Never Again
This Peverell, he wields magic like nothing else I have seen. He continues to be a most interesting man, who I intend to watch, when I can. He has a way of vanishing without trace; just another one of those frustrating things about him.
- The Diary of Cassiopeia Black
Healer Tullius was an aged man much older than Ambrosius Moon, but his hands were as steady as any as he took copious notes on what became a rather thick wad of parchment with a furrowed brow.
“Mr Potter, you are severely malnourished, something that has been ongoing for many years,” he said disapprovingly. “You are underweight, and it is nothing short of a miracle that you do not seem to be suffering with any ill effects with your ability to wield your magic. It is not my job to pry, but I must advise you that if you continue in this manner, you will become much sicker than you already are. Do you have an aversion to food?”
“No, nothing like that.”
Tullius frowned at him unhappily before taking some more notes.
“Well, I will be prescribing you a strict regimen of potions to assist you with the malnourishment. Now, remove your shirt, and lay on the bed. I must conduct a full physical assessment of you.”
Harry reluctantly did so before climbing atop the bed the Healer had set up in the middle of the study.
Tullius shook his head disapprovingly as he began running his wand up and down the length of his body, murmuring to himself, and pausing at each of the scars littering his flesh.
When he was done, he tutted to himself and took some further notes.
“Several broken but healed bones, and a myriad of other injuries inflicted both by magical means, and mundane. This scar here, how did you acquire it?” he asked, pressing the tip of his wand on the puckered skin near his left elbow.
“That is a long story,” Harry sighed.
“I have no interest in the story, Mr Potter, just how you were injured. I can assure you, our conversation will go no further. I would not have been in my position very long if I was not discreet.”
Harry released a deep breath and nodded before explaining the scar given to him by the basilisk, and each of the others the dumbfounded Healer indicated.
When he was done, Tullius could only shake his head once more as he took another plethora of notes before fixing Harry with a stern gaze.
“I cannot tell you how astounded I am that you yet live,” he said severely. “By rights, you should’ve died several times over. What does concern me more, however, is the effect all of this has had on your magic. Rest your hand on here,” he instructed, holding up a rather odd pyramid etched with runes Harry did not recognise.
He did so, and winced as a sense of unease filled him.
“Worry not, Mr Potter, it will pass in a moment.”
Harry could only watch as some of the runes were illuminated, and Tullius began taking more notes on the parchment, putting the odd device in his bag when he was done.
The Healer released a deep breath and shook his head.
“I was unable to get an accurate reading,” he murmured. “As things are, your magic is very unsettled and appears to be going through some significant changes, which would explain the fever. With the recent emotional trauma, it appears that your magic is reacting, but I must ask, is there anything physical we must account for?”
Harry frowned at the question.
During his time in the Ministry of Magic, he’d not been wounded, not in a roundabout way, at least.
“Would an attempted possession mean anything?”
Tullius’s eyebrows almost vanished into his hairline.
“Would I be right in assuming that it was the Dark Lord who attempted it?”
“You would.”
“Well, that is another thing entirely,” he mused. “Already, he left something of a magical imprint on you the night he, well, you know. Such a sudden influx of his magic again…”
He broke off and consulted his notes.
“May I inspect the scar he left you with, Mr Potter?”
Harry nodded reluctantly as he lifted his fringe, and Tullius carried out his work, eliciting a grimace as a dull ache began to throb.
Tullius hummed.
“Yes, there are changes, but I cannot be certain of the extent of them without a follow up visit in a few days. I am not so concerned about them as I am your general health. Take the nutrient potions, Mr Potter, and I am going to also insist you take a strong dose of Dreamless Sleep. Your mind and body needs to rest.”
Taking another few notes, he placed several vials of potions on the desk before packing his things away.
“Take five of the green ones, and then the clear one when you are ready to sleep. Your body will thank you for it, and I will see you in a few days.”
Harry nodded appreciatively, and Tullius left via the fireplace, leaving him alone with his thoughts and a regimen of potions that was likely enough for several people.
Upon taking the concoction of brews he’d been left, as instructed, Harry had proceeded to fall asleep for the better part of two days, and though physically he felt better when he woke, the same could not be said of the grief that still plagued him.
Perhaps he would’ve had it not been for the Dreamless Sleep failing him.
The Veil.
He’d once more found himself standing before the ominous archway, and though he’d been at peace, he’d not been granted a respite from remembering the misery he was wallowing in.
Still, it was much easier to cope with it there. It was at the forefront of his mind, but the grief and sadness was muted, and Harry was able to focus on the soothing whispers, the gentle chill, and the peace the Veil seemed to bring him.
Once more when he woke, however, all of it was back, maybe not quite as prominent as it had been, but still oppressive enough that he could no longer ignore it or take comfort in anything else.
Nonetheless, Tullius would be arriving again soon, and in a bid to focus on something else entirely, Harry planned to pay a visit to Gringotts, as Moon had advised.
It would certainly help to keep his mind occupied from everything else, and he might just be granted a reprieve from the memory of Sirius dying, or the words of the prophecy that spoke of his almost inevitable demise at the hands of the man who’d murdered his mother and father.
It was the chiming of the floo that interrupted his once more maudlin thoughts, and Harry answered the call.
“Healer Tullius,” he greeted the man. “Come through.”
He was joined only a moment later, Tullius’s gaze immediately came to rest on him before the man nodded approvingly.
“Much better,” he declared, “but you will need to continue taking the nutrient potions for at least another six weeks, and I am firm on that, Mr Potter.”
Harry nodded his understanding.
He couldn’t deny that he felt better for doing so already.
“Now, if you do not mind,” Tullius continued, removing the same pyramid-shaped implement from his bag he used to check Harry’s magic during his previous visit. “You know what to do, Mr Potter.”
Harry complied, and again, for several moments, Tullius took copious amounts of notes as he hummed to himself whilst studying the runes. When he was done for that, he gestured to Harry once more, who lifted his fringe, eliciting a frown from the Healer.
“Quite astounding,” he murmured. “Your scar, has it given you problems over the years?”
“Headaches mostly, especially when I have the nightmares.”
Tullius hummed.
“Does anything else trigger them?”
Harry got the impression the man was leading him to an answer.
“Whenever he is near.”
“The Dark Lord?”
Harry nodded, and Tullius continued his inspection.
“Well, there is no denying that whatever happened between the two of you that night left quite the magical mark on you, Mr Potter, but in the past few days, it seems to have lessened.”
“It has?”
“I expect when he tried to possess you, he triggered your magic into finally reacting to whatever he left behind that night. Is there anything else I should know?”
“I’m a parselmouth.”
“Yes, I have heard the rumours, and yet, you have no familial connection to the Slytherin line, well, not one that is documented.”
He hummed once more, and traced Harry’s scar with the tip of his wand.
“Quite the magical anomaly,” he sighed. “It is well understood that magic cannot be stolen or transferred from one person to another, so, that leaves us only questioning more what could’ve happened that night. I do not suspect we will get the answers we are seeking, but this does indeed confirm my suspicions,” he added, holding the pyramid aloft. “Your magic is indeed changing and is already more stable than it was a few days ago. I expect in the coming days, weeks, and perhaps months whatever happened to you when you were just a boy will right itself. I would like for you to take note of any changes you notice, and of course, I would like to see you again. For now, you need time, Mr Potter. It truly is the greatest healer of all, in all things,” he finished pointedly.
“Do I still look like shit?”
“Not so much,” Tullius assured him, “but the trauma up here is not so easily healed,” he offered sympathetically, pointing to his head.
Harry nodded his understanding.
“Sometimes I just wonder how many people I will lose. There aren’t many left.”
“No, there isn’t,” Tullius agreed, “but there are many things that will remain out of our control. We must focus on those things we can shape. By all accounts, Mr Potter, you are an exceedingly talented wizard, and if there is anyone that might just be able to defeat him, I suspect it is you.”
Harry chuckled humourlessly.
“I have seen what he is capable of.”
“And already, you have defied the odds more than once. There must be something in that, and it isn’t as though you are without resources. Just in this house alone, there is knowledge you have at your fingertips that so few others will ever have. I would urge you to use it. You do not strike me as a young man to quit when the going gets tough, but ultimately, it is your choice. Will the deaths of those already gone be for nothing, or will you make them mean something? I will be in touch when I think it is time for us to meet again.”
With an encouraging smile, he left via the floo, and Harry released a deep breath.
Tullius made it all seem so simple, but he could not deny the man had given him much to think about.
Would the deaths of his parents and Sirius become little more than a stepping for Voldemort to get to him?
That thought alone irked him, and Harry chastised himself for having already admitted defeat.
With a shake of his head, he made his way towards Sirius’s room, pausing as he caught sight of the library at the end of the hall. The Blacks were notorious for the magical knowledge they’d accumulated over the course of several centuries, and even more so with how they wielded it.
Could it truly make a difference to him?
Perhaps, but Harry did not think that was the power the Dark Lord knew not.
Even so, it would be a good place to start at the very least, and maybe he would entertain the idea when he returned from Gringotts.
He could certainly use some fresh air, after all.
(Break)
“To maintain the political integrity of this office, I will be resigning with immediate effect, and the Wizengamot will convene shortly to begin the process of naming my replacement. I will not be taking any questions at this time.”
Narcissa turned off the radio.
Fudge was resigning only to save face.
It was no secret that Lucius had been one of his closest advisors all these years, and with the discovery of her husband being a wilful follower of the Dark Lord, Fudge could not hope to retain his position.
It was, however, problematic.
Thus far, the Ministry of Magic had been too busy processing the Death Eaters and dealing with the fallout of the Dark Lord’s return to focus on the minor details that would inevitably crop op during the meetings of the Wizengamot to come.
In a matter of days, the finances of those who had been apprehended would be frozen and scrutinised closely, and neither Narcissa nor Draco were able to access the Malfoy vault.
There was, however, something of a lifeline she could potentially exploit. With the death of Sirius, there was only one person eligible to assume the position of the Lord Black.
She did not miss the poorly veiled whispers that followed her and Draco as they made their way through Diagon Alley, but Narcissa paid them no heed, choosing to ignore them in favour of entering the office of the one man who could help her.
“I am here to see Mr Moon,” she declared to the receptionist.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but he will make time for me.”
The receptionist glanced up from the parchment she was writing on, her look of surprise leaving no question that she recognised Narcissa.
“I will see if he is available,” she replied, leaving the desk.
It was a few moments later she returned with a familiar, older man in tow.
Narcissa remembered Ambrosius Moon from when he would visit her grandfather at the cottage he shared with her grandmother. He’d been introduced as the family solicitor, a piece of information she’d filed away, just in case she needed it.
That time was now.
“Ah, Mrs Malfoy,” he greeted her, emphasising her married name.
“Lady Malfoy,” she corrected.
“Given your husband’s status, that is no longer so, I believe,” Moon returned. “Please, come through.”
Narcissa did not appreciate the way he spoke to her, and she placed a hand on Draco’s shoulder to silence any insolent remark he might offer. They might just need Ambrosius Moon, and he would not be inclined to help them if offense was caused.
“How may I be of service to you, Mrs Malfoy?” the man asked as he took a seat behind his desk.
“I wish to enquire of the status of my family,” she answered. “It is no secret that Sirius Black is dead, leaving my son as the only eligible heir. Am I to understand that you would be in charge of setting the affairs in order?”
Moon nodded thoughtfully.
“I was,” he confirmed. “It is done.”
Narcissa frowned.
“Then why wasn’t I notified?”
“There was nothing to notify you of. Sirius Black’s will was executed as he instructed.”
“But Draco is the only person who can inherit the title.”
“Mrs Malfoy, I am unable to discuss the details with you as you are no longer a Black, and you nor your son were named in the will,” Moon returned evenly. “What I can tell you is that the Lordship was not discussed during the endowments. Sirius Black was never the Lord of the family, only the last surviving member. If you believe your son has a claim to the title, you must either speak with the family manager at Gringotts or petition the Wizengamot. It is out of my hands.”
“But he did leave a will?”
“Which has been executed,” Moon reaffirmed.
Narcissa did not like the sound of that nor did she relish the thought of standing in front of the Wizengamot to plead her son’s case. No, she would need to speak with the family account manager, and hope that the goblins were much more cooperative than Moon had been.
“Thank you, Mr Moon,” she offered with little sincerity. “Come, Draco.”
They left the office, and Narcissa could not help but wonder just who Sirius had included in his will, but as she pondered it, she felt a sense of unease begin to fill her.
It was no secret who he’d been close to these past years, but given that, as Moon said, he wasn’t the Lord Black, what damage could he even do to the family?
(Break)
“I have no choice, Albus. I must resign. There is no coming back from this.”
He found it difficult to have any sympathy for Cornelius. The man had made his bed many years prior when he’d first taken office, when he’d been taken in by the charm of Lucius Malfoy and had begun making terrible decisions ever since.
His close relationship to the now imprisoned man was only one facet of his downfall, however. How he’d conducted himself by attempting to have Sirius Black kissed by the Dementors, and then flat-out denied that the Dark Lord was back the following year had not endeared him to Albus.
For the headmaster, the placement of Dolores Umbridge as the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor was the final straw.
“I quite agree.”
“You do?”
“Cornelius, you have made some terrible decisions these past years, and forgive me, but you are not equipped to lead the country in a time of war.”
“War?”
“You cannot possibly believe that the Dark Lord has shifted his ambition. I’m afraid he will pick up where he left off some thirteen years ago. Your association alone with the likes of Lucius will not sit well with the people of Britain.”
Cornelius fidgeted with his bowler hat nervously.
“Not one of my better choices,” he murmured. “Well, I have resigned now, so whomever is chosen to replace me will have quite the task on their hands. I cannot say I envy them.”
Once more, Cornelius only continued to prove that he was a self-centred man, and Albus could not help but think that Britain would be much better off without him at the helm.
Before he could offer a response, however, he sensed the approach of Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was hurrying up the stairs leading to his office.
“Headmaster, we have a problem,” he declared.
“A problem?”
Kingsley nodded, his gaze shifting towards Fudge.
“Not to worry,” Albus said dismissively. “Cornelius is no longer the Minister of Magic.”
Kingsley frowned, but did not comment on the revelation.
“Harry is gone.”
“Gone?” Albus gasped as he stood.
“According to his aunt and uncle, he only stayed with them for around ten minutes before leaving, and they have not seen him since. The Dursleys have packed their things and left too.”
Albus felt his heart sinking into his stomach.
“Did I hear correctly?” Cornelius interjected. “Is Harry Potter missing?”
“It seems so,” Albus sighed. “Not to worry, Cornelius. I will find him. Any thoughts on where he might be, Kingsley?”
“He was not in a good way, when we left him” the dark-skinned auror replied. “He is a young man who has lost everything, Albus.”
“Then perhaps he will be where he will feel closest to the one he lost,” Albus mused aloud.
Grimmauld Place.
That was likely where Harry would be, but Albus could not deny that he was concerned. Harry had never purposely defied him in such a way, and he thought he’d gotten through to the boy when he’d assured him there was nowhere safer for him than Privet Drive.
Maybe he simply did not care anymore.
It was troubling to say the least, and with the Dursleys having left, Harry no longer could call the house his home, meaning that the protections he’d placed would be all but useless now.
Now he faced the dilemma of what he should do with the wayward young man when he found him.
(Break)
“Vault 112,” Griphook announced as the cart came to a stop.
“I thought my vault was 687?” Harry asked confusedly.
“That was only to hold your liquid assets, Mr Potter,” Griphook explained. “It has all been transferred back to your family vault, and with the death of your godfather, it is now all yours, except for your ability to claim the Potter lordship. You cannot do that until you reach your majority.”
Harry nodded as he followed the goblin to a large door where Griphook ran his finger down the length of one of the grooves in the wood.
“If you would place your hand here, Mr Potter,” he urged, indicating to a faded crest of sorts.
Harry did so, and he felt a disturbance within the door, almost as though it was judging him before it popped open, and Griphook offered him a nod of approval.
“Had you been lying about who you were, it would’ve ended quite terribly for you.”
Harry had wondered why he’d not been asked to prove who he was. Of course, he was used to being recognised, but in a world where someone could quite easily resemble another, he’d expected more measures.
Evidently, Griphook had taken no chances with him.
“Then it is a good thing I wasn’t lying,” he returned, entering the vault, pausing as he did so.
He’d already been quite wealthy and could never imagine spending such a sum of gold, and now, he doubted he could spend what was here in ten lifetimes.
“1.8 million galleons,” Griphook informed him, “along with items belonging to the Potter family spanning several centuries. I expect there are other valuables amongst those items, but you certainly will not want for gold. I will leave you so you may peruse at your leisure.”
Harry nodded appreciatively, and though he was simply dumbfounded by the gold he possessed, it was the other side of the expansive vault that caught his attention.
Piled in neat stacks were dozens upon dozens of trunks, each of them helpfully labelled with names and dates of who they had belonged to. Several caught Harry’s eye, and he would happily spend hour after hour in here sorting through them all.
He intended to do so at his leisure, but for now, he was content taking in the names of all his ancestors.
As the last Potter, this was as close as he would get to know that side of his family, and as he ran his hand across a trunk belonging to his father, he paused briefly before removing it from the pile.
With a tap of his wand, he shrunk and pocketed it before moving along to the next.
“Fleamont Potter,” he murmured.
According to the dates, this man was his grandfather, and his wife Euphemia Rosier, his wife.
Rosier. That name was familiar and not for good reason. Evan Rosier, Harry had learned, had been killed by Alastor Moody. He’d been a rather ardent follower of Voldemort.
Not that Euphemia’s name was the only one that elicited such a response from him. Among the other trunks there was a Rowle, a Gibbon, and even a Black who’d married a great uncle not so many decades prior.
Most of the names, he recognised, but there were those that were unfamiliar to him.
“Iolanthe Peverell,” he murmured when he’d reached near the end of the stacks of trunks. “The last of my line.”
The words had been etched into the brass plate on the trunk, and Harry immediately sympathised with the woman. He too was the last of his line, and the name she’d carried, and the odd symbol next to it were new to him.
“Peverell,” he repeated to himself as he removed the trunk.
It was close to nine hundred years old and appeared to depict when the Potter name began being prominent.
“Hardwin Potter.”
He was Iolanthe’s husband, and though Harry was aware that those in the wizarding world possessed rather odd forenames, Iolanthe’s stood out to him, and the magic on the lock of her trunk was like nothing else he’d encountered in here.
With a shrug, he shrunk and pocketed that one too, along with Hardwin Potter’s.
Learning about his father would certainly make him feel closer to the man, but starting at what appeared to be the very beginning of the legacy he’d inherited made sense.
Maybe this was what he needed to keep his mind occupied for a short while.
With another shrug, he helped himself to some coins knowing that he needed to replenish his funds before he took his leave of the vault, keen to return in the future.
With only a nod towards Griphook, they climbed aboard the cart and began their journey back to the surface where Harry intended to return to Grimmauld Place, not quite as glum as when he’d left.
It was progress, at least, more than he could’ve anticipated, and a journey he had just unwittingly begun that would shape and change his future, more than he could know.
(Break)
“There’s nothing,” she whispered as her gaze roamed to every corner of the almost empty vault. All that seemed to remain of the Black family fortune amounted to little more than a few scraps of broken furniture.
Narcissa’s questioning gaze snapped towards the goblin who’d been overseeing the account since before she was born, and the vile creature could only shrug.
“Where is the gold?” she demanded to know.
The goblin looked towards the wide-eyed Draco.
“Lord Black, am I able to answer the question asked by your mother?”
Narcissa’s nostrils flared, and Draco nodded mutely.
“It is gone,” the goblin declared. “Sirius Orion Black, as the final living member of the family, took it upon himself to bequeath much of it to those he chose himself, and the gold he could not pass on, he spent, as was his right.”
“I am a Black!” Narcissa protested irritably. “My son is now the Lord Black! Surely this cannot be allowed!”
She did not miss the twitch of amusement that tugged at the goblin’s lips.
“Your name is Narcissa Malfoy, and your son is Draco Lucius Malfoy. It is against the odds that he has been able to claim the Lordship for himself, and I can assure you, that your grandfather, would be most unhappy that he has. Now, if you are done standing in your empty vault, I will be pleased to show you back to the foyer.”
Without waiting for a response, the goblin did take his leave, and Narcissa could only despair that her blasted cousin was likely somewhere quite enjoying this scene, laughing uproariously that even beyond the grave, he had managed to cause her and her son significant harm.
What were they to do?
“And I suppose that you are unable to grant us access to the Malfoy vault?” she asked as she approached the cart, pulling Draco along by his hand.
“I’m afraid not, Mrs Malfoy,” the goblin denied. “We received a request only this morning to freeze the finances of several families believed to be followers of the Dark Lord. Until the Lords present themselves to us in person, we are compelled respect the wishes of the Ministry of Magic.”
Narcissa could only nod in response as she climbed into the cart, wondering if there was a significant stash of gold within Malfoy Manor she might make use off.
Inwardly, she cursed Lucius for being caught, cursed the Dark Lord for not remaining dead, and cursed anyone else that came to mind who might be even just a little responsible for her plight.
“What will we do, Mother?”
It was a question that Narcissa could not answer, but perhaps there was something. She might not have access to the family vault, and the Black lordship was now nothing more than a token title, but Malfoy Manor was full of valuable items she may be able to part with.
Given the circumstances, it was unlikely she would see Lucius again soon, unless the Dark Lord decided he had need of her husband, which meant that she had been left alone to fend for herself and her son.
She could only shake her head at the sudden misfortune but frowned as Draco suddenly stiffened when they entered the foyer of the bank only a few moments later.
Narcissa quirked an eyebrow as she caught sight of the boy whose name had been on every pair of lips these past days, and throughout the previous year as he’d been smeared by the media at every turn.
Potter had been telling the truth, of course, and now, the entire country would be looking to him to once again rid them of the Dark Lord. Not that he seemed to be up to the task.
The boy looked thin, pale, and quite unwell, and Narcissa could not help but compare him to his father. He certainly resembled James, but the former Potter Lord had never looked so sickly.
Was he dying?
It certainly seemed that way, but as he spotted Draco, something of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, and Narcissa was surprised to see someone so seemingly weak approaching them.
“Draco,” he greeted her son enthusiastically, with all the bravado she would expect from his father. “I hear that your father is finally getting exactly what he deserves. You might want to write to him and urge him not to drop the soap. I bet there are quite a few people just waiting for the chance to bugger the git. Oh, and tell your Aunt I said hello, and Voldemort to kiss my arse. Don’t reach for your wand, Malfoy. It would be a shame to have to hurt you in front of your mother.”
His demeanour had changed in an instant, his eyes flashing dangerously, and Narcissa could not help but feel just a little unsettled by his presence.
It was the slightest glimpse of something she had seen in so few others she’d met over the years, but it was discomforting, and she quickly took her son by the shoulders.
“Come, Draco,” she urged, steering her son towards the exit. “Let us not waste our time indulging, Mr Potter’s foolishness.”
The conversation had not gone unnoticed, and once more, the whispers followed her as they made their way up the length of Diagon Alley.
It was a rather boorish and uncouth display by Harry Potter, and yet, Narcissa could not shift the feeling of unease that continued to plague her, even when she and Draco had apparated back to the safety of their home.
Potter, evidently, had become rather deranged in the passing days since her cousin had been killed, and though he was just still a boy, there was no ignoring or denying the glimpse of whatever it was she had seen within him, or how, already, he had defied the odds more than once throughout his life.
He had lost more than most to the Dark Lord’s machinations, after all, and those that had little else to lose tended to be the most dangerous of foes.
“You are to avoid him, Draco.”
Her son snorted.
“Potter is nothing but filthy little half-blood,” Draco said dismissively. “He will pay for what he did to father.”
He stalked away from the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor, towards his bedroom, and Narcissa could only shake her head.
Draco was much too like his father, had been raised to believe that he was untouchable because of the name he carried, and yet, given what had happened, he seemed to have not learned that was no longer so.
No, the Malfoy name had quickly fallen from favour, and unless she could convince her son to drop whatever grudge he intended to pursue, he would likely do something stupid that would get him into trouble, or worse yet, hurt.
Potter.
There was something about the boy that left her in no doubt that he would gladly be responsible for the latter, and again, Narcissa felt the discomfort of his gaze unsettling her.
She must deter Draco from doing anything foolish.
If she did not, she could not help but think he would indeed fall victim to his own hubris.
(Break)
“He was seen in Gringotts?” Albus asked worriedly.
Kingsley nodded.
“According to the onlookers, he was in there for a while, and then he spoke with Narcissa and Draco Malfoy. It was not an exchange of pleasantries.”
Albus released a deep breath.
He would not have expected it to be, but it was quite out of character for Harry to not only defy him, but to draw attention to himself so publicly. Perhaps he was indeed right in his belief that what had happened to Sirius had changed him.
Of course, he had attempted to make contact with the young man at Grimmauld Place, but he’d received no answer via the floo, which he now understood.
If Harry was there, he’d not been when Albus had tried to reach out to him, and the house had evidently been shutdown to outsiders. Still, at least it had not fallen into the hands of their enemies.
That would’ve undoubtedly been an unmitigated disaster.
“Thank you, Kingsley,” Albus said appreciatively. “I will continue to try and speak with him. I wish for him to have the space he needs, but he must be warned about his recklessness. Now is not the time to do anything foolish.”
Kingsley nodded before taking his leave of the office, and Albus stroked Fawkes plumage as he pondered what he would do where Harry was concerned.
It appeared that he was growing quite restless, and restlessness in the young would inevitably lead to trouble. For now, that needed to be avoided. Harry’s enemies were many, after all, and such incidents as the one in Gringotts would need to be curbed.
Provoking those vying for his blood was the last thing he should be doing.
(Break)
He let out a watery chuckle as he read another letter from Sirius to his father when they’d both just finished their third year of Hogwarts. Having read half a dozen or so of them, it was clear to see just how close the two of them were.
Just give it up, James, Evans is not interested in you. Why won’t you take Fawcett on a date? You’d be doing me a massive favour. Jones will not go with me if you don’t go with Fawcett.
He chuckled once more as he added the letter to the rest he’d already read.
His father’s trunk had been mostly full of a random assortment of items along with what would typically be found in the possession of a student at Hogwarts, though there was undoubtedly more pranking items than most others would be found with.
Still, he was grateful for anything he could obtain that had belonged to his father, and it gave Harry some much needed insight, and even closure on how the life of James Potter had ended.
He had loved Lily Potter with everything he was, even as a clueless teenager, and that had never wavered, not even when it came to facing imminent death, his father had stood tall and died to give his wife and son just a chance to survive.
His sacrifice had almost been for nothing.
Although Lily Potter had perished, Harry had not, had even somehow managed to escape death several times since.
He swallowed deeply at the thought, unable to ignore the guilt that began to fill him.
These past days, since what had happened at the Ministry of Magic, he’d all but accepted that his death at the hands of the Dark Lord was inevitable, but reading through the letters between his father and Sirius and feeling somewhat closer to the man had served to shake him somewhat.
Throughout everything he’d endured, Harry had never been a defeatist, had never quit, even when it seemed that all was lost he’d fought on with everything he had.
Maybe Sirius’s loss was the final straw, but somehow, Harry did not think so.
Just a few short hours ago, he had not shied away from approaching the Malfoys, and even provoking them both, hoping that Draco would attempt to harm him.
Once more, he’d never gone out of his way to antagonise Malfoy, but he’d wanted the boy to become violent, wanted a reason to either hurt or embarrass him.
It was odd, but it had made him feel just a little bit better.
Not that Draco was important in the grand scheme of things.
Compared to Voldemort, he was little more than an irritant.
Harry snorted at the thought.
It wasn’t as though he’d not provoked the Dark Lord himself over the years and would undoubtedly do so when they met again. If nothing else, Harry would be defiant to the very end, though now, he was beginning to want to be so much more.
At the very least, he wanted cause Riddle as much pain as he possibly could.
His gaze shifted to the ceiling where the Black library was above.
“Kreacher?”
The elf appeared with a gentle pop and offered him a bow.
“Yes, master?”
“Am I able to use the library?”
“The library is yours, master. Would you like Kreacher to get the books former master hid?”
Harry nodded, and Kreacher vanished briefly, returning a moment later with a shrunken trunk he placed on the table.
“Master should start with these,” the elf said with a malicious grin. “These were Lord Arcturus’s favourites.”
With a frown, Harry resized and opened the trunk before removing one of the volumes within.
“Bloody hell,” he cursed as he flicked to a random page, grimacing at the curse that was described.
“Perfect for master’s enemies. All of them are.”
Harry shook his head, though paused as he thought back to that night in the Department of Mysteries and the magic that was used against him and his friends.
The Death Eaters had not hesitated to harm or even attempt to kill them, and Harry and the others had been woefully unprepared. It was a miracle that none had been killed, but it had been close.
“Never again,” he murmured to himself as he continued flicking through the book, leaning back in his chair to settle in, his gaze briefly coming to rest on the other trunks he’d taken from Gringotts, making a note to look through them as a priority.