Chapter Text
Tell all the truth but tell it slant —
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind —
Tell all the truth but tell it slant — (1263)
BY EMILY DICKINSON
Harry knows there exists a human magical enclave in London, but few of the finer details. Like the location of its entrance, for example.
Mab had always been wary of introducing Harry to emissaries and legates and their like, for fear that Harry would slip her grasp if he learned too much of his homeland from their stories.
Of course, she knew not of his relationship with the Lord Autumn, or that it was any more than it appeared to be, in any case, only the vague shape of their dealings.
But before he was "gifted" to her Court, when he rode with the Hunt, it was through the Between places, or where the Veil thinned on Samhain and the solstice, the riders drawn to bonfires like beacons in the star-slung void--and even if they did ride through settlements, the euphoria and bloodlust of the hunt colored everything in flame and shadow, and he wasn’t exactly in a state to be jotting down directions.
There are plenty of Others in the human world, of course, nymphs and merrow, pooka and selkies. But they mostly keep to their own, bound to their groves and waters, and care not for mages apart from lone wanderers to play and deal with, as is their nature. Goblins are more worldly and would be helpful enough for a bit of coin, if they ever left their own enclaves, but that idea is rather laughable.
So this would undoubtedly be a frustrating endeavor. Harry could probably read the local ley lines and follow the flow of wizard-magic if they weren’t iron-bound by all these ugly human structures. It would take practice to parse out the disturbance in the telluric currents, and he would die of boredom before that happened.
But as if the Moirai themselves are watching, (fate-touched , they call him--he hates it) it seems the answer is dropped in his lap, like a bird from the teeth of a smug cat, when he finally spots a mage, apparently wandering alone about the more desolate parts of Londinium. (London, he corrects himself. Too much time spent with bards and mummers of the Courts, and they’re still stuck on Arthurian tales.)
“Hello, Mr…?” Harry may hate to play the naïf--he may be young yet, but even he couldn’t possibly guess his own age, had no need for it in a world of the ageless, though he certainly doesn’t feel like a child--but it’s hard to argue with results, and he plays it well.
“Where are your parents?”
“I’ve heard I’m not supposed to talk to strangers…” Harry chirps, “but if I know who you are, we won’t be strangers! So, could you give me your Name?”
*****
Borgin finds the fastest way to sort out troublesome customers, now that he lacks an assistant to do his books and deal with the riffraff, is to hide in his backroom office with his accountings and keep a proprietary museum-quality surveillance spell on the valuables out front.
His longtime customers know he keeps a showy decoy or two in the front window for the rabble and wouldn’t hold it against him, as an easy (and worthless) target for the thieves and roughshod denizens of the Alley. It won’t trick a professional, but professional acquirers of rare artefacts clamour to sell to Borgin & Burkes--and they are too smart to shit where they eat, so to speak.
He keeps a bellhop’s ringer on the front counter to notify him of second-class visitors, Knockturn tourists or aurors, after which he will wait an appropriately dramatic amount of time before tending to their petty requests, all while appearing appropriately busy.
Important clients, long-term customers and international suppliers of ill-begotten artefacts and smugglers of rare goods, come straight to his warded office door, behind which he has an appropriately Baroque and opulent reception and sitting room (and if a portion of them have formerly associated with the Dark Lord, well, it’s hardly his fault they have taste--though even apart from them, in spite of Dumbledore’s crusade, the Dark still lingers in the cracks of society, rich and deep.)
His best merchandise, after all, is hardly displayed in the shop window for all and sundry. Forget the aurors, he would have half the old families at his neck for selling their “family heirlooms,” nevermind that their great-uncle traded off that grimoire for gambling debts, or that the provenance of that carcanet has been a battleground for centuries.
In any case, when he feels a tap at his wards, Borgin is certainly not expecting a child’s voice to ring out, just on the knife’s edge between suitably courteous and mocking.
“Well met, Mr. Borgin. You know, I’ve heard much about you. I think we have a good deal to offer each other.”
Borgin opens the door to find what appears to be a child, though in the shadowed corners of Knockturn you never really know. He certainly looks pale enough to be a vampire, and Borgin has heard talk of a new Black metamorphmagus running around London lately, however incredible that rumor is.
The boy wanders around the shop, brushing his fingers over the display podiums and Byzantine cabinets and Rococo end tables, neatly avoiding the artefacts and cursed treasures themselves.
He lingers on an ancient secsepita with a carved ivory and gold handle, still bloody with its last sacrifice. A set of knucklebones for necromantic divination said to be stolen from the grave of Cassandra Trelawney. An animated cat statuette in Egyptian faience, currently licking its paw. The wine-stained skull of Brunlig the Executioner, an infamous goblin war leader. A cornucopeia carved from an erumpent horn, cursed to make its user insatiable. A Tibetan thokcha amulet made of sky iron, forged from a meteorite. A puzzle box with intricate craftsmanship in both wood and enchantments, woven together to create an astounding number of secret compartments--no one yet has found them all, though many have died to the curses therewithin. A gold lunula. A pocketwatch-sized sterling silver nocturlabe for use in ritual time-telling (clockwork is said to disturb ritual workings, so sundial pendants and the like are still popular with a certain set.)
Borgin sighs, having been frustratingly out-waited, and presses forward. “Oh? And what exactly have you heard?”
Implied is the question of who is telling such stories to a child barely of Hogwarts age, if that.
Well, an apparent child--Borgin has worked in this community for far too long to alienate potential clients based on their appearances. In vampire covens, turning children is highly frowned upon (and generally cause for execution) but happens on occasion--and then, of course, there are shapeshifters and other long-lived magical races.
And those tend to be the most dangerous sorts. Judging by appearance alone here is not only potentially deadly, but more importantly, bad business.
“Well if you’d like a list of my sources, I’m afraid you’ll have to pay more than they’re worth to me as informants. But as for who referred me to you, that would be Eliodoro Morelli.”
“Oh? And how is Klaudija doing these days?”
“You know the betrothment and treaty was broken after her progeny’s affair with Aleksandar. The Dragojević clan has been courting the Valentini, in any case, and after Eliodoro’s banishment from his homeland, well… I wouldn’t be shocked if little Katja was instructed by her sire to force a clean break with him. Smart move. Their fortunes are on the rise, and while the Morelli clan may be a force to be reckoned with in the Alleys of London, they certainly aren't within the Camarilla.” He grins. “Is that enough to pass your little test? You know, you would be the least of my problems if I went around throwing names like that about carelessly.”
“Quite right. Are you a part of the Morelli organization, then?”
“I’m no vampire,” the boy said, despite the eyeteeth that could easily pass for fangs peeking out over his curled lips. “Just a business associate and dear friend.”
“Hmm.. very well, then. I never caught your name.”
“You may call me Harry, of the house of Black. I’ve heard you may have the information I seek. In return, I have a few good leads on artefacts I’m quite sure you wouldn’t even hear word of, otherwise--they’re not in your usual circles…”
The Black family… Cassie may be a shapeshifter, but Borgin already has a working relationship with her, and if she were in disguise, she certainly wouldn’t announce the name of her House. And old Arcturus certainly isn’t having any more children. Interesting… that information is worth much on its own.
“Really. And the information you seek?”
“Have we agreed on a deal?”
“I can hardly give up sensitive information about my valued customers, you understand. I really must ask what you wish to know before we come to an agreement.”
“One of the leads I mentioned--it’s on the whereabouts of the Favsta rubies. You know, the curse that incited the Moscow Affair.”
“Deal.” He probably should have thought that one through, first. But this would be the find of the year…
“Lovely,” the boy says with a cheshire grin. Borgin feels the weight of a vow settle around his wrists. “Now, what do you know about Tom Marvolo Riddle?”
*****
If Harry Potter had been born in the era of Quirrel’s master’s youth, (or his youth, Tom’s youth--the lines between them are liminal already, their souls in a strange dance, alternately taking the lead and then retreating back into the darkness), he would have been placed in an orphanage.
As it is, the boy has been placed in this “group home” for “teens with trouble in the foster care system,” or troubled teens, or teens who are trouble. He suspects Potter will be all of the above--Potters usually are.
(Tom remembers Dorea Potter née Black, who used thread magic as a garrote, fingers dancing delicately like a virtuoso playing Rachmaninoff as she killed men with a twitch of her finger. Who would smile graciously as she sliced you in two with shimmering gold razorwire, as if she were doing you a favor.
Whose kindness was a bright sun, so genuine she gutted you with it. Who was cunning in her guilelessness. Whose mercy was a quick death.
And Charlus Potter, a true battle-mage who led a battalion of guerilla fighters against Grindelwald, making an enemy of his cousin Henry Potter the junior, infamous in his own right, who ran gallivanting off with Vinda Rosier.
Charlus, along with his dear friend Arcturus Black, flying the symbol of a Hebridian Black--a flag so feared by men on both sides that he practically won the war himself before Dumbledore, with clean hands, swooped in to steal the kill and the glory before Charlus could gather any more renown.
Albus did always hate the wild cards and the warriors, and Charlus was both. His war wards could kill a dragon, and though he rarely had need to draw the goblin-forged sword on his hip, that he was permitted by their Nations to carry one at all says enough. Legend has it the sword was imbued with dragon fire--more likely, Tom thinks, fiendfyre.)
The muggle woman overseeing the Children’s Home is genial, but there is a hint of something off about her when Quirrel asks about the Potter boy--a blank flash in her eyes as the conversation topic changes. It’s subtle, but Quirrel (or, rather, his Lord and master) is a world-class expert in mind magic, and he will not leave such a trail unfollowed.
Dumbledore’s meddling? he wonders. No--earlier, Dumbledore had mentioned Potter’s relatives in warning and, slightly sheepish, said they weren't exceedingly fond of magic due to ‘trauma over poor Lily’s death.’
Which means, of course, that Dumbledore has not learned his lesson about the fallibility of family bonds, or the simmering anger of an abused child. A seething pit of rage only sated by burning the world down around you in meager reparation.
But, more interestingly, Dumbledore had no information regarding the boy’s whereabouts until the elf-sent letter arrived safely.
Honestly, it almost appears that Dumbledore had lost the Potter child.
Quirrel wonders what life he could have lived in the in between.
In any case, the compulsion must be the work of the boy.
(Quirrel flashes back to a scene of a mind his-not-his: a soot-stained brick building with a sign in stark wrought-iron letters reading Wool’s Orphanage. Speaking words with power, reading the matron’s mind in building anger and twisting her thoughts like a knife. Fated equal, indeed.)
We all create that which we fear, hmm, Albus?
Quirrel breaks the compulsion and foregoes the interrogation in his haste-- legilimizes her, to flash through scenes of Harry getting into (being blamed for) trouble, Harry smoothly talking his way out of it without ever telling a lie, Harry stealing beloved treasures and planting them on other residents with a mischievous look, Harry breaking the fingers of a bully right in front of the adult minder and simultaneously compelling her to ignore it, just to mess with the boy’s mind.
In the memories, the woman is off-put by an air of amusement (or cruelty, or both) in Harry’s eyes that he either can’t or doesn’t bother to hide. Tom is reminded unwillingly of his young self, though something is… off about the boy.
Quirrel hides his presence, and walks towards the obvious source of magic in the building.
Even muted by the modest abilities of his servant and host, Tom can feel again: the ripples of natural magic, the telluric currents of ley lines, the webbed mesh of wards--the lack of which had echoed like the pain of a lost limb when he was forced (for years that feel like ages or mere seconds) to wander as a wraith.
He finds a young boy, rather beautiful if cold in a fey way, with eyes the precise color of the curse Lord Voldemort had cast on the child 10 years ago, and knows it could be no one else. The boy leans against the wall arranged artfully casual, although there’s a coiled tension in his lithe form, as if he's ready to pounce at any second.
Another child, perhaps a few years older, nervously approaches, fiddling with a rosary in his pocket, steps light.
“Harry?”
“Yes? You’re new here, right? Would you give me your name? Sorry, I forgot…”
“Oh, it’s, um, I’m Jack. Jack Smithy.”
Harry gives him a grin that despite the silky undertones to his voice can only be predatory. “And what do you need, Jack Smithy?”
“Oh, um, I heard you sometimes help people out. And I, um, I need help.”
Harry arches an eyebrow but otherwise is still, unnaturally so.
“Um, Sam and his gang. They won’t… they won’t leave me alone. I just want to be left ALONE!”
“And what would you give to be… left alone, hmm?”
“Anything!” The boy shifts, then stutters, “I, uh, I don’t have a whole lot, I mean, but I’ll do…I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Oh? That’s a good deal, Jack. For the both of us. You’ll give me use of your skills, such as they may be, for… oh, let’s say, three hours. And when we’re done, I’m sure you’ll be left alone to your heart’s content. Deal?”
The boy’s eyes widen, but before he can respond, Potter holds out a hand, and nervously, he shakes it. “Uh, deal?”
"All right, Jack Smithy. Get to work."
Suddenly, like a flash in his eyes, something changes in the unfortunate prey-child. Both children give identical bloodthirsty grins, and the older ambles off, mannerisms now confident, if not cocky, and somewhat alien in his small body.
Possession?
It couldn’t be, Potter is still here and clearly conscious himself. Not the imperius--if the victim’s mannerisms changed at all, it would be to the typical slack, empty gaze (if the caster wasn’t subtle or powerful enough to order them to act naturally.) But perhaps something betwixt the two--like a partial subsumption of consciousness. Fascinating.
Tom wonders if the boy is really a changeling, so different from the Potters he is-- then thinks, is he?
James was a trickster, with a bright grin and spiteful disdain, cruel with his “pranks,” who hunted for sport--and Lily had a warm smile but her anger raged hot, though even Slytherins were drawn to her charm like bees to nectar, spilling their secrets freely. And she poured all her fire and blood and her great and terrible love into her child.
If anything, they were of the Summer and Spring, but this boy...of the Winter, certainly. Or Fall, perhaps. Fitting, considering their shared history--the world remade that Samhain night.
Quirrel waits for the muggle to leave, is about to remove his disillusionment when Potter turns and winks at him. Quirrel sighs, then approaches.
The boy is beautiful, certainly, he thinks, even if a bit eerie with those deathly eyes ringed by purple and lips with a tinge of blue.
But that sense of Other reverberates like a warning bell. On a whim, Tom pushes Quirrel to step back a moment, and considers the bargain he witnessed.
Not a changeling, he thinks, almost certainly human, but...there is more than a touch of fae in his magic. And so dark. Not entirely a surprise, he supposes, for a boy who died and returned to the living as a babe to have a touch of death to him--narcotic, like bittersweet laubdanum.
Tom pushes them forward with a prowl, and Quirrel thinks of two predators circling each other -- ( unbidden, he sees flashes of Dumbledore, visiting and proclaiming judgement in their shabby bedroom at Wool’s Orphanage, wonders if the old man considered him dangerous even then, or just condescended to the boy in his arrogance, the start of a grand folie à deux. )
Either way... Quirrel would hesitate to give his name, any of them, to this boy. It seems the child knows this, for he does not try to take it, instead--
“Hello, my dear Janus. Are you here for me?”
Quirrel starts. Pauses, for a moment. Janus--two-faced, an obvious dig at his current posessionary predicament. At least, he thinks, the boy looks to be about as far from “the light’s savior” as could be, and it seems doubtful the child will run to Dumbledore. If anything, Quirrel thinks with a chill, he’ll want to... play.
However interesting the boy may be, though, Potter is and always will be a symbol of the Light, of Dumbledore’s (momentary) victory, of Lord Voldemort’s downfall. Of Death. And that will not abide. The only place for such a child in this coming era is at Voldemort’s feet, and collaring this one does not look to be easy. So, still, he must die.
“Yes, I am. You may call me--” the boy gives a sharp, predatory grin at that recognition of his danger, “--Quirrel.”
“Then you may call me Harry, I suppose. Are you here to steal me away?”
“First, I’m here to give you this letter,” which he hands over.
“Hogwarts, eh?”
“You’ve heard of it?” Quirrel doesn’t have to add: ‘Here? In this godforsaken muggle dump?’
The boy pauses, then flashes a sly smile. “Who’s asking?”
Quirrel balks, and Tom pushes closer to the surface once more. He notes Harry react to the slight change in posture and expression with a smirk.
“I am. I’d guess you don’t want certain details reaching the other faculty? Or our esteemed headmaster?”
“Well, if you’re offering.”
Tom narrows their eyes. “Well, I have no great urge to burden dear Albus with any more information than he requires. He is a busy man, after all.”
“Well, that’s rather prudent of you. Let’s say for now that I remember more of my time as a babe than your average person.”
Tom assumes that means any more information will not be free. And why did that sound like a warning shot across the bow?
*****
Harry is entirely bored of prodding the orphans into conflict with each other, although the unsteady factions they keep to, along lines he drew himself, are a work of art. Each side is carefully levelled to have enough bad blood with each other, not to mention their petty rivals, to blow up in a beautiful mess the second he decides to light the fuse.
Truth is, of course, the most powerful weapon.
Not that any of his Design is hard. Harry has half of their Names, freely given, and doesn’t even bother to fully claim them. No geasa, or tynghedau. All it takes is a few well placed favor-for-favors, a few rumors spread (all true, of course-- tell all the truth, but tell it slant) and perhaps a few misappropriated items strategically placed where they shouldn’t be, to imply sticky fingers. Child’s play, literally.
Worse, even, for when Harry was a child, his play was life or death. Honestly, he’s worried he’s getting rusty, even with the irregular info-gathering excursions to Knockturn.
So when he picks up a curious magical aura getting closer, he thinks, Finally, it’s them, and maybe it’s time to put on a show.
As he plays with his new Jack, he splits his focus to feel up the visitor’s magic, disillusioned as the man is. It’s so fascinating he would’ve lost focus on his performance if he couldn’t do it in his sleep. He doesn’t wait long before sending his Jack off to cause some mayhem--by the time Harry returns, the place will be set for the perfect blowout explosion.
There’s a split in the man’s magic, a crack that feels soul-deep. The first aspect would be almost remarkable in its blandness, like the taupeish Children’s House wallpaper, or an accountant, if it didn’t appear to be withering. (But accountants are secretly vicious, they win wars and crumble nations.)
The Other is, perhaps, a parasite--that would explain the energy vampirism, anyhow. As the man approaches, though, there’s a flip in consciousness, the Other presence taking over in body and mind and magic.
Suddenly, the wallpaper-man transforms into a predator, and it raises Harry’s hackles. The man looks harder, sharper, aware in a manner he wasn’t fully a second ago. The presence now in the driver’s seat lets his magic expand like a breath on frigid air or a mushroom cloud, hitting fast and hard and slowing to a lazy crawl as it drifts steadily outward.
It tastes of blood and wine and cacao, warm and rich and dark with a bitter tannin tang, thick enough in the air to be almost edible.
Underneath, there’s a quality Harry is intimately familiar with in his own magic: endlessly transforming, shedding layers like a snake, looping like an ouroboros, eating itself--magic of rebirth, of Spring. It smells of sweet acanthus, malty amaranth, and heady green narcissus blooms--then strikes with the biting acidic tang of venom. This is bloodline magic, he thinks, it must be.
When he really Looks, though, even this half-person seems shattered himself. As deep and Stygian as his magic may run, it’s only a fraction of what he could be made whole again.
Naturally, it’s the most fascinating thing Harry has seen in ages. So he’s keeping them. Both of them.
Still, the man is… unsettling. He sets Harry’s teeth on edge. For a human, this “Quirrel” seems rather competent at the Great Game.
Whether he would have caught on to Harry’s particular skill set without the little show is up for debate, but Quirrel knows enough to be wary. Enough that Harry won’t dare try to magick him. For now, at least, their games will be played with words and wit.
It takes Harry a disheartening amount of time to connect the dots of ‘Quirrel’s’ constellation. But, really, who else would dare experiment with such scandalously Dark powers and then use the results to sneak into Hogwarts, of all places? It’s not like it’s particularly hard, or useful, unless you’re playing a game of fidchell with Albus Dumbledore himself.
And then, playing at introducing Harry to the wizarding world? Brilliantly ironic.
Lord Voldemort, of course. Harry may think the name is rather ridiculous, but he does know the power in the claiming of a Name. He wonders why dear Tom didn’t take up the Slytherin mantle--is it lost to the Gaunt line, or does he simply want to inscribe a new name, one in his own image, in the history books?
*****
Soon enough they enter Gringotts, Harry tipping his head to the goblin guards at the door, and getting a stiff bow in return. Hecate, are they anxious? The little gremlin is a menace. And Tom, despite himself, might be growing almost fond of him.
Few but the Olde families these days still know, but the lower levels of Gringotts step into the borderlands, liminal places that overlap with the fae realm, the Otherworld (another being the Forbidden Forest outside of Hogwarts, or Brocéliande, or many of the subterranean magical enclaves in the depths of old cities, like the thieves' dens in the closes and vaults Edinburgh buried under layers of townhouses and bridges, or the ancient Parisian quarries-turned-catacombs.) Here, those tunnels are filled with eldritch sorts of horrors, mostly.
Goblins could be considered on the edge of fae themselves, so they still place a great value on being able to see, much less commune, with the Fair Folk and especially with the Courts.
So Harry, if Tom is right, is likely one of their most important customers already: a boy with power in his own right, who not only does not have to be guided in matters of the sidhe, but who is, perhaps, more than halfway to fae himself.
Quirrel follows Harry up to a reception desk, and is about to pull out the Potter vault key, when Harry greets the goblin, who knows immediately who (or what) the boy is. They are pulled along at a rapid clip through byzantine halls, and Tom knows better than to try and halt whatever scheme is set in motion.
“I’m assuming you know who that man is?” The goblin asks Harry.
“Oh, yes, of course.” Of course, the boy says, apparently not worried about his murderer viewing his financials.
He should be, Voldemort whispers, anger rising hot in Quirrel’s face, twisting it into a grimace. However clever he may be, he’s still an untrained 11 year old child. Anchored in his own body, Voldemort would crush the boy like a bug, and he should know that.
“Will your companion be accompanying us for this discussion? He has been a rather valued client of ours, although we cannot say we approve of his actions of the past decade, or his current physiomagical state.”
Lord Voldemort fills with rage, brimming in Quirrel’s body like a storm in a teacup. Who are these creatures to pass judgement on he, who has gone further than any wizard in history down the path of immortality, who has broken this world and shaped it in his own image once and will do it once more!--and Quirrel begins to shiver (in anger? in terror?) The liminal ties between them are stretching thin with Voldemort’s incandescent fury, and neither can control the body that sits between them, which seems on the edge of failure.
He sighs, suddenly level again. It seems Tom can’t even really argue that point. How supremely unacceptable.
“Yes, that’s fine. I believe this is the start of a great working relationship,” the boy answers.
Tom is not sure which of them he is referring to, but decides to be pleased either way. Even if the child must die, luring him to the Dark cause would spite Albus more personally than most anything that Lord Voldemort could achieve.
They are sat down at in a lavish receiving room. Showy--it's an exertion of their power, of course, and a reminder of the axe they hang perpetual over the heads of wizards.
For a moment, they wait in silence.
Quirrel is not sure how a boy like this ended up in the muggle foster care system, but if it is as he suspects, and Potter has spent time with the Fair Folk, as a human, as a small child, and still has his name and his self and his freedom today--he must be clever, and strong indeed.
He contemplates, if it is true, what sort of life prepares a child to thrive in the Unseelie Court (for he must be Mab’s, with how cold the boy is)--perhaps an upbringing not far from Tom’s own, although he still wonders.
Eventually, the account manager walks in, and at a fast chop pulls them along to his office.
They are sat down at a desk in a lavish office Tom knows to be used for most valued clients. The chairs, in true goblin fuck-off style, sit low to the ground for anyone taller than 4 feet.
In fact, they adopted the ancient Roman folding curule seat meant for magisterial commanders, of hieratic significance and luxurious construction but designed to be purposefully uncomfortable to sit on -- a symbolic reminder that the official was expected to carry out his public duty in an efficient (and therefore timely) manner, and that their office was temporary, and they, replaceable.
Tom can appreciate that statement as a power play, along with the intricate reliefs in the metalwork depicting goblin warleaders’ infamous victories, with rather pitiful looking humans huddled on the opposite end.
That doesn’t mean it irritates him any less in practice.
“You may call me Ragnok. Is there a name you prefer to be called by us?”
“Oh, you may just call me Harry.”
“Harry, then. You are the last living Potter, obviously, and although they were, prior to the fall of the house, landed gentry, that name carries no title. But you may not know that you were blood adopted by Sirius Black shortly after birth. He has assigned you his heir, and abdicated himself, although he is currently imprisoned.”
Falsely imprisoned, as Tom knows--possibly even by Dumbledore, to control young Harry’s placement. Although perhaps he's too righteous for that. Certainly convenient enough, though, that he didn't bother looking too hard at it.
“Sirius’s petition, accepted and enacted by a Ministry representative, states that he was concerned for your safety in the House of Black considering his estrangement from the family and position in the Blood War, and that none should be notified until either your guardian deemed it appropriate or you accepted your position as pending heir to the Earl Black.”
Interesting. Arcturus has always been neutral in the war, despite the actions of his… excitable grandchildren. (The Blacks have the sort of untouchable reputation and means where the regulations of the Ministry mean little to them.) And Tom had always suspected Sirius was less estranged from his family than he playacted, so to go so far to hide Potter is a move reeking of Albus's design.
“The conditions Sirius set before his imprisonment as well as your placement by the Ministry in the muggle world delayed this revelation, but once Lord Black is notified you will be expected to act as a member of the Black family and a ward of the House. Arcturus Black will become your legal guardian. Of course, the current Lord Black may still refuse your right of succession--however, the signet ring is, for now, yours. By blood you are a Black as much as a Potter, so it would be considered proper to take the name of your living Lord and House. If you accept, protocol dictates you sign Harry Black.”
And that fills in another piece of the puzzle: the Blacks are an old, old family, traceable back to the Roman invasion of Brittania when written records were first popularized on the Isles (not that the Potters don’t have a worthy legacy, with their shared Peverell ancestry, a name dating back to the Norman invasion of 1066.)
But the necromancy of the Peverells is different from the wild, arcane primordial magic of the Blacks, who are often called fae-touched themselves. The so-called Black madness is often a symptom of seeing beyond. The Blacks are one of the Olde families that still are to this day taught of the Otherworld--trained for it, even.
Quirrel eyes Harry’s shadow--he wouldn’t be surprised if it was sentient, the Blacks really in touch with the family magick often used shadow magick--thinks he might have seen it wink at him. He shudders, turns back to the goblin.
“As for your siring line, much of the Peverell estate has been folded into the cadet branches’ over the centuries of their decline, but there still exists a separate vault accessible only to those with the family magick, entrance to which is rumored to be required to claim the title, although legally the claim would be debatable. Incidentally, that is said to be why the name has appeared to die out in the past few centuries.”
Necromancy, of course. Unfortunately, Tom doesn’t carry the bloodline gift, though he has of course gone as far into the study as one could without the true inherited potential. He is, admittedly, slightly jealous.
“I believe it is possible you have a talent for the Peverell family magick, so you are free to attempt to enter the vault at your whim. It is, of course, deep Below, so a waiver of responsibility under danger must be signed by the client as protocol. I don’t believe you’ll have much trouble, however.”
The goblin didn’t bother to explain the borderlands, nor did Harry need to ask. And, Merlin, that was a lot of faith for a goblin to give in a human. Perhaps it was because Harry Black wasn’t human. In the ways that count, anyhow.
“The binding age for contract signing is 13, but as a member of a noble family, your guardian has rights over you that supersede Ministry law and can sign in your place until your 13th birthday.”
Magical society is still rather medieval in their perception of what counts as an “adult.” At 13, one can even sign themselves into indentured servitude legally--but as a member of a noble family, the Head of House often, under family rite and rule, can control employment, behavior, place of residence, and marriage even for mature adults, the threat of disownment and punishments from family magick hanging over the heads of its members.
That, along with the long lifespans of mages, ensures a strange sort of extended period of young-adulthood, stretching from children in their early teens to graying wizards in their 60s.
Tom, personally, believes that is why barely a scant few can think for themselves.
“The cadet families sued to strip the estate of its gold, so its current holdings include grimoires, journals, a few artefacts, and the ruins of a castle in Derbyshire and surrounding estate comprising the Honor of Peverel, the Barony of the Peak, holdings granted to William Peverel by William the Conqueror which were subtly transferred to the magical line post-Statute. Currently, a moneysink."
The goblin pauses, messes with a sturdy wood folio constructed like a lap desk, enchanted to easily pull relevant documents from separate files. "Now, the Potter estate includes the historic Holenhyrst Manor and surrounding farmland, potions greenhouses, and an annexed workshop. Currently, the finances are in their poorest state since the days of Irving the Witless and the estate is decrepit. We would hate for the estate to go to waste..."
"Yes, yes, do whatever you'd like with it--" the goblin grins viciously, smelling blood, "--as long as it is beneficial to my stated aims and restores the estate to glory, et cetera, and I reserve the right to punish any who fail in that task."
Harry is clearly losing interest. Quirrel supposes he doesn't see much use for gold, regardless.
"In the vault is an assortment of enchanted weaponry, family grimoires and wands, an archive of lineage and business records, journals, portraits, antique furniture, and a number of patented experimental enchantments and gadgets."
Now he's perked up. At the word 'experimental', of course.
"Now, I don’t believe you have been receiving your statements, as we appear to have tracked 97% of them to Hogwarts, despite the intended destinations recorded being elsewhere. This indicates a sensible mail ward has been set up around your person, which we can remove for a small fee. Considering your...fame in the human world, we also have a mail sorting and redirect service to save you from dealing with cursed mail, fan mail, et cetera.”
A brief pause for answer.
“And the price?”
The goblin grins.
*****
As they are led through labyrinthine halls on their way back to the lobby, Tom decides to give Harry a little push. “You say you remember life with your birth parents. Are you aware of who placed you with your muggle, ” he spits out, “aunt?”
“I suppose you’d like to tell me.”
“Albus Dumbledore. The headmaster of your new school. Who has his fingers in many pies, political and otherwise.”
“Oh?” Harry doesn’t move, but Tom could tell something inside him has straightened and gone very, very still.
Tom debates how much to tell the boy, who likely won’t need much of a warning against Dumbledore anyway. They will inevitably clash. But he decides that at the very least, Harry Black can make himself useful by accruing some damage on their common enemy before Tom has to put them both down.
“In fact, I would ask around about your blood-father, Sirius Black. To the public, he is a Dark wizard and Death Eater who betrayed the Potters and now rots in Azkaban.”
“‘To the public,’ you say. So if I were to, say, ask the Dark Lord himself if Sirius Black was his vassal, what answer would he give me?” Harry’s grin is flippant but his eyes are cold.
“He would say that Sirius Black never swore oaths to the Dark Lord nor consorted with his Death Eaters. Black’s liege lord, if he was so dedicated as to claim one, would have been Dumbledore. The man who sent your rightful guardian to prison without a trial.”
Tom had assumed the boy would feel the same consuming anger he had at discovering Dumbledore was the root of all his childhood terrors, but -- while Tom is almost positive there's potential for cold rage there, which would very likely be triggered if Dumbledore actually managed to slip his leash (or noose) around the boy’s neck -- at the moment it was a mere irritant, anger tempered by a sort of callous disregard.
(The same disregard and condescension Tom feels for muggles, the boy seems to feel for humans in general. Somewhat hypocritically, perhaps, but Lord Voldemort has always believed that being hypocritical is the right of the powerful.)
As they reach the lobby, Quirrell warns, “You may want to wear a glamour if you would like to pass unnoticed for long in Diagon Alley. You are rather famous, after all. I can apply one, if you wish.”
The last thing Lord Voldemort needs is simpering fans of The Boy Who Lived swarming him, where he can't even manage a measly crucio.
“Oh, good idea,” Harry says, then smirks. His form shimmers into a new one, decidedly average.
A glamour, or a real physical shift? Tom thinks of the metamorphmagus ability of the Blacks and wonders if it comes from the shape shifting abilities of the fae in their blood. That might merit some experiments before the boy has to die.
“I suggest we head to Ollivander’s first. If you’re anything like I was, it could take a good while. I suspect the man does it on purpose--for dramatic effect, or perhaps just experimenting on his clients.”
“Must I obtain a wand?” the boy said with a sort of put-on petulance.
“If you wish to attend Hogwarts. Which you do, for you will be hunted elsewise.”
A wild, almost feral grin. “Oh? Usually I’m the one riding on the Hunts. It might be fun to see the other side.”
Dear God. “Why do I fear you are going to incite a war the likes of which the world has never seen, someday?”
“You're one to talk. Well… I can’t say I’ve never incited a rebellion before, though I always get out before the real fun starts.” Harry grins maliciously off into the middle distance, eyes sharp and focused on apparently nothing. “Someday, I’ll have the power to finish the job.” His lip is curled in a snarl, but quickly smooths out. He glances back at Quirrel and smiles. “But don’t worry. My war is not of this realm.”
*****
They enter Ollivaender’s, dark and dusty, the cramped shelves warping slightly as if none of the lines bother to be particularly straight. Harry can hear the cries of a thousand wands in chorus.
“Shut up, already,” he says. The boxes reluctantly edge away, retreating further into the slots on their shelves.
Tom gives Harry a Look. Harry shrugs.
“Let me guess… hawthorn, rowan, blackthorn?”
“Trees of the rath? Cute. But rowan, for me? You think very goodly of me, it seems.”
Perhaps for one of Tiphaine’s, but Harry is not nearly so noble.
No, Harry is the Morrigan’s, of blood and fire and ruin, and blackthorn is an arrow’s mist, smoke drifting up from the fire, and its kenning is Death. That's more his speed.
“You might be surprised, Harry Black.” Ollivaender materializes from the shadows.
I’ve got to get him to teach me that trick, Harry thinks. Even he felt no presence.
Ollivaender is clearly fae--part dryad, perhaps, though his eyes are milky and Pythian--and he feels old. With enough human blood to be stranded halfway between here and the Other working with trees halfway dead.
The Chthonic trees, cypresses and yews, love Harry, jumping into his hand like eager puppies.
But in the end Tom is right. Of course the guardians of the threshhold will follow him out of the Otherworld.
Don’t look back.
Perhaps he is more conflicted than he thought, for his new wand has an elegant twist of hawthorn twining around its sister blackthorn’s needle sharp points. Hawthorne for Beltane and blackthorn for Samhain. Equal and opposite.
*****
As they pass by the entrance to Knockturn-- “You won’t get far, trying to pickpocket a pickpocket,” Harry says, then pauses for good dramatic effect before snapping his fingers then unfurling them to reveal a trinket that presumably belonged to the urchin who just brushed past him. “Unless you’re me, that is.”
Quirrel suddenly has the urge to check his pockets.