Chapter 1
Charlus Potter was not a man easily gripped by fear. In fact, many who knew him would say he was a warlock to which the concept of fear was anathema. Yet, there he sat, shivering in a plush seat in his personal study at the Duskwood, the ancestral home of his family, staring at a tapestry and absolutely awash in dread.
The fireplace before him crackled with a supernatural warmth that filled the room, but the Lord of House Potter could find no comfort in it. He felt only a cold shiver as he watched the family tapestry tell him his son was engaged in battle. That shouldn’t be possible. He and his family were hidden under a Fidelius Charm, one he himself had cast, and his nephew had been the secret keeper. Sirius Black was a lot of things, most of which Charlus disapproved of. But a traitor? A coward? No. Charlus had taught him better than that.
And yet the tapestry never lied. Tears slipped down his aged face as he watched a shroud cover the face of his son. Charlus’s heart clenched. He felt frozen. He had seen countless battles over the years. He was a champion duelist, a veteran auror, he had even spent a few years as a curse breaker in his youth. He was knighted as a warlock of the International Convention of Wizards, for Merlin’s sake! Never before had he been paralyzed like this, unable to act in the face of such a monumental loss. He hadn’t felt sorrow like this since his beloved Dorea passed a year prior. Perhaps not even then.
Each portrait on the tapestry had a pair of swords beneath it. In times of peace, that is where they remained. When the person was engaged in a fight, the swords crossed. If they fell in battle, a burial shroud covered their face. It wasn’t until the swords under Lily’s face crossed that Charlus regained control of himself. He had to act if his grandson was to be saved.
“Tippy, my sword!” Charlus commanded his house elf and he took long strides towards the door. Wandlessly, he summoned his cloak and whirled it around his shoulders in one fluid motion. Moments later he was in the manor atrium with Tippy fastening the bastard sword at his hip.
Shatterthorn. The ancestral weapon of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter. Its blade was made of stygian-silver, hand forged by some of the last moon elves before they departed from this world. The pommel was that of a snarling, white wolf with rubies for eyes, and the guard was covered in wrought-iron thorns—thorns that would have been dangerous for the user if not for heavy enchantments placed upon the weapon. The blade itself was black as the void with a bright silver, spiderweb pattern on it and had the phrase ‘Acta Non Verba’—Acts, Not Words— engraved along the fuller.
As soon as his foot was out the door a thunderous crack rang through the air. He did not break his stride as he disapparated, and his other foot landing in Godric’s Hollow without pause even as he shook off the nausea of the teleportation. His wand shot out from the holster on his forearm. There were a pair of figures shrouded in black robes standing outside his children’s home, their silver masks shining brightly in the moonlight. Upon seeing them Charlus had only a single thought.
If this Samhain was to be marked by death, then let it not be the deaths of innocents alone.
Charlus twirled his wand in three quick but elaborate motions. A bright orange curse struck the first Death Eater, causing the man’s spin to twist in a jerking, unnatural way. He crumpled without a sound. The second seemed more aware of Charlus’s approach and conjured a silver shield to block the purple and red curses thrown at her.
“Avada Kedavra!” she cried, her shrill voice cutting through the otherwise silent night.
Charlus spun to the side with practiced grace before throwing another volley of spells her way. He kept them light and fast, knowing he could not afford to prolong the duel by going blow for blow with powerful spells. Instead, he quickened his pace and drew Shatterthorn in his off-hand.
The Death Eater saw his shift in stance and tried to take advantage. With a calculated twist to her right, she dropped her shield and let a few of her own spells fly. She was hit in her shoulder by a piercing hex he sent her way, leaving her left arm to hang uselessly at her side. She didn’t seem bothered, almost as if she expected it. It allowed her to cast a particularly nasty-looking pink curse.
It was no matter for the determined Lord Potter. He ceased his assault and conjured a brick wall to block it. When it shattered, stone scattering to all sides, the Death Eater was in arms reach, and then it was over.
The method of forging anti-magic arms and armor died centuries ago, gone with the high elven races that invented the practice. Some families, like the Potters, retained an artifact or two from that bygone age. Most families with access to them, especially ones who adhered to magical supremacist ideologies, mistakenly used them for little more than mantle pieces and conversation starters at parties. They relied on the might of magic alone. Being unprepared for a physical offensive proved to be a fatal mistake against a warlock of Charlus’s caliber. He lashed out with the sword, a single slice to decide the duel.
Shatterthorn cut straight through a black bolt of lightning that emanated from her wand, splitting the spell off to two sides and causing the street to fragment around them. That was the last thing the witch saw before the ancient blade cut her from hip to jaw.
Charlus broke into a sprint as he stepped over the witch’s body and onto the lawn. Lily’s scream of protest emanated from the house. Her beautiful voice, which he had come to adore in their many conversations over charms theory and creature rights, was raw as she begged for her son’s life. His grandson’s life. Charlus burst through the front door.
He ignored both the stench of blood that stained him and the sight of his beloved baby boy sprawled out lifelessly on the steps leading upstairs. “Lily!” he called out, his voice cracking in desperation as he dashed up the stairs.
“Avada Kedavra!” A high-pitched voice shrieked, and suddenly Lily was silent.
“Monster!” Charlus cried out, fresh agony rippling through his heart.
He crashed through Harry’s door, his own killing curse on his lips as he tumbled into the room—wand trained at the pale visage of Lord Voldemort. But it was too late. The fiend was already more than halfway through his curse, a vile piece of spellwork that would strip Charlus of the last of his bloodline. But as the curse struck Harry a brilliant flash of green and gold flooded the room. At once he felt waves of euphoric love and visceral hatred wash over him. Then, debris from the explosion crashed into him, all he saw was black.
He came to as he heard the wailing of a deep, male voice. Not even a foot away, a man in black robes kneeled over Lily’s body. Whoever he was, his sobs were sure to wake the whole neighborhood, especially since, as Charlus absently realized, the house was missing a sizable portion of the eastern wall and roof and he could no longer feel the presence of the Fidelius.
As Charlus moved, brushing chunks of brick and mortar off his chest, the crying figure whirled around to face him, wand drawn. Charlus’s head was spinning, and felt wet with what he could only assume was blood. His own or the witch he slew? He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. He recognized the man before him.
Severus Snape. Death Eater. Wand.
Those were the only three things running through his mind as he grabbed his wand. Snape opened his mouth to say something but Charlus wasn’t listening. He could have disarmed the man, but his heart cried out for vengeance.
“Diffindo!” Charlus couldn’t think of a time he’d ever poured more power into a spell.
Snape cried out in agony. Consumed by grief he could not think clearly enough to cast a protection charm. One moment he had a wand in his hand. The next moment that hand was laying on the floor.
“Locomotor Mortis. Langlock.”
His second spell bound Snape’s legs together, the third caused his scream to be muffled as his tongue fused to the roof of his mouth.
Charlus groaned as he stood. He was shaky on his feet, burdened by both fatigue and grief. As he made his way past Snape, the Death Eater clutched at the hem of Charlus’s robe with his remaining hand. He seemed to be trying to say something, but Charlus only sneered down at him.
“Flippendo.”
Snape slammed back against the ground with far more force than necessary, knocking the Potions Master out cold.
It was Charlus’s turn to choke back a sob. He fell to his knees and pushed an errant strand of crimson hair from Lily’s deathly pale face. He closed her eyes. He couldn’t stand to look at them, to see them hollow. Lifeless. He stood, barely able to see past the tears that were now flowing freely down his cheeks. It took a second for him to summon the courage to go to the crib. He thought his heart might give out when he saw his precious grandson, his little lion, laying there with the same empty expression as his mother. Then he thought that his heart giving out might be a mercy. At least he’d be with them again.
A cry rang out in the room, followed by a gurgle.
Charlus froze. It wasn’t possible but… dare he hope? He hadn’t even begun to consider what might have happened to the Dark Lord. He assumed he fled off into the night. But now, hearing noises from the crib…
All that could wait. He rushed to where he expected to find his little lion’s tiny corpse, and instead he was met with the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. He was alive! Harry was alive! Sure, he was about to start crying any second, but he was alive!
Charlus absentmindedly rubbed his forehead again, Merlin he must have whacked it hard, as he holstered his wand and picked up Harry. He did his best to soothe the crying babe, all thoughts of breaking down now gone. He had to be strong for his grandson.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, pacing, with Harry in his arms. It couldn’t have been that long, though, because the spells on Severus were still holding up when he was broken from his reverie by the sound of a familiar motorbike skidding to a halt outside.
Sirius was at the doorstep wailing before Charlus could make his way down the stairs.
“P-please, it can’t be t-true,” Sirius had his head buried in James’s chest as he sobbed.
Charlus shifted Harry to be cradled in his left arm before drawing his wand again in his right. He pointed it at his nephew. The chances that this was all Sirius’s doing were slim to none, but he would not risk Harry’s life on anything less than a certainty. With a sickly green spell, an unmistakable curse, lighting up the tip of his wand, ready to fire off at a moment’s notice, Charlus asked, “What happened?”
Sirius continued to let out, strangled, barking sobs as he squeezed his best friend’s shirt.
“Sirius Orion Black! You look at me right now and tell me what happened here tonight or I swear on all the gods, above and below, it will be your last!”
Sirius looked up at him. His movements were slow, and his eyes betrayed the fact that he as only half there.
“Wha?” Sirius asked lamely with a dreamlike expression. It was as if he couldn’t believe any of this was happening. An oncoming dissociative episode was written all over the man’s face.
“Sirius,” Charlus’s tone was grave. His nephew's behavior had all but convinced him, but he needed to look in his eyes as Sirius confirmed it, “What. Happened?”
“I…” Sirius took a deep breath and it seemed to help just enough for him to begin, “it got out that I was the secret keeper…”
***
Pettigrew. The Rat. Always trust a wizard’s animagus. That is what he told his boys the day they showed him their other forms. James was a noble stag. Sirius was a loyal dog. And Pettigrew was a filthy, sniveling rodent. Charlus hadn’t liked Pettigrew from the fist day he met the boy. The Rat showed up at Duskwood, helped himself to their food, broke an expensive lamp, and then tried to lie about both. Couldn’t even look Charlus in the eye or properly apologize to Dorothea. Charlus didn’t give a damn about the food or the lamp. Frankly he was happy to be rid of the ugly thing, and he knew what it was like to be young and excitable. But the lies told Charlus all he needed to know, and now the Rat’s actions had taken two of the people Charlus cared about most.
Yesterday Charlus had three sons, a daughter, and a creepy nephew he couldn’t get rid of. Now he had two sons and a target.
Charlus was sitting with Sirius and Remus in his study, all three drinking from over-filled glasses of Ogden’s strongest. Dumbledore was set to show up at any moment, and much as he’d love to strangle the man for fumbling with the prophecy, they needed to collect themselves. Directly to Charlus’s left was a sleeping Harry, nestled comfortably in a transfigured rocker. Charlus hadn’t taken a hand off it since he placed his little lion in there, afraid that if he did then Harry would disappear.
“What are we going to do with him?” Remus motioned his head towards where Snape was laying in the corner, thoroughly bound, silenced, and deafened with muffling charms cast around his ears. Remus thought it might be safest to blind him as well, but Charlus wanted to see the fear in the ‘greasy git’s’ eyes as he awaited judgment. They had bound his wound so that it wouldn’t bleed out, much to Sirius’s chagrin, but they didn’t put much effort into it. If Dumbledore didn’t arrive soon then Snape would likely still bleed out eventually.
“It doesn’t matter,” Sirius growled, his hackles raising as if he were in his other form, “there are more vermin out there to be dealing with. Wormtail is still out there.”
“Quiet,” Charlus’s voice was soft but harsh and brooked no room for argument, “Unless you want to stay up with Harry all night after waking him. And you are not going after the Rat tonight. Not until your name is clear.”
“I can clear my name after. You can do it, even. I should be tracking his wretched scent before he gets away.”
“Padfoot,” Remus put a hand on Sirius’s thigh, “please. For Harry.”
This is for Harry! Sirius wanted to scream. He didn’t, though. He just placed his own hand over Remus’s and rubbed his thumb over the back of it.
“And I can’t clear your name on my own, my boy. You know that.”
Sirius did know that. Without him there, his uncle could only provide testimony on his behalf. With Sirius there, Charlus could set arrange for Sirius to swear an oath and submit memories. That would be irrefutable, and anything less than that was likely to result in a one-way ticket to Azkaban.
Dumbledore knocked lightly at the doorframe.
“Come in,” Charlus stood as the Supreme Mugwump entered. He inclined his head to the older man and summoned a seat for him.
With a small frown, Dumbledore entered the room. Everyone knew he hated the formalities that came with his position, especially in a private setting with an old friend. He suspected that was part of the reason Charlus always insisted on it. Even heavier on his mind, however, were the series of tragedies that had unfolded that night. He was about to take his seat when he notices the bound Snape in the corner and quickly cast a series of advanced healing charms on the man. There would be no saving his hand, what was lost to a curse could never be regained with magic, but he could at least treat the man properly.
No one said anything as Dumbledore cared for Snape’s condition and conjured a bed for the former Death Eater to rest on. They would be having words about this later, but for now there were more important issues at hand.
“I’m afraid I bring grave tidings,” Dumbledore said as he sat back in the seat provided for him.
“More grave than those we already know of?” Charlus asked in disbelief.
“No,” Dumbledore shook his head, “though, I fear I would have to cast them as equally grave. It pertains to the Longbottoms.”
Charlus’s heart clenched in his just and he saw his boys go rigid in their seats.
“Frank and Alice?” Remus’s voice quivered.
“I am so sorry,” Dumbledore had tears shining in his eyes, “We don’t know who or how, but they were found tortured to insanity earlier this evening. They have been admitted to St. Mungos, but their condition is unlikely to ever improve.”
“What of Neville,” Sirius gasped, fresh adrenaline pumping through him.
“Safe,” Dumbledore raised his hands as if to assuage the riled-up animagus, “I assure you he is in good hands. Augusta has already pledged to raise him for as long as need be.”
That was no surprise to anyone in the room, least of all Charlus who had been friends ith Augusta since their days at Hogwarts. Augusta Longbottom’s love for her family, and in particular, her grandson, was clear. Even if she did have a rather rough way of showing it.
“Then let's get this over with,” Sirius was up and pacing, “I have a Rat to hunt.”
Dumbledore opened his mouth as if to protest but Charlus shook his head at him, “If we do not do this now then he will run off anyway.”
“Very well. Sirius, your arm, if you please.”
Sirius gave his vow, and his memories and Dumbledore reviewed them in Doreah’s old pensive. Dumbledore nodded and told them all that this would be sufficient. No sooner had the words left his mouth than Sirius was out the door. Remus was instructed to take Snape to Hogwarts and have Poppy look him over properly there. Before long, the two old warlocks were left to sit with Harry.
“Have you considered what you are going to do with him yet?” Dumbledore inclined his head in the baby’s direction.
“Of course,” Charlus scoffed, “I’m not about to leave him in the care of muggles. Even if these ones weren’t vile, and I can assure you that is the nicest word one could use to describe that family, they could never fully understand what it is to raise a wizard.”
Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed slightly at that. It was a point of contention between them. Charlus had no prejudice against muggleborns, far from it, in fact, he often celebrated the fresh names and perspectives they brought with them. Their muggle parents, on the other hand, Charlus seemed to think less of. The man would never admit it, Dumbledore thought, but Charlus Potter thought muggles to be beneath him.
“A conversation for another time,” Dumbledore gave him a pointed look which Charlus only shook his head at. It was a tired argument for both of them, “You’re committed to caring for him then?”
“It's not a choice,” Charlus looked down reverently at his grandson, “He will be all that’s left to carry on the Potter name before too long. He must be ready.”
Despite not caring for the man’s thoughts on those born both outside of their society and without magic, Dumbledore found himself relieved Harry would be raised by a family member that actually cared for him. If Minerva was to be believed, and in Dumbledore’s mind she always was, Charlus’s assessment was not far from the truth.
It was then that Dumbledore shifted uncomfortably and looked Charlus in the eye before his gaze climbed up to the man’s forehead, “Indeed he must be,” he said severely, “I’m afraid we have one more grim subject to talk about, my friend,” Dumbledore’s eyes didn’t leave the spot in the dead center of Charlus’s forehead.
The other man just nodded and knocked back a hearty amount of fire whiskey, “I know. You recognize it too then?”
“I have my theories. You have your own, then?”
“Just the one,” Charlus sighed and brought his hand up to the same spot that pained him since Voldemort’s curse rebounded. Charlus was a man very well-versed in the Dark Arts. The Potters had a storied history of using the darkness to fight for the light. It was easy for him to recognize their taint. He felt something cold shift behind the raised skin, three perfect jagged lines in the shape of a killing curse’s wand movement, “he’s still right here with us.”