What is it Now?
No. 12 Grimmauld Place was a rather large townhouse on the inside. The twisting staircase lead up a whopping six stories in spite of the flats around them only rising three. The formerly depressing interior had been renovated. Grey Victorian style wall paper had been stripped and replaced with light earthy tones of brown, beige, and green. The banisters and woodwork had been relieved of chipping black paint and lovingly stained a dark brown. Metal fixtures of snakes had been swapped for stylized metal plants. Even the flooring had been replaced in certain places, then buffed and polished to a beautiful shine.
The architect known as Harry James Potter had made the space one of his first intensive projects. Given the magic saturating the old home, he hadn’t done much to the structure, but making open arches instead of doorways to main areas, had utterly changed the claustrophobic feeling.
Carl Hopkins had seen the inside of the building once before the changes. To say he had been unimpressed and slightly horrified that his friend was living here alone was an understatement. Even when Kreature had moved back and started up maintenance again the blond had not been that happy with it.
Now that he lived here and saw the new look, Carl was content. He was a little surprised when the old house-elf had agreed to the changes though. The little thing had even helped the last Potter take down all of the living portraits and put them into stasis. Although the little being had passed away a few years ago of old age, he had found satisfaction in life again.
Having a discussion about moving out of George’s flat with Harry hadn’t been the most pleasant. However, Carl hadn’t really thought about having a real home in a long time. To him, having a place to live was about having a roof over your head and a place to sleep. Home had become a foreign yet achingly lonely thought. Losing Jack at the Battle of Hogwarts had obliterated the idea that he could find something like that ever again.
The final battle had been awful in so many ways; but there had been a moment in the fighting, when he had landed on the ground funny and he had basically died. To him, it had just been a moment of blackness before another muggleborn used CPR, and miraculously restarted his heart. The knowledge he had of the odds of that working was astronomically low. The realization that it shouldn’t have really worked was strange enough, but then the dreams had started.
Carl had been in a haze of grief and pain after finding Jack’s lifeless body by one of Hogwart’s main entrances. He helped with the cleanup and arranging of funerals for others’, and his own brother had been done mechanically. Even finally getting his parents wills sorted out after they were murdered had been done without much thought.
The dreams were so real that at first, he had been scared they weren’t his. He had even spoken to a few curse breakers and looked into scans that could determine what was going on.
The result’s spoke for themselves.
Whatever he was dreaming about had no detectable outside influence. Nor was it having a negative effect on him mentally or physically. He kept researching public libraries and Hogwart’s library when he had nothing else to keep him occupied. The information wasn’t that helpful. Nothing really that truly explained the clarity and connection he felt with the boy, who wasn’t human, that he kept dreaming about. The boy, Maeglin, felt strangely familiar, as though he should know him.
The dreams consisted of memories that spanned what seemed to be Maeglin’s childhood. His mother was called Aredhel, she was very tall with dark hair and entrancing silver eyes. His father was called Ëol, and was very light-haired, it appeared silver in spite of his youth, with pitch-black eyes. Maeglin himself looked like almost a copy of his mother his father’s eyes. The strange thing was that they all seemed to almost glow, not a lot, but there was a sort of sheen to their appearance. Not only that, but their ears were all pointed at the tips.
After determining that the dreams weren’t harmful, Carl had made a sort of timeline along with certain observations: he was actually quite shocked to discover that the child was the same age he was. Maeglin had evidently never left the dim forest where he was born. His parents loved each other, but there was some sort of friction due to culture differences? Maybe? It was hard to tell honestly. His father was controlling to a certain extent, but the love he held for his wife and son was evident.
As the years passed, he learned more about the little family, but he was starting to realize that these beings were very long lived. By the time Carl had moved into Harry’s flat and started a new career, Maeglin barely looked 11 and his parents hadn’t aged a day, nor had any of the other beings that lived with them.
Additionally, the dreams weren’t interactive, his presence was that of an observer, not a participant. Carl had no idea why he was seeing this or what the purpose was. The theories he had looked into included reincarnation, soul resonance, and the manifestation of Seer abilities. All theories had some elements of connection, but none of them really seemed to fit the bill.
Sighing in exasperation as he sat in the cozy kitchen, Carl listened to George bemoaning the lack of sleep he and Angelina were getting with their newborn. The baby was their second, a little girl named Roxeanne. Their first hadn’t been very long after they had moved in together, and the wedding had taken place before they found their new home. Sometimes it was hard to believe that four years had passed since George told him that he wanted to move out.
Harry was laughing at a story of an unfortunate projectile vomit incident as George pretended to be offended.
Smiling slightly, Carl took a sip of tea as the dishes cleaned themselves in the sink and told the prankster, “Maybe you should aim him at Angelina next time, then you’d be even.”
George snorted at the comment and shook his head condescendingly, “Carl, Carl, Carl. When will you learn that you should never go for the obvious form of revenge, especially when the witch in question has only been out of St. Mungo’s for six months.”
Harry chuckled again and commented, “He’s got you Carl, never mess with a witch like that.”
Carl smirked and tilted his head in acknowledgement, though he couldn’t help a jab, “Yeah, sure. I’ll bet that the rest of the time George is totally willing to risk his wife’s wrath.”
They all laughed as George faked sputtering denials for a moment before joining in. Everyone knew that with Angelina’s quidditch career that the redhead was the main home-maker of the couple. Both of them were very involved parents, but neither of them particularly cared who did what in their relationship. As long as their children were safe and cared for.
Lunch ended on that light note, as Ginny had been babysitting while George and Angelina got a bit of a break. Normally, Angelina would have joined George for their group lunch, but she had wanted a bit of alone time instead.
With their favorite Weasley (besides the kids) gone, both of the men wandered to the parlour to relax for the rest of their respective days off. Harry was sitting next to the lit fireplace with the paper, and Carl was just staring out onto the street as he was lounging in a window seat.
A noise of disapproval left the other man’s lips, and Carl glanced over to see Harry frowning at what he was reading. Waiting for the other to finish, he asked once the paper was thrown on the coffee table, “Something wrong?”
Harry snorted as he seemingly glowered at nothing, “The ministry is spouting more bullshit.”
Carl raised an eyebrow. That statement didn’t really mean anything to the blond since the ministry always seemed to be spouting the same drivel.
Harry grimaced at his expression and elaborated, “They’re alleging more policies and ‘safety regulations’ on Diagon again.”
Carl frowned at that particular statement. Whilst the worst zealots for the ‘light’ and ‘dark’ factions had been ousted there was a new sort of trend that was concerning. The ministries resistance against outside interference from the ICW had become almost a slogan for the current minister. Richard Belby had taken over after Kingsley had stayed in power for two consecutive terms, and he was an absolute prat. He favored nationalism as their only hope, and seemed a bit xenophobic for Carl’s tastes.
“They’re trying to control the press and the goblins, aren’t they,” Carl guessed. That wasn’t a great sign, and they both knew it.
Harry sighed and shook his head, “No one really wants to say it, especially with the treaty being fairly shaky right now. But George and I spoke recently and I guess Bill has been hearing some not so promising things at work.”
Carl winced at the thought of the sort of conflict that might spark and shuddered a little. “Surely the Minister isn’t quite that stupid. I mean, they basically control the economy…”
Harry looked at him for a moment before hesitantly replying, “The goblins don’t seem inclined to start fighting in the physical sense, but…”
The trailed off sentence hung heavily in the air for a long few minutes before Carl commented, “Wonderful, just what everyone needs, another reminder that we should just give up and live in France.”
Harry snorted at the sarcasm and leaned back in his chair, “Git.”
Carl smirked and turned back towards the window, his thoughts spinning as he tried very hard to convince himself that pessimism never solved anything.
A few weeks later saw Carl slumping onto a kitchen chair after work. The luggage store he worked for had started receiving an influx of specialized apartment trunk orders, and he was exhausted. He and his coworkers were treated fairly well by the owner, Madeline Gardner, but even she had been putting in more hours lately. It was about eight o’clock in the evening, and the tired wix was seriously considering just passing out in bed.
Carl was quite proud of his mastery in runes and arithmancy. When he finished his education, work was his first priority in spite of not hurting for funds after working for George. Then he found learning the ins-and-outs of creating wizarding space fascinating. Right now, though, it was more than a little frustrating having to churn the merlin-damned things out like a robot.
Footsteps coming from the stairs alerted Carl to company, but he just couldn’t find it in himself to straighten from his slouch over the table.
A snort was the first thing he heard, then Harry greeted, “Well, don’t you look chipper.”
Carl rolled his head to the side and spotted both of his friends standing in the threshold looking at him with smirks. Sighing at his own dramatics, he heaved himself up and retorted, “Well of course I do, its not like we’ve been buried under so many trunk orders that Madeline is about two rune sequences away from ripping all her hair out.”
George’s eyebrows winged up at the snarky words before he grabbed a seat at the table opposite Carl, his face growing solemn. Harry was sitting with his back to the floo after shutting it down for the night. Neither of them felt comfortable just having it open after all the issues with security they had dealt with over the years, wards or no.
Carl furrowed his brows at the action before watching Harry as he sat down and flicked his wand to bring over some things for tea. Knowing his black-haired friend as he did, the action was even more concerning. Harry normally preferred to make tea the muggle way, said that the process was soothing.
“What’s wrong?” Carl asked before anyone else could speak. Both men were looking a little grim and he didn’t appreciate not knowing the reason.
George was the first to speak, “Saw Bill today, he was warning the rest of us that we should stop by the bank soon as we can.”
Furrowing his brows, Carl recalled what he and Harry had discussed recently, but he was confused. He hadn’t heard anything else about any actions being taken by the ministry.
Harry smiled a little sardonically at his obvious confusion before saying, “Surprisingly, it isn’t the current official stupidity this time.”
George smirked at both of them before clarifying, “Apparently, its coming time for a bunch of old accounts that have been dormant to start closing out. Any account that hasn’t been touched for a certain amount of time- well, any wealth will automatically be liquidated and claimed by the goblin nation. Wixen always assumed that even if they aren’t named in a will, descendants would automatically be notified of possible beneficiaries.”
Carl felt his eye twitch, “Let me guess, it wasn’t stated outright in the treaty.”
George grinned sharply, “Well, it seems that the wixen in charge during and after conflict are all fairly thick as a rule.”
Harry scoffed and rolled his eyes, before commenting, “I was only really allowed to take what I was aware of when I went back to sort things out. So, I just learned I’m going to have to brave the bank again if I want to make sure the little blighters don’t get to keep any of my possible assets.”
Carl’s eyebrow climbed up his forehead, “Oh? And how, exactly, will you do that?”
George looked surprised for a moment before slapping his forehead, startling the other two, “Right, sometimes I forget that you didn’t have to learn all that stuff like we did. You can take a lineage/inheritance test at Gringott’s in order to learn if you have any claim over a dormant vault. Though they’re on the pricey side, most purebloods don’t think to check things like that. They just assume they know everything about their bloodlines.”
Carl squinted a bit before looking back at Harry, “Want some company? I don’t really want you going in there alone after you withdrew so much money.”
Harry smiled a little, the warmth obvious, before his own brows furrowed. Looking contemplative, he suggested, “Maybe you should get one, too.”
Carl huffed a laugh in surprise at the suggestion, “I’m fairly sure that would be a waste of money, Harry.”
George watched the by-play in silence before interjecting, “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. Squib lines form all the time, if they happen to have kids capable of magic and haven’t been officially removed from the line… besides, your adopted, right? You never know. May be worth a shot.”
Carl couldn’t help his doubt, despite the interest he felt at the words, “If my parents were muggle, would they even show up on the test?”
He hadn’t really wondered about his birth parents enough to ever want their names. Even now, the thought of looking for them didn’t really interest him, as nothing could replace his family. Though if he ever did have the urge to know, there was no guarantee that the slog through all the red tape would yield actual answers.
Harry tilted his head in question, but it was George who answered, “You wouldn’t get anymore than one generation, and nothing for the inheritance section. But you would see your birth parents’ names.”
Carl looked out the archway leading to the stairs and thought for a moment before rising from his seat. Shuffling forward to reach his room, he said goodnight to both of his friends before commenting offhand, “Let’s see how the goblins react to Harry before I decide.”