Mos Maiorum

“Kreacher,” Harry called as he paced in the living room.

         The elf cracked into existence. “Master Harry is needing Kreacher?”

         Harry crouched down so that he was at the elf’s eye-height. “Hermione, Ron and I are going to be moving into Potter manor soon. I really like Grimmauld Place,” he said, lying through his teeth, but not wanting to offend, “but I want to see where my dad grew up for a bit. There are three Potter house-elves – Roslyn, Mimsey and Hokka. I was going to ask if you would like to come with us, but I know you love this house. Malfoy and his mum are going to move in here, and I was wondering if you would rather stay here and help them?”

         Kreacher’s eyes filled with tears almost instantly. “Master Harry is kind,” he croaked. “Kreacher is wanting to stay in House of Black and serve Mistress Black and Master Malfoy, if Master Harry is not needing him.”

         “Excellent,” Harry said. He paused. He trusted that Malfoy wouldn’t hurt Kreacher, but he didn’t know Narcissa very well. To be safe, he said clearly, “Remember, Kreacher, I am still Lord Black. If you are ever hurt or put in danger by the Malfoys, you must come to me at once. That’s an order.”

         Kreacher nodded eagerly. “Kreacher is coming to Master Harry if Kreacher is hurt.”

         “Good. And remember, you’re never to punish yourself if you make a mistake, okay?” At Kreacher’s nod. Harry smiled. “You can go to the Malfoy’s now. Malfoy will need your help to pack. Thank you, Kreacher, for everything you’ve done for us. You’ve been a fantastic house elf.”

         Kreacher smiled, his brown teeth glinting under the candlelight. “Master Harry is a good Master,” he said firmly, before bowing low and cracking away.

         Harry blew out a breath of relief. He’d rather that no one was in the house for what he was about to do next, especially Kreacher. Taking large strides, he made his way to the large, dusty curtains that hung over the foul portrait of Walburga Black. Taking a deep breath, he willed the various charms on the portrait to break and flung open the curtains.

         “Filth! Scum! By-products of dirt and vileness! Half-breeds, mutants, freaks, begone from this place! How dare you befoul the house of my fathers--" the portrait screeched as soon as the curtains parted.

         Harry willed her to be quiet. The elderly woman closed her mouth with surprise. “I am Harry Potter, Lord of the Ancient and Most Noble Houses of Black, Gaunt, Peverell and Potter. I need you to answer some questions,” he said, trying to remain calm.

         Walburga raised a thin eyebrow and looked at him with scrutiny. “Just because you’ve claimed your inheritance does not mean you are a true son of Black, boy,” she spat.

         Harry unfurled his magic for the second time that day. He was getting seriously sick of people underestimating him. “I am a direct descendent of Cygnus Black I and I am the only living heir to the House of Black. You may not like it, but you are stuck with me, lest you want the family to have become extinct when Regulus defied Lord Voldemort, cousin,” Harry said icily. He reined back the magic a bit but kept just enough so that the portrait would feel a touch of pressure against the paint.

         “I see you have some of the Black madness in you, Potter,” she said, looking Harry up and down with appraisal. “My father always said that Dorea was the maddest of his siblings.” She squinted. “What do you wish to know then, my lord?” she asked, bowing sarcastically.

         Harry raised his chin. “This is not all of Grimmauld Place,” he said. It wasn’t a question. Hermione had speculated as much even back in their fifth year. The home of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black couldn’t just be a modestly-sized town house. In fact, it was very strange that the Blacks would choose to live in Muggle London at all, when they could live in a mansion in a wizarding hamlet like the Malfoys, the Potters or the Weasleys.

         Walburga smirked. “You have brains, too, it seems,” she said, her brown teeth glinting.

         “Reveal it to me,” Harry commanded, running out of patience for these games quickly. Hermione and Ron would be home any moment.

         Walburga raised her chin. “I want off this wall,” she said, after a minute.

         “I’m sorry?” Harry asked, surprised. They had been trying to remove her from the wall for years, unable to break the permanent sticking charm.

         “A portrait is but a glimmer of one’s true self. I do not wish to be trapped here in this temporary light. My husband commissioned this for me against my wishes. He did not know me very well,” she said. Harry understood, and he even felt a twinge of sympathy for the woman.

         Shortly after the battle, Harry had asked McGonagall if she would commission portraits of Snape and Dumbledore for the Head’s office. She’d sighed sadly. “I’m sorry, Harry, but I cannot. It would be cruel. A portrait is only as true as the painter’s knowledge of the subject. I am no painter, and even if I were, I did not know them. Did you?” she’d asked. Harry was about to say that of course he knew Dumbledore and Snape. That they were good men and that they should be honoured with portraits in the office they once belonged in. But he held his tongue. Only months before he had realised he knew nothing of Dumbledore’s life, outside of his plans for Harry. Not to mention that only a few days ago, he had believed with all his heart that Snape was a traitor. No painter could ever capture the truth of the two headmasters.

         Harry nodded. Holding the bottom of the frame, he closed his eyes and willed it to come unstuck. It became heavy in his hands. Placing it on the ground and leaning it carefully against the wall, he took a step back.

         “Thank you,” Walburga said quietly. She cleared her throat. “L'ancienne et la plus noble maison des noirs, révèle-toi à ton maître,” she cast, raising a painted thin black wand to touch the corner of the frame.

         All of a sudden, the earth started to shake, and the staircase that Harry was standing on started to move. Around him, couches and beds and full walls and tables and windows and fireplaces soared above his head. He gripped the bannister tightly, praying that whatever Walburga had just done wasn’t disturbing his muggle neighbours. A floating window nearby, however, showed his next-door neighbour’s children playing hopscotch without a glance in Grimmauld Place’s direction. When it all came to a stop, Harry looked around to see a completely different home.

         Instead of the creaky wooden stairs he had become accustomed to, Harry was standing on a grand staircase lined with an intricately detailed blue runner. Glancing up, he could tell that it was four storeys tall, as it had been before, but each of the levels were now far wider. The walls were lined with portraits, but only a few were moving. Everything was just as dusty and dark as always, but the extra space removed the horrible cramped feel of the place.

         “Thank you,” Harry said, grinning at Walburga. “It’s beautiful.”

         Walburga nodded aristocratically. “Take care of my home. It is yours now, my Lord,” she said, and this time her deferential nod was genuine. “Will you destroy my portrait, please?”

         “If you want,” Harry shrugged.

         Walburga’s face softened with relief. “I wish to be at peace,” she said. “Toujours Pur.”

         Harry sighed. He might have accepted his place as Head of the Black family, but he would never be okay with the family motto. He closed his eyes and willed the painting to burn. When he opened them again, Walburga’s portrait was no more, and a pile of ash was in its place. With a flick of his hand, it vanished.

         “Merlin’s saggy ball sack,” Ron’s voice cried from downstairs. “What happened here?”

         Harry ran down the steps two at a time. Hermione, Ron and Bill were standing in a drawing room that Harry had never seen before.

         “Oh Harry,” Hermione said, sounding pleased. “The house has finally accepted you as Lord!”

         Harry smiled. “Yeah. It’s good to see you, Bill,” he said, shaking the eldest Weasley child’s hand. “I haven’t had a chance to explore yet, but, listen, I have to tell you something,” he said gravely. “Is Teddy still at the Burrow?”

         Ron nodded. “Didn’t think he should be here while we were curse-breaking.”

         “What’s wrong, Harry?” Hermione looked concerned. “Is it your scar?” she asked worriedly.

         Harry reached a hand up to his forehead. It hadn’t so much as twinged since Voldemort died, and Harry had almost forgot that it existed. “No. Voldemort is definitely dead. It’s definitely gone,” he said firmly. He trusted Bill, but the trio had made a pact that they would never mention the existence of Horcruxes to anybody. The world was better off if the knowledge of horcruxes faded away forever. He glanced at Bill.

         The corner of the curse-breaker’s scarred mouth lifted. “This sounds like something I don’t need to hear,” he said. “I’ll go and explore the house. See if I can’t find any cursed objects.”

         “Thanks Bill,” Harry said, relieved. “We’ll join you in a moment.”

         When it was just the three of them, Harry reached for his wand and cast every privacy spell he could think of. He was keen to follow Cragg’s advice to develop his wandless magic, but there was something comforting about the certainty of a spell cast with a wand.

         “Mate, what’s going on? You’re scaring me,” Ron commented, an arm wrapped around Hermione’s waist.

         Harry sighed. “You,” he said, pointing to Hermione, “are especially not going to like this.” The witch was nearly fanatical when it came to rules, and Harry was about to break several. He gestured for them to sit.

         “I think it’ll be easier if I just show you,” Harry said after a minute. Closing his eyes, he summoned Dumbledore’s pensieve that McGonagall had given him after the battle. He pulled the memory of his meeting with Kingsley out of his mind with his wand and tipped it into the floating basin.

         Hermione and Ron didn’t need to be told what to do. When they emerged several minutes later, both looked slightly grey.

         They sat in silence. Hermione looked crushed. Her faith in a new, uncorrupted, good minister shattered. Ron was much harder to read. It was he who broke the quiet.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “How do we do this?”

         Hermione closed her eyes and let out a whimper.

         “You don’t have to be involved,” Harry offered. “You could remove the memory of this conversation.”

         She closed her eyes. “No,” she said through gritted teeth. “I was naïve to think everything would be better. We’re a team. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it together.”

         Harry nodded, extraordinarily relieved. He didn’t think he could face this alone.

         “But when it comes time for – for the end of this evening,” Hermione continued. “I don’t want to be there.” She didn’t want to see her two best friends become murderers.

         “Of course,” Harry said instantly.

         Ron bit his lip but didn’t say anything. Harry cleared his throat.

         “Okay. We need a place to do this. I was kind of hoping this place had a dungeon.”

         Ron smirked. “I think you can be pretty confident in that.” They turned to Hermione, who now had her business face on.

         “Can you get him out of the Ministry?” Hermione asked. “I know you can apparate in, but you’ve never tried getting out.”

         Harry swallowed. “I have no idea,” he admitted. “Suppose I can’t – what do we do? Do I just try an unprotected floo?”

         “No,” Hermione shook her head. “The floos can be tracked, no matter who uses them.”

         Ron frowned. “What about your portkey?”

         Harry blinked at him. “My ring?” he asked.

         “Yes! Oh Ron, you’re brilliant,” Hermione exclaimed. “You’ll still be breaking several wards, but I’ve no doubt that it’ll work. The only problem is, you are the only person who can break those wards. It’ll be incredibly obvious to anyone who looked hard enough that you were the one to break him out.”

         “Not if we fix them before they realise he’s missing,” Ron countered.

         Harry frowned. “No offence, Ron, but the ministry wards are probably insanely difficult. None of us have any experience with them, outside of Hogwarts. I don’t think we’d be able to replicate them.”

         Ron shook his head. “Not us, Bill,” he explained. “He apprenticed at the ministry for five years as a ward keeper before working for Gringotts. He knows the wards like the back of his hand.”

         “Ron, what we’re about to do, it’s treasonous,” Harry said. “If we tell him what our plans are, he could report us to the Ministry and we’d go to Azkaban. Kingsley wouldn’t be able to protect us. I know he’s your brother, but are you sure we can trust him?”

         The redhead paused. After a long moment, he nodded. “I’m sure. And not just because he’s family. Greyback nearly killed him.”

         “I’d still feel better if we had some sort of contingency,” Hermione piped up. “I could write up a contract but I’d need longer than we have. The only other thing I can think of is an Unbreakable Vow.”

         “No,” Harry balked. “We can’t do that. If Ron says he trusts him, I trust him.”

         “Fine. At the very least have him make a Wizard’s Oath,” Hermione said. “It doesn’t have any consequences for him, but we’d feel it if he broke it. We’d have time to…” She trailed off.

         Harry nodded. “Okay. Let’s go find him.”

They found Bill upstairs in the library.

         “I was going to ask if everything was alright, but when it comes to you three it never is,” he commented.

         Ron smiled grimly. “You want in?”

         Bill raised an eyebrow. “Always.”

         “It’ll put you at risk,” Harry warned.

         Bill rolled his eyes. “Harry, my job puts me at risk. I was at risk during the war. What makes you think I crave a quiet life?”

         “We need you to make an Oath,” Ron said, cutting through the pleasantries. “What we’re about to do is treasonous. I trust you, but I won’t put Hermione’s life at risk.”

         “Thank you, Ronald. How gallant,” Hermione drawled sardonically. The pink flush to her cheeks told Harry she was secretly pleased, though. A small part of both of them were still smarting from when Ron left them in the forest. Harry knew that their friend had proven himself time and again since then, but he also knew Hermione and how long it would take her to fully trust him again.

         Bill didn’t seem offended. Instead, he knelt on one knee. “I solemnly swear that whatever is discussed in this room will not be repeated by me to anyone, without prior consent of the members within this room.” He grinned cockily. “Sufficient?” he asked Ron.

         Harry felt the magic settle over his bones. “More than. Thank you.” He turned to the door and cast the privacy wards from earlier.

         “I trust you have a good reason to commit treason?” Bill asked once the wards were set.

         Ron nodded. “Greyback is impervious to Veritaserum, and the ministry hasn’t been able to get anything out of him through legilimency. He’s claiming he only worked for Voldemort during the war under duress. Kingsley is concerned he’ll walk free.”

         Bill nodded gravely. “Harry’s wand can’t be traced by the ministry. Kingsley wants him to break him.” He ran a hand through his hair tiredly. “I can’t say I’m not surprised. I guess I thought more of Kingsley. He was a Slytherin, though,” he mused. “Not that that means he’s evil, necessarily,” he added at Hermione’s face. “Just that he’s ambitious. As for Greyback: I don’t want that bastard to walk free. I know she’d never say so, but I can tell Fleur hates him for what he did to my face.” Bill turned to Harry. “What do you need from me?”

         “You know the Ministry wards, yes?” Harry asked. “I need you to replicate them when I break them. It’ll be kind of obvious that I was the one to break him out if the wards are snapped.”

         Bill thought for a moment. “Sure, I can do that. The wards in the prison block are fairly simple actually. I’ll need help though.”

         Hermione nodded. “Ron and Harry will take Greyback. I’ll keep lookout for you. We’re both keyed into Kingsley’s floo already.”

         Bill considered for a moment but nodded. “Yeah, that’ll work. I’m in.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon following Bill around the house as he sought out the dark objects.

         “I can destroy them now, if you want,” Bill had said.

         Harry shook his head. “Just tell me what they are and what they do first, if you can.” He couldn’t help but think some of them might come in useful later down the track.

         Eventually, they had gathered all thirty-eight objects, and they were lying, seemingly unassuming, on the kitchen table. There was a door to the right of the fridge, which Harry had never seen before. “This must lead to the dungeons,” he said. There was no doorhandle.

         “Alohomora,” Hermione said confidently. The door did not budge. She frowned.

         Bill closed his eyes as he tapped the door with his wand several times. The door remained still, but his face cleared with recognition. “It’ll only open for the house’s master. We’d better hope that’s you, Harry,” he said.

         Harry raised a hand to the place where a doorknob should’ve been. The door creaked open ominously. “Something feels wrong,” he said at once. Several steps led down into complete darkness, but the smell of rotting meat filled the air. “Wands out.”

         They went down the steps cautiously, Ron moving to stand in front of Hermione protectively. Harry didn’t mention that Hermione was far more skilled at magic than her boyfriend and that, if they were sensible, they should probably reverse positions. He would have, if he’d thought there was a great risk, but as much as the stench was unbearable, an overwhelming feeling of stagnant magic was in the air. Anything that had occurred in these dungeons had happened a very long time ago.

         “Oh Bellatrix, you clever bitch,” Harry said as they got to the bottom of the stairs. A large painting of the witch, albeit much younger, smirked at them from the brick wall that faced them.

         “Itty bitty Potter, come to claim my family home?” she cried in a mocking voice. “I won’t have it.”

         Harry raised an eyebrow. There was something different about this painting. Its magic felt different – stronger even. In that moment he was incredibly grateful that Hermione was standing behind Ron. She did not need to see her torturer’s face again.  “Hello, cousin,” he said drily. “We’d like to get through to the dungeons.”

         “What could precious pious Potter need with some dungeons?” she asked imperiously. “Have you kidnapped someone? Are you planning on torturing them?” Bellatrix’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Hmmm, perhaps you have some of the mad Black blood in you, after all…”

         Harry’s eyes flashed dangerously. The portrait cackled. “Who is it then? If you tell me, I might just let you through,” she teased.

         “Not likely,” Harry chuckled darkly. “Let us through, Bella. Or I will destroy you.”

         “You couldn’t if you tried. No one can destroy an immortal being,” she laughed maniacally. Harry’s stomach dropped. Bellatrix’s portrait was a horcrux. He should have known! Bellatrix’s body had never been found, despite Molly and Ginny swearing up and done that the Weasley matriarch had killed her. He opened his mouth, but Ron had already pressed a basilisk’s fang into his hand.

         “I always have them on me,” he admitted quietly. Harry released a breath. He should have been just as prepared. Of course, someone else would know about horcruxes.

         He raised the fang. “Do you know what this is, Bella?” he asked. She glanced at it and stopped laughing but didn’t say anything. Harry glanced back at Hermione, Ron and Bill (looking incredibly confused). He cast a muffliato over himself and the painting.

         “From your reaction, I can see that you do. I tell you what. I am willing to strike a deal,” he said calmly. “I need to know the truth. Where is your soul? Your life source?”

         Bellatrix scoffed. “Why should I tell you?” she spat. “You’ll destroy me anyway.”

         “Not necessarily,” Harry admitted. This version of Bella appeared slightly saner than the last time he’d encountered the witch. He wanted nothing more than to destroy Bella for good. For Sirius. For Hermione. For Neville. And, some little part of him wanted to kill her for just being inconvenient. But he knew that she’d be much more valuable to him alive. “You could prove useful. I have things I need to know. About your husband and his brother, for example. I’m also aware that you have extensive knowledge of the dark arts. It would be useful to have someone to teach me.” He pressed the fang against the corner of the painting. “But, I do have other sources for these things.”

         Bellatrix looked pained as she gasped out, “The forbidden forest. My body is in the forbidden forest.”

         Harry nodded approvingly. From the amount the woman panicked, he was fairly sure she only had one horcrux, but he needed to be certain. “I will find your body. I will bring it back here, and I will keep it in the dungeon. You, this version of yourself in the painting, may live, as long as you do what I ask.”

Bellatrix fell to both of her knees. “Please. I’ll do anything, my lord,” she begged, her head bowed in fear. “Please don’t let me die.”

Harry shuddered, reminded of the times he’d watched her cow before Voldemort. At least her pleas proved that she only had one horcrux. He pulled the basilisk fang away regretfully. “Who else knows of horcruxes?”

“I don’t know, my lord,” she said in a rushed voice from her kneeled position. “The Dark Lord told me about them when we were still at Hogwarts. He loved me. I loved him. He made his diary and I made this portrait on the same evening.” Tears pooled in her painted glassy eyes. “He promised me that it was just for us. That we were the only ones who knew.”

         “That’s how Lucius knew that the diary would open the chamber of secrets,” Harry muttered. It had confused them all when Lucius was interrogated. He had no knowledge of horcruxes. Bellatrix must have told him what to do with it. “Thank you, Bella. Let us through to the dungeons now. I will come back to speak with you later.”

         She stood up quickly, nodding frantically. “Thank you, my lord,” she wept as she swung open to reveal a row of four small cells filled with a variety of torture weapons.

Harry released the muffling charm.

“Why didn’t you get rid of her?” Hermione asked at once. She glanced at the portrait, slightly horrified at the weeping mess Bellatrix had come. “What did you do to her? She was grovelling like you were Voldemort.”

Harry shook his head. “Later.” He moved into the first cell, running a finger over the instruments lying on a bench.

Ron sighed. “Well, this will work for tonight. It’s certainly got the right ambience. Are you really going to torture him with these things, Harry?”

         “No,” Harry said. “Just spells. Let’s bring the dark objects down here, until we know what to do with them. Malfoy won’t be able to open the door even if he wanted to, when he moves in.”

         The others nodded, and Harry summoned the objects. Soon, the four found themselves sitting in a circle in one of the cells, levitating each of the objects into a ‘keep it’ or ‘destroy it’ pile.

         “This is what my mum had us do when we were moving house,” Hermione commented.

         Ron squeezed her hand. “We’ll find them.” Hermione nodded absently.

         “Dad spoke to his cousin, by the way. The mind healer in Australia? He’s keen to help you,” Bill said warmly.

         Hermione blinked in surprise. “You told Arthur?” she asked Ron.

         “Yeah. I’m sorry if I overstepped,” Ron said. “I just thought we might need someone to help restore their memories when we find them.”

         Hermione didn’t say anything but smiled radiantly. She squeezed Ron’s hand three times. I love you. Ron squeezed back.

         In the end, they only kept five of the objects: a crystal bottle filled with dove’s blood, which, when written with, would make a magical oath more binding; a silver dagger, which could keep a victim alive forever but in excruciating pain; a golden snuffbox filled with human ashes, which could cause a person to fall into an enchanted sleep; and two gris-gris bags made from a human burial shroud.

         “That’s disgusting,” Hermione said, quickly dropping one of the bags.

         “Yes,” Bill nodded. “But it is very powerful. It will give whoever holds it good or bad luck, depending on what its master wishes.”

         Harry frowned. “How do I make it give someone good luck?”

         “Here,” Bill said, handing them to him. Harry tried to bury the thoughts of where the fabric had come from deep in the recesses of his mind. “Hold them in your wand hand, and then say what you wish it to bring the wearer in your strongest language. End the sentence with ‘So mote it be.’”

         Harry frowned. What was his most powerful language? The only language he really knew was English, but he could also speak parseltongue. He sighed. “Ron, can you think of a snake?” he asked.

         Ron rolled his eyes, but did so anyway, lowering his mental walls that Harry had made him and Hermione build up relentlessly after the battle. “I hate it when you do this,” he complained.

         Harry closed his eyes and cast a silent, gentle Legilimens. In the front of Ron’s mind was Harry’s own duel with Malfoy in second year. Harry tried really hard not to see what else was in his friend’s head, but mortifyingly saw a memory of Hermione in the throes of passion before he could pull back. “Gross, Ron. I really didn’t need to see that,” he said.

         “I’m sorry! It’s hard not to think about it!” Ron said, his ears going bright red. 

         “Ron,” Hermione groaned, having figured out very quickly what they were talking about.

         Harry shook his head. “It’s okay, I can see a snake,” he said, going back in. Ignoring the image of Hermione, which was now even further forward in Ron’s mind, despite desperate attempts from both of them to push it back, Harry could see memory-Malfoy cast a snake. “Awfuuuslasso eeshayartaw corstiaux. Ssss awfuuustrists ssss teyai,” he said. He couldn’t tell the difference between parseltongue and English, but, based on the faces of his friends, he wasn’t speaking English.

         “Here,” he offered, pulling out of Ron’s brain. “Take these. Keep them on you at all times,” he said to Ron and Hermione. He turned to Bill, “I’m sorry we didn’t have any more.”

         Bill waved him off. “I have several of my own,” he said, pulling open his jacket. Like a drug dealer in a comical muggle movie, the inside of Bill’s jacket was lined with gris-gris bags and other objects, including a variety of weapons. “I’m not strictly meant to have any of these, mind you, but most curse-breakers do,” he admitted.

Harry grinned at Hermione’s response.

         “I think that’s highly sensible. Harry, I appreciate this, but I am not touching a burial shroud. That’s sacrilegious.”

         Harry raised an eyebrow. “Since when were you religious?”

         “Since it gave me a reason not to touch a sheet that someone was buried in,” Hermione retorted, jutting her chin out. “By the way, you will be removing whatever memory you saw in Ron’s brain.”

         “Happily,” Harry promised. He did not care to see the person he considered his sister in that position.

         “Here,” Ron said, summoning two zip-lock bags from the kitchen. It turned out that muggles were far more advanced than wizards when it came to food preservation. He placed each of the gris-girs bags in them and put one in Hermione’s pocket. “I know it’s gross, but it’ll keep us safe,” Ron said, pocketing his own.

         Hermione rolled her eyes but ceased her arguments. “Fine. I only hope that tonight goes better than the last time we tried to break into the ministry.”