Daisy and Dahlia

The pattern for the next week was set. Harry did his exercises, read his books, and spent a great deal of time with the twins, with regular visits from Sirius. Daisy and Dahlia were quite difficult: they clearly carried a grudge from his having left them for three days, and they kept asking him to levitate them, even when he told them he wasn't allowed to, but Uncle Paddy could. He heard an awful lot of "mean Harry! Bad Harry! Want Uncle Paddy! Want Dobby!", but at the same time, they watched him like little hawks, and made a fuss whenever he was out of sight. They had started to outgrow some of their clothes, but when he took them to Pettichaps in Diagon Alley, they didn't like the look of any of the little robes, and threw rather an epic trantrum, somehow giving the proprietor donkey ears, for which Harry apologised profusely. He didn't dare take them to Mothercare. He was starting to understand what Ted had meant when he'd said Harry was too young for this; still, the parenting books told him it was actually a good thing that they felt safe enough to be cross with him. He just had to stay firm and reasonable, and keep being a safe person for them, and not take any of the nasty things they said personally.

Neville owled, letting Harry know how the meeting with the Healer had gone. Apparently, Neville's father's wand had not been at all suited to Neville: not only had it not chosen him personally, it was not even close to a good match for him, and the core had sustained damage in Frank's last duel against the Lestranges that nobody had spotted. Neville could hardly have done much worse if he'd spent the previous two years at Hogwarts trying to cast with a lead pencil, and it said something about his power levels that he had, in fact, scraped passing grades even in the wand-heavy subjects. What Healer Gambol had spotted was that two years of channelling his magic incorrectly had built up unfortunate patterns, put strain on Neville's system. So not only had Neville been to Ollivander's for a new wand (accompanied by his grandmother, great-uncle and four cousins, for extra security), he had also had appointments at St Mungo's, every other day for the rest of the month, to settle him into his magic use, not to mention long lists of exercises and a detailed potions regimen. Neville was delighted to have a new wand, but he couldn't help feeling a bit cross that he'd been made needlessly miserable at Hogwarts for two years, taunted for incompetence, a source of exasperation even for the professors, being told he was little better than a squib and actually believing it; all because his grandmother had fixed on a particular way of honouring his father's memory that was actually hideously unsuitable. Harry could empathise. His return letter touched on the blood wards, and how very perverse their implementation had been, with the power that should have protected him ensuring his vilification. Harry was so very glad to be out from there; and he only hoped Neville's home-life would improve.

Harry did take a break from doing his exercises and fine-tuning his homework to meet Gornuk and discuss the anchors. The wraith, it transpired, had been in Central Europe somewhere at the time that the ritual was done. Now that the diary and the anchor from Harry's scar were both gone, there were only four remaining: one in a technically Unplottable London location (that they were quite confident they could identify and access); one in Gringotts (which the goblins were extremely angry about, as they weren't legally permitted to remove it from the vault it was in, but they really hated having it profaning their bank); one somewhere in Hogwarts; and one in Little Hangleton, a name which rang a bell for Harry. He had never been there, but he had seen the name somewhere... yes. On some of the paperwork from the Gaunt vault. He went back over it. DMLE and Wizengamot judgements against various members of the family for various crimes and misdemeanours... bills of sale for various residences and pieces of land... oh yes. A title deed for 'Gaunt Cottage, Little Hangleton.' He showed Gornuk.

"Will this be where the anchor is?" he asked. Gornuk scanned the numerical co-ordinates on the deeds and on the ritual result transcription, neither of which meant much to Harry.

"Oh yes," he said. "Not quite dead centre, but close. Well. This is most satisfactory."

"Technically, I don't own it, though, do I? Daisy does." Gornuk rolled his eyes.

"The Gaunt family owns it," he said. "You are the Gaunt Regent. It's entailed to the family, but you're fully entitled, as Regent, to do whatever you like in the way of altering the wards and refurbishing the buildings, as long as you didn't try to sell the land outright to someone outside the family. It would be legal but improper for you to tear down a sound building without cause, or otherwise decrease the value and utility of the property, or for you to lease it out for a term longer than the minimum term of your regency; but if anything, it's expected that a Regent would gain access to family landholdings, inspect them, and remove cursed objects that might be dangerous to the underage heirs."

"Sorry, sir," said Harry.

"You are young," said Gornuk. "Perhaps by the time you are an adult, you will be less stupid than most wizards. Not that that is exactly a high bar. Still. I assume, since you swore to do what you could as soon as you could, you will be hiring curse-breakers?"

"Yes," said Harry. Gornuk did the paperwork for an 'initial assessment' by ward experts then and there, warning Harry it was unlikely to be as straightforward as Potter Manor had been, and he would almost certainly end up hiring a large curse-breaking team for an all-out destructive assault. In the event of that contingency, Gornuk also had Harry sign some liability paperwork, where Harry agreed that it was more important to access the property with little or no harm done to the cursebreakers than it was to preserve the wards, the building, or any artefacts contained within. The Gringotts team would undertake to save what they could within limits, and to identify and isolate the particular dark object they were looking for. If they could, they would do the ritual to transfer its taint to a crystal; failing that, they would set it aside for Harry to stab with a basilisk fang; failing that, they would just use Fiendfyre, though that was a worst case scenario that would destroy the entire building and everything in it. As a courtesy, once the team were done with the property, and any surviving and non-cursed valuables were transferred to the Gaunt vault, they would set up basic Muggle-repelling wards before leaving. Harry was quite glad nobody wanted him to mess around with Fiendfyre; after seeing what was left of Potter Manor, he had a very healthy respect for it.

Andromeda Tonks spent much of the week listening to anxious wizards and trying to soothe them. Harry was straightforward enough: he was having cold feet about fostering his young cousins out, worried they'd think he was abandoning them if he went to Hogwarts without them, as their mother had abandoned them. It wasn't as if they had strong relationships with anybody else but the house-elf, and maybe Sirius; and Sirius was even less like parent material than Harry. He could scarcely look after himself; at best, he was more the 'fun uncle' type. She didn't know why he thought fostering them was a matter of such urgency; it wasn't as though Hogwarts didn't have family housing. She should know; she'd lived in one until she was four. She didn't remember it well, but she remembered how strange it had seemed at first to live in Wisteria Lodge instead of Hogwarts, and how familiar Hogwarts had felt when she returned as an eleven-year-old. Harry, it transpired, had never heard of family apartments.

"Well, of course they don't advertise them," said Andromeda briskly. "It's not like they want students to go getting up the duff at fifteen, or siring a child at twelve. If you've never heard of them, I can only assume the Gryffindors in the cohort above you must be rather better with contraception charms and potions than some I might have named; that, or not so prone to scheming to advance their own place in the family line of succession by producing an heir, or not from families whose charter is old enough to allow for such things."

"So, your parents..?"

"Former parents, and yes. Thirteen and fifteen respectively when Bellatrix was born, preceded by a rather hasty marriage. All three of us were born in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing. Mrs Black stayed on until Mr Black graduated. Narcissa was about the age yours are now when we moved out. I understand there's a rather hefty top-up fee on top of the Hogwarts tuition, less if you're bringing a personal elf with you, but even without your Dobby, that wouldn't be a problem for you. And of course, trying to raise children while studying is very bad for your grades; my former parents' OWLs and NEWTs were less than stellar. But just your third year shouldn't set you back too much, academically. Sort out who you're fostering with this summer if you can, bring the children to spend the school holidays with them. Leave them there next year, once they've built a strong relationship with the fosterers, and had more time to get over the abandonment issue. That Dursley woman only turned on them, what, in the spring? And kicked them out altogether at the beginning of this month? It's understandable they're struggling." So much for Harry: he trotted off to floo-call Minerva McGonagall as if someone had lit a firework under him, and then went back to worrying about the problem of finding his cousins clothes that wouldn't provoke screaming tantrums.

Sirius was another matter. He really, really didn't want to go back to Grimmauld Place, and now it transpired one of the Dark Lord's Horcruxes was lurking there, and he was the only person who could retrieve it, being the Head of House Black, and the owner of the property in question. It had gone into lockdown upon Walburga's death; nobody else could so much as open it up. And until the Horcrux was destroyed, the wraith wouldn't fade. So he had to do it. He knew that. He just didn't want to. On and on, round and round. It tried Andromeda's patience, really it did. Her speciality as a Healer was curses, not mind healing. But he was her favourite cousin, so she persevered, and an expedition was arranged, featuring Sirius, herself, Harry, and two Gringotts cursebreakers, one human, one goblin. For her next day off from St Mungo's. Delightful.

Harry hadn't expected to be so easily included on the Grimmauld Place expedition. He'd been waiting to be told he was just a child, and it was dangerous enough they were taking two fully trained master cursebreakers along. But no. All he got was a lecture from Andromeda about not touching anything or stepping on anything until the cursebreakers said it was all right, and about how Sirius was very fragile right now and would be relying on Harry to help ground him, emotionally, and remind him why he was doing this. It was like she was taking into account his age and inexperience, but still taking him seriously, treating him like a reasonable person. It was nice.

Grimmauld Place, on the other hand, was anything but nice. The moment the door was open, a woman's voice began shrieking and howling, and some sort of severed foot actually came forwards to trip Harry. He flinched backwards, and Cursebreaker Abbott had the thing tied up in conjured ropes immediately. Andromeda just looked down and said, "oh, that," before explaining that it was cursed to trip the least pure-blooded person in attendance in the hall at any one time. "My former aunt liked her dominance games," she said, sounding rather bored. "She wasn't always quite that unhinged," gesturing at the source of the screaming, which Harry could now see was a portrait, "but she was never exactly the poster girl for sane and reasonable behaviour." Sirius had frozen, and was trembling. Harry reached out, and held onto his hand.

"It's all right, Sirius," he said. "She's just a portrait. She can't hurt you now. Just a horrible, noisy portrait. She's not real. I'm here, and Andromeda, and Cursebreakers Abbott and Odrog. And she's just a silly portrait." Sirius shook his head, and turned to look at Harry.

"That's my mother," he said. "Horrible old bat."

"Walburga Black died in 1986," said Andromeda. "Would the experts mind conjuring at least curtains, or something else to muffle the noise of her portrait, before I do it myself?"

"Blood-traitor, abomination, shame of my flesh!" howled the portrait. "Consorting with mudbloods, filth, even creatures. Defiling the Ancient and Noble House of Black! I wish I had strangled you at birth!" A grey dustsheet appeared, and a moment later, a temporary, unanchored silencing ward sprang up.

"Time to look for cursed objects," said Abbott cheerfully, and began a diagnostic chant with Odrog. Sirius and Andromeda made eye contact, and started sniggering like teenagers. Harry had no idea what was going on, until the chant finished, and both casters recoiled, screwing up their eyes as if in pain.

"This is the ancestral house of the Blacks," said Andromeda, cheerfully, and Sirius finished the sentence: "...everything is cursed."

"Ugh. We might have to get a bigger team, and come back and go room-by-room," said Abbott gloomily. "Talk about hiding a leaf in a forest."

"Or we could consult the resident elf, if he hasn't died," said Andromeda. "Kreacher!" Nothing. "Well, either he's dead, or he's decided that since I was disowned, he doesn't need to listen to me. You do it, Sirius."

"Do I have to?" asked Sirius. "I hated that elf, and he hated me."

"He might know where the anchor is," said Harry. "And we can't destroy the Wolfshead until we've destroyed the anchor."

"Fine," said Sirius, sounding more than ever like a sullen teenager. "Kreacher!" A pause, and then a crack. A very elderly house-elf appeared, wearing an absolutely filthy tea-towel.

"Nasty blood-traitor master calls?" he said.

"Yes," said Sirius, "unfortunately for both of us. I need to get something, and then I'll be gone. We're looking for a dark object, very dark."

"Kreacher doesn't believe Master could ever have learned to appreciate such things like a true Black, oh no. Mistress had many dark objects, oh yes. Mistress had the perfect taste of a pureblooded lady. Not like nasty master. Blood-traitor master probably wants to give Mistress' treasures to his nasty thieving friends, oh yes, to sell for gold to spend on Muggle debaucheries."

"Master wants one item," said Sirius, glancing at Harry as if for reassurance. "One specific item. The sooner you help me find it, the sooner I can destroy it, the sooner I can go."

"Mistress won't want anything that might help nasty master," said Kreacher. "Mistress wouldn't like nasty master destroying her treasures. But Mistress doesn't want blood-traitor master defiling her house, either. Nasty master offers to leave Kreacher in peace with his Mistress. What does Kreacher do?"

"Kreacher should obey his master like a good house-elf," said Andromeda drily.

"The blood-traitor speaks to Kreacher!" he howled. "Kreacher will pretend he cannot hear, yes, Mistress swore the muggle-loving strumpet was no niece of hers." Sirius was getting angry; Harry tried to calm things down.

"Kreacher," he said. "I'm your Master's godson. You can see that, can't you? The family connection."

"Kreacher sees," the elf said. "But nasty Master's godson isn't pure, no. Head of one family. Regent of another. But not pure. No. Corrupted by mudblood scum. Less pure even than goblin lackey." Kreacher glowered at Cursebreaker Abbott.

"If we find the thing we're looking for, and destroy it," Harry tried, "it will hurt another person. A person who is even less pure than I am. His name is Tom Marvolo Riddle. Do you know that name?"

"Mistress was at school with a mudblood called Riddle," Kreacher said. "She didn't like him, no, not at all. Didn't approve of the way he had scions of pureblood families cosying up to him by the end. No, Mistress didn't approve at all. But what does long-ago mudblood matter to Kreacher? Only a very minor enemy of his mistress's. Beneath her."

"Riddle changed his name, after he left school," said Harry. "Changed it to Voldemort. Do you know who that is?"

"The Dark Lord!" howled Kreacher. "The Dark Lord was a mudblood?"

"A halfblood," said Harry, who really didn't like the way Kreacher kept throwing the word 'mudblood' around, but didn't think he would be able to persuade him not to. "His father was a muggle, but his mother was a pureblood witch, from the House I am now Regent of. But I cast him out, Kreacher. I named him Wolfshead. I am going to destroy him, sooner or later. And if you can help us find the dark artefact, it'll be sooner."

"Oh, wise Master Regulus, clever Master Regulus!" said Kreacher joyfully. "Master Regulus knew the Dark Lord was bad. Perhaps he knew of his impure blood. Oh, Master Regulus. Kreacher is proud."

"What do you mean, Regulus knew the Dark Lord was bad?" asked Sirius. "Regulus joined the Death Eaters!"

"Regulus was Sirius' younger brother," Andromeda whispered. "He died years ago."

"Nasty blood-traitor harlots shouldn't talk about good, wise Master Regulus," said Kreacher. "And Kreacher mustn't tell Nasty Master Sirus, either. Master Regulus ordered Kreacher not to tell anyone in the family what happened to him."

"Well, I'm your master now, Kreacher," said Sirius. "And I am over-riding Regulus' order. I want to know what happened to my brother. He joined the Death Eaters. What happened next?" Kreacher scowled and then spoke. He told the gathered group how Regulus had believed in blood purity. How proud and happy he had been to join the Death Eaters. How the Dark Lord had asked for the services of an elf, and Regulus had offered Kreacher. The cave. The potion. The locket. Master Regulus had ordered Kreacher to come home. Kreacher's return to the cave with Regulus. Regulus' last orders to Kreacher. The Inferi. Kreacher's failure to save Regulus; his failure to assuage his Mistress' grief; his failure to destroy the locket.

"That'll be it," said Harry. Sirius was sobbing incoherently, only Regulus' name occasionally audible. "The locket. We want to destroy it too, and we can."

"Nasty Master's impure godson promises?"

"Yes, Kreacher. If you bring it here, we can destroy it straight away."

"Set up containment wards first," said Senior Cursebreaker Odrog, speaking in English for the first time since entering the house. "Let us examine it. It'll have defences, and they'll be nasty."

"All right," said Harry. "Kreacher, if you bring it here now, we can destroy it almost straight away, as soon as we do some preparation work to make sure it doesn't hurt us while we're hurting it. Maybe a few minutes. Maybe a few hours. But very soon. How long have you been waiting?"

"Years," said Kreacher. "Fourteen years."

"Well, the wait's nearly over," said Harry. "Fetch it."

"Master must order," said Kreacher. Sirius shook himself.

"Fetch it, Kreacher," said Sirius, his voice hoarse. "Regulus wanted it destroyed. Let's destroy it."

"As Master commands," the elf intoned, vanishing and reappearing. He placed a golden locket on the floor of the hall. It had snakes on it, matching the snakes carved into the woodwork of the house.

"Slytherin's original crest," breathed Andromeda. Then she looked angry. "He took the fabled Locket of Slytherin, and he turned it into a- into one of those?" Sirius looked questioningly at her.

"They're not using the word for whatever it is in front of me," explained Harry. "We call them anchors, or bits of soul, or dark objects. I don't need to know the technical term." Andromeda shook her head wryly. Sirius took her arm and whispered in her ear. She nodded.

"And he made multiple ones - of those?" he asked. "No wonder he was mad. You'd have to be mad to do it, and madder to keep doing it, and the more you made, the madder you'd get."

"And evil," said Andromeda placidly. "Which would increase in the same way. And now we're going to have to destroy an amazing historical artefact, since you both promised. Oh well. Eggs and omelettes and all that." In front of them, Odrog and Abbott were finishing their investigation.

"Nothing on the outside to get hold of," Abbott said. "No vulnerabilities. No actual curses or enchantments to destroy, even though the thing itself reeks of magic, and a creeping miasma of evil. To examine its workings, or to destroy it, even with that basilisk fang of yours, I think you'd have to open it. And with the snake on the front..."

"All right," said Harry. He opened the bag he had brought with him, took out the box, unwrapped the fang from its basilisk-hide bundle within the box. He turned to the locket. The others stood, wands out. Kreacher's eyes were fixed on Harry, a look of wide hope burning in them.

"Open," he hissed. It opened to reveal a red eye; a mist rose from the eye, forming a human shape. Lily stood before her son, a look of concern on her beautiful face.

"My darling boy," she hissed, speaking to him in the shared language of their family, the language he suspected she had hidden in life, "are you really going to kill our cousin? Our kin? Your own family? They say Parselmouths are evil, you know. What about my little nieces? Daisy and Dah-" Her voice cut off as Harry slammed the fang down. Above the screaming, and the hiss of venom burning the floorboards, he spoke.

"I'm doing this to keep them safe from you, you bastard. And how dare you use my mother's image like that, when you're the one who killed her." The charred fragments of the locket did not, could not, reply. Harry was shaking. He let Andromeda pack the fang away again. Sirius reached out for a hug, and Harry let himself be enfolded, and cried again for the mother he only knew from photographs and other people's stories.

"He said," he sobbed, "he turned into her, he used her, and he said- he suggested I would- that if I would kill my own cousin, then I might be a threat to-"

"The bastard," said Sirius. "You never would, Harry, never. You know it. You love those girls. You love them like I love you, like your parents loved you." He looked up at the house-elf.

"Thanks, Kreacher," he said. "We'll be off now. No idea when or if we'll be back." He gestured to Cursebreaker Abbott. "Undo the curtains, would you? Let Kreacher have his loony portrait back." He lifted his godson in his arms, and headed to the door. The locket lay on the dusty carpet, already forgotten.