Death's Alchemist Chapter 8 (Patreon)

(A/N) Sorry! Ocarina of Time had me super distracted last week, but I am already through the game, and will get you guys Chapter 9 later this week. Cheers and enjoy.

Chapter 8

Henry accompanied Harry as far as the road leading toward the Potter house, though Harry suspected this had less to do with concern for his condition than Henry’s desire to continue joking about his brooding for a few minutes longer. They parted beneath a lantern near the intersection, Henry repeating the time for Sunday dinner twice and threatening to personally retrieve Harry if he failed to appear. Harry assured him that six o’clock was not difficult to remember, even after several glasses of firewhiskey, and continued toward Peverell Manor beneath a sky that had deepened into summer darkness.

The walk home passed more quickly than the journey into the village. Harry’s steps remained mostly straight, although the low stone walls bordering the road seemed slightly less stable than he remembered. He felt pleasantly warm rather than drunk, and the quiet no longer pressed against him as heavily as it had earlier. Sunday waited ahead of him now: Dorea’s cooking, Charlus’s suspicion, Henry’s inevitable retelling of their evening, and a place at a table occupied by people who should have existed only in faded photographs and incomplete family histories.

The Manor’s wards passed over Harry when he reached the property, cool enough against his face to remind him how much he had been drinking. He crossed the dark entrance hall, removed his outer robes, and decided that water would be a sensible precaution before going upstairs. The kitchen cupboards surrendered a glass after only a mild disagreement, and Harry had nearly finished it when a knock echoed through the house.

Harry looked toward the ceiling as though the Manor might explain who had arrived at that hour. The knock sounded again. By the time Harry reached the entrance hall, he had drawn his wand—not because he expected danger, but because repeated experience had taught him that people arriving late at night rarely brought anything pleasant. He opened the door cautiously and found Albus Dumbledore standing beneath the porch lantern, dressed in dark traveling robes and looking far too alert for the hour.

“Good evening, Harry.”

Harry lowered his wand. “You know, most people send an owl before appearing at someone’s house this late.”

“I did send a note.”

“The note said you might visit.”

“And here I am.”

Harry stepped aside, allowing him through. “That is an irritating interpretation of the word might.”

Dumbledore entered with a faint smile. His eyes passed briefly over Harry’s face, the discarded outer robes near the stairs, and the glass of water still held in his hand. Harry watched the assessment happen and knew immediately that hiding the evening’s alcohol would be pointless.

“You appear to have found a way to occupy yourself,” Dumbledore observed.

“I went into the village,” Harry offered.

“So I gathered,” Dumbledore admitted.

Harry frowned. “You can tell that from one glass of water?”

“No. I can tell from the firewhiskey on your breath,” Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye.

“That seems invasive,” Harry snorted.

“It seemed observant.”

Harry led him into the drawing room, where Dumbledore’s note still rested near the edge of the table. The books had not shifted, the laboratory remained undisturbed, and the repaired chair waited beside the fireplace. Dumbledore crossed to it automatically and lowered himself into the seat. The chair did not wobble. Harry watched closely enough that Dumbledore noticed. “You repaired it.”

“It needed fixing for ages,” Harry answered dismissively.

“I had grown rather accustomed to the uncertainty,” Dumbledore joked.

“It was going to kill you at some point.”

“Yes, but without any real conviction.”

Dumbledore settled deeper into the chair and tested one arm as though disappointed by its sudden reliability. Harry dropped onto the sofa opposite him, still holding the water. The scene felt strangely familiar despite having existed for only a few weeks: Dumbledore in the old chair, Harry across from him, books and parchment scattered between them. Only Flitwick’s absence and the lingering firewhiskey separated tonight from their usual evenings.

“I also see that you resisted the temptation to continue the experiment alone,” Dumbledore said.

“I think I learned my lesson after last time. I scoffed at your note when I received it, for the record.”

“I just wanted to impart wisdom to you while you faced temptation alone here in the Manor.”

“The Manor and I are working through some trust issues after the last experiment; you have nothing to fear.”

Dumbledore’s expression remained mild, though amusement gathered behind his spectacles. “Where did you end up this evening?”

“The pub in the village,” Harry answered and couldn’t keep the smile away that crept up on his face.

“Alone?” Dumbledore asked.

“I was alone when I arrived.”

That answer caught Dumbledore’s attention. “And afterward?”

Harry took another drink of water, considering whether the question deserved the truth or merely the version least likely to provoke further questions. The alcohol made the distinction feel unnecessarily exhausting.

“I shared a few drinks with Henry Potter. You may remember he offered to buy me a drink last time we met.”

Dumbledore went still for only a moment before his expression returned to something carefully neutral. “How fortuitous.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “You knew he went there.”

“I know that Henry lives in Godric’s Hollow and occasionally visits its public establishments.”

“That sounds suspiciously like a yes.”

“It sounds like an acknowledgement of probability.”

Harry leaned back against the sofa. “You can be quite unbearable when you answer questions like that.”

“So I have been told.”

The warmth of the firewhiskey made it easier to surrender the argument. Harry looked toward the dark window, seeing his own faint reflection against the glass. “He was supposed to have a date. She never arrived.”

“How unfortunate.”

“He recovered quickly,” Harry said with a dismissive wave.

“With your assistance?” Dumbledore inquired with amusement.

“With several drinks,” Harry answered cheerily.

Dumbledore’s gaze dropped briefly to the water in Harry’s hand. “A reliable treatment for disappointment, provided one does not rely upon it too regularly.”

“He invited me to dinner.”

Dumbledore’s attention sharpened again. “Henry?”

“His entire family, apparently. Sunday at six.”

“And you accepted.”

Harry frowned. “I think I was ambushed into it.”

“Nevertheless, you accepted.”

Harry did not answer immediately. He could still hear Henry insisting that Dorea did not make polite invitations, that she made decisions about people and waited for them to understand. The thought carried more comfort than Harry wanted to admit.

“He asked about my family,” Harry said quietly.

Dumbledore’s face softened. “What did you tell him?”

Harry and Dumbledore had not discussed much of the future. Very little, in fact. Harry decided if he could be honest with his long-lost cousin, then he could be honest with the man that was helping him return to his previous life. “That my parents died when I was young. That I was raised by my aunt and uncle. That I had friends.”

“Was it all true?” Dumbledore asked.

“What I told him was,” Harry said guiltily.

Dumbledore seemed to pick up on this. “Perhaps it was enough for one evening.”

Harry stared into the remaining water. Henry had accepted the fragments without demanding the shape they formed. That restraint might have been temporary, but it had been real.

“He called me family,” Harry said so quietly it was practically a whisper.

Dumbledore said nothing for several seconds. Harry appreciated that. Any immediate reassurance would have made the admission feel larger than he intended. “And how did that make you feel?” Dumbledore asked.

Harry groaned, “That felt like something a Mind Healer might ask.”

“That is not the first time I have been accused of such a thing,” Dumbledore offered with a chuckle.

“It isn’t a compliment,” Harry grumbled.

“I shall endeavor not to take it as one.”

Harry looked across the room at him. Dumbledore appeared younger here than the Headmaster Harry remembered, but there were moments when the age returned—not in his face, but in the patience with which he waited for Harry to reach an answer.

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “Good, I suppose. And terrible.”

“Those feelings are not always opposites,” Dumbledore said wisely.

“They should be,” Harry said with a sigh.

“Life rarely has shown interest in what our feelings should be.”

Harry let out a quiet breath. The answer was irritating enough to be true. Dumbledore rested one hand against the repaired arm of the chair. “You are not betraying the people you left behind by finding some enjoyment in your current predicament.”

“I know,” Harry said as his shoulders sagged.

“Knowing and believing are rarely the same accomplishment,” Dumbledore offered in return.

Harry gave him a tired look. “Do you prepare these lines before you arrive?”

“Only the particularly unbearable ones,” Dumbledore answered simply.

The humor returned gently, preventing the conversation from sinking too deeply into grief. Harry finished the water and placed the empty glass beside the sofa. Dumbledore’s gaze moved toward the books covering the table. “We should also discuss the apprenticeship.”

“Tonight?” Harry questioned, feeling more tired at the thought of it.

“You appear capable of conversation.”

“That is a generous assessment.”

“We might as well make it official; besides, by all accounts we are still quite some ways away from fixing your current time displacement. We will need to create a good cover story while you are in this time. Filius and I have already spent the past few weeks determining what we might teach you. Increasingly, however, it has become clear that the arrangement cannot move in only one direction.”

Harry looked toward him. Dumbledore continued, “You possess knowledge neither of us has encountered, practical experience considerably beyond most wizards your age, and an approach to magic shaped by circumstances we cannot entirely understand. Calling you merely a student would be inaccurate.”

“I am a student of alchemy, though.”

“Yes.”

“But?”

“But not an ordinary one.”

Harry considered the books and calculations around them. Dumbledore and Flitwick had taught him more during the past few weeks than Harry had expected, but there had also been moments when their questions turned toward him: spells taught differently in his time, developments in defensive magic, small advances Harry had considered ordinary until realizing they did not yet exist.

“So what does that make me?” Harry asked.

“That,” Dumbledore said, “is one of the matters we must decide.”

Harry rubbed a hand through his hair. The alcohol had made him relaxed enough to speak before caution could rearrange the thought. “I don’t want to spend all my time here sitting in this house while you and Flitwick study me.”

Dumbledore’s expression lost its amusement. “Nor would I ask you to.”

“I know that you claiming me as your apprentice is a big deal. You have both done a lot for me. I am prepared to return the favor,” Harry promised. “Whatever needs to be done, I am willing. If this is an apprenticeship, then it needs to be real. Not a convenient name for keeping me close enough that I don’t accidentally throw myself back further in time.”

“A concern that has crossed my mind,” Dumbledore admitted.

Harry leaned back, his gaze settling briefly on the steady chair opposite him. “Just think about it. Whatever I can do to help. I will earn my keep.”

Dumbledore seemed to study Harry for a long moment. The man folded his fingers, smiled, and then said, “I might have a few ideas, but we can discuss those in the coming days. For now, consider yourself my apprentice in alchemy. I am sure I shall find other things to teach you along the way. This is a partnership, Harry, and I will do everything in my power to help you return to your time.”

Harry stood, and Dumbledore did as well, before Harry offered his hand to the man. Dumbledore took it in his own and nodded. “Get some rest, Mr. Peverell. You are going to need it.”

.o.

Sunday arrived considerably faster than Harry would have preferred.

He had spent Saturday telling himself that dinner with the Potters was nothing remarkable. He had eaten with unfamiliar families before, endured formal Ministry functions, and once survived a visit to Malfoy Manor under circumstances far more dangerous than an invitation from Dorea Potter. By Sunday afternoon, however, Harry had reorganized the books in the drawing room twice, inspected the Manor’s wards without finding anything wrong with them, and spent nearly twenty minutes deciding whether bringing a bottle of wine would seem polite or presumptuous.

The bottle eventually won.

Harry had purchased it from the village that morning after explaining to the shopkeeper that he needed something respectable enough for dinner but not expensive enough to suggest he was attempting to impress anyone. The woman had looked him over, asked whether the dinner involved a romantic interest, and appeared disappointed when Harry said it did not. She had nevertheless selected a dark red wine, wrapped it in brown paper, and assured him that no sensible family would object to receiving it. Harry was beginning to suspect that sensible families were not the ones he needed advice about.

He stood before the mirror in Peverell Manor’s entrance hall shortly before half past five, adjusting the collar of his robes for the third time. He had selected a dark green set that was newer than most of the clothing recovered from the Manor but less formal than anything Dumbledore might wear to an official dinner. His hair remained beyond help. Harry had attempted water, a comb, and one carefully restrained charm before deciding that arriving with singed hair would raise more questions than arriving with untidy hair.

The mirror seemed to examine him critically as he stared into his reflection. With a sigh, Harry shrugged it off. “They’ve already seen me; it’ll be fine.”

The thought did little to settle his nerves. Charlus and Dorea had seen Harry exhausted, disoriented, and wearing clothing damaged by an explosion. Henry had seen him in a pub after a few glasses of firewhiskey. Tonight would be the first time Harry entered the Potter home because he had chosen to go there. The distinction had seemed insignificant when Henry extended the invitation. It felt considerably larger now.

Harry collected the wine from the narrow table beside the door and checked the clock. He had enough time to walk without rushing, though Apparition would have allowed him another twenty minutes to reconsider. Walking removed the possibility. Once Harry passed beyond the Manor’s wards and started down the road, every step would take him closer to the Potters.

He stepped outside. The evening was warm and unusually still. Long shadows stretched across the fields surrounding Peverell Manor, and the air carried the faint smell of grass and distant chimney smoke. Harry locked the door with a movement of his wand and waited while the wards settled behind him. The Manor stood silent at his back, its upper windows catching the lowering sun.

For the first time since arriving in 1969, Harry was leaving it because a family expected him elsewhere. The thought followed him down the road.

He had passed the turn toward the Potter house often enough that the route no longer required thought. Godric’s Hollow appeared ahead through the trees, familiar rooftops rising beyond low stone walls. Sunday evening had left the village quieter than Friday. Most shops were closed, and the pub where Harry had met Henry had not yet gathered its usual crowd. A few residents worked in their gardens or sat near open windows, exchanging greetings with Harry as he passed.

The recognition was changing. During his first week, people had stared because Peverell Manor was occupied again. Now some of them nodded as though Harry belonged on the road. He was not sure whether that comforted him.

The Potter house stood apart from the village center behind an uneven stone wall and a garden that appeared too large to be managed by three people. Harry slowed when it came into view. He had seen it only once, while following Dumbledore through an afternoon that was already crowded with impossible revelations. Then, the house had seemed like another piece of evidence that Harry had landed in the wrong century. Tonight, warm light filled several windows; smoke drifted from the chimney. Harry stopped at the gate.

Voices carried faintly from somewhere behind the house. One belonged to Henry. Another, lower voice answered him, followed by a burst of laughter Harry could not distinguish clearly enough to assign. The sound settled something inside him and unsettled something else. His father’s family was on the other side of that gate.

Not James himself. Not Lily. Not even his grandparents, who were just a few houses down. Nor was it the impossible reunion some younger version of Harry might once have imagined. These were people linked to him by blood and history, but they did not know who he was, and to be fair, he hardly knew anything of them either. Henry believed Harry was a distant Peverell cousin that was somehow lost to history. Dorea saw a young man who needed feeding. Charlus saw a mystery standing uncomfortably close to his family tree.

Harry could enter their home only by allowing all of them to continue believing the lie. He tightened his grip around the wine bottle. Dumbledore’s words returned from Friday night. Harry was not betraying the people he had left behind by finding enjoyment here. He knew that. The problem was not enjoyment. The problem was how easily enjoyment could become attachment, and how quickly attachment could become another thing time might take from him.

A movement near the house interrupted the thought. Henry appeared around the side of the building carrying a stack of firewood against his chest. He made it three steps toward the back door before noticing Harry standing beyond the gate.

For one brief moment, surprise crossed his face. Then his grin appeared. “You came.”

Harry pushed open the gate. “You threatened to attack the Manor.”

“I was prepared to keep my word,” Henry promised.

Harry lifted the wrapped bottle. “I brought reinforcements.”

Henry glanced at it approvingly before dropping the firewood beside the house. “Mum will like you even more.”

“That was not the objective.”

“It’s too late now.”

Henry approached and pulled Harry into a brief, rough embrace before Harry could decide whether they had reached that stage of their relationship. The gesture lasted only a second, accompanied by a heavy clap against Harry’s back, but it left him standing slightly stunned when Henry released him.

“You’re early,” Henry said.

Harry checked his watch. “It’s two minutes before six.”

“Exactly. Early.”

“I can leave and try again.”

Henry caught his shoulder before he could turn. “No chance. Mum has been checking the window every five minutes since half past five.”

Harry looked toward the illuminated front windows. “She has?”

“She was confident that I frightened you away,” Henry admitted.

“You did interrogate me the first time we met,” Harry acknowledged.

“I showed admirable restraint,” Henry defended.

“You questioned whether I had broken into my own house,” Harry deadpanned.

“It sounds unreasonable when you describe it like that,” Henry responded sheepishly.

The front door opened before Harry could answer.

Dorea Potter stood in the doorway wearing deep blue robes beneath a pale kitchen apron, one hand still holding a folded cloth. Her gaze moved first to Henry’s hand on Harry’s shoulder, then to the bottle Harry carried, and finally to Harry himself. The relief in her expression was small but unmistakable. Harry had seen that expression before. Molly Weasley had worn it whenever someone she expected arrived later than expected.

Dorea stepped back from the doorway. “There you are. Come inside before Henry finds another reason to keep you standing in the garden.”

Henry released Harry’s shoulder. “I was welcoming him.”

“You left the firewood in the grass,” Dorea pointed out with a raised eyebrow.

“I was interrupted,” Henry defended.

Dorea’s eyes returned to Harry. “You’ll learn that Henry considers himself the victim of most circumstances.”

“I had already begun to suspect that.”

“Excellent. You’re learning quickly,” Dorea complimented.

Harry crossed the final distance toward the house. The smell of roasted meat, bread, and something sweet drifted through the open doorway, carrying with it warmth and the murmur of another voice deeper inside.

At the threshold, Harry hesitated for only a moment. Then he handed Dorea the wine and entered the Potter home. The Potter home was smaller than Peverell Manor by nearly every measure, yet it seemed to contain considerably more life. Boots had been left beside the entrance in varying states of order, several cloaks occupied hooks along the wall, and a narrow table beneath the staircase had disappeared beneath unopened post, gardening gloves, and a framed photograph of Henry as a child. The furnishings had been collected rather than chosen as a set, worn smooth by years of use and repaired whenever replacement became unavoidable. Nothing appeared arranged for Harry’s benefit. The house looked exactly as it must have looked on any other Sunday evening, and that ordinary comfort affected him more deeply than any formal welcome could have.

Dorea took the wine toward the kitchen while Henry retrieved the firewood he had abandoned outside, leaving Harry alone briefly in the entrance hall. Family photographs covered much of the nearest wall. Some showed Charlus and Dorea years younger, while others followed Henry from a dark-haired infant into the broad-shouldered man now closing the door behind him. Farther along were faces Harry recognized only through resemblance: Potters gathered at weddings, holidays, and garden tables, their names unknown to him even when pieces of their features were not. Harry resisted the urge to examine them too carefully. He had not come to search the house for James.

The dining room opened beyond the sitting area, warm with candlelight and the lingering heat of the nearby kitchen. Charlus was already seated at one end of the long wooden table, a folded newspaper resting near his elbow and his expression caught somewhere between expectation and careful appraisal. Four places had been set despite Dorea having prepared enough food to serve twice that number. Bread, vegetables, and covered serving dishes occupied most of the available space, while Harry’s wine had already been unwrapped and placed beside a waiting collection of glasses.

Henry gestured toward the empty chair opposite his own. Harry took it. Charlus folded the newspaper and placed it aside. For the first time, Harry sat at a Potter family table, surrounded by people who did not know that the stranger they had welcomed into their home carried their name in another century.

“Welcome back, Mr. Peverell,” Charlus said. “It seems you arrived under better circumstances than on your last visit.”

Harry offered the man a nod. “It’s true. Thank you for having me. I don’t get away from my research much, so it’s nice to get to be social. Please call me Harry, by the way.”

Charlus returned the nod in acknowledgement, while Dorea came in with a large roast she set on the table and offered Harry a smile. “Well, we are happy to have you, Harry. Please, dig in. There is plenty of food.”

“Plenty of food to feed half the village,” Henry remarked, taking the final empty seat. “I told you she does this on Sundays.”

“Hush, Henry,” Dorea chided but smiled at her son.

Charlus, however, just raised his hand, and Harry watched as a knife began levitating over the roast and began slicing through the meat with ease. Harry nodded, impressed. “Nice wandless magic.”

“It’s a nice party trick,” Charlus said dismissively, making Henry snort and Dorea dress him down at once with a scowl about manners.

After Charlus had collected a small portion of meat, Harry decided to mimic him. He summoned a few pieces to his plate without reaching for his wand, then picked up his cutlery. All three Potters were still staring when he swallowed his first bite. “This is really good, Mrs. Potter. Thank you. I don’t get a lot of home-cooked meals.”

Dorea seemed tempted to comment on the magic displayed but resisted and offered the young man a smile. “Of course, dear.”

Charlus, however, barely let it sit. “You seemed to have pretty good control of your magic, especially for one so young. Last time you were here, you looked like you’d lost an argument with an explosion. Those two things don’t usually go hand in hand.”

“I was preparing an experiment that was a little out of my league,” Harry admitted, having developed a cover story with Dumbledore. “I had written to Professor Dumbledore in the interest of showing him an experiment of my own creation to try and convince him to take me on as his apprentice in alchemy. It didn’t go in my favor, but he was impressed by my work and decided to take me on anyway. It all worked out, just not the way I had planned.”

Henry raised his eyes at this. “Merlin, you didn’t mention that Friday night. You are going to be Dumbledore’s apprentice?”

“Already am,” Harry confirmed. “We’ve been working on stuff at Hogwarts and the Manor over the last few weeks.”

“That’s a very exciting prospect for you, Harry,” Dorea complimented. “Dumbledore has only ever taken on one apprentice. A good friend of Charlus’s, actually, and she teaches at Hogwarts to this day. Minerva McGonagall.”

Harry blinked at that. He knew the Professor from his time and knew she was a master of Transfiguration, but had never considered how she might’ve accomplished the feat. Deciding to leave his surprise out of his response, he said, “The Headmaster has honored me. I am really grateful. We haven’t worked out exactly what I am going to be doing for him, but mostly we are going to try and develop new alchemical experiments that might do the world some good.”

By not destroying it with some sort of horrific time paradox, Harry thought morbidly.

Charlus regarded him across the table for another moment, the serving knife still hovering above the roast. Harry had the distinct impression that the older man was comparing his answer against every detail from their first meeting, looking for a seam he could pull apart. Eventually, the knife lowered to the platter. “Albus does not make those decisions lightly,” Charlus said. “He certainly didn’t with Minerva.”

“I’m beginning to understand that,” Harry acknowledged.

“You must have shown him something remarkable,” Charlus said curiously.

Harry resisted the urge to look toward the hands that had assembled the experiment responsible for throwing him thirty-four years into the past. “Something unusual, at least.”

That earned a faint curve at the corner of Charlus’s mouth. It was not quite a smile, but some of the scrutiny left his expression as he returned his attention to the meal. “Unusual has always interested the old goat more than the remarkable.”

Henry reached toward the potatoes. “Why didn’t you end up his apprentice too, then, Dad?”

Charlus directed the serving spoon sharply toward his son. Henry ducked, laughing, while Dorea gave both of them a look suggesting she had endured variations of the exchange for years. Harry found himself smiling before he could stop it.

The remainder of the meal settled into something easier. Charlus asked a few restrained questions about Peverell Manor—how much of it Harry had opened, whether the wards remained stable, and which rooms had survived years of neglect. Harry answered honestly where he could, describing the drawing room, laboratory, and the kitchen he had only recently managed to make usable.

Dorea paused while lifting her glass. “Usable?”

Harry glanced toward her, trying to make a joke. “The cupboards were reluctant at first.”

“I meant cooking. Where would you do that if the kitchen was unusable?” Dorea asked, her lips pursed.

“Oh. Well…I—”

Henry lowered his fork and watched with immediate interest. Harry sensed danger too late. “I managed from time to time.”

“What does that mean?” Dorea asked.

“Well, you know,” Harry stammered. “I would eat bread, soup, eggs sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Dorea demanded.

“There are books everywhere,” Harry defended weakly. “It’s easy to lose track of the hour.”

Dorea’s expression changed with alarming speed. Harry recognized it from Molly Weasley and knew at once that he had made a serious tactical mistake.

“I eat,” he promised quickly.

“Does Albus eat with you?”

“Occasionally.”

“And Filius?”

“When we’re working late.”

Dorea looked toward Charlus as if Harry’s answers had confirmed something dreadful. “He is living alone in that enormous house and surviving on bread.”

“There’s soup,” Harry reminded her.

Henry leaned closer. “You’ve done it now.”

Harry frowned. “Done what?”

“You are about to be the new kneazle,” Henry answered with a laugh.

Dorea ignored them both and began arranging several slices of meat on a second plate despite Harry having barely finished the portion before him. “I’ll send this home with you.”

“That really isn’t necessary,” Harry promised.

“Of course it is.”

“I have food at the Manor.”

“Bread is not a meal, Harry.”

“It can be.”

“Not in this family.”

The words appeared to surprise Dorea as much as they did Harry. She paused only briefly before continuing to fill the plate, adding potatoes and vegetables until it could reasonably have fed him for several days. Henry hid his grin behind his glass. Harry looked helplessly toward Charlus. The man cut another piece of roast. “I stopped arguing with her about food thirty years ago.”

“That was wise,” Dorea said.

“It was survival.”

Harry surrendered. By the time the plates had been cleared, Dorea had packaged enough food to make his earlier purchase of the wine seem profoundly inadequate. Harry was about to politely refuse, but the look he received from Dorea told him it was not an option.

The sun had nearly disappeared when Harry finally stood to leave. Dorea pressed the parcel into his hands, then added a loaf of bread as though remembering that Harry might face starvation during the short walk home. Henry accompanied him to the entrance hall, still offering suggestions for improving Peverell Manor that became less practical with each suggestion.

Charlus followed more slowly. Harry turned toward him near the door. “Thank you for having me.”

Charlus studied him, though the suspicion in his gaze had softened into something less defensive and more curious. “You are welcome here, Harry. I am enjoying getting to know you a little better. Perhaps soon we can discuss family history and see what we may be able to discover about each other’s lines. Our resemblance is enough to tell me that we must be at the very least distantly related.”

Harry went still. Perhaps this had all been a mistake. The last thing he needed was someone like Charlus Potter looking into him. A man that very well might be able to poke more holes in his existence than anyone else alive in this time. Before the discomfort could take hold, Charlus continued, “Dorea will insist on your return regardless, and Henry clearly requires someone new to inflict himself upon. You may as well return voluntarily.”

Henry looked offended. “I’ve been an excellent host.”

“You threatened to attack his house,” Charlus deadpanned.

“Only if he refused dinner.”

Harry laughed softly, shifting the parcel beneath one arm, trying to play it cool. “I’ll be back. Thank you for the invite.”

Charlus extended his hand. Harry took it, expecting the same firm, assessing grip from their first meeting. This time there was no test behind it.

“Good luck with the apprenticeship,” Charlus said. “Albus has a habit of changing the course of people’s lives.”

Harry glanced briefly at the family gathered behind him.

“Yeah, I’ve heard he has a habit of that,” Harry said wistfully.

He stepped out into the cool evening carrying Dorea’s food and the unfamiliar certainty that the invitation had not been temporary. The Potters remained in the doorway until he reached the gate, Henry calling after him that the leftovers were proof he had officially become the family kneazle.

Harry raised one hand without turning around. Then he started toward Peverell Manor, leaving the warm light of the Potter house behind him. For once, it did not feel as though he were walking home alone.

.o.

Bellatrix Black fastened the final clasp at the back of her robes and examined herself in the mirror. She had chosen black, though not the severe black her mother preferred for formal gatherings. The fabric caught the light when she moved, fitted closely through the waist before falling loosely toward the floor. It was elegant enough to satisfy Druella, expensive enough to remind the Lestranges who they were visiting, and flattering enough that Rodolphus would find it difficult to keep his attention anywhere else.

Bellatrix turned slightly, checking the result from another angle. She had no particular interest in impressing Rodolphus Lestrange. That did not mean she objected to being impressive. A knock sounded against the open bedroom door. Narcissa stood there in pale blue robes, her fair hair arranged carefully over one shoulder. Her gaze passed over Bellatrix once, and understanding entered her expression almost immediately.

“You’re making an effort,” Narcissa observed.

“I always make an effort,” Bellatrix countered.

“Not like that.”

Bellatrix reached for a silver bracelet from the dressing table. “Perhaps I felt charitable.”

“To Rodolphus?” Narcissa said in disbelief.

“To myself,” Bellatrix said simply.

Narcissa smiled faintly but did not challenge the answer. Everyone in the Black household knew Rodolphus had taken a particular interest in Bellatrix during the previous year. He was older, already finished with Hogwarts, and came from a family respectable enough that Druella did not discourage his attention. Bellatrix had allowed him to flirt when it amused her and dismissed him when it did not. Tonight, she intended to be considerably more accommodating.

The voices downstairs had grown louder during the past several minutes. The Lestranges had arrived first, followed shortly by the Rosiers. Bellatrix could hear her father welcoming them in the entrance hall, his manner warmer than it had been at breakfast. Whatever Cygnus had learned through the sealed letter had restored the energy her mother regarded with such suspicion. Bellatrix secured the bracelet.

“Do you know what they’re discussing?” Narcissa asked quietly.

“Not yet,” Bellatrix said with a sigh.

“And you think Rodolphus does?” Narcissa questioned.

“He likes pretending he knows things.”

“That isn’t the same as knowing them.”

“No,” Bellatrix agreed. “But men who enjoy pretending often repeat more than they should.”

She passed Narcissa and started toward the stairs. The gathering had already spread through the drawing room by the time the sisters descended. Cygnus stood near the fireplace with Lord Lestrange and Lord Rosier, their conversation low enough to become indistinct whenever anyone moved too close. Druella sat beside Lady Lestrange, perfectly composed, though the stiffness in her posture suggested she found the evening less pleasant than her husband did.

Rodolphus noticed Bellatrix before anyone else. He separated himself from his younger brother and approached with a confidence she suspected had been practiced. “Bellatrix.”

“Rodolphus,” Bellatrix greeted.

His eyes lingered on her robes before returning to her face. “You look beautiful.”

“I know.”

The answer made him laugh, exactly as Bellatrix expected it would. “I had forgotten how modest you were.”

“You would find modesty terribly disappointing,” Bellatrix said with a giggle that made her nearly twitch at the sound of her own voice.

“On you? Certainly.”

He offered his arm as the family began moving toward the dining room. Bellatrix allowed the gesture, resting her hand lightly against his sleeve. She felt her mother’s eyes follow them but did not look back. Dinner passed beneath layers of civility. The adults spoke of Ministry appointments, foreign markets, and families whose influence had risen or whose members had embarrassed themselves since the spring. The more interesting subjects remained carefully outside the conversation, visible only in the pauses and glances exchanged between Cygnus, Lestrange, and Rosier.

Bellatrix waited.

Rodolphus proved attentive throughout the meal. He filled her glass before she requested it, directed nearly every amusing observation toward her, and leaned close whenever the wider conversation allowed them privacy. Bellatrix rewarded him with laughter where appropriate and enough interest to encourage him without promising anything.

By the time dessert appeared, he had begun speaking with the careless confidence of a man convinced he had succeeded.

“You seem distracted tonight,” Rodolphus murmured.

Bellatrix traced one finger around the rim of her glass. “Do I?”

“You keep watching your father.”

“Perhaps he is more interesting than you.”

Rodolphus placed a hand against his chest as though wounded. “Cruel.”

“You’ll recover.”

“I might, with sufficient encouragement.”

Bellatrix finally turned her full attention toward him. Rodolphus straightened almost imperceptibly beneath it. “My father has been unusually occupied,” she said. “Letters arriving late. Conversations ending when my sisters and I enter the room. It makes one curious.”

Rodolphus’s expression changed. Only slightly, but Bellatrix caught it. “You should ask him.”

“I did,” Bellatrix said and fought the steel that nearly crept into her voice.

“And?”

“He decided I did not need to know.”

Rodolphus glanced toward the adults. Cygnus was listening while Lord Lestrange spoke quietly across the table. Druella watched them both with an expression of refined disapproval.

“Perhaps he is protecting you,” Rodolphus suggested.

Bellatrix smiled without warmth. “Do I look as though I require protection?”

“No,” Rodolphus said simply.

The answer came quickly.

“Then perhaps,” she continued, lowering her voice, “someone else might decide I am capable of understanding.”

Rodolphus leaned nearer. “What exactly do you want to understand?”

“The man they are discussing.”

His gaze moved once more toward the far end of the table. Bellatrix allowed her hand to settle against his wrist beneath the edge of the table. The contact was light, almost absent, but Rodolphus’s attention returned to her at once.

“My father says this man is offering old families another path,” she said. “My mother believes he is ambitious and undisciplined. Neither of them will tell me anything useful.”

“Your mother has not met him.”

The words escaped before Rodolphus seemed to realize what he had admitted. Bellatrix’s fingers remained against his wrist. “But your family has?”

“My father has spoken with people close to him.”

“Close enough to know what he intends?”

Rodolphus hesitated. Bellatrix withdrew her hand. “I see. You don’t know either.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to.”

His pride responded exactly as she knew it would. Rodolphus shifted closer, his voice dropping until it could not carry beyond the two of them.

“He believes the Ministry has made weakness into law,” he said. “That our families have spent generations apologizing for what we are while lesser people decide how magic may be used. He intends to change that.”

Bellatrix felt a spark of satisfaction, though she kept her expression skeptical. “Many men intend to change the world.”

“This one may actually possess the power to do it.”

“And yet no one will speak his name.”

Rodolphus studied her. Desire and caution competed across his face, but Bellatrix had spent the entire evening making certain desire would win.

“He has abandoned the name he was born with,” Rodolphus said at last. “Those who follow him use another.”

Bellatrix leaned closer. “What does he call himself?”

Rodolphus looked once toward their parents, then back to her. “Lord Voldemort.”