Things were very different, with Dumbledore gone.
The heirs adjusted the wards as soon as Harry was cleared to do magic again, making sure the former headmaster couldn't set a single foot on Hogwarts grounds. Luna sent off the article for her father, assuring it would likely be out fairly soon — one last issue, and then Xenophilius Lovegood would pack up his printing press and hide out until the storm had passed.
By Monday, Harry was more than ready to get back to classes and start doing something normal again. Draco had finally stopped watching him like he'd disappear if the blond turned away for more than a few seconds.
He could have done without their mutual decision to go back to their dorms at night instead of sleeping in the Room of Requirement, but it was necessary. If only to stop giving Neville a tiny heart attack every time he woke up and saw Harry's bed empty.
It was a relief, to walk into the DADA classroom after Ancient Runes. Finally, someone who wouldn't treat him like fucking glass.
At the front of the classroom, Professor Snape sneered at Harry in contempt, dark eyes flashing. Harry smirked back. He might be 'taking it easy' on his magical core, but there was still a lot of wiggle room there. A lot of ways Snape could take out his annoyance at Harry's continued existence, though they both knew Voldemort would have thrown a fit if Dumbledore had taken away his opportunity to destroy his fated enemy.
It was a mildly exhausted, but much more relaxed Harry who slumped into a seat at the Gryffindor table for lunch. Neville slid in beside him, looking shell-shocked. "That was brutal," he whispered, making Harry chuckle.
"He doesn't mean it," he said quietly, grinning. "It's fun."
Neville shot him a look that said he thought Harry had lost his mind, but didn't question it.
Potions after lunch was the opposite. Slughorn was bending over backwards to accommodate Harry, practically going so far as to brew his potion for him. "Just do whatever you feel up to, Harry, my lad!" the man kept saying, smiling slightly anxiously every time.
It would have been supremely annoying, had Harry not decided this was a perfect chance to get some answers.
When the class ended, Harry took his time packing up, brushing a kiss across Draco's cheek and murmuring that he'd follow in a moment. Draco caught on quickly, though still didn't look thrilled about leaving Harry alone with their teacher.
Maybe he hadn't quite stopped watching Harry like he'd disappear. But they'd get there.
"Can I help you, lad?" Slughorn asked when it was just the two of them. Harry perched on the edge of one of the worktables, thinking over his next words carefully. He'd only get one shot at this.
"I… I had a question, sir," he started tentatively. "About— well. About something Dumbledore said when he…"
Slughorn paled behind his moustache. "Indeed? Something you think I can help you with? Not, say, Professor McGonagall?"
Harry shook his head. "He said… he was going to kill me and blame it on the Death Eaters. And then he said something about that prompting you to 'finally tell him the truth about what you know'."
"Oh." Slughorn inhaled sharply, one hand flying out to brace himself on his desk. "He, ah, said that, did he?"
Harry fixed his features in a politely bewildered expression. "Do you know what he means, sir? He said that we were running out of time… what does he think you know?" He turned the full force of his plaintive green eyes on the man. "Is it something important?"
He tried not to fidget, as the silence stretched between them. This was the tipping point. This was where Slughorn either dismissed it as the ramblings of an insane old man — or Harry finally got some answers.
Slughorn sighed, running a hand over his balding head. "I never wanted it to come out like this," he confessed. "A mistake of a much younger man, drawn in by a startlingly bright student of mine."
"Tom Riddle," Harry guessed, and Slughorn's lips quirked.
"Indeed. You know who he became, I suspect?" Harry nodded. "Yes, well. These awful truths have a way of catching up to a person — remember that, Harry, when you get to my age."
Harry was patient, watching Slughorn as the man's eyes filled with the haze of nostalgia. "Tom was such an incredible young lad. Top of every class, liked by most students, absolutely adored by his teachers. Except Albus — he managed to see what the rest of us couldn't."
A sneer fought to take over Harry's mouth, but he forced it away; how much of that was Dumbledore's insight, and how much was him pushing young Tom Riddle away due to his dislike of Slytherins, and his distrust of those who could become more powerful than he was.
How much of Voldemort was Dumbledore's creation, after all?
"The standard Hogwarts curriculum was child's play for Tom, you understand. Much like I'm sure it is for you, eh, my boy?" Slughorn added with a chuckle, which faded with an awkward croak as he realised who he was comparing Harry to. "What I mean is, he often did his own research about forms of magic not commonly taught in school. And, as his housemaster, I was often the one he came to with questions on such things."
Harry held his breath, not daring to interrupt in case it knocked Slughorn back into his shell. "One day, after one of my little suppers… Tom asked me about a rather obscure piece of magic he'd read about in a book. Dark, dark magic. Magic I was horrified he'd even heard of."
Immediately, Harry knew what that was. "Horcruxes," he whispered, and Slughorn flinched.
"You know about them, then?" he asked, voice wavering. Harry nodded. "I suppose you'd have to, considering…" The Potions Master shook his head. "Albus is a very persuasive man, you know. He wormed it out of me that I'd told Tom about them. Of course, I told him I'd shut Tom down and sent him packing!" He chuckled bitterly. "My greatest shame, Harry, is that one conversation with a fifteen year-old boy. Had I truly done what I told Albus I'd done, perhaps the world would not be where it is today!"
"He would've found the information elsewhere, sir," Harry said gently. "People like him always do."
Slughorn looked up, attempting a weak smile. "Kind of you to say so, my boy. And perhaps true. But perhaps not." He sighed. "Nothing I can do about it now, though, is there?"
"So… what happened, when Tom Riddle asked about horcruxes?"
"Truly, Harry, I thought his questions were all academic," Slughorn whispered. "Boys his age, of his ability — it's not unusual for them to be drawn to the darker side of magic. Particularly the Slytherins. Ambition does not always follow morality, I'm sure you understand. But Tom was a good lad — I never… I didn't think. Even after he graduated, when the whispers started rising… I truly thought he had dismissed that type of magic when I warned him away from it."
The old professor shook his head mournfully. "It wasn't until the night your parents were killed that I even thought of the possibilities. I spent years telling myself to stop worrying, stop assuming the worst. I almost believed it, too. And then he came back."
When Slughorn met Harry's gaze, it was with haunted, watery eyes. "This may not surprise you, Harry, considering what you must know by now. But when Tom Riddle asked me about horcruxes, he was not satisfied with the idea of only creating one." Harry's breath hitched, but not from shock. "How many?" he pressed, hoping against hope that he would finally have a confirmation, an answer. Some relief. "How many did he want to make?"
"Tom was fascinated with Arithmancy," Slughorn said, and it would have sounded like an entirely different conversation had Harry not known where it was leading, his heart in his mouth. "The way numbers could change the flow of magic. And by then, he knew that seven was the most magically powerful number…" The man trailed off, voice shaking too much to speak the rest aloud. Harry leaned in closer.
"Sir, this is really, really important," he said quietly. "When he spoke of the number seven — did he mean seven horcruxes, or seven soul pieces?"
Slughorn gaped at him soundlessly for a moment, then swallowed. "Soul pieces," he rasped. "He only mentioned soul pieces. I— you truly think he did it, then?"
When Harry nodded, Slughorn let out a gasp like a wounded man. "I know he did, sir. But if he only made six… that's very good news for us."
"Only," Slughorn echoed, choking on a laugh. "I suppose six murders were nothing compared to the rest he's done." He reached out, gripping the front of Harry's robe. "Please, Harry, do not think poorly of me for my mistake, terrible though it may have been. I didn't know. I couldn't know. He was only fifteen!" There was a wildness in Slughorn's eyes that alarmed Harry, and he put his hands over the man's pudgy fingers.
"It's okay, sir." How long had Slughorn been carrying this weight, this knowledge?
How long would he have kept it quiet, a bitter voice muttered in the back of Harry's mind.
If the Order had had this information back in the first war, when so many capable fighters were alive…
No. He couldn't think like that. They were still headed by Dumbledore, then, and the old man would have been just as tight-lipped on the subject as he was even now, determined to be the one to save everyone else.
But if Slughorn had taken the knowledge to a curse-breaker, to Gringotts…
Harry could go mad, thinking over the possibilities, the what-ifs. Looking at Slughorn, he wondered if the old professor hadn't done just that.
"Can you kill him, Harry?" Slughorn breathed, grip tightening. "Knowing what you know, what I've told you — can you truly destroy him? Is it… I could rest easier, knowing I may have absolved myself, just a little. Knowing there is a chance for someone to right the deep wrong I began all those years ago."
"I can do it," Harry said, not an ounce of doubt within him. "I'm a lot more prepared than Dumbledore ever thought I was. When the time comes, I can kill him."
Slughorn stared at him for such a long time Harry began to feel uncomfortable, the man's fingers still tight around his robe. Then, slowly, the professor released his grip. "Your mother was one of my favourite students, you know," he said softly. Eyes glassy, looking at Harry but not seeing him. "You're so much like her."
Harry smiled slightly. "So I've been told, sir."
Suddenly, Slughorn pulled back, wringing his hands anxiously. "You mustn't share what I've told you, Harry," he urged. "This knowledge — this knowledge should die with me. With us. With Tom Riddle. Should any of his followers discover the truth, decide to try their own hand at it… we would never be free."
It was too late for that, Harry wanted to say, but it was no good telling Slughorn how many people already knew about horcruxes.
Besides, they could all keep a secret.
"My lips are sealed," he promised, watching the professor slump visibly.
"Good. Good lad." Slughorn was shaking, eyes darting around nervously, desperate to get out of the conversation. "Merlin, is it too early for a drink?" he muttered to himself, turning towards his desk.
"Thank you, sir, for your honesty," Harry said, shouldering his satchel. Slughorn scoffed.
"It's far too late to be thanking me, Harry. Not after what I've done." He smiled a thin, fragile smile. "But I appreciate your compassion. Now, off you go, before that young man of yours sends out a search party." His eyes bulged, like he was worried he'd offended the Gryffindor, but Harry just laughed.
"Yeah, you're probably right. I'll see you later, Professor."
Then he left the classroom, hardly daring to breathe until he was at least a corridor away. Only then did he lean against the wall, letting out a long sigh of relief.
That was the big reason Dumbledore had brought Slughorn back. Just horcruxes — conclusions Harry had already come to himself, though it was reassuring to have that confirmation.
He hadn't realised until Slughorn had spoken just how afraid he was that there was something more, some other aspect to Voldemort's immortality that he hadn't known about, something Slughorn knew that Dumbledore wanted that would change everything for Harry. He shouldn't have worried. As always, he was several steps ahead of Dumbledore.
A breathless, slightly giddy laugh escaped him, head tipping back to hit stone.
Six horcruxes. Seven, including his scar. Only the snake remained.
They might actually be able to win this war, after all.
.-.-.-.
He didn't tell Draco what he'd spoken to Slughorn about, promising his boyfriend it was nothing urgent. He would tell Snape later, assure him that it was just confirmation of what they already knew. Something Dumbledore didn't know, evidently.
The Slytherin part of Harry took a great deal of amusement in imagining Dumbledore hiding out there, trying frantically to find horcruxes that no longer existed, with no idea how many there might even be.
But with the mystery of Slughorn's return from retirement finally solved, there was another mystery lingering in the back of Harry's mind. A far more recent one.
When he was alone that night, safely behind the drapes of his bed and a thick layer of privacy spells, Harry whispered a name.
With a quiet pop, a house elf appeared at the foot of his bed. "Master Harry is needing Ceri?" she asked, keeping to a whisper, glancing around fearfully. "Is Master Harry in trouble?"
"No, I'm fine," he assured. "I— could you bring me a book from my room, please? It's the Peverell family book. Should be on my shelf." He was going to get to the bottom of Dumbledore's weird Master of Death comments, one way or another.
Ceri brightened up, nodding exuberantly and disappearing, only to reappear moments later with the book in hand.
"Thanks, Ceri."
The elf's expression turned chiding. "Master Harry is not to be staying up late reading on a school night," she scolded. "Master Harry needs his rest."
He bit back a smile. "I won't stay up much longer, promise." It wasn't a particularly large book, not like the Potter or Black books.
Ceri eyed him shrewdly for a moment more, but was apparently satisfied with that vow, as she vanished once more. Eagerly, Harry propped the book open on his lap, skimming the contents page. 'Family tree… History and Origins… Three Brothers and Death'. Well, one of those things was not like the other.
He flipped it open to the page indicated, which was headed with a strange symbol — a circle inside a triangle, with a line neatly bisecting both. Harry had seen that symbol before; it was all over the things in the Peverell vault. It was even in the family crest. But what did it mean?
In the silence of his dorm, Harry read a story — a story of three Peverell brothers, and a river. The story said that while future tales would declare the brothers had conjured a bridge over the river to cheat death, the truth was that the youngest fell in, and died. His two older brothers rescued and revived him, almost expiring their family magics to do so. This burst of energy summoned Death himself, who was curious about these men and their love so strong it could thwart his clutches. Death offered the men a boon each — supposedly, a reward for having escaped him. It would not be for decades more that they would discover Death's true plan.
The eldest brother asked for a wand. More powerful than any other. And his wish was granted; a wand, crafted by Death himself, from a branch of elder off a nearby tree.
The second brother, believing his magic the strongest and the true reason Death had been denied, decided to take that a step further and ask for a way to recall deceased loved ones from beyond. Death granted his wish, in the form of a stone from the riverbank.
The youngest brother, still shaken from his experience, merely asked for a way to avoid such a traumatic thing happening again — he asked for something that would let him leave, and stop Death from following. So Death granted his wish, too, and gave the brother a cloak torn from the fabric of his own. A cloak that would make him invisible to all — even Death.
Harry was enraptured as he read about the power-hungry eldest brother killing his enemy, bragging about his unbeatable wand and then being killed for it that very night. About the arrogant second brother, who went mad in front of the shade of the girl he had once loved, unable to fully breach the gap between life and death — except by joining her at his own hand.
And about the third brother, who avoided Death using his cloak, until he reached a grand old age. Only then did he pass the cloak down to his son, and greet Death willingly.
And only then did he learn the truth of the boons Death had offered.
It seemed, in rescuing their younger brother, the Peverell boys had tied all three of their magics to Death himself, sacrificing part of it for the life of their brother. Death became the head of the family, in a sense — the brothers had no one left but each other. So in those boons, Death left enough of his own magic to strengthen his connection to the Peverell boys, and their offspring. He had always known how things would play out, he told the third brother — but he'd been waiting for such an opportunity for a very long time.
With those three objects now in the world — the stone and the cloak passed down through the family, the wand leaving a trail of death and destruction behind it — Death's magic could spread further, grow stronger, understand the strange thing called humanity better. The Peverells would always have an… affinity for death, thanks to their ancestors' works.
And one day, so Death told the third brother, a person would come along who could unite all three objects — all of Death's Hallows — and the cycle would be complete. That person would have Death's power at their fingertips. That person would have earned it, Death insisted. That person would know what to do with it.
But Death did not tell the third brother what would happen when that time came. He only sounded far, far too pleased about the outcome.
At the very end of the story, there was a warning.
Our family has been Changed by our connection with Death. We are followed by Him in our every waking moment. Many a Peverell has greeted Him far too soon.
Only a Peverell can truly understand the power of the Hallows. This bloodline has been tasked with the solemn duty of keeping the Hallows safe and protected and apart from one another. To betray their knowledge is to betray the family — to seek their union is to seek only Death. This is our family's power, our curse — we are friends of Death, but Death is not always a friend to us in return. Be wary of the Hallows, and teach your children the same. Such power does not come without a price.
Harry set the book down, eyes wide. That was… quite the story.
It was familiar to him, of course. He'd read the Tales of Beedle the Bard, after seeing so many copies of the book in the Peverell family vault. He knew the Tale of the Three Brothers — altered, sanitised to become a children's story. Had Beedle been a Peverell? Or merely spoken to one, thinking it a fanciful tale?
To think that the Hallows were real… a sick sense of clarity curled within Harry, icy and sharp. His cloak, handed down from father to son — making him invisible to even Dumbledore's eye. The true Invisibility Cloak.
Dumbledore's wand, rumoured to be won in the battle with Grindelwald himself.
He flipped to the front of the book, to the family tree, following generation after generation down from Cadmus Peverell all the way down, eventually marrying into the Gaunt family — culminating at one Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr.
The ring horcrux, the one Dumbledore had been so obsessed with, had almost died over. Snape had said there was a stone set in it, hadn't he?
A wand, a stone, a cloak. Three Hallows — all now in Dumbledore's grasp. Harry's blood ran cold.
Was he truly the Master of Death, now? If so, what did that mean for the future? What power would that give him?
And why hadn't he used it against Harry while he had him?
Unless it took more than just the Hallows. A spell, or a ritual. The book just said that the person who united the Hallows would know what to do with them.
Harry had promised Ceri he wouldn't stay up all night reading. But even when the book was returned to Seren Du by the elf, Harry lay there for a long time, staring at the crimson drapes above him, mind full of all the horrible things that could come from Dumbledore having access to the power of Death itself.
Sleep did not come easy, that night.
.-.-.
Sirius had to hand it to old Xeno Lovegood — he might be mad as a box of frogs, but he was a brave bugger.
The Quibbler's final issue had arrived in the talons of every owl they could afford, printed as many times over as the printing press could handle. Copies spread far and wide, through the UK and beyond — to European magical newspapers, telling them the sordid truth of Albus Dumbledore and the lengths he would go to just to remain a hero in the eyes of the world.
Since then, Sirius could hardly keep up with all the requests for sanctuary. The Pottery was full to bursting, and the other safe Black properties close to the same. Malfoy Manor held dozens of people, most of whom the general public would swear up and down were Death Eaters — some of whom were even Marked, but Narcissa did not judge. She knew better than most what it was like to have no real choice at all. With Dumbledore out of the way, he'd finally been able to break and reset the Fidelius on Grimmauld Place, with Remus as the Secret Keeper this time. When a pair of healers asked for refuge, Grimmauld quickly became the place for the trusted members of the Order to bring those who had been injured trying to flee, who needed somewhere safe to recover. Most days, Sirius was there, helping the healers the best he could.
Charlie helped where he could, bless his enormous Weasley heart. With the dragon reserve on high alert, he did his best to bring healing supplies to Grimmauld when he could — the reserve had its own greenhouses for ingredients used in the most common remedies, as it liked to be as self-sufficient as possible. Sirius didn't see his partner nearly as often as he'd like these days, despite the reserve only actually being perhaps twenty miles away from Seren Du itself. They had to be careful about moving through the wards, now that Voldemort had control of the Ministry and its ability to track magic use throughout the British Isles. More than once, Sirius had seen dark cloaked figures skulking about the woods on the other side of the Seren Du wardline, muttering about having seen apparition signatures in the area.
Luckily, Ceri was always good to aid with transportation, and very few wizards had thought to design wards to track or deny elf magic.
At the sound of the front door opening, Sirius straightened up — he was at Grimmauld again, waiting for Charlie and Fred to return with a group of muggleborns Kingsley had tipped them off about. They hadn't had new attacks to fend off in a while — either Voldemort had run out, or he had bigger plans to focus on now — so most of their work was just finding people who needed safety.
He hurried into the main hall, skidding to a halt in the doorway, jaw dropping.
Kingsley hadn't said they were children.
The two redheads each held a child on their hip, around six or seven years old. At their feet stood three more kids, all of whom looked old enough to be at Hogwarts. "What happened?" Sirius pressed. "Where are their parents?"
The tallest child, a spindly-limbed boy that reminded him painfully of the first time he'd ever seen Harry, storming out of the Dursleys' looking like he hadn't eaten in months, scoffed.
"Haven't had those for a long while, sir," he replied mulishly.
"We've been on our own since the summer," the auburn-haired girl beside him explained, softer, her eyes full of apology for the boy's attitude. "When my parents — they're muggles — found out about the war, they pulled me out of Hogwarts and decided that was that, I was done with the whole magic business. But I knew it wouldn't be that simple — not with my address on record at the Ministry. Not since the twins started doing accidental magic of their own." She glanced up at the kids still held by the Weasley brothers. Sirius could see the family resemblance. "When muggleborn families started getting targeted, I figured it wouldn't be long 'til they came after us. So I took the twins with me and ran away, to keep my parents safe. I went to Frankie's house — his big brother is his guardian, and he's never around anyway." From the scowl on the tall boy's face, Sirius figured he was Frankie. "Kevin found us about a month in, and we've stuck together ever since. We— thank you for saving us, sirs." She glanced back at Charlie and Fred, dark blue eyes wide with fear. "I don't know how much longer we would've lasted."
Sirius' heart broke for her — for all five of the kids, half-starved and terrified, having been on their own for months. It was a miracle they'd lasted this long, especially with the two little ones. He felt sick when he thought about how many other kids were in the same boat, stuck running for their lives with nowhere safe to go, no adults around to help them. Hopefully most of the muggleborns would have slipped into the muggle world, hiding in plain sight, keeping their magic tightly under wraps.
"How old are you?" he asked, and the girl smiled tightly.
"Thirteen, sir. Frankie and I are supposed to be third years now. Kevin would be in his second. The twins are only seven, but I know they've both got magic, I can tell." Her gaze dared him to argue, and Sirius held up his hands.
"I believe you," he assured. "Come on, let's get you fed and checked over by the healers, then we'll find rooms for you."
"We're staying together," Frankie insisted immediately, his hand reaching for the girl's. The boy in Charlie's arms squirmed to get down, and as soon as his feet hit the ground he was at his sister's side.
"We can do that," Charlie said, keeping his voice even — the kind of voice he used with startled dragons, or Sirius on Cold days. "There's rooms big enough to fit all five of you. It's fine." An amused flicker crossed his lips. "Just thought you might want a bit of space from the little ones, now you're somewhere safe. I have younger twin brothers, and they were a nightmare growing up," he conspired with a wink.
"Oi!" Fred yelped, offended. "You just didn't appreciate our enthusiasm, is all."
The girl in his arms giggled. "You're a twin?" she asked, voice filled with wonder. Fred beamed at her.
"Sure am! So identical even our own mum can't tell us apart," he said proudly.
"Amy, he's one of the Weasley twins," the older girl told her sister, a mischievous grin on her face that made Sirius' breath catch with its familiarity. The younger one gasped, her eyes going impossibly wider as she stared up at Fred.
"No way!"
"I see my reputation precedes me," Fred crowed in delight. "Tell you what — I'll ask my brother to come over tonight, and maybe he'll even be able to bring a few presents for you all. Did your big sister tell you we own a joke shop?"
With the youngest children utterly captivated, and the older three practically trembling with exhaustion, Fred had little trouble leading them through to the kitchen, where Sirius was sure Ceri would have food ready in an instant.
Sirius looked at Charlie, brows knitting together. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" he asked. Charlie sighed, stepping closer, forehead pressing to Sirius' chin.
"Depends; are you thinking those kids need an inheritance test as soon as this damned war is over?" came his wry response. He tipped his head back, blue eyes knowing. "Fred and I thought we were imagining it, but we're not, are we? Those eyes, Sirius. That smile. Those freckles. And twins."
Sirius hummed in agreement, hands resting on Charlie's hips. "Those are Prewett eyes if I've ever seen them," he agreed quietly. It might not be obvious at first, with the tightly curled hair and tawny skin under the freckles that suggested one of their parents wasn't white. But looking closer, something just felt so achingly familiar about those kids.
"They might be family, Sirius," Charlie whispered, pressing in closer. "Long-lost squib descendants." Thanks to Narcissa's inheritance test push over the summer, they had discovered most muggleborns had connections to at least one magical bloodline, even if they were weak ones.
"We don't want to jump the gun, sweetheart," Sirius murmured, smoothing a hand up Charlie's back. "Red hair and blue eyes aren't exactly rare in Britain, y'know. Nor are twins." They could be chasing ghosts — the kids could be nothing to do with the Prewett family. Other old pureblood lines carried the red hair gene; the Bones', the Yaxleys, even some branches of the Goldsteins.
"I know," Charlie agreed. "But, even if they're not…" He swallowed tightly. Sirius knew what he was thinking.
"Their parents might be alive," he reminded, talking more to himself, his traitorous heart that had picked up the moment Charlie had said the word family.
"I know." Charlie's voice was a heartbroken whisper. He rocked up on his toes for a kiss. "No getting ahead of ourselves. The important thing is they're here, and they're safe. Anything else… anything else can wait."
When he pulled away, it was with a decisive set to his shoulders and jaw, and he squeezed Sirius' hand before heading towards the kitchen.
Sirius stared after him, a vice tightening around his chest as the tiniest whispers began brewing in his mind, building a fragile possibility of after. He was only startled out of it by one of their healers coming down the stairs and squeezing past him, giving him an odd look on her way through.
Entering the kitchen, he saw soup and sandwiches had been shared around, the kids falling on the food like a pack of starving dogs. The girl immediately requested her siblings be seen to first, once the healer opened her kit. Casually, Sirius reached over the redhead for a bowl, glancing her way.
"I never caught your name, Miss," he said politely. "Or gave mine. I'm Sirius."
She eyed him amusedly. "I know who you are, Mr Black," she told him. "You're Harry's godfather." Her casual, slightly starstruck use of Harry's name made him strongly suspect she was a Gryffindor. Then she stuck out a hand. "My name is Nashira." Her smile brightened, and she giggled. "Like the star in Capricorn. Our names sort-of match!"
Sirius shook her hand, hoping it didn't show on his face how wildly his heart was beating. "They do, don't they?" he croaked.
Some higher power in the universe was playing a fine trick on him, to be sure.
.-.-.-.
As always, Seren Du was a blissful sanctuary in the wake of the constant unease of Hogwarts, and Severus felt the tension drain from his exhausted shoulders the moment he and Ceri rematerialised. He snorted upon the realisation that the elf had deposited him straight in his bedroom, startling Remus, who was stretched out on the bed with a book in his hands — a sight that sent a strong shock of affection and want right through Severus' whole body. This was what he wanted to end every gruelling teaching day with; that man, in his bed, for the rest of forever. Having that would make everything worth it.
Instead of voicing any of these thoughts, Severus instead let himself fall face-first onto the empty side of the mattress, fully clothed. He heard Remus chuckle, warming Severus down to his bones, and a hand rested on the back of his neck, massaging the tense muscles. "Long day, love?" Remus asked lightly.
Severus groaned in reply, giving himself a few minutes of the glorious sensation before reluctantly rolling over, running a hand down his chest and murmuring the spell to undo all his buttons along the way. "I thought playing double-agent was exhausting before Albus left," he grumbled. "This is worse." With Albus gone, the levels of authority and power within the school were all to be rearranged; Slytherin house was in a quiet uproar as the students tried to figure out their standing now that all they knew had been turned on its head. They were pushing boundaries — with Minerva, with him, with Harry as the true heir of Slytherin. And those who were truly loyal to the Dark Lord were gathering, deciding their chance had come with Dumbledore no longer watching over things.
They were all idiots, thinking there was no reason to be wary of Harry Potter himself. Severus would enjoy watching them fail.
Not that he could do so publicly. He had to support those who came to him, and play his part flawlessly for those who didn't — those he had no idea about, who would be reporting his every move back to their master. His master.
He said all this to Remus as the werewolf helped him out of his teaching robes, getting more and more irate with every thought that spilled from his lips. He was so used to having to keep such things bottled up tightly, locked in his own mind, his own burden to bear. Even after more than two years, he was still remembering how to share that burden.
"I know he's going to summon me soon — he'll want to know the truth about what happened with Harry. I'm surprised he hasn't already. Surprised I didn't get the Call the second he got wind of Harry being Slytherin's true heir." It still gave him a glimmer of smug pride to think about, remembering the moment the hall had draped itself in green and silver at Harry's command, the absolute shock on his Slytherins' faces. "He probably just wants to make sure you get your loyalty cemented with Minerva, while the school adjusts," Remus pointed out, sending Severus' robe to hang on the wardrobe door with a wave of his wand. "Albus was always the one who vouched for you, after all. He may worry the headmaster being discredited has also put suspicion on you."
Severus snorted. "The Dark Lord has not worried about me for even a moment of his hideous life," he said firmly. "More likely he is occupied with trying to find Albus himself, now the old fool doesn't have the castle keeping him safe. He'll Call me when he's good and ready — and want to know why I did not give him all this information sooner. My job is to know things about Hogwarts that others do not, and I have been slacking as of late." He could already feel the Cruciatus burning through his veins, the punishment he would face for not letting his Lord know of Potter's family status, of Albus' machinations. He would not accept 'I did not know' as an answer.
A growl rumbled through Remus, his eyes flashing gold. "Have you considered it might be time to give up your spying, soon?" the greying man suggested tentatively. A spike of guilt drove its way through Severus' heart.
"I cannot, until the Dark Lord is dead." He shoved up the sleeve of his shirt, baring his greatest shame to the eyes of his love. The Dark Mark, black as night on his pale forearm. "I am bound to him, and he to me, tighter than most of his followers — he could kill me through this Mark, if he so chose. Until he is truly destroyed, I must pretend to be loyal — for him to doubt me is for my life to be forfeit." His dark eyes met Remus' intently. "And I find I have too many plans to allow that."
Remus' nostrils flared. "Damn right you do," he agreed roughly. "Merlin, I hate this. The only claim on you should be mine." That was said with a hint of a growl and another flash of gold.
"Soon, it shall be," Severus vowed. "Yours and no other." Harry's seventeenth birthday was creeping ever closer.
He ran a hand through his hair, grimacing at the feel of the fine strands clumped together with the greasy residue of hours worth of potion-steam. "I need a shower," he declared, then let his gaze trail slowly over Remus' supine form. "Care to join me?"
Remus perked up, book falling forgotten to the mattress as he scrambled to his feet. His eagerness had Severus' blood pounding, rushing southwards, following the broad line of the werewolf's shoulders. Shoulders that, once the moon rose that night, would break and twist and reform into something most would consider monstrous.
They only had a few hours, before Sirius would come home and the pair would retreat off to play outside in the moonlight.
Remus' hand tightened around his, tugging him towards the bathroom. They had best make the most of those few hours.
.-.-.-.
The spring term began to earn its name, as January's chill started to thaw out into the first blossoms of a fairly mild February. The students got into a good routine, the staff banding together to help McGonagall run the school while still maintaining her positions as Head of Gryffindor and Transfiguration Professor. With secrecy no longer as vital, and the whole school shocked at their ex-headmaster's blatant move against Harry, more and more people begged to join the HA — so many that Harry eventually decided to hold weekly sessions in the Great Hall, for anyone who wanted to join. He still kept training with the smaller group, and many of them would help him out with the larger sessions, teaching students of all ages the basics of Stunning, Disarming and Shielding, as well as a few healing charms for good measure.
Despite all that, Harry was left feeling horribly guilty, as his fellow sixth years complained about how they would normally be learning to apparate at this point in their educations, ready to get their licenses as soon as they turned seventeen.
With the way things were at the Ministry, it was not safe to invite the usual apparition instructor into the castle. Nor was it safe to adjust the wards so the students could practice inside the castle.
"We are truly sorry," Professor Flitwick sighed for the dozenth time. "We can, of course, teach you all the theory of it. But I'm afraid the practical will have to wait."
Draco and Harry shared secretive grins, amongst the disappointed groans of their peers.
Still, the upset didn't last for too long, not with the arrival of the next quidditch match of the year. Slytherin versus Ravenclaw, with most of the school rallying behind the eagles.
But not Harry, who showed up to breakfast the morning of the match wearing a deep green hoodie with Slytherin Quidditch Team on the front and Malfoy emblazoned across the back, a green and silver scarf draped around his shoulders. Several of his friends booed and hissed playfully at the sight of him.
"How long have you been wanting to wear that in public?" Neville asked knowingly, and Harry grinned.
"Long enough." The hoodie was a little big for him, and it still smelled of Draco's aftershave. "I don't think he's getting it back."
"You better believe this means war when we play you," Cho called from the Ravenclaw table, making a face at the sight of him in all that green.
"You're on, Chang," Harry replied, smirking. "Sorry, but boyfriend trumps friend in the loyalty department."
"Understandable." She winked devilishly at him. "I'll let you off this time, only because we both know your boyfriend would dump you if he saw you in my team colours. I think green suits you better, anyway."
"He does look good with my name on him, doesn't he?" a familiar voice drawled smugly. Harry turned, eyes trailing over his boyfriend in his tight quidditch uniform, throat going dry. "We're headed to the pitch. Kiss for luck?" Draco asked, grey eyes playful. Harry grabbed him by the front of his jumper, pulling him down into a kiss that had more than a few people wolf-whistling.
"Go get that snitch," Harry said, smirking at the lust in Draco's gaze.
"What do I get if I do?" The blond's voice dropped to a husky baritone, too low for anyone but Harry to hear, sending delicious shivers across Harry's skin.
"Oi, Malfoy! Get off Potter and let's go!" Urquhart yelled impatiently, and Draco sighed. With one last kiss, he hurried to join his team.
"Where's my lucky kiss, then?" Cho taunted, getting to her feet with the rest of her team. Harry shot her a sickly-sweet smile.
"Come over here and I'll give it to you."
A loud cackle came from the Ravenclaw girl. "You wish, Potter. Sorry in advance for kicking your boyfriend's arse."
Harry laughed, standing when he saw Blaise, Daphne and Theo headed over — they had promised he wouldn't get murdered if he sat with them in the Slytherin stands.
"If you say so." He waved her off, still grinning — this was how house rivalries should be. Good-natured competitive teasing.
Sadly, Cho's prediction did not come true; Draco caught the snitch forty-five minutes into the game, making the final score 300-190 to Slytherin. Ravenclaw put up a fair fight, but after their loss against Gryffindor the Slytherin team had something to prove. Filing out of the stands in a crowd of rambunctious, celebrating Slytherins, Harry felt a tug on his sleeve. "Fancy braving the victory party?" Daphne asked, wiggling her brows playfully. Her little sister Astoria was at her side, green and silver ribbons woven through her hair.
"I think that might be pushing it a bit," Harry replied; just because most of the Slytherins tolerated him by now, didn't mean there weren't at least a handful that would happily see him dead. "You guys have fun, though." He smirked to himself — he had a different sort of victory party planned, and he had to move fast.
Once they were out of the stands, Harry ducked through the crowd, heading to the Gryffindor changing rooms. He had to be quick; he didn't want to risk Draco leaving before he could get there.
He changed into his own quidditch gear, then put a Dissillusionment charm on himself and hurried around to the Slytherin changing rooms. This was the hardest part; sneaking into enemy territory.
Luckily, Harry was pretty good at sneaking, these days.
The door opened, Crabbe and Goyle barrelling through, and Harry slipped in before it could swing shut behind them. His heart raced at the sound of voices echoing from inside — Draco hadn't left yet. Good.
It seemed only he and Vaisey were left in there, Vaisey taunting Draco about how long he spent worrying about his skin and his hair.
"It takes work to look this good," Draco sniffed, and Vaisey laughed.
"Making yourself pretty for Potter, are you?" he drawled, leering. "Should I tell the lads not to expect you at the party, then?"
"No, I'll be there," Draco assured, buttoning up his shirt. Vaisey hummed.
"See you in a bit, then." The fourth year left the changing room. When he was gone, Harry locked and silenced the door.
"Wouldn't bother with those buttons, if I were you," he called quietly, dropping the charm keeping him invisible. Draco jumped, whirling around, going wide-eyed at the sight of Harry in his Gryffindor gear. "I thought, since you were indisposed for our actual match, we could just pretend we played each other instead," he said, stalking closer. Draco's hands dropped from his buttons, leaving the shirt open to the base of his sternum. "I did say I'd come to the Slytherin changing rooms if you won, after all," he added, winking. He was right in front of Draco now, and one gentle push had the blond sat on the bench. Harry straddled his lap, fingers tangling in still-damp hair. "Shame you've already showered. I was hoping to catch you all sweaty."
Draco lunged up, pressing his lips to Harry's, forcing his tongue into the Gryffindor's eager mouth. "I beat you, then, in this fantasy of yours?" he breathed, hands sliding up beneath Harry's jumper, skating up his abs. "Slytherin beat Gryffindor."
"You did," Harry purred, sucking in a sharp breath as fingers tweaked his nipple. "Means you deserve a reward." He ground down against Draco, both of them moaning. Harry's skin-tight quidditch trousers did absolutely nothing to hide the prominent bulge straining at them, and when Draco dropped a hand to squeeze his arse, he frowned, finding something hard in Harry's back pocket. He reached in, pupils blowing wide when he plucked out a vial of lubricant.
"Oh." His breath hitched. "That kind of reward, hmm?"
"Whatever kind of reward you like," Harry promised, arousal curling hot in his belly at the calculating look that crossed Draco's face.
"Get your kit off, Potter," he instructed, tugging at Harry's jumper. "Your arse looks good in those trousers, but it'll look even better bent over these benches for me."
Harry's head spun with the force of the rush of blood to his cock at those words. "Fuck, yes," he gasped, leaning back as Draco's fingers started working on the buttons of his trousers.
This was definitely better than whatever party was going on in the Slytherin common room.