Dumbledore. There’s an important difference between me and the crooks in the ministry: I’m on your and Juno’s side, and they aren’t.”

Harry opened his mouth and then closed it. He couldn’t argue with that logic.

“Surely, there’s a way out of Juno’s predicament.”

“Nothing legal,” there was a glint of challenge in those grey eyes. “Good, you don’t seem deterred. Who knows of Cassiopeia’s death?”

“Nobody, I believe.”

“Even better. It gives you time to make the first move.”

“But, can’t we just hide her death if nobody knows?” Harry asked testily.

“Only for a time. You have potential, boy, but you’re still young and green.” Arcturus rubbed his chin. “Every time Juno talks to allies, contacts, businesses, or debtors, has a dealing in the Ministry or requires legal permission, Cassiopeia is expected to attend or represent her in these matters. Suspicion will slowly but surely rise if she doesn’t bring her guardian or avoids such talks entirely. Maybe not immediately, but in a few months. Tongues will grow loose, rumours will spread, and you will have nothing to dispel them with. Perhaps a debtor will conveniently delay the payment to test the waters, or an ally will make some inane demand to ‘assuage’ their fears and prod House Black for weakness. And then, those self-serving bints Narcissa or Druella will go to the Ministry to file for custody or regency. Or the Ministry itself might consider taking the matters into their own hands.”

“So we have a few months to deal with this,” the young wizard summarised. “Do you have any advice?”

“You can always threaten Druella into submission. Bribe her drunken arse with some booze and send her off far to some of the offshore manors until Juno manages to complete three O.W.L.s, the requirement for partial emancipation. It will see her legally free from regency, but without the strength to maintain House Black’s connections, they will turn into dangerous vipers seeking to control Juno and her fortune. That’s without mentioning House Lestrange, Juno’s inheritance from her other side of the family. Don’t make such a face, young Potter, laws are just some words on parchment without the strength to enforce them.”

Arcturus Black raised his chin arrogantly; his dark eyes shone with mirth, and Harry could see why Sirius disliked the old git. But he was right, even if he was an arse.

“Anyway, I’ll leave you to it.” With a final nod, the old man rushed out of the frame.

Harry turned around, only to see Juno’s icy blue eyes staring at him expressionlessly from the end of the hallway. He had been so engrossed in his talk that he hadn’t heard her approach. Cassiopeia’s urn was still in her arms, as if the girl were unwilling to part with the woman who had taught and raised her.

Groaning inwardly, he asked, “How much did you hear?”

“More than enough.” The response was softer than expected. “I should have remembered to freeze his annoying portrait…”

Well, that was awkward. But Harry was no stranger to awkwardness, so he swallowed his unease and cleared his mind. “So, was there any truth to Arcturus’ words, or is he full of hot air?”

“While portraits are merely a pale imitation of what once was, his analysis of my situation is spot on,” she admitted, seemingly unruffled as if they hadn’t discussed her predicament. “I’m screwed six ways to Sunday. Even more so considering my mother, father, and even some distant relatives on the Lestrange side like Selwyn will seek to control me once the news gets out.”

“Eh, I can help you study for O.W.L.s for that partial emancipation,” Harry offered. “I’m pretty sure we can take more than three before the end of the year, and until then, we should be safe in Hogwarts.”

“What about the Horcruxes?” Juno asked stiffly.

“The rest can wait until we’ve grown in skill and experience.” Cassiopeia’s death had not only shaken him but reminded him of the dangers. The risk that he dreaded but underestimated all the same. Tom Marvolo Riddle was not a man to be taken lightly. “So, are we going to deal with your grandmother?”

The edge of her lips twitched ever so slightly, that he might as well have imagined it.

“Moving from theft of cursed items and reckless hunting of class five beasts to coercion and blackmail, Potter?”

“Perhaps, perhaps.” He chuckled. “But it seems like I’m in the right place with the right company for it, no?”

“I know how to deal with the likes of Druella Rosier,” Juno muttered, turning serious. “Lord Arcturus had the right of it, but he forgets neither you nor I have the experience or the power to enforce blackmail. No, I have a far better solution. A magical contract that will enforce the terms on both sides.”

“Aren’t those dangerous?” Harry asked, remembering the Goblet of Fire and its ability to rob him of his magic.

“Depends on the contract, more like. If some ancient relic is used as a medium, they can be outright lethal, but the more common ones are mostly expensive,” Juno explained. “Mostly because of the materials that can bind a magical agreement. Usually, most people these days would sign regular contracts with the Ministry, or even Gringotts, as mediators, but this would be a private contract. If you’re powerful and prepared enough, you can break almost all such contracts using the mandatory dissolution clause or weather the backlash, even if it is incredibly reckless and can leave powerful wizards sick for months, depending on the severity of the clauses. Most place a deposit or insurance in case of foul play rather than risking their magic or health. Of course, magic itself breaks down magical contracts taken under influence—”

“Wait, wouldn’t blackmail fail, then?”

“A choice is still made, even if under duress.” Juno waved his worries away. “So long as the participants are of sound mind, you can still choose to refuse. Death is still a willingly taken option, especially when there are far worse alternatives. External influences such as the Imperius Curse, Confundus Charms, memory modification magic, potions, and similar methods would not be accepted by magic. Are you sure you want to help me instead of hunting the Horcruxes?”

If Cassiopeia Black failed to retrieve the Gaunt ring and died, what chance would Harry stand right now? For the life of him, he could not recall Dumbledore ever mentioning what he faced in the Gaunt Shack. Only that he managed to overcome the defences, except to fail at the last obstacle: the Ring itself. For a moment, he entertained the idea of bringing the matter to the headmaster, yet his guts twisted in defiance; Harry could not bring himself to trust the man, not after he hid so much from him.

Then, what should he do? He could always try to tackle that particular Horcrux on his lonesome, yet the mere thought of telling Juno that her aunt’s death was in vain and that he did not need her would be heartbreaking. Not to mention, it felt too selfish of him after all they had been through. Despite everything, Juno had proven not only a loyal friend but a trusty ally he couldn’t afford to abandon, no matter what. No, not afford—he would never forgive himself if he did something so vile and treacherous.

“Yeah.” He nodded slowly. “I already told Sirius I’m here until the holidays end. You already agreed to help me with the Horcruxes, and I can hardly leave you hanging out to dry facing problems like these. Let’s do this. Dealing with your grandmother first, and then preparation for the O.W.L.s.”

“We should plan for this properly,” she said, her voice growing thoughtful, warmer. “Make some portkeys while we’re at it. There’s probably a tome that can teach us how. Come, follow me to the library.”

Harry trailed after her, his heart feeling considerably lighter than before. Juno’s face was still expressionless, but her gait was no longer lifeless, and he could almost see a familiar, faint gleam return to her blue eyes.