Blackmoor Harbourhouse
The first few days were spent in the flurry of activity that one might expect when a neglected child is brought into a responsible home and introduced to a world they knew very little about. The fact that the new world was a magical one, that the child was the muggle-raised Boy-Who-Lived, and that the home belonged to one of the most notorious dark families did complicate things, but didn’t change the fundamentals of what was needed. There were introductions to social workers and mind-healers, educational assessments, and reams of parchment to file. There were essentials to buy and a godson to spoil. (Sirius gifted Henry a racing broom and flamboyant silk summer robes. He also bought the less conspicuous garments and muggleborn introductory books his godson insisted on.) There were also a daunting array of health consultations, more than the Blacks had anticipated. (Sirius was furious to learn that Henry would need nutrient potions and mood-stabilizing draughts for the foreseeable future. He was downright apoplectic when he learned that his godson would have to spend an agonizing night regrowing bones. At the discovery of untreated curse residue– well. Even the usually unflappable Lord Black looked grim.)
* * *
Once the initial spike of engagements died down, Henry adapted to the rhythm of Blackmoor rather quickly.
He was delighted at the increase in freedom compared to the children’s home: as long as he carried an emergency port-key, wasn’t out after dark, and didn’t swim alone he was granted free reign to go anywhere within the village boundary stones. While he was expected at lessons and meals, and the Blacks didn’t seem to understand the concept of weekends, the schedule sensibly acknowledged the need for unstructured time. He woke early most mornings, slipping out of the house for an hour to two before breakfast. He’d go for a short run along the footpaths, stopping to meditate in a sunny spot among the heather or explore tidepools draped in fog. It was so wonderful to be able to spend time alone again, free of constant institutional supervision, free to read and wander and look at the sky.
Breakfast was buffet-style. By the time Henry arrived at a quarter to eight, Arcturus and Malcolm–the Lord Black and his Steward–would already be in position at the dining room table, ensconced in correspondence and newspapers. After an indeterminate amount of time the men would begin to share their observations about the daily news, the silent breakfast effectively transitioning into a time of lessons. Arcturus, for all his dry formality, was a capable teacher and would seamlessly segue from the discussion of current events to Henry’s assigned readings. Readings that, more often than not, he was able to use to provide relevant context for the discussion at hand.
Occasionally, the discussions would lead to Henry following the men downstairs to the Steward’s office, to go over ledgers or observe a meeting. He liked those mornings, moments where he could pretend he was an adult again. There was a lot he didn’t follow, but Henry had always been good at reading between the lines, divining how the pieces fit together even if he didn’t know exactly what the pieces were. It meant that he picked up on the tensions around expanding tourism to the village, about how an increased influx of visitors would threaten the traditional practices that would attract them in the first place. It meant that he understood something of the difference in the loyalty and duties between the Steward and the Harbormaster. It also meant that he was able to see, from what wasn’t on the ledgers and what was left unsaid during the meetings, that there was something hidden about Ravenswood. Something peculiar and powerful.
Most mornings, however, he would continue reading in the study until Aunt Cassiopeia joined him at ten. Her lessons centered around pureblood etiquette and expectations. It was tedious, but Henry recognized the need for repetition–he wanted to be able to pass, for the words and gestures to come naturally. Aunt Cassiopeia, for her part, seemed to appreciate his cooperation. After an hour or more of balancing books on his head, receiting family relationships, tying ties, or practicing bows, she would reward him with stories about the Black family, or even better, tidbits about magical theory.
“Aunt, I know that the ministry doesn’t allow children to have wands before eleven, and you’ve told me that it’s taboo to touch another wizard’s wand… yet you’ve also mentioned that many families instruct their children in magic before Hogwarts. Is that something you can help me with?”
“Nephew,” Cassiopeia acknowledges, stirring her tea. “Pureblood families will often lend children the wands of family members who have passed on. However… Sirius is being difficult.” Cassiopeia paused, and Henry knew better than to push her. “Henry, do you remember that I told you that casting dark magic influences your magical core?”
“Yes, Aunt.”
“It’s greater than that. All magic shapes magical development, every exposure, light or dark. It’s part of the reason why we thought it was so important for you to live with us here.” She smiles faintly. “But wands… wands are a very intimate thing, child. And Sirius, well, he was concerned that pairing you with a Black family wand would have too great an impact on your development. That it would align your magic too strongly to the Black Family magicks, at the expense of your connection to your Potter roots.”
“What about a Potter wand, then?”
“No. The custody agreement has Dumbledore and others monitoring the contents of the Potter vaults. They would not allow you access to a wand. And even if they did,” she mused ruefully, “there is no one left to instruct you in the Potter magic, to help you choose an appropriate pairing.”
“A Potter portrait?”
Cassiopeia snorts. “Not likely. A high-quality portrait can tell you about family magic, true. But instruct you? Sense the pattern of your magical core and how it best blends with a magic going back generations? Assess the impact on your development? No. An ill-chosen Potter wand would overwhelm your signature. Dictate your path. The Potter magic might not match the depth of the Black’s, but it does burn brightly.”
“What about potions, or runes,” Henry pressed.
“Mmmm. That we can probably do.” Her eyes flashed. “Once you are presentable for society, that is.”
* * *
Afternoons were usually spent with Sirius. There were defense lessons: an hour or so spent dodging Sirius’s color-changing spells and mild hexes, with the occasional pointer on blocking kicks and punches. Inevitably, the lessons would devolve into tickles and roughhousing. While the adult within Henry sometimes wished that his godfather would train him more seriously, he recognized that both he and his godfather were likely touch-starved, and that neither of them seemed to know how to initiate contact otherwise.
While there was time set aside for reading, Sirius had difficulty containing his enthusiasm for introducing Henry to all of the staples of a magical childhood. There were trips to Fortescue’s ice cream parlor, broom flying lessons, and games of exploding snap and gobstones. Henry, in turn, introduced Sirius to his walkman, which led to an entire afternoon in a muggle music store as Sirius caught up with the decade of music he had missed. (For weeks afterwards, Sirius would shamelessly moonwalk whenever he went out in public with his godson.)
Yet for all their carefree afternoons, Henry worried about his godfather. Although he and Sirius would regularly venture into the broader magical world, they never visited with friends, and the only visitors to the Harbourhouse were on business. In fact, except for the afternoon outings with Henry, Sirius appeared to hardly ever leave the house. He never emerged from his room before lunch, and spent most of his evenings drinking quietly in the study. (Henry suspected that Sirius went clubbing on the weekends, but Sirius was too discrete for Henry to draw a firm conclusion.)
Henry wasn’t sure how to best support his godfather. He was conflicted: in his previous life, he preferred to be straightforward in his interactions with people, but his instincts screamed for him to remain cautious about revealing who he was and what he knew. With Arcturus, Cassie, and Malcolm, it was easy enough to continue the role he had developed at Greater Whinging: intelligent, quiet yet inquisitive, mature for his age. Behind their reserved facades he thought he could detect pride and a growing fondness. With Sirius, however, it was different. It was clear that his godfather–drowning in grief and rage and isolation–wanted more from his godson. On the one hand, he seemed to crave a bubbling and devoted child to raise and dote upon. Yet Sirius also seemed to hope that Henry could somehow slot into the hole left by the loss of his adult friendship with James. It was confusing to navigate these conflicting desires, and the fact that Henry felt the need to hold back such a big part of his identity made it difficult for him to develop the close relationship that Sirius seemed to need. He could only hope that their time together was enough.
Yet as the days began to turn into weeks, Sirius seemed increasingly uneasy. It finally came to a head over supper one evening.
“Midsummer’s eve approaches,” commented Aunt Cassiopeia, looking significantly at Sirius and Arcturus. As far as Henry knew, the only time Sirius and the Lord Black spent time together was at supper.
Sirius coughed weakly. “Indeed.” He turned to face Henry. “Listen, kiddo. Grandfather and I have been talking, and we think it might make sense for me to, uh, formally name you as my heir. You’re still my cousin and my godson either way, but this would strengthen our guardianship claims. If you’d like that, that is.”
Henry smiled warmly at his godfather. “I think that sounds brilliant.” Sirius’s face lit up like the sun.
Arcturus spoke up. “In families such as ours, heirship rituals are traditionally performed on cyclical days. We propose to bring you to Ravenswood for Litha, the Solstice, for a naming ceremony.”
“A naming ceremony?”
“We’re thinking Henry James Potter-Black. It would honor your Potter heritage but legally tie you to both our families,” Cassiopeia offered.
“But you know, pup,” Sirius said, his voice suddenly firm, “you don’t need to take the Black name during the ritual if you don’t want to.”
Henry stole a glance at his great-grandfather. The dynamics of the room gave him the strong impression that he was, in fact, expected to take the Black family name. “What exactly are the implications and consequences of taking on the Black family name,” he asked slowly.
“By adding the Black family name, you will be a Black by blood, magic, and name. Your forthcoming rank as second-in-line to the Lordship would be unassailable by the likes of Draco Malfoy,” the Lord Black began. “And should Sirius surprise us all with a child by his own blood,” he drawled, “it would provide him the option for you to continue as his primary heir if he so wished.”
This sounded reasonable. Good, even. So why the steel in Sirius’s voice? What was he missing?
Henry looked up again at his great-grandfather, the Lord Black. The man was elderly and gaunt, but his back was straight and his eyes were clear. When he had first met the man, Henry had thought him always robed in nothing but black, but had since noticed deviations from that initial observation. Tonight, for instance, his great-grandfather’s robes were accented with silver threads, and his tie had a barely detectable paisley pattern of nearly-black purple against almost-black blue. “Are the burdens of the Lordship heavy, then, Grandfather,” he asked finally.
Arcturus put his silverware down and held Henry’s gaze for a long moment. Just as it looked like Sirius was about to speak, he held up a hand. “A perceptive question,” he said at last, “one that shows you to be a worthy heir.” He picked his knife and fork back up, resuming the casual dissection of the haddock on this plate. “Occasionally, perhaps. But I would say it is more constraining than onerous. I think you’ll find, Henry, that the choices one makes on the path of adulthood, the choices that bring power and influence, are the same choices that lead to obligations and responsibilities. To open one door, one must close several others.”
“Grandfather–” Sirius broke in.
“No, Sirius,” Arcturus insisted, his magic flaring as cold as ice. “It is neither the place nor the time. Henry will not be compelled to accept the Lordship by taking on the family name, it merely sets things in motion to allow us to divulge the pertinent secrets.” He speared a piece of broccoli. “And that is all I will say about the matter until then.”
* * *
Lord Black joined Sirius in the study after supper. “Have you decided who else will stand in the naming circle?”
Sirius bristled a bit at the unspoken assumptions: that Henry would accept the Black name, that his grandfather would be a participant. Not that he is wrong. “I’d be honored, of course, if you guided us at the northern point.” Arcturus inclined his head in acknowledgement. “And, I will of course, ask Aunt Cass, perhaps for the easterly direction. For the west, I was thinking Remus–”
“No,” Arcturus spat. “Not at Ravenswood.”
“Grandfather–”
“No. I do not care if you continue to associate with the wolf, or if you choose to introduce him to Henry. Have him luncheon at Blackmoor,” he waved his hand dismissively. “Involve him in your personal life however you see fit. But he will not spend a second’s time on Black lands after dark.”
Sirius gritted his teeth. “Regent Longbottom, then, for the West, and Professor McGonagall for the South.”
“I have no objection to either of them, although I would have thought perhaps to involve another of Black blood.”
“Who else is there? You can’t possibly expect me to ask Cissy to participate in a ritual that effectively denies her son the Lordship!”
“Andromeda remains a Black by blood, even if she is no longer by magic nor by name. She was disinherited, not disowned,” Arcturus reminded him softly.
“You would have me invite Andromeda?”
“I doubt she would respond to my owl, but she might to yours. I believe Ravenswood would welcome her return.”
“And her husband, her child?”
“Nymphadora is a Black by blood. Of course she is welcome. Mr. Tonks… he will, of course, be invited to the fires and the feast. Ah, we should invite the Longbottom heir, too. It would be good for Henry to have a peer at the festivities. But I counsel against the presence of unnecessary parties at the private family rites.”
Sirius looked thoughtfully at his grandfather a moment before nodding. “Alright. I will see if Augusta will guard the west, and ask whether Andy will stand at the south.”
* * *
“You’ve done well for yourself, Andy.” She had. The parlor easily outshone anything at Blackmoor. It was spacious and tastefully blended contemporary and period elements. Sirius thought he recognized a few choice pieces from the Crabbe and Rosier estates. Reparation auctions, maybe? “I’m glad.” He was.
“Thank you.” Andromeda smiled contentedly. “My practice is doing well, and Ted is happy at St. Mungo’s. Dora just finished Hogwarts, and has been admitted to the auror training program.”
“Another Gryffindor of Black blood running headfirst into danger?”
“Hufflepuff, actually. Just like her father. We’re trying to convince her to take a gap year first, but she’s stubborn.”
“Like her mother, then.”
“Yes.” Andromeda offered Sirius a plate of smoked salmon canapes, which he waved off. “What brings you here, Siri? Not that I’m not happy to see my favorite cousin, but I doubt I’d be the first person you’d visit for a purely social call.”
“I’m going to name Henry my heir.”
Andromeda stiffened. “At Ravenswood?”
“Yes.”
“You hated the family magick as much as I did, maybe more. What changed? Why would you wish this on Harry?”
“Dumbledore left me to rot in Azkaban for ten years, Andy,” Sirius ground out.
“He–” Andromeda began, but Sirius would have none of it. “He is chief warlock of the Wizengamot, for Godric’s sake! He got Snivellus out in a couple weeks even before he was elected, but not once lifted a finger for me to have a trial. Every request for visitation: denied. Ten years, Andy!”
Andromeda looked thoughtful. “Do you think that he suspected your innocence but didn’t act on it, or that he readily accepted your guilt given your Black heritage?”
Sirius slumped. “I don’t know, Andy. Believe me, I’ve had a long time to think about it. I just… Even now, after my innocence was proven, he fought at every turn against me having custody. I don’t know what to think.” He shook his head. “He left the kid with abusive muggles, who would he send him to next? My pup had to have his bones regrown , Andy. I had no choice but to turn to Grandfather.”
“So you agreed to be reinstated as Heir Black, and to name Harry as your heir?”
“Grandfather was always a true Slytherin. Of course his assistance had a price. He’s never pretended otherwise.” Sirius sighed, closing his eyes. “I just didn’t realize that Dumbledore would demand an even higher one.”
Andromeda helped herself to a canape, chewing it slowly. “If I attend,” she began, holding up her hand as Sirius perked up. “ If. I would attend as a Black in blood only. I will not encourage Harry to accept the Lordship when the time comes. I will never hide my distaste of the family magick from Harry, and I will tell him, if asked, why I renounced it.”
Sirius nodded. “All the better that you be the one to stand to the south, then, in opposition to Grandfather.”