To find Him
Chapter 2
Once upon a time, there was a little freak called Boy. He tried to be good and did all of the things he was told to without complaint, but he couldn’t seem to make anyone happy no matter how hard he tried. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were never happy with anything that Boy did though. He wasn’t sure what he did wrong, following every direction to the best of his abilities, yet both were still always so angry with him and yelled and punished him nearly constantly. Uncle Vernon was especially bad when it came to trying to find fault in Boy. The man watched him like a hawk and boy could feel his uncle’s eyes glaring at him suspiciously every second he was at home. Boy honestly preferred the handful of times he had been dumped over at the old lady’s house nearby.
Her home was messy and smelled strongly of underchanged litterboxes and cats and the lady mostly ignored Boy to make over them or she would putter about muttering to herself in a back room he wasn’t allowed in. It wasn’t bad though, not at all! The cats were mostly nice even if a majority were horribly ugly or matted and she never was mean. The lady would sometimes even give him hard candies or he had once even had dinner! It had been at the little table in the kitchen, like Boy was a normal person! The tiny clawed-up table had been full of old newspapers, tower picture albums of the old lady’s cats, and furballs but Boy was sitting at a table and eating!
Boy had lost his bunless hotdog to Tinkles. She was one of Mrs. Figg's most ancient cats who was nearly toothless with long-haired hair and a long shaved potty patch around her bum. Boy hadn’t cared because he had been given more food than he had ever had in his life! Not only had he been given a hot dog but Boy had been given his own bowl of chicken noodle soup. A bowl ! It had been in a can and barely heated but it had been so much better than the bread scraps Boy had mostly been given or scrounged. It had been even better than when he was allowed an egg. Then, to finish off the wonderful meal, although it was long stale, Mrs. Figg gave him a piece of cake! The only cake Boy had ever tasted and he loved it! So…. although Boy didn’t love being at Mrs. Figg’s home due to the smells and mess it still was, by far, his favorite place.
It saddened Boy that the crazy old cat lady seemed to give him more care. He tried so hard but his aunt and uncle still couldn’t stand him. Yet they made over his horrible brat of a cousin, Dudley! Boy didn’t know much but he knew that Dudley wasn’t the nice or intelligent sort, especially emphasizing on the not intelligent.
The child would watch his cousin, a rotund ball of a boy who yelled incessantly every second he didn’t get coddles and presents and every little snack he could get his grubby little hands on. A child who hit and bit and scratched and couldn’t even be bothered to eat with the silverware while she shoveled down food with his hands and carelessly made messes without fear of getting hit or shoved in a cupboard under the stairs. One would as to go so far and say he was even encouraged and praised for his brutish spoiled behavior as Petunia and Vernon Dursley made over him like he was the most charming and adorable boy to live. Even if they were to see him too rough with other children they would brush it off and make over him like he was the victim in a situation.
The pair had gone so far as to come home with arms full of presents after, at the age of 3, Dudley had already broken another boy’s nose and was sent away from the playgroup at the local church. Aunt Petunia kissed at his cheeks, baby talked and was always cooing about how good and strong, handsome and smart Dudley was! But he wasn’t any of those things…. Well, maybe strong? But Dudley couldn’t have outsmarted a potato at his best and he beat the living daylights out of other kids due to sheer boredom and meanness. Uncle Vernon did the same as Boy’s aunt and insisted that he was already becoming a man to be proud of, even as he would slap Boy aside the head so hard he saw stars just because! He had even begun encouraging Dudley to beat the sissy and freak out of him and had given him a lolly when he had slapped Boy a black eye after he had tripped and spilled a bit of Dudley’s juice. It hadn’t even been a sip full and had only splashed on the much larger boy’s, never used napkin, but a screw-up was a screw-up. Something Uncle Vernon had made very clear when Boy had accidentally dropped Aunt Petunia’s blue flower plate.
It hadn’t been on purpose, not at all! The man had watched so he should have known that. Boy’s hands had been burned by the unbearably hot water Aunt Petunia had dumped in the sink from the stove as he washed the dishes. It had been horrible and Boy had hardly been able to hold back tears as he was made to finish up the dishes even with his now tender red hands gloveless and unprotected from the hot water.
The plate had been incredibly hot still and Boy had been so so tired already and it was such a big cumbersome thing that would have been difficult for Boy to hold with his little hands on the best of days. He had really tried his best, honestly! Boy’s hand had slipped and he had nearly caught it but then Dudley had roughly bumped past Boy and the stool was slippery from the w at the slippery water dripped stool that Harry had been standing on and he had been concentrating so hard on ignoring the signals in his hands that he had startled rather badly when he nearly went sliding off the stool like when one of Dudley’s cartoon characters on the telly went sliding and falling in heap on the floor after slipping on a banana peal. The second the plate fell from his hands he knew. Harry knew he would get it for that. His uncle had already been in a mood and had been looking for any reason he could find to bring down severe punishment on him. And well, Dudley had helped him find that reason, a smug grin twisting his bloated face.
Still, Why was Uncle Vernon always so mean? Boy had really always done his best but he was just so little! He hadn’t meant to drop the plate, it had just been so heavy! He sniffled and stifled a wet cough just in case it would annoy Uncle Vernon. Boy wasn’t really sure what time it was or how long he had been out after he had been thrown into his cupboard. His side really hurt from the man’s vicious hits. He didn’t understand why they all hated him so much he did everything he could to be good! He learned to cook and clean and garden and to wax the floors just like Aunt Petunia wanted….
Dudley couldn’t do any such things and usually laid around staring at the Telly all day. The other boy still had the occasional accident purely from laziness! Uncle Vernon would have had Boy black and blue if Boy had ever done that. And had, when they forgot him in his cupboard for the weekend. It wasn’t fair! Boy couldn’t understand how they doted on the fat cow of a prat when Boy wanted someone to love him so desperately and did anything he could to behave perfectly.
Boy curled up in a little ball on the lumpy thin cot he laid on, shivering, as the scratchy gray towel he used as a blanket no longer covered him fully since Dudley tore it just to make Boy’s life a bit more miserable. Aunt Petunia had shrieked at him about being ungrateful after seeing the shreds on the living room carpet. Boy had been grateful though, so grateful! And nearly sobbed in relief when she had at least allowed him to keep the remaining solid scrap that was left after giving him a hard smack to his temple that had sent him into a wall and had made everything ring for hours after.
The cupboard was so cold in the winter, like being in the garage almost. Boy wasn’t sure what he preferred. The cold or the horrible heat from summer. When the grate in the door was shut during the warmest months, it positively boiled! It was so bad that Boy had found himself confused, shaking, and dry heaving and waking up nearly drowned in the bathtub full of cold water once that summer. Later, Aunt Petunia had hissed at him under her breath about getting the family in trouble. Boy knew Vernon would have taken the paddle to him and would have let Dudley get a few shots at him as well if anything about the incident had been told to him.
Although she didn’t show him any affection and clearly hated him just like Dudley and his Uncle Aunt Petunia was always nicer. She may have shrieked and smacked him and burned his hands on the stove when he didn’t do things to her standards but she never hit him until he was begging for her to stop. She would even sometimes let Boy have an egg in the morning or give him a piece of marmalade toast if Uncle Vernon had been especially mean to him or had not let him eat in more than a few days.
Boy felt like the air was being pinched from his lungs after a bit and he felt a vague panic as gurgly sounds met his ears and became worse and worse as time went on. The pain in his back was terrible! He was pretty sure he had seen his Aunt Petunia but things were all blurred up and messy in his head. The woman had hissed, from what he remembered, pale and given him a strange look. Then he heard her high screechy voice and uncle’s angry snarls but it was so so cold and hot and Boy was tired. He just wanted someone to make the hurts go away, someone who could maybe even just like him. Boy knew that he was being a selfish brat but he just hated to be alone, he hated the pain and the cold, and he wished for once he didn’t have to be in his cupboard. To be in the dark while Dudley got two bedrooms and had parents and got anything he ever asked for. Boy never asked for anything before.
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Kreacher was beside himself! First Master Orion had passed due to that dreadful Dragon Pox epidemic that had mysteriously killed several of the most stanch of Pureblood lords. Abraxas Malfoy had been one of them. Charlus, mistress Dorea, and Lord Fleamont Potter, the last of the elder respectable Potters had been the most shocking. Poor Emphemia had died only months before from an attack on the shop where several respectable ladies had been getting fitted for a Yule dress robes. The perpetrator had never been found. Then the traitor ran off with that shameful Mudblood pegger, the shame that brat must have brought his parents… Oh, the humiliation they must have felt! Then poor poor sweet Master Reggie sacrificed himself for Kreacher his wonderful too young master. Then his dear Mistress who had finally totally lost it and died of a broken heart and for the shame of it all! His humans, all gone….
The house elf, so bereaved at the thought, found himself weeping uncontrollably once again at his loneliness and the state of the great family he had faithfully served for centuries had been left in. No more masters! no more little heirs for the elf to care for! Just old Kreacher and his mistress’ painting and a sad sad house. All because that horrible boy ran off and left the family to ruins with no one left among the main line to continue the family. The few left were either married into less-than-acceptable families to take over from the main lines, unable to bear an heir, in Azkaban, or so disillusioned with life that they had locked themselves away to die like his Mistress had done. It was unacceptable but what could old Kreacher do about it? It was hard to believe that such a family, one of practical wizard royalty and over 1000 years of history would die out. Just 2 generations ago it was flourishing! Maybe not quite like in its heyday but there had been over 30 members alive and well.
The only one that had any hope of fixing the family was Arcturus. Kreacher was sure that such a hope was a lost cause since the man hadn’t been seen or heard from in the last five years since Lady Meliana had died. He was sickly and aging concerningly fast, last the elf knew. He tried telling the man that he most certainly either had some kind of cursed health melody, an immune issue that was causing his magic to harm him, a draining spell placed on him or his poor mental health may have even been affecting his life span but Arcturus wouldn’t hear of it and actually had shown gladness for his quickened death the very last time he had heard from him.
Lady Meliana’s death had been terrible and completely preventable. It had been a freak floo accident involving botched reinvigoration potions being sent through without proper stabilizing wards or even stasis runes, a horrible bloody mess! Kreacher and Mistress Walburga had been sent away and forbidden to speak to him again after. It had been the last time Walburga had willingly left the house and her paranoia had come to such a point after seeing those around her pass on in what she believed to be less than natural circumstances that she had gained a form of agoraphobia and couldn’t even manage to visit the greenhouse after a time. She had been trapped and alone and scared until her death. She had grown ill and had lost her mind so much that she refused any potions and had forbidden Kreacher from being able to give her any. She had died from a completely curable case of Doxy Bumps. A potion for 3 days would have saved her.
Stupid selfish fool of an heir! Running away with the unacceptable Potter heir who shamed such a noble family with unacceptable behavior. The terrible boys tormenting pureblood heirs and breaking family promises for a mudblood! Kreacher would never get over it, a mudblood ! Then fornicating with the filthy thing! The Potters had allowed their heir to ruin them and shame them and had taken both respectable families to their graves with their egregious indulgences. And the poor tainted half-child that came of the breeding, Kreacher tutted to himself disgustedly as he puttered about spelling the dust from the fireplace mantle in the room where the family tapestry was woven and embedded in the walls.
Most of the house had fallen to utter ruin the last half decade but Mistress had always been insistent on the upkeep of the tapestry room and Kreacher had been in agreement. The pride of the Black family! So many beloved masters and family members Kreacher had served over the years… Not all had been kind, some even terribly cruel to him, but Kreacher had proudly served nonetheless. A legacy that span more than a thousand years, few could brag of serving such a brilliant example of the best of wizardkind. Kreacher still had his very favorites though, the masters that he truly could say he loved, his poor poor wonderful and courageous Master Reggie… His very favorite, ever… His sweet boy.. Regulus had been so incredibly kind to Kreacher! He should have had at least another 2 hundred years with his young master! Kreacher’s Mistress too! His poor masters had all died so young! So much younger than before, murder, and illness, and horrible accidents! The last half dozen generations had rarely made it past 75 and for a Black, it wasn’t even considered middle-aged! It wasn’t all that strange for a wizard to make it to 300 years if decently powerful and it was rare that a Black wasn’t exceptionally so. Yet… all of his masters died long before their time. It wasn’t right!
Grumbling under his breath to himself, Kreacher ran a knarled claw-like finger down Arcturus III to Orion and then his dear Master Reggie. He let out a weepy croak at the sight of that youthful face smiling back at him. The house elf sucked in a sharp rattly breath. His eyes bulged as he realized he saw something that shouldn’t, that couldn’t exist. It was a fragile thing, barely even there. A curl of bark and vine with a single sickly browning leaf hung below the spot where the traitor’s face once sat smirking smugly before Lady Walburga blasted him off in her grief. It had the vaguest outline of a silhouette formed below the leaf but either the blood wasn’t strong enough… which any Black that showed up on the tree should have enough blood for their portrait to start forming…
HARRISON JAMES POTTER
It took a few moments for Kreacher to let the name sink in. Then the realization that somehow the mainlines lived on! The pitiful-looking scroll the name sat in glowed ever so slightly a golden glow…. A glow that indicated that the child was the current heir of Black. Kreacher nearly choked at the realization. The tainted half child, how?
Kreacher didn’t think that the child could have been traitor’s? There was a faint line to the Potter fool, now that Kreacher was really paying attention. He was confused though, it didn’t look like the child was actually the traitor’s son. Was he a godchild taken in the old ways perhaps? Why was his name and branch so weak and wilted? Mistress may have blasted the fool off, but he hadn’t been magically disowned so any of his children or those adopted by blood should have been strong and flourishing even at a tender age. Either way, the poor poor child may not have been a half mud and somewhere out in the world without family while being raised by the wrong sort no doubt!
The elf let out a little sob at the thought of his poor little master being raised by some blood traitor for years while he and his mistress could have been caring for him. He thought of how his poor mistress died without ever knowing she might have had a grandchild even if the horrible traitor son had shamed the poor boy by making a bastard with a mudblood fornicating filth or that stain James Potter!
Kreacher had felt little tugs here and there for months now, ever since his mistress had died. He had ignored them, thinking that it was either in his mind or someone not of the main family had thought that they could try to order him to them now that Mistress Walburga was dead. He was an old, loyal, very knowledgeable and powerful house elf after all. Kreacher would not leave poor mistress or sad house or listen to anyone that wasn’t of the main line. He had always served those of the main Black line and he wouldn’t lower himself to anything else. He may admire and adore elegant lady Narcissa and powerful vicious Bellatrix, but he would never ever obey some sniveling Malfoy or lesser LeStrange and he knew that their husbands wouldn’t treat Kreacher with the dignity and kindness that his masters had.
Kreacher felt the tugging again, more urgently. It had been doing that on and off much more lately. Kreacher tugged at his ears lightly his eyes landing on the wilting leaf and the fading glow of the child that could be traitor’s boy….. that was supposed to be…. Master Reggie’s….. Disquiet… something wasn’t-…. Supposed to be Reggie’s…. So pale and brittle and wilted… Kreacher took a deep breath and let the tugging lead him away. Popping from the room with an urgent snap that rattled the windows and glass.
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Kreacher hissed as he appeared in a dark tiny cold place that smelled of sick and blood. His eyes easily adjusted to the dark and he realized he was sitting at the bottom of a very uncomfortable sleeping place, although a little taller it was even smaller than his nest and far less comfortable. Two bluish-colored little feet stuck out of hardly what could be considered a useable scrap of cloth. The color of the little extremities reminded Kreacher almost of the color of Cornish pixie skin and he found himself concerned. The house elf was quick to lean down and snarled as he realized it was a human child he had been looking at. His ears flicked back as he heard the child’s chest-rattling wheezes as it desperately gulped air. Disgust and rage filled the elf at the situation, the clear swollen shut eyes and skin and bones body he knew human children shouldn’t have.
Kreacher’s eyes landed on childish scroll that said, “my rom” It didn’t take a genius to understand what it all meant with the sagging mattress, blood, broken bits of toys that were clearly being hidden and half a book Kreacher had found in a hole in the mattress. The traitor had left this child to suffer so horribly in this shithole over being raised by Lady Walburga and Kreacher? Tears pricked at the elderly elf’s eyes. That horrible despicable curr of a boy!
It was clear that the child would be dead soon without intervention. The old elf had seen far too many die. Little boys and girls and his Reggie….. The old elf furiously scrubbed at his tear-filled eyes, barring sharp needle-like teeth in a hateful scowl. He hoped the worthless scum spent at least another hundred years alive and suffering in that hell on earth and even then that wouldn’t be nearly enough time in his opinion to suffer for his crimes made to the family let alone for the filth committed to the child shaking and gasping against the old elf. Half mud or not Kreacher wouldn’t allow the child to suffer another moment in a filthy closet. He snatched the boy up and snapped his fingers. He should have been Reggie’s boy! He’d had never let his boy live like that! The shame! The elf didn’t even try to hold back his tears at the thought of his poor Reggie ever finding out a child of Black had been left to die like that from his traitor brother, he would have been so ashamed, cried, took him in and loved him as his own and did anything he could to try to right such a horrifyingly blatant wrong. Master Reggie had been such a good sweet boy.
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When Kreacher got back to the house he was quick to give the child a proper look over. The elf was appalled and half afraid by the condition of him, that the child might not make it. How had he even? How hadn’t, Kreacher, with his years of experience realized how truly terrible the injuries were? How could anyone do such a thing to a child? Children were gifts and even those that were unkind to a child and who may…. Raise a wand or fist in anger usually were afflicted with madness and…. couldn’t help themselves. Even then the children were healed and cared for and never ever got to the point that this Harrison child was in. A proper scan was even worse. Getting a decent look at the injuries the child had sustained had already made him feel half sick with rage….. but the scan. The house elf’s teeth ached to rip and tear at whoever had been given his little charge. Filth!
Horrible and numerous. Broken ribs, a wrongly healed arm, burns, severe malnutrition and starvation, broken jaw, severe bruising, eye damage, and concussion, cracked skull, pneumonia and hypothermia. It had Kreacher in tears at the thought that anyone could hurt a little master that way. He would destroy the! The elf worked for nearly 3 full days to stabilize his ward, disappearing bones, giving potions and salves and spelling tiny broth meals into the child’s concave stomach. He also bathed and changed the boy into more suitable clothing before tucking him in under a mountain of thick velvety blankets and lit the room’s fireplace.
It was on day 4 when the house elf had actually started feeling some relief. He hadn’t been sure even with all of his skill and the potions that the child would live or not. He was truly on death’s door when Kreacher had found him and with small children one could never be sure which way something like that would go. The elf had lost his fair share of young Masters far too soon so he tried not to be too hopeful less he totally lost what was left of himself if the worst came to pass. Though he was still determined.
On day 6 the boy had woken briefly and then began waking every few hours for a few minutes until the 8th day when he was finally coherent and able to sit up. The child was still incredibly weak for quite some time though, even with the help of potions. Kreacher was sure that the child would have never survived using filthy muggle means.
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“Must not! You must not! You must stay laying down, Kreacher be getting what you need!” The wrinkly bat eared long pointed nose thing growled.
Boy stared wide-eyed when he realized the thing with bat ears he had thought he had been dreaming about had in fact been real and it talked! Its voice was deep and croaky and unnerving to Boy.
“What does Kreacher need to get? Kreacher will make little master most comfortable!”
“I-Aunt ‘tunia mus’ be mad! I-Uncle and Dud’ley need their food…. If I don’ make it I-” Boy shrunk in on himself thinking about how red Uncle Vernin’s face would be and how much his fists would hurt….. actually, he was feeling pretty good compared to normal and his belly didn’t ache so bad like it normally did….? And…. he was on a real bed, warm and comfortable but how and why?
“Little boy’s need to stay in bed and rest!” Kreacher insisted.
“But…. Uncle will be so mad….. He’ll he-he-“
“He will do NOTHING! Not a thing to you again! Old Kreacher is here to care for you and that disgusting filth doesn’t tell you what to do, ever! Master will rest and recover and Kreacher will bring him soup and his potion.” the elf insisted nodding assuredly to himself as he disappeared and reappeared in a matter of seconds, frowning when the boy let out a startled squeak.
“How did you do that?!”
“Do what?”
“The-the away!”
“Away?”
“And-I uh wha’-wha’ is you?”
The elf furrowed his brow in confusion and growing concern. Not everyone had house elves but that didn’t mean that a child that age shouldn’t know about house elves and Apparation-like abilities. The boy had been in a low magic area but that didn’t always mean it was muggle all around. There had been wards around the place no matter how pitiful and useless for protection they had been.
“I’m a house elf and I used a form of magical travel… You will be able to do somethings similar when you are older.”
“You can’t say that!” Boy exclaimed, sitting up straighter as his eyes darted around fearfully.
“What?”
“The-the M word! Uncle Vernon gets mad! He’s not nice when ya’ say bad words like tha’!” Boy hissed under his breath, the covers clutched in a death grip.
Kreacher gritted his teeth not liking where the conversation was going, “You are a wizard what other word would Kreacher be using for such a thing?” He grumbled and rolled his eyes.
“A what?” Boy squeaked out, horrified at the accusation.
Kreacher’s eyes went wide at the clear confusion and fear on the child’s face. “Who were you left with child?” Please don’t make his suspicions be true! Kreacher wrung his spindly-fingered hands together.
“Like…. live with?”
Kreacher nodded, floppy ears swishing emphatically.
“My Uncle an’ Aun’. Aun’ ‘tunia and Uncle Vernon and they have my mean cou’sin Dud’ley.”
Those first names didn’t sound like anything familiar to Kreacher.
“What is their family name?” The elf asked, dreading having his suspicions made real.
“I think…I think Figg calls them.. D-Du-rst-ley. Aunt ‘Tunia said mumma an’ Daddy were bad an’ in a car crash and left me so they got stuck with me and it’s cuz they were freaky I’m freaky. It’s true?” Boy mumbled a bit defensively. It’s all he had left so he had to go and make them breakfast before they got upset with him and stuck him back in the cupboard for being a lazy brat!
The elderly elf let out a hiss between his teeth. He was right about them! Disgusting and unthinkable his little Master, the heir to Black and Potter, two of the most ancient lines in not only the United Kingdom but of Europe as a whole, had been given to and abused by filthy Mudbloods or Muggles. A disgrace, an outrage! A magical child being raised by such animals! When Kreacher got ahold of the fool that had done this, oh they would pay! Filthy muds shouldn’t have been stuck with suck revolting primitive beasts let alone any of his humans. The only reason Kreacher didn’t go back and kill them was because he was too busy and worried about leaving the child for too long to do so and he suspected it would be harder to hunt down the real responsible party if he just killed them now. No, he would wait and possibly even do so until his new charge could be taught the pleasure of long tortuous revenge himself.
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Days had gone by and Boy had learned his name was actually Harrison and his parents had called him Harry as an affectionate name. He had also learned that Kreacher was a-a magic thing and that house elves were magic people? that served great families, the Black family was the greatest in the United Kingdom and one of the oldest. He was also a Potter and although maybe not as great as the Blacks were also one of the oldest wizard family’s and great in their own right as well. Boy… H-Harry was… Kreacher had said he was special. Just Harry was special and he was important! Best of all he would never have to go back to his horribly mean… no to those horrible people again! he was a Black and a Potter, important people! He had been loved and he had been stolen and given away to bad people. Magic was-was real and he was a wizard! He was so happy as the fact that he would never have to go back to Vernon or Petunia again.
It felt so nice to be wanted for once. For someone to explain things in a way he could understand and to not hate him for being a freak. Was this how Dudley felt, being cared for, being treated with affection and gentleness and having a Mumma and Daddy that liked him just how he was? Harry didn’t have to do anything special to make Kreacher not hit him he didn’t know what to think of it all.
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Kreacher grimaced as the inheritance papers confirmed his sweet little master was part nasty mud. That the Potter heir had really desecrated his bloodline and the Black’s own traitor had done little to rectify the mistake in his poor little Harry’s blood. He had added just enough to legitimize him as heir but had left the mudblood’s taint strong in the child’s blood. Some godfather he was! Poor sweet unfortunate Harry! His only saving grace was also shown on the paper and was something Kreacher had suspected.
Dorea Black had been James Potter’s blood mother, not Euphemia, who had inherited the terrible generational curse of her mother who had been a Greengrass. The curse of the Greengrass family had already lasted 6 generations. It was a curse that always ended in death and got set off if the woman afflicted successfully gave birth to a child. Once it was triggered their health quickly deteriorated and even with the best Healer support the affected woman rarely lived more than 6 to 8 years.
Euphemia had either been truly infertile, even with spells and potions, like the rumors had stated. Maybe even Fleamont had issues as well, something not so incredibly uncommon with purebloods. Even incompatible family magic could exacerbate the issue, though uncommon. The Potter lines had always been known as rather sparse and often seemed to deplete the worst during times when the family pushed to marry into more ‘light’ cored lines from what Kreacher recalled. That or even though the Lady and Lord of the family, which had already been nearly extinct, knowing that Euphemia had the family curse they had been reluctant to have a child no matter how much they wanted one and both being talented wixan had done everything they could to try and figure out a way to negate or break the curse before finally giving in and asking Dorea to carry a child.
Poor Euphemia, the curse had been so complete in its prevention of the Greengrass descendants from having their own children without the activation of it. Even without carrying James herself, it would have already been well known that the curse would also be able to activate if her own genetic material had been used. The curse was still so strong at the point that she couldn’t have even blood-adopted James as her own son when he was born. The closest she could have done was to make herself as closely related as a grandparent, which she had. It was a cruel thing.
The curse had been caused by a foolish feud that had literally nothing to do with the family and everything to do with the misconduct of a serial cheating husband and his wildly jealous wife. They were lord and lady of a house that was now several generations extinct in Britain. Where things had become so bad for them that the very few remaining members had fled to America to try and escape the shunning and bad reputation that haunted them after the scandal. They were so vilified that not even halfbloods or mudbloods wanted much to do with them after hearing about their underhand dealings and the fact that the Lady of the house had cursed several different women barren or with the curse that ran through the Greengrass line. The Greengrass family had just been the most notable being a sacred 28, gray affiliated and generally at least respected and semi-friendly with most families regardless of leanings at the time with their strong neutral standing on most hot-button topics.
The Lord and Lady of the minor house of Pricket hadn’t married in the proper wixan way of a magic binding handfast bonding and were one of the first of the purebloods known in the British Isles to marry as muggles would. It had been outrageous and it became very clear quickly enough why Lord Pricket had insisted so vehemently on it. It sure wasn’t because he had suddenly taken up the backward Muggle religion that he had used in his argument either. The man was a womanizer and a cheat of the worst kind. He didn’t care if a person was a half-blood, or Mudblood either. It was even rumored the man had been fornicating with muggle beasts! Either way, his wife was furious and jealous and had no issues with cursing those that he seduced or if rumors were true often forced into sleeping with him with blackmail.
Pricket had been quite irate when he hadn’t been able to weasel himself betrothed to Opheleia Greengrass. Who was not only one of the most beautiful women of that generation but was top of the pecking order in the pureblood circles and from a family that would have greatly elevated his standing in society. Even after marrying the foreign witch who had become his wife, Lord Pricket, had harassed the poor Greengrass heiress quite publicly. He even pursued her after she married and after repeated very public rejections. It was well known that the woman felt nothing but contempt for the man. Still, out of jealousy, his wife cursed the then Lady Greengrass with an old family spell.
The woman so petty, refused to reverse the curse and had sworn her family from doing so as well, which was the downfall of the whole group. Lady Greengrass had already been many months pregnant at the time and the full effects of the curse had been unknown. The Greengrass family declared an eternal blood feud to the end of both Pricket’s and the foreign witch’s family lines. It had been only one of a handful of times Kreacher had ever heard of such a thing ever happening and he was a very old elf. The feud had quickly led to the destruction and outright extermination of the Pricket family after that until the last handful fled even Europe. Even the blood traitor Weasley’s couldn’t hold a candle at their worst to the filthy behavior and reputation that the Pricket’s had amassed for themselves.
All of that aside, this explained Harrison having enough Black blood for the heir claim to hold like it had. Traitor Sirius’ blood had anchored Harry as his enough that the lines took notice and his Grandmother, Dorea’s blood had been strong and Sirius had accidentally strengthened and renewed some of the connections, thus by making Harrison his Godson due to close enough Black bloodlines he had also accidentally claimed Harrison as the heir of Black and saved the family! Kreacher took more than a little delight at the thought. He was sure if the traitor knew what he had done he would be a mess over it. The horrible boy had made it quite clear if it had been his choice the family and its magics would die out with him.
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After finding out that the young deceased Potter lord had allowed a Mudblood to taint his bloodline and not only his heir but the heir of Black, Kreacher was more than sure about what he was about to do. Harrison wasn’t supposed to be that mudblood woman’s and he would not have his sweet young master cursed with the horrible shame of being a half mud. It did worry him though his Harry would be 5 come summer, already so old for the potion…. But if there were a chance wouldn’t it be better his Harry be bled of his taint than live a life so sullied? Kreacher thought it a risk worth taking.
It wasn’t like he could spend more time thinking it over, it just needed to be done and over with. With every day, every hour the child grew with his body and blood the chance of his survival and success faded. Soon the chance would completely pass them by and Kreacher couldn’t have that on his conscience, no no, he would not let the poor child live the life, the shame of a Black nor Potter being a half mud.
The elf had readied everything that was needed and had made sure Harrison understood that for his well being he would need to take the potion. He was such a good smart little master, readily going along with what the old elf insisted must be done.
“Young master must have the mud purged from your blood so you can take the Black and Potter mantels and so no one can track you or push you ever going back to live with those filthy muggles!”
“So….. When I get the bad stuff out I don’ have ta’ go?”
Kreacher nodded. “The nasty blood traitors might be able to find poor master and try to send you back if you keeps mud in your blood.”
Harry’s eyes went wide and his lip trembled at the thought of being sent back to his aunt and uncle, especially after experiencing someone taking care of him and wanting him around. “But… but I-I want to stay here… with Kreacher!”
“Kreacher wishes Master Harry to stay as well is be promising to take good care of you!”
Harry flushed happily. A shy smile lit his face at the elf’s words. It made him so happy that Kreacher wanted him. It felt so wonderful to have that.
“Now as Kreacher has said you will have a little poke then-” The elf prompted.
Harry fidgeted, “Then I gets an ouchie on my finger and you put the blood in and I’s drink some icky tasting potion then I’s am not sick anymore and got the icky out of my blood and mommy and daddy would be happy with me!”
Kreacher beamed, “Kreacher be very proud of his ward! Master Harrison is a good child! Kreacher be getting You all ready. It can be a little messy so lets get you in the tub and then Kreacher will give you the potion!” The elderly elf exclaimed. He led Harry to the bathroom connected to Regulus’ room. It was the bedroom that Kreacher had situated Harry in. After that, the elderly elf levitated him into the massive old clawfoot tub. He only disappeared for a moment before reappearing with a crystal needle and a metallic grey potion the consistency of play slime.
Harry hardly even made a sound as the needle pricked his finger and Kreacher had him squeeze out 9 drops into the opened vial. The elf then walked over to the sink and sat the bottle on it. One needed to be extremely precise with such a powerful potion. The elf pulled out another small vial filled to the top with blood. He then used the crystal needle to carefully drip 13 drops into the potion, before very carefully stoppering the little blood that was left and corking the potion to shake it up until it turned a dark unpleasant desaturated rotten egg yellow that had the consistency of thick snot and little solid chunks of something brown floating around in it. The elf paused when he went to hand the potion over, grimacing at the sight of it. With a snap of his fingers, the contents of the potion were spelled into the child’s stomach. Harry let out a groan of discomfort and gained a green cast to his skin.
The effects of the potion though, were instantaneous, and the child arched his back as a black icker began seeping from the boy’s pores and eyes! Kreacher crooned sympathetically even as he curled his lips in disgust while Harrison cried out in pain and alarm. The oily-looking fluid oozed from under the child’s nails, his ears, and even from his gums as time progressed. It felt like the process was taking forever as Kreacher anxiously waited, becoming more and more worried that the child would not survive as time went on and wails became pitiful whimpers of agony but then the icker began to slow its near gushing and the boy began to change.
His hair went from a ratty mop to something decidedly more tamable. Harrison’s hair became far more elegant, falling around his ears in wild but manageable curls. The Potter curse, either broken or greatly weakened by the strong dose of more distantly related Black blood. Kreacher was very pleased about the development. It gave the child a more suited look and the poor thing wouldn’t be stuck with Kreacher having to practically tug the hair out of his head and having to have hours a day of hair care to even try and keep it managed. Although the Black’s still needed a fair bit of hair care their distinct hair was something that Kreacher knew much about caring for. He was also sure he would enjoy caring for Harrison’s hair far more now as well. At least without it being the cursed mess that a majority of Potters, especially of the main bloodlines had. The elf swore the curse hadn’t gotten any better or weakened even a little bit after more than 12 known generations. It made Kreacher wonder what kind of powerhouse they had angered and for the exact reason that they had such a powerful though ridiculous generational curse placed on the whole family.
After a little while Kreacher watched the child’s nose change. It became straighter and more pronounced. Harry’s facial shape also changed some. His cheeks gained more of the Black family’s sharpness, more noticeable due to the boy still being quite a bit underweight so he didn’t have the puppy fat to soften the more extreme changes. The child’s lips became a little fuller, ears more suitable for his head, and fingers longer and more slender. He looked far more an elegant Black heir although he still had bits and pieces of James. Pieces that were thankfully all flattering and combined with the Black family’s already distinctly attractive features became more exotic and all the more striking. One could see the Potter’s in the shape of Harrison’s eyes and how they were deeper set and had a somewhat more prominent hoodedness to them. It also showed in the shape of the tip of his nose and the wider flare of his nostrils and the angle of his chin.
The last and most shocking change to the boy’s appearance was when his eyes gained hints of metallic silver here and there and a brilliant ring of it around his pupil the rest though stayed a brilliant killing curse green, even brighter than before. Practically glowing now! It was then that a distant memory hit Kreacher and he felt his heart skip a beat. The color so long ago lost, forgotten and so unique to just one family Kreacher had ever encountered and not since he was a young, very young elf.
Kreacher snorted disgustedly. Even before the change they had been special. Harrison had been special Kreacher could feel it from the moment he found him, even with the taint that had muddled him. Those had not been the green of the mudblood’s eyes…No.... they were of ancient lines, of magic reborn! They were the extinct Perevell eyes, Death eyes. Kreacher couldn’t have been more proud. The elderly elf let out an uncontrollable sob into a balled fist. His master Reggie’s child was perfect!
End Chapter 2