Crossing Over: Prologue
He is the strangest of men I have ever met; frustrating, enigmatic, and he piques my curiosity. The Peverells were thought to have perished long ago, but here he is, not a Lord, but certainly not a pauper. Who is Harry Peverell?
- The Diary of Cassiopeia Black
He was no longer taking in much of what Dumbledore was saying.
Harry had listened to the prophecy, and though the words would forever be burned into his conscience, he would not pretend that he was even trying to understand the meaning of it.
He couldn’t begin to fathom what power he possessed that could hope to be enough to even survive a confrontation with Voldemort, let alone see him defeat the Dark Lord.
No, he was not even considering that.
His current thoughts revolved around the horror of seeing Sirius passing through the veil, and with him doing so, Harry losing the very last person who he might just be able to turn to when he felt as he did now; lost, afraid, and full of more anger than he knew what to do with.
Oddly, he felt somewhat calm, or perhaps he was merely numb from the events of the evening, but still in no right frame of mind to think beyond the grief that had taken hold of him.
“Harry, you are not alone in this.”
“But I am, aren’t I?” he returned quietly. “When it comes down to it, it will be either me or him, won’t it?”
“And I would see you prepared for that eventuality,” Dumbledore said reassuringly.
Harry was not convinced.
The man had known of the prophecy long before Harry had come to Hogwarts, and yet, he’d done nothing to prepare him. Even after he’d endured the Dursleys and made it to his first year of schooling, there had been no preparations.
For the past five years, Harry had simply fumbled his way through the many life-threatening situations thrust upon him, had relied on luck more than skill to get him through, and not once had Dumbledore or any other attempted to prepare him for anything that evidently lie ahead of him.
“If you don’t mind, I think I will go to bed,” he murmured as he stood.
He was sore, and he was exhausted, but Harry knew he would not be getting any sleep tonight.
No.
Even if he wished to, the fear that had gripped him would not allow it.
Undoubtedly, he would either relive Sirius’s final moments of life, or somehow, Voldemort would find his way into his dreams to torment him so.
Perhaps come the morning, such things would be the least of his worries if what he had done to Bellatrix Lestrange came to light. Using an Unforgiveable Curse on another resulted in a life sentence in Azkaban, after all.
Truthfully, Harry found he did not care if he was rudely awoken by a group of Aurors arriving to arrest him. At least then, he would be left to perish in prison, or Voldemort would learn of his incarceration, leaving him as little more than a sitting duck for the Dark Lord to eliminate.
As things were, Harry could not help but think it would be something of a mercy for the prophecy to be fulfilled sooner rather than later, and yet, he could not ignore the spark of defiance within him.
He had refused to die on his knees in the graveyard the night Riddle had returned, and he would never grant that man such a satisfaction, not even now when it seemed that all hope was already lost.
Neither he nor any of the Dursleys had uttered a word since he had met them in the foyer of King’s Cross Station. Petunia’s lips were pursed, and Harry was surprised that Vernon had managed to hold his tongue since Moody had spoken with them.
That would not last.
A prominent vein was already throbbing by his temple, and his jaw was tense, so much so that Harry was surprised his teeth had not cracked from the pressure.
Dudley was simply silent, his gaze occasionally flitting towards Harry, but he said nothing.
They remained this way until they pulled into the driveway of the family home, a family that Hary was certainly no part of, and it was a sense of dread that filled him.
Anywhere but here.
Even before he’d exited the car, he’d already decided this was not where he would be spending his summer.
Dumbledore might be content with throwing him back to the unpleasant muggles to forget about for a few months, but Harry would not be complying with the old man.
If he was to die at Voldemort’s hands, he would not be using up what little time he had somewhere he was neither wanted nor he wished to be.
With a frown, he followed his aunt, uncle, and cousin into the home, grimacing at the familiar smell of lemon-scented cleaning products.
No, this was not where he would be.
Harry would rather take his chances anywhere else, but truthfully, there was only one place he had in mind, and maybe with his cloak, he might just manage it.
“Well, what are you waiting for boy?” Vernon barked irritably as Harry paused in the doorway.
With a frown, he closed it and shook his head.
“You can forget what they said to you.”
Vernon eyed him confusedly, and Petunia looked between them worriedly, and Harry realised that it wasn’t just that the woman despised him, she feared him, feared what he could undoubtedly do to her ignorant husband.
Harry, however, despite everything, had no intention of harming the obese man.
Vernon Dursley was pathetic, but Harry was tired, too tired to even care what had been done to him all these years at the hands of them all.
“I’m leaving,” Harry explained, “and out of courtesy to my mother, I would suggest you do the same. He’s not dead, Petunia, the man who killed them. He is back, and he will come looking for me. Vernon might not understand the danger you are in, but you do.”
Vernon looked towards the wide-eyed Petunia confusedly.
“Y-your leaving?” Dudley interjected.
He seemed almost saddened, and Harry nodded.
“They won’t know I’ve left for a while yet, but let’s not pretend that any of us want me here. Leave while you can,” he urged.
With nothing else to say, climbed the stairs and entered the tiny bedroom he’d grudgingly been allowed the use off, and gathered what little he had left behind the previous summer, which amounted to some old textbooks, some photos, and clothes that no longer fit him.
When it was packed into his trunk, he removed the faithful cloak that had saved his life more times than he could count before returning to the hallway, where only Dudley remained.
“Harry…”
He shook his head.
“You don’t need to say anything Dudley,” he sighed.
“You saved my life, from those demantoid things,” the boy sputtered. “T-thank you.”
He offered a meaty paw, which Harry reluctantly accepted.
“Maybe I’ll see you around one day, Big-D.”
The boy grimaced at the moniker but nodded, and Harry made his way through to the kitchen, pausing at the back door as Petunia cleared her throat from behind him.
“Is…is he really back?”
“He is,” Harry answered, breathing a sigh of relief when he stepped out of the home in Privet Drive for the last time, closing the door behind him.
At the very least, if he was to be found, it would be done on so when he was free of the misery of being under his aunt and uncle’s roof.
No, there was only one place he wished to be, and as he made his way through the adjoining Magnolia Gardens, he drew his wand, remaining vigilant as he began navigating his way through the streets of Surrey to an uncertain future, but one that would inevitably be fraught with more danger than he’d faced up until this point of his life.
(Break)
The boy was in shock.
It was unsurprising giving all he’d experienced in the span of only a few hours, but Albus was proud of Harry.
Of course, he had acted rashly without considering the potential consequences, but he had acted nonetheless, demonstrating the same bravery he had shown many times before now.
Truthfully, it was astounding display of will and fortitude that he’d managed to get the better of Tom when it came to a battle of the minds, and yet, Albus knew it would not come to such when it mattered.
No, it would be up to Fate to decide who lived, and though Harry would not be able to understand, he already possessed what was required to emerge victorious.
Then again, perhaps not.
Albus had been a firm believer that it was Harry’s capacity to love that would see him to victory, but he had not accounted for that ability all but evaporating in front of his eyes. The boys’ own were devoid of anything except for despair, for another loss he’d been forced to endure, and Albus was not even certain he would emerge from the grief on the other side as he had once been.
Maybe he had expected too much of Harry, had taken for granted his innocent, kindly nature, or perhaps had not seen the other side to him that he’d witnessed when his office was being torn asunder.
Hatred and anger.
Harry had never shown such, not even when he’d somehow returned after the events of the third task of the Triwizard Tournament. Now, however, he could feel it radiating off the young man in waves that could not be ignored.
Perhaps Albus had been wrong in his belief that Harry’s strengths lie in Tom’s weaknesses.
It certainly appeared that Fate was merely moulding him into something else entirely, and the headmaster was fearful of what that might be. What was clear, however, was that as he looked into the dull, defeated eyes of Harry James Potter, this latest adversity would either make or break him.
He would, like Fawkes, rise from the ashes, or, as Albus could not bear the thought of, crumble so readily.
Had Albus been wrong?
Was this just another mistake on his part that would be insurmountably detrimental?
In this moment, he could not be certain, but as he looked upon the boy a final time, he still had hope that Harry would once more prove his resilience. He would need to, after all. The very fate of so many rested upon his shoulders.
“I know, old friend,” he comforted the phoenix chick resting on his desk. “I know.”
Once more, Albus lost himself in his maudlin thoughts, wondering if revealing the prophecy to Harry had ben the right thing to do, lamenting the many decisions he’d already made regarding the boy, questioning if he had made the correct choices presented to him, the very first of which choosing between Harry’s safety, and an undoubtedly happier childhood.
Perhaps that was where it had gone wrong, and every other decision since only leading to this very night.
Albus felt that decision weighing heavily upon him, and it did not help when Remus, Alastor, Kingsley, and Nymphadora arrived only a few moments later.
The werewolf, of course, was distraught, as were the other three, but it was Remus who would feel this loss more than any other. The man had only ever had three friends growing up; one being a murderer, one being murdered, and the third having been imprisoned for murder, and left to rot in Azkaban for twelve years despite his innocence.
“Harry?” Albus pressed.
“Did not say a word,” Kingsley replied. “We spoke with his family, Albus. They’re…”
“Bastards,” Alastor cut in. “The lad shouldn’t be left with them.”
Both Tonks and Remus nodded their agreement, but before Albus could offer a response, he was pulled from his thoughts by the floo chiming, and the headmaster expected it would be a desperate Cornelius reaching out to him.
However, when he answered the call, he was greeted by the familiar visage of a man he knew well, but not for good reason.
Ambrosius Moon was perhaps the most prolific wizarding solicitor in the entire country, had the reputation of being as brilliant as he was frustrating to any prosecutor, and someone who worked only for those able to afford his expertise.
“Mr Moon,” Albus greeted him cautiously.
“Dumbledore, a word if you will, in person,” the man replied sharply. “Ah, there seems to be two others with you I must speak with. Lupin, that is you, yes?”
Remus frowned as he nodded.
“And Auror Tonks. Yes, I recognise you.”
“I suppose you had best come through,” Albus allowed.
With only a nod, the man did so a moment later, cutting quite the impressive figure.
“I have no need of you Moody, or you Shacklebolt,” he said dismissively, taking a seat, and placing a pince-nez on the bridge of his nose before removing several rolls of parchment.
“We can resume this meeting later,” Albus assured the pair. “Kingsley…?”
The Auror nodded his understanding without the need of further instructions, and both he and Alastor took their leave of the office.
For several minutes, Moon said nothing as he seemed to catalogue the various rolls of parchment, and when he was done, he removed the pince-nez.
“As per the wishes of one, Sirius Orion Black, I have been instructed to execute certain parts of his will, as first written in August 1980, and amended by post in November 1995. To Remus John Lupin, I leave you the gold in my personal account with Gringotts, amounting in the sum of 123,000 galleons. Use it well, Moony, and watch over Buckbeak for me.”
Remus merely shook his head in response, smiling sadly.
It was indeed a considerable sum, and for the first time in his life, the werewolf would never have to worry about gold again.
“To Nymphadora Tonks, I leave you my property in Diagon Alley, as left to me by Alphard Black. In addition to this, I also leave you the troll foot umbrella stand you have become fond of. May you trip on it every time you pass it by.”
Nymphadora choked back a sob of amusement.
“And to Albus Dumbledore, I leave you an extensive collection of socks, and a lifetime supply of sherbet lemons.”
Moon seemed to be rather confused by the last bestowment, and not particularly amused.
“That concludes my business,” he declared as he stood and began packing away the pieces of parchment.
“Are there any others?” Albus asked.
“Only two,” Moon answered. “One for Mrs Andromeda Tonks, and for Mr Harry Potter. I have written to Mrs Tonks already but have been unable to make contact with Mr Potter. I do not suppose you know where I might find him?”
“I do, but Mr Potter is currently grieving for the loss of his godfather.”
Moon shook his head irritably.
“Well, Dumbledore, I’m afraid my business with him cannot wait. Mr Black was very specific with his instructions when it came to his godson. Never mind, I will find my own way of speaking with him. Good day.”
Before Albus could offer a response, Moon was gone, and he looked questioningly towards Remus and Tonks, who both shrugged, neither of them wise to what Sirius may have included in his will.
“1995,” he murmured. “He only amended it last year.”
“Well, if he only left things to the three of us, Andromeda, and Harry, I expect he left just about everything to him,” Remus pointed out.
“But what is everything?” Albus asked worriedly.
When it came to the Blacks, none could be certain of what they had accumulated over the centuries outside of the considerable wealth they were known for.
Albus certainly did not begrudge Harry for being the primary beneficiary. The alternative of it being passed on to Draco Malfoy was less desirable, but what was troubling was that Harry could not possibly know what it was he would be getting himself into accepting such an endowment.
Although he doubted there were outstanding marriage contracts, there was a plethora of other problematic possibilities that needed to be considered.
Perhaps he would speak with the boy, even to urge him to be cautious.
Yes, that would be for the best, but first, he would grant him a little more time to come to terms with all that had happened these past days.
He owed him that, at least, before he was burdened with anything else.
(Break)
It seemed as though it had taken hours to find a train station in Surrey, but when he had, it had not been so difficult for Harry to navigate his way to Grimmauld Place upon arriving in London.
He’d simply followed the same route he’d taken with Arthur Weasley to attend the farce of a trial, and yet, now that he was here, he wasn’t sure about entering the home his godfather had despised.
Could he even do so?
It was not something Harry had considered until this moment, and as though the house itself was answering his question. Number’s 11 and 13 began moving aside, making room for number 12.
Harry eyed the building for a moment, wondering if anyone else was within before he decided he didn’t care. He’d come here to somehow be closer to Sirius, and he would not be deterred.
Releasing a deep breath in a bid to calm himself, he ascended the stairs, and the door unlocked at his touch.
It creaked open, and Harry found himself staring down the length of the ominous hallway. Somehow, the house felt more depressing than ever, but there was nowhere else he’d rather be.
If anything, it suited his mood perfectly.
Stepping in, he closed the door behind, and his footsteps seemed to thud louder than usual as he made his way towards the kitchen, to find the home was indeed empty, much to his relief.
He did not wish to see or speak to anyone, and as he took a seat at the table, the emptiness of the house became prevalent.
There were no Weasleys here, no Hermione, no Remus, and no Sirius, and he was able to experience what it was his godfather had during those lonely hours he’d spent in Grimmauld Place.
Harry swallowed deeply at the thought of the life the man had lived.
Sirius may have been born into privilege, but he’d been afforded none of that. His mother had made his life miserable as he grew up to the point he had fled, and then only a few short years later, he had spent more than a decade in Azkaban.
When he’d escaped, he’d simply traded one prison for another, and now, he was gone.
It had been no life, not truly.
Wiping away an errant tear, Harry left the kitchen, and climbed the stairs to the next floor, pausing only when he came upon Sirius’s bedroom. He found the door to be ajar, and the bed not even made where the man had evidently been resting when he’d learned of what was transpiring in the Department of Mysteries.
Of course, he had come to help him, but had he not, Sirius would still be alive.
Already, Harry had played it over in his mind more times than he could count, had relieved every moment that had come to pass since he and his friends had arrived, and in hindsight, he could only curse himself for his foolishness.
They had ben unprepared to face the Death Eaters, and Harry had been tricked into doing so.
Fortunately, none of the others had been killed, but Hermione had come close, as had Ron.
He shook his head of those thoughts.
Although they assured him they did not blame him for what had happened, Harry could see that they did. They couldn’t hide it from him but couldn’t blame him anymore than he blamed himself for all that had happened.
It was just another thing he was guilty of; something else he would carry with him.
With another shake of his head, his found his thoughts drifting once more to what had unfolded in the atrium, and mostly, the duel between Dumbledore and Voldemort.
He’d never witnessed anything like it, had never felt such power, and with the world now knowing the Dark Lord was back, it would be Harry they would look to,
He snorted at the thought.
He couldn’t wield such magic, nor was he so powerful, and yet, it was inevitable that he would one day find himself standing opposite the man who’d murdered his parents.
“The power he knows not,” he chuckled humourlessly.
Oh, if he was capable, Harry would not hesitate to tear the Dark Lord limb from limb for what he had done, and there was a part of him that wished for nothing more than to do just that, but it simply was not to be.
Harry did not possess such power, and he would not delude himself into believing he could defeat Tom Riddle. If Dumbledore couldn’t, Harry certainly stood no chance, so, why was he even here?
Was he somehow just a tool for the amusement of Fate?
Was she truly so cruel that she revelled in his suffering?
Harry could not fathom it being anything else other than a sick joke of sorts before she would eventually grow tired of him, and he could only wish that throughout the many things he had survived thus far, he had not made it at all.
It would’ve been much kinder than what he was enduring now, and the suffering yet to come.
With a shake of his head, he took another calming breath. He despised having such thoughts, but he simply could not rid himself of them, and try as he might, they seemed to only become more prominent with each passing moment.
Maybe this was what grief was.
Vaguely, he remembered Dumbledore saying something about it, about how difficult it was to come out on the other side. Not that Harry would, not as he had been, at least.
By now, he should perhaps have grown used to death and loss, and maybe he was, but losing Sirius was undoubtedly something of a final straw.
Spotting a half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey on the bedside table, he pulled the cork, grimacing at the smell of the liquor, suspecting that Sirius would often have a measure to help him sleep peacefully when he was plagued by dreams of his time in Azkaban.
Harry wanted to sleep too.
He was certain he’d not in more than a week, not restfully, and he was exhausted. Both mentally and physically, he had nothing left to give.
Raising the bottle to his lips, he poured a generous serving down his throat, the burn making his eyes water. Still, it was no worse than some of the potions he had drunk over the years, and he quickly helped himself to another.
He didn’t know what to expect, whether he would feel better for it, yet, after just a short while, there was something of a comfortable numbness he was only all too glad to lose himself too.
It was far from happiness, but equally so from the sadness he’d been unable to rid himself of, and for now, he would take it.
Without little thought, he took a step towards Sirius’s bed, the bottle falling from his grip and thudding to the floor as he did so, before he followed suit, though he somehow managed to find himself face down on the mattress where he allowed himself to fall into a blissful slumber.
He was standing in front of the veil, and a shiver ran down his spine as a chill like nothing else he’d ever felt washed over him.
Oddly, although he knew Sirius had vanished when passing through the archway, Harry felt at peace, almost as though he belonged here. It was the first time in days that he’d felt anything resembling it, and he did not wish for it to end.
Even the ominous whispering was calming.
He did his utmost to listen, to discern the words spoken, and even hoped he might hear the voice of his godfather reassuring him that he was well, that although he was no longer with him, he was somehow in a better place.
Hary heard nothing of the sort, and yet, he remained at peace as he looked upon it, despite the persistent cold that seemed to embrace him.
“Master?”
Harry frowned as he heard the voice above all others.
“Master needs to wake.”
He did not wish to wake. Here, the grief did not plague him, and he was content being able to feel neither the sadness nor happiness he craved. Here, he was just Harry, alone with the voices, and without all that burdened him.
“Master, you must wake now!”
It all came crashing down upon him so suddenly, but it was the spinning room that took precedence over all else, and Harry fell to the floor, where he proceeded to empty the meagre contents of his stomach.
He could only groan in protest when he was done, his stomach hurting from a mixture of the lack of food and the afterburn of the alcohol.
Why he had drunk it, he didn’t know, but just for a while, he’d managed to escape his woes. Not that he would be doing so again, not if it left him feeling like this.
“What the fuck!” he spluttered as a liberal amount of water was dumped all over him.
His breathing was laboured as he sat up and pushed his sodden hair out of his eyes, narrowing them as he looked upon the house elf he had come to despise.
“Kreacher has made master some breakfast” he announced before disappearing with a click of his fingers.
“Breakfast?” Harry muttered groggily.
How long had he been out?
He could not be certain, but what he did remember was Kreacher’s part in him and his friends making their way to the Department of Mysteries in the first place, and Harry’s nostrils flared as he stalked from the room, doing his utmost not to vomit once more.
“Never again,” he groaned, chastising himself for indulging in the Firewhiskey.
Still, it had granted him some much-needed sleep, and even a reprieve of all that plagued him, but now, it was back. Maybe not quite as cumbersome as it had been. Harry, however, could not ignore the pang in his chest and the righteous fury coursing through his veins.
“KREACHER!”
The cowering elf appeared in front of him, trembling fearfully.
“Master called for Kreacher?”
He wanted to throttle the elf, wanted to hurt him just as much as Harry was hurting, and he even drew his wand to do so, but just could not bring himself to do it.
Harry despised Kreacher, wanted the elf to suffer for what he’d done, needed to Sirius avenged for what had befallen him.
He choked back a sob as he lowered his wand.
Kreacher was despicable, and though Harry wanted to exact something upon him, the elf wasn’t to blame.
It had been Voldemort who’d tricked him, and Bellatrix who’d murdered Sirius.
“Why?” he whispered. “Why did you tell me he wasn’t here?”
“Because Mistress told Kreacher bad master wasn’t here.”
“Walburga?”
Kreacher nodded pathetically as he continued to cower, and Harry stormed from the kitchen, pausing in front of the portrait of the smug Walburga Black.
“You!” he seethed.
Walburga grinned, and Harry finally felt his temper get the better of him. With a guttural roar, he took hold of the frame of the portrait and began tearing at it for all he was worth, cursing the woman with each tug, revelling in her look of shock as the entire section of wall surrounding her was ripped away.
“NO!” she screamed.
Harry hurled the portrait to the ground and began stomping on it, cursing as the woman continued to protest.
“Fuck you!” he spat, kicking the painting down the length of the hallway, drawing his wand again, his jaw clenched as Walburga Black pleaded with him.
Her words fell on deaf ears, and with a simple flick of his wand, the portrait exploded in a shower of wood and canvas.
Evidently, however, he’d not considered just how much force he’d put into the spell and was blown backwards until he slammed into the front door.
With the wind knocked out of him, he could only laugh to himself at what he’d done and wait for the inevitable arrival of a letter from the Misuse of Magic Office, declaring his expulsion from Hogwarts.
Not that he truly cared anymore.
It wasn’t as though he had any further use of his education, after all.
Soon enough, Riddle would catch up with him, and whatever OWL or NEWT scores he achieved would mean nothing.
“Is master well?”
Harry released a deep breath.
“Just leave me alone, Kreacher,” Harry sighed. “I’m waiting for a letter from the Ministry.”
“From the Ministry, master?”
“For using magic.”
“Master will not get a letter for using magic here. The Ministry cannot trace magic here.”
Harry frowned as he sat up.
“They can’t?”
Kreacher shook his head, his gaze drifting to the remains of Walburga Black’s painting.
“Bad master could not take her down.”
“The old cow deserved it,” Harry grumbled as he pushed himself to his feet.
Kreacher said nothing else on the matter, and Harry rubbed his eyes tiredly.
“Master’s breakfast is getting cold.”
“Why do you keep calling me master?”
“Because you are Kreacher’s master now.”
Harry could only shake his head as he returned to the kitchen, helping himself to some water, his stomach turning at the sight of the eggs, bacon, and toast on the plate before him.
“Master should eat. It will make him feel better.”
“Kreacher, I am not your master.”
The elf looked stricken by his words, but he shook his head.
“You are Kreacher’s master,” he replied defiantly. “Kreacher can feel it.”
Harry did not have the energy to argue with the elf. Instead, he decided to help himself to some of the food on the plate in front of him, pausing as he raised a forkful of bacon to his mouth.
“Did Walburga tell you to poison this?”
“Kreacher would never!”
Harry eyed the elf, but he sensed no subterfuge from him. No, for reasons only known to him, Kreacher was being honest, and though Harry did not trust him as far as he could throw him, he was not lying.
The sustenance as indeed needed.
Harry could not remember the last time he ate a meal, and already, his body was appreciating it.
Even so, Kreacher’s behaviour was odd to say the least, and Harry watched him as he poured a fresh cup of coffee from a pot he’d conjured.
“Bad master says it helps,” the elf explained.
“You will not call him bad master.”
Kreacher merely nodded in response, but before Harry could say anything else, there was a gentle tapping on the window.
“So much for not getting in trouble,” he sighed, admitting the bird.
It left immediately after he had relieved it of its missive, but it was not the expected seal of the Ministry of Magic that greeted him. It was another that wasn’t familiar.
“Moon and Moon,” he read aloud.
“That be the b-Master Sirius’s solicitor,” Kreacher explained knowingly, “and the Lord Black before him.”
“Why would he be writing to me?”
He opened the missive and scratched his chin as he began to read.
To Harry James Potter,
I am writing to inform you that you have been named in the final will of one Sirius Orion Black and would like to arrange a meeting to discuss this further.
I must warn you, Mr Potter, that time is of the essence, and urge you to do so at your earliest convenience.
I can be reached in writing, or by floo.
The address is Moon and Moon of London.
I look forward to hearing from you swiftly.
Ambrosius Moon
Moon and Moon of London
He felt another pang settle in his chest.
He’d not even considered that Sirius would’ve made a will, but it may well go some way into explaining why Kreacher as referring to him as his master. Not that Harry would make any assumptions.
Maybe the elf was merely confused with the death of the man and had no one else to serve to. Well, he certainly didn’t anymore after Harry had disposed of the portrait of Walburga Black.
“Do you know Ambrosius Moon, Kreacher?”
The elf nodded.
“Kreacher met him once, master, when he visited Lord Black.”
“Sirius?”
“No, Master Arcturus. Kreacher was not his elf, but Kreacher knew him.”
Harry hummed thoughtfully.
He didn’t want anything from his godfather.
It had never been about what he could get from the man other than getting to know him and even his parents to some degree. Despite having managed to spend some time with Sirius, he still knew very little about him, and even less about James and Lily Potter.
“I suppose I should reach out to Moon,” he sighed. “It says here that time is of the essence.”
“Master could use the floo in the study,” Kreacher informed him. “It is the only one not on the network.”
“Not on the network?”
“It means it cannot be traced, master,” he explained. “Master Arcturus created it during the war with Grindelwald.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
Kreacher nodded severely.
“Very, master. The Ministry is not liking it if they found out.”
That only added to the appeal of the illicit floo network, and Harry took his leave of the kitchen, his stomach quite unsettled from the sudden influx of so much food.
He had spent little time in here.
According to Sirius, it was the Lord’s study, and not a place his godfather had enjoyed spending time in as a boy when he was being groomed to take the over the headship of the Black family.
Releasing a deep breath, he took a handful of floo powder from the pot on the mantlepiece before throwing it into the flames.
“Moon and Moon, London,: he declared.
After only a moment, the flames turned green, and the head of an unfamiliar man appeared in the grate.
“Ah, Harry Potter,” Moon greeted him. “I had hoped you would reach out to me quickly. I have been trying to reach you for a number of days now.”
“I’ve not really been available,” Harry returned sheepishly.
Moon offered him an understanding smile.
“I will not pretend I knew Sirius Black well, but I am sorry for your loss, if it is such a thing to you, given what he was imprisoned for.”
“Sirius was innocent.”
Moon frowned before shaking his head.
“I expect there is quite the tale to that, but that is neither here nor there, anymore. You do have my apologies for the urgency in which we must discuss what happens next, but…”
“Time is of the essence?”
“Indeed,” Moon returned seriously. “If you will consent, I believe this conversation would be best conducted in person. Are you free to come through, or would you prefer I join you?”
“I think it is best I come through,” Harry replied uneasily.
He did not suspect any deception from the man, and would prefer it if he could come here, but Grimmauld Place needed to remain secure from everyone for the time being.
“Then do so, and not to worry, I will have the office locked down before you even arrive.”
His head vanished, but the flames remained green, and Harry braced himself, ensuring his wand was ready just in case he needed it.
He hoped not but given al that had been happening this past year, he was taking nothing for granted.
(Break)
Despite it being more than a week since he had made the error of attempting to possess Harry Potter in the atrium of the Ministry of Magic, the Dar Lord was still being plagued by frequent headaches, and even a feverish chill.
His condition was improving with each passing day, but the same could not be said for his mood.
The prophecy.
Not only had several of his followers been apprehended, and his return had been announced to the masses, he had failed to obtain the prophecy, which had led to the mistake he had made almost fifteen years prior.
Without it, h remained somewhat blind to the threat Potter posed. Of course, he had met the boy again during his first year of Hogwarts, where he’d learned the extent of protection of his damned mother, which he had nullified during their next meeting at the conclusion of the Triwizard Tournament.
Their next meeting should’ve been conclusive, but of course, the old fool had intervened before the Dark Lord and Harry could share their fated moment.
“You have to mean it, Harry!”
He would not deny that he was surprised to see the boy resorting to such magic, but that had become secondary to what had happened next.
Upon invading Potter’s mind, he’d known that something was amiss, that although he was initially successful, there was something different about Harry Potter, and when the boy had fought back, he had done so quite spectacularly, displacing the Dark Lord with incredible force.
That should not have been possible.
Potter was just a boy, but his feats could not be ignored.
That very same night Lord Voldemort had regained a true physical form, the two of them had found themselves locked in a battle of wills, and against the odds, Potter had emerged victorious.
No, he could no longer see Potter as a mere, helpless whelp.
Even without the protection of his mother, he had proven to be a capable wizard, and the Dark Lord could not help but wonder just how much potential he possessed.
Barty had spoken of his ability to throw off the Imperius Curse with ease, had proven his mettle throughout the Triwizard Tournament, and by all accounts, had already managed to master the patronus charm.
That in itself was indeed an admirable feat, and it gave the Dark Lord pause as he shuddered once more, the foreign influx of magic unsettling his own.
No, he could not think of Harry Potter a she had but needed to treat him as a true foe that must be vanquished, sooner rather than later before he realised the potential he possessed.
(Break)
He was already questioning his decision to accept the request to join Ambrosius Moon in his office, and the man eyed him with concern before taking a seat behind his rather ornate desk.
Moon was an older man, perhaps nearing retirement age judging by his thinning grey hair, and heavy wrinkling to his skin, but his brown eyes were sharp, as was the way he was dressed in undoubtedly expensive robes.
Everything in the office reeked of opulence, down to the man’s quill he removed from a holder before he began scratching away.
“You are Hary James Potter, son of James and Lily Potter?”
“I am.”
“Apologies, Mr Potter, but this is a formal meeting, and there are certain criteria I must adhere to. Now, shall we get down to business?”
“I don’t understand what business you would have with me, Mr Moon.”
The man offered him a sympathetic smile.
“All will be revealed, but first of all, I would like to offer my condolences for your loss. Of course, I appear to be lacking much information pertaining to Sirius Black, but I can see that he meant much to you.”
“Thank you,” Harry murmured. “He wasn’t what he was made out to be. He did not betray my parents, and he did not kill those muggles. That was Peter Pettigrew.”
“Then he was a victim of a miscarriage of justice when so many others who deserved it were allowed to walk free. That, however, is something we can do nothing about. We are here so that I may inform you of Sirius’s will, as per his requests dated August 1980, and amended in November 1995. I have already spoken with Remus Lupin, and both Nymphadora and Andromeda Tonks. You are the last and most important I must speak with.”
Harry nodded his understanding.
“Now, your bequeathment is a little more complicated than the others, but with my advice some fifteen years ago by yours truly, I believe we have managed to navigate any potential problems. As I am sure you are aware, Sirius was cast out of the Black family, but he was the next in line to replace Arcturus Black as the Head after his own father, Orion, died suddenly in 1978. Walburga Black attempted to have Sirius’s younger brother Regulus installed in his place, but vanished some time only a few months later, and was never heard from again.”
Harry frowned confusedly.
“As Sirius’s primary beneficiary, his wish for you to be left the Lordship, if he was to die. His imprisonment alone complicated that and adding that you are not closely enough related to claim it by heritage, that wish all but crumbled to dust, well, for the most part.”
“For the most part?”
Moon nodded, and a mischievous grin tugged at his lips.
“In short, you are not eligible to become the Lord Black. You are distantly related to them, of course, but that is neither here nor there. Knowing this, Sirius manoeuvred rather cleverly. Instead of leaving you the Lordship, meaning you would inherit everything that comes with it, he simply transferred the deeds to every property, and all of the belongings into your name. Unfortunately, he could only do the same with 5% of the liquid assets, the sum of 1.3 million galleons, but you will find that swell your own accounts significantly.”
Harry could only shake his head.
“Not to worry, Mr Potter, Sirius managed to secure the rest of it from being seized against his wishes, so, any other prospective heirs will be in for quite the surprise.”
“Other prospective heirs?”
Moon made a point of consulting his parchment.
“One Draco Lucius Malfoy.”
Harry scowled at the mention of the blond, though he smirked knowing that Lucius had been apprehended in the Department of Mysteries.
“Git,” he muttered.
“As was the sentiment of Arcturus Black when it came to the Malfoys. Although he and Sirius did not see eye to eye, Arcturus would approve.”
“So, what did Sirius do?”
“He spent it.”
“He spent it?”
Moon nodded amusedly.
“How did he spend so much?”
“I am not privy to that information, but when I approached Gringotts with his will, they informed me that all that remained was what I have now bequeathed to you and the others.”
Harry could only chuckle to himself, the sound of his own laughter something that had become rather foreign to him in recent days.
“With our business concluded, can I offer you some advice?”
Harry nodded.
“See a Healer. You do not look well, Mr Potter.”
Harry deflated.
“It’s been a difficult week.”
Moon eyed him sceptically.
“Perhaps, but it wouldn’t hurt. I would be remiss in my duties to the people of Britain if I did not urge you to do so. Truly, I wish you luck in what is to come.”
And there it was.
Everything that had been burdening him since Sirius’s death came crashing down on him once more, along with the fatigue, and an unpleasant chill.
“I will take your advice on board, Mr Moon,” he assured the man. “Thank you.”
“And do pay a visit to Gringotts. I do not understand the state of your financial affairs, but the goblins will be able to assist you. You have accumulated a significant wealth, which should be managed wisely.”
Harry nodded as he threw a handful of floo powder into the fireplace, and stepped back through, rubbing his throbbing temples to alleviate the tension.
The headache had been plaguing him all week, as had the chill he was feeling, and though he had considered it was simply the grief and tiredness from the lack of sleep, one look in the mirror of the study painted a rather grim picture.
He was paler than usual, his eyes quite dull, and Moon was right. He looked to be quite sick.
“Kreacher?” he called.
The elf appeared immediately, and looked at him with the same concern Moon had shown.
“Do you know any private Healers?”
He certainly wasn’t going to waltz into St Mungo’s, nor did he wish to visit Hogwarts, not when Dumbledore believed he was safely with the Dursleys, or so the man thought.
“Kreacher does, master. Shall Kreacher send for Mr Tullius?”
Harry nodded before allowing himself to sink into the nearby chair behind the desk, his head still pounding, and the fever only seeming to become worse.
Perhaps he needed nothing more than some good sleep, but he could not deny that he felt rather unwell, and it wouldn’t hurt to be checked over. He had not done so at Hogwarts, after all, and he had endured a most unpleasant experience with Voldemort attempting to possess him.
Thoughts of the Dark Lord did little to make him feel better, and though both physically and mentally he was not ready to face him, that spark of defiance within screamed for Harry to tear the man limb from limb for all he’d done.
He shook his head at the thought.
Harry was under no illusion that he could defeat Tom Riddle, but there was something within him that simply would not allow him to admit defeat. Even after everything he’d endured, he could not bring himself to do so, and although he might never be able to, there were others he could not allow to get away with what they had done.
Wormtail…Bellatrix…Barty Crouch Jr
In truth, the list was endless, and perhaps Harry would fall at the final hurdle, but he could not rid himself of the urge he felt to seek justice, not only for those that had suffered, but more than anyone else, for himself.