Confronting the Faceless.

It was a book on Defense against the Dark Arts he'd owl-ordered from Flourish & Blotts to prepare for the Triwizard Tournament. Unlike some of the other tomes in his trunk, this one was far more… bold in its spell recipes, often choosing to describe spells with questionable origins and effects. It made sense, considering the author, a certain Victor Shadowman, was a war veteran who managed to survive through the Grindelwald-era.

Harry had mentally pictured a strong, physically scarred man, not unlike Alastor Moody. The real one, not the imposter. Though, he supposed the imposter was physically identical, so it didn't really matter.

For some reason, Sirius had shoved the book into his hands and told him to pick up a handful of spells before the day was over. Which was exactly what he was doing now.

Harry turned over the page, and now found himself staring at the hide-piercing curse, the same one Victor Krum had used against the dragon during the First Task. In retrospect, he should've chosen to do something along those lines instead of going ahead with Moody's insane idea.

Brazenly trying to outfly a dragon? That thing was born with wings, for Merlin's sake.

He turned the page again.

Ossis Fragmen — the bone-breaker. It was an offensive spell derived from the general reductor curse, taking the power and kinetic force from the curse and channeling it to a smaller surface area, increasing the pressure. A single hit was enough to splinter bones with ease, hence its moniker.

"This could be useful," he muttered to himself, running his fingers over the page. There was even a tiny postscript at the bottom about Skele-Gro and how it could be used to heal bones affected by the use of this curse. Following that was another note about a related spell called Ossio dispersimus, which caused the complete removal of bones at the point of application. A healing spell by origin, it was shamelessly butchered by Grindelwald's henchmen during the war to insta-paralyze Hit-wizards.

There was even a helpful moving picture of a wizard running and then falling down from the sudden disappearance of their kneecaps.

Harry felt a chill go down his spine. All of a sudden, his own episode of bonelessness back in second year felt far more sinister than before. Whether that fool Lockhart had done what he did intentionally or not was another matter altogether.

Still, the rational part of him mused, very useful. It wasn't on par with the almighty killing curse or anything of the sort, but still a clever addition to his admittedly limited arsenal of spells.

Silently, Harry memorized the necessary wand movements. Every spell, modern or archaic, could trace its origins in magical languages like Elder Futhark, or Sumerian and Egyptian Cuneiform. The older the language, the more powerful it was.

It explained why most spells taught at Hogwarts were in Latin. Or pseudo-Latin. A relatively new language, both easy to understand and safer for the young, bright-eyed pupils of Hogwarts. Meanwhile, more powerful spells— especially those with healing or destructive attributes —were drawn from older languages. The bone-breaker curse, for instance, could be written using three symbols from Egyptian Cuneiform. When all three symbols were put together, the superimposition matched the wand movement of the spell he was about to cast.

With time, witches and wizards had grown to prefer subtlety and precision over raw, intimidating force. The killing curse, for example, had Turkish roots, with the word kedavra referring to cadaver. Several magical linguists associated the word kedavra with a similar verse in early Aremaic script, a mostly pagal mnemonic used to indicate spiritual creation. However, arithmancers of the late nineteenth century proved that a word associated with spiritual creation would only impede upon the functionality of what was essentially a curse of unmaking. Or, as lay-wizards put it, a killing curse.

All things considered, it had been a fairly interesting read. Why the intricacies of magical theory were never discussed in McGonagall's class was beyond him. Personally, he'd have loved to learn the reasons behind all those random wand flourishes they were taught.

Instead, they got to turn matches into needles and buttons into pincushions.

Apparently, that was considered a more fulfilling learning experience.

Without further ado, Harry replicated the wand movements. Twin slides downward with a forty-five degree angle in between, then a flick forward in the direction of the point of application.

"OSSIS FRAGMEN!" he intoned.

Immediately, the mirror in front of him shattered.

Wincing, he quickly cast Reparo. Clearly, the spell was going to need some practice before he got the hang of it.

The sound of a large, antiquated grandfather clock tolling somewhere in the house broke his reverie.

He looked around and cast a quick tempus.

3:36 PM.

Still afternoon. Sirius was away, meeting some acquaintances. His godfather hadn't seen fit to tell him who they were, and he hadn't pushed the matter any further. This was Sirius's house, and he was living here because the man considered him family. Sure, Sirius was the closest thing he had to a parent, but that didn't mean he'd try to intrude into the man's personal life.

Besides, Harry had enough here to keep him occupied.

He looked around at the vast, empty Ancestral House of Black. It was dark, grim, and old— very fitting, given its name. Of course, whether the lane had gotten its name from the House or some Black with questionable sanity decided to name their home after a muggle street was anybody's guess.

Whatever the case, staying here felt… odd, for a lack of better terms. The Dursley home apparently had powerful wards cast around it. Wards that instilled a feeling of safety and comfort inside him. As a kid, his feelings regarding the home never made sense to him, but over the last two years, he came to understand what was truly happening.

He hated the Dursley home with a passion. Hated the home, hated what it represented, hated the people in there, hated his cupboard. He hated everything about it.

And yet, he loved living there. His rickety cupboard under the stairs was sizably small, but it felt comforting. The people he called his 'relatives' were hostile and ill-mannered, but the house, reinforced by the power of the wards, still gave him a sense of being protected while he stayed within its confines.

Come to think of it, that was probably why he'd never tried to escape.

Aunt Petunia probably wouldn't even have cared. And the less said about Vernon, the better.

And while their apathy was understandable, their hostility certainly wasn't. Had it all been a façade to make him walk away. To leave them and escape? For muggles that were obsessed about public appearance and normalcy, Petunia and Vernon Dursley were way too aggressive towards him.

For practically no reason at all.

Other than the magic, of course, but the point stood.

Had there been more to his sufferings in the Dursley household than what was visible at first? And more importantly, why the hell was this house reminding him of Number 4, Privet Drive so damn much?

Harry frowned. It wasn't like this was his first stay in any magical dwelling. Compared to the Dursleys, the Burrow had felt like a breath of fresh mountain air. Warm. Comforting. Welcoming. And Hogwarts… Hogwarts matched those feelings and dialed them to eleven.

Plus it had literal mountains surrounding it.

There was no reason why the Black House wouldn't feel the same. This was his godfather's home. A man who, despite being from a dark family of witches and wizards, was doing more for him than anyone else had ever done. Sirius was attempting to give him a chance at a normal life.

A childhood.

Family.

So why was there an unshakeable feeling in his gut that he was back at the Dursley household all over again?

"You're just seeing phantoms, Potter," Harry muttered to himself. He really needed to get his mind checked. First with Ollivander, and now this? Whatever that… thing in the graveyard had been, maybe it had knocked a couple of his screws loose.

He shook his head, returning his attention to the book at hand. There were a couple of spells he'd marked for practice. In their fourth year charms class, Flitwick had taught them the standard stunning spell— Stupefy. From what he understood, the spell produced a controlled amount of electricity that discharged directly into the nervous system.

Kind of like those taser-things the muggle police used to apprehend criminals. Electrical discharges used to render people temporarily paralyzed or unconscious— a state Flitwick described as being stunned. But here, in this book, were different variations of the stunning spells, and none of them described anything nearly as temporary as unconsciousness.

The clock gonged again.

Something for another time, Harry decided, promptly closing the book. He needed a distraction from all this learning, and the half-open tome on the sofa described the perfect activity.

Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Household Pests.

Say what you would about the fraud, but he certainly did have brilliant taste. Whoever he had conned to get all the information compiled into this book was truly a genius on the subject. Probably some kind of magizoologist or something, though of course not anymore. Not after Lockhart was unfortunately done with them.

Before he left, Sirius had told him that the upper floor had a doxy infestation, and that he'd kept several vials of antidote in the kitchen as a precaution. Something about doxy bites being poisonous and making victims prone to hallucinations or something.

The last thing he needed was to fall down and start hallucinating in this house of horrors. He'd probably start dreaming about the graveyard all over again.

"You know what? Killing doxies is exactly the kind of distraction I need," Harry huffed, completely unbothered by the fact that he was talking to himself. He'd spent hours as a child, trapped inside the cupboard, engaged in that very activity.

It was a miracle no one at Hogwarts ever found out about that particular tidbit. So far, he'd already been called a liar, a dark wizard, and a gloryhound, among other titles. Nutcase wasn't something he wanted to add to the list anytime soon.

Standing up and stretching his hands, Harry quickly made up his mind and strode out of the room, stepping forward with purpose as he headed for the stairs.

It was time to go hunt some doxies.

If he'd paid closer attention to his surroundings, he would've noticed the darkness just outside the room stirring up a little.

Saying the Malfoy office could serve as a large dining hall was no exaggeration.

The room was absolutely massive, with several people— solicitors, most of them brawny and looking like they'd love nothing more than to sue people for kicks —sat around, thick wads of parchment strewn across their desks. With the sheer number of people filing in and out of the chamber, it was easy to forget this place was a house, albeit belonging to the wealthiest and most influential wizard in Britain.

Well, Sirius mused, he used to be the wealthiest and most influential. Not anymore.

Casually strolling across the hall and past the outer chambers, Sirius stepped right into the inner atrium, passing several people on the way who shot him strange looks. Not that he could blame them. Sirius Black— formerly a Hit-wizard Captain with a high kill count, and until very recently, the one and only Azkaban escapee in the entire world —was sauntering into the proverbial den of rapists, murderers, and sycophants.

It was enough to make someone wonder whether he had a death wish.

He didn't.

In truth, it had all started from a simple letter, one delivered to Grimmauld Place by an eagle owl bearing the sigil of House Malfoy.

Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, acting-Regent of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, invites Sirius Orion, Heir Apparent of House Black, under Rights of Hospitality, to discuss the future of the House in relation to Draco Lucius, scion of House Malfoy and Heir Presumptive of House Black.

The letter might've come from the desk of the ponce, but it had Narcissa written all over it. Only she would have the temerity to go forward with something like this.

The Rights of Hospitality, colloquially known as Guest Rights, were an ancient code of conduct mandated by the clans of old. As long as Sirius was there as a guest, he'd be bound by the rights and duties of one. That, unfortunately, meant no harm to anyone the Malfoys had accepted into their home, nor any action taken that could be considered untoward. He would repeat nothing of what he saw or heard there, and would make every effort to assist the household while he remained.

In return, the Malfoys would treat him with the respect deserving of his station and fulfill all obligations of a willing, dutiful host. Failing to abide by the code of conduct would bring eternal shame to the Ancient House of Malfoy, something dear old Lucius would die before allowing.

In short, it was a stuffy, ridiculously direct way for Narcissa to fix a meeting between him and her husband without the two coming to blows, while ensuring that any fear of being betrayed or compromised by the other was allayed. Foul bitch she may have been, but she was exceedingly prim and polite about these things.

Still, just in case, Sirius had forwarded a copy of the letter to the DMLE for insurance. Should anything happen to him, the Malfoys would be reduced to paupers, not to mention their loss of name and the mark of eternal shame they would have to carry for generations.

Sirius stood before a polished oak door, its ornate structure impressing even him, someone who grew up as a Black, no matter how brief. Reaching out with his hand, he gently knocked.

Twice.

"Come in."

Lucius Malfoy sat behind an enormous oak desk, his form the very portrait of a busy executive as he sat working with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The last time Sirius had had the displeasure of meeting the man, he'd been a tall, gangly fellow with ostentatiously bright hair. Now, though, everything about him screamed 'successful patriarch'.

The dark maroon robe hanging over the back of his chair was probably worth more than what most would make in a year. His loosened tie, a simple silver number rather than a bright 'power tie', spoke of a confidence and strength that needed no such sartorial declaration. His once-long hair was now conservatively cut and silver, except for the hints of white at his temples to highlight the man's physical and metal prime. His hands were broad and powerful, only enhanced further by the scars on his knuckles, and his features regular and appealing. He was by no means beautiful, but his face projected strength.

It was then that Sirius understood why this man had the entire Wizengamot dancing in the center of his palm.

He looked like a man others would willingly follow.

"BLACK!"

Sirius peered at the source of the sudden growl and found another man, also tall and broad-shouldered. At first glance, he looked like Antonius Jugson, or at least someone related to him. Sirius wouldn't describe him as truly ugly, but something about the man reminded him of a gargoyle. And things were never simple— or peaceful, for that matter —whenever gargoyles were concerned. Altogether, he was a slab of muscle with a misshapen appearance and beady eyes, ready to leap into action.

Sirius snorted. He'd seen worse.

One didn't get intimidated by barracuda when they were planning to dine with a great white shark.

His intimidator shot a disgusted glance towards him, before turning his sneer back towards the other man in the room. "You're as slippery as ever, Malfoy! Don't think your defiance will get you anywhere into his—"

Lucius Malfoy put down his quill.

And the other man's words died in his mouth.

"Understand this, Jugson," Lucius smoothly replied. "I don't have the proper resources for what you ask of me. And even if I did, I won't simply be throwing every galleon at your family like my father did. We do not scratch each other's backs, nor will we ever. And I'm certainly not going to throw my House into danger without properly accounting for all the risks. If that is all?"

Jugson stared at him, nervousness creeping into his countenance. "This won't be the end of this."

"I'm sure it won't," Lucius thinly smiled as Jugson stood up and reached for the door. With one last fierce glare towards Sirius, the man walked out of the room, the door slamming shut with a finality that nearly impressed him.

"Black," he welcomed, steepling his fingertips.

"That was a cute little show," Sirius replied jovially, taking a seat without being offered one. If this meeting was going to be all about appearances, he may as well make one of his own. "Rehearse that much?"

"Every night in front of the mirror," the former Death Eater responded without skipping a beat. "I must admit, seeing Sirius Black himself step into my humble abode is surprising indeed. Especially with all those vicious rumors abound."

"I know a thing or two about rumors myself," Sirius chuckled, glancing around the room. "I was under the impression that my dearest cousin would be the one to take part in these… negotiations? What exactly are we calling this farce?"

"Apparently she was of the opinion that putting the two of us in the same room would result in spontaneous combustion," Lucius responded, ignoring his jab. His eyes seemed opaque, almost reptilian. "Something about revenge and past issues and whatnot. So what will it be? Work or revenge?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, I'm currently in the middle of some house cleaning," he sighed, "so maybe just the work for today. We can postpone the revenge thing to next week."

"Excellent," Lucius murmured, his lips twisting into an emotionless smile. "I assume a man of your import will want to get into the crux of the matter immediately."

He raised an issue of the Daily Prophet and splayed it across his desk.

HARRY POTTER TO STAND ON TRIAL FOR THE DEATH OF THIRTEEN PUREBLOODS!

WIZENGAMOT TO ENTER EMERGENCY SESSION!

AMOS DIGGORY ACCUSES BOY-WHO-LIVED OF MURDER!

Sirius gritted his teeth. The moment he'd set eyes on that newspaper yesterday, he had immediately set it aflame. Harry was taking his time settling into Grimmauld Place, and he didn't want any more bombastic and infuriating headlines to cause the boy any worry. He'd been through enough this year already.

At least Amelia Bones had broken the news of the trial in a more subtle way. But this? This was explosive at best, and character assassination at worst. In other words, classic Rita Skeeter, the bug-eyed bitch.

"I thought we were going to discuss matters pertaining to House Black," he nonchalantly replied.

"Playing dumb doesn't suit you, Black," Lucius dryly replied. "You would never care to entertain my wife's request nor involve yourself in the matters of House Black if not for Harry Potter's precarious situation."

"A situation you're trying to milk from as much as possible."

"I see." Lucius's pseudo-unflappable poker face stayed intact. "The Wizengamot is after your precious godson for killing upstanding members of our community, and you believe I am among the wolves baying for his blood?"

"You aren't?" Sirius scoffed. "Pull the other one."

"Considering how adopting the boy myself was one of my plans back in 1981, no. I don't wish to kill him, if that's what you're angling at."

"Ah, I see. You'll only hand him over to your precious Dark Lord then." Sirius leaned in, his eyes hard. "You may have your own agendas, Lucius, and for all I know, you have an alibi ready for everything. But don't forget, I know what kind of scum you and your ilk are. As far as Harry is concerned, I wouldn't trust you as far as I can throw you."

The Malfoy patriarch relaxed back into his chair. "Headstrong. I had expected this. In truth, it's not surprising you paint me with that particular shade. But tell me, do you truly think my plan is still to hand Potter over to the Dark Lord?"

"And if I do?"

"Then I suggest you quickly open your mind to other possible events and agendas, or we can call an early end to this meeting. Rest assured, I will follow the duties of a willing Host. You will not be followed or scryed or attacked when you leave my home."

Sirius met his gaze with his own, before snorting. "So be it. As a glorious Host, can you at least answer me this?" He edged closer to the table. "Were you there that night? At the Third Task?"

The hesitation in the man's eyes was palpable. Sirius could understand. This was Lucius Malfoy, the most slippery eel in all of Wizarding Britain. But on the other hand, the Guest Rights forbade Sirius from talking about anything that he learned about Malfoy to any third parties.

So would he admit to it?

"I… was," Malfoy tersely agreed, "though my presence was… nominal at best. I did not cast any spells, nor throw a curse against Potter that night. The same cannot be held true for your precious godson."

"So," Sirius exhaled, "something did happen there. And it was Harry that did it."

Something flickered in Lucius's eyes, before Sirius could recognize it, it was gone.

"And yes," he continued, "I have an alibi pertaining to the events of the Third Task. The Minister himself can vouch for that."

"How—" Sirius began, his eyes widening. "Ah, I see. Polyjuice."

Lucius didn't acknowledge or deny that accusation. "I do not wish, nor do I need, to kill Harry Potter. No more than I'd want to kill Arthur Weasley, at any rate. Regardless of his status as a Half-blood, he clearly has both power and potential, as shown by his status as the Boy-Who-Lived. Besides, your prodigious godson has been working rather diligently to land his head on a pike for years. Using parseltongue in public, playing around with dementors and werewolves, racing dragons and killing people— it was only a matter of time before someone came for him."

Sirius scowled. The cocky bastard's tone made a part of him want to howl and tear out his eyes. But Sirius kept his heart on lockdown, ice-cold and proactive rather than reactive. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing he'd rattled him.

Besides, two could play that game.

"Well, I'm sure good things are coming his way," he replied airily, as if talking about the weather. "With me being a free man and all, the Black Lordship and its fortune of course falls to me. Mine to use. Mine to control. Mine to give away."

He didn't miss the slight tightening around Lucius's eyes.

His grandfather, the great Arcturus Black himself, had once taught him about the three kinds of people you would meet in a business deal. The first was greedy, low-life sons of bitches. The second was cold-hearted professionals. And the third, desperate amateurs way in over their heads. The key to a successful deal was to figure out which of the three you were dealing with.

As far as Lucius was concerned, he had yet to see.

"I think you mean Headship, Lord Black."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And why the distinction?"

"Because I am a daughter of House Black too, Sirius," rang the familiar voice of Narcissa Malfoy as she sauntered through the door behind him. "And you know how Aunt Walburga was about family inheritance."

"Cissy," Sirius barely inclined his head towards her as Narcissa Malfoy, possessing angelic features, with a single flowing tress of white in her otherwise black hair, slowly walked towards her husband's side and took a seat beside him. "And of course, how could I ever forget about dear mother? She could never get over the fact that I was chosen heir and not Regulus."

Narcissa merely snorted. "You are running behind the times, dear cousin. Aunt Walburga only wanted Regulus to become Lord because she herself wasn't eligible. For all her dogma and elitism, she was never anything but a mere daughter of the family."

"Bit of a pot-kettle scenario, don't you think?" Sirius offered. After all, there wasn't much of a difference between Narcissa and his own mother with regards to their status. They were both daughters of the Black family. And now that he'd become the Heir and Lord, Draco would never get that chance.

Unless—

"You've got to be joking," he breathed.

Narcissa's smile dripped with poorly concealed satisfaction.

"Are you seriously telling me that your spawn with Lucius here," he ignored the dirty look sent his way with great relish, "has bred true?"

"It's been weak," Narcissa responded humbly, though the pride in her voice was unmistakable. "However, Draco has successfully manifested it. The Black Family Magic surges within him, and in time, he'll make a proper Lord Black, much like Arcturus himself."

"And he would have," Lucius cut in with a drawl, "had you not shown up out of the blue. What a pleasant surprise that turned out to be."

"I aim to please," Sirius mockingly bowed his head, his lips twisting into a not-smile. The Malfoys were an old line hailing from France that had entered Britain during the reign of Henry VIII, rapidly gaining popularity through the provision of exclusive legal and house-elf services for conservative purebloods. They held the title of Ancient, with their lineage going back eleven generations. But everything had changed when Abraxas Malfoy, after suffering a humiliating defeat at billiards by Arcturus Black, had agreed to marry his son into the Black family through vassalage to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. His grandfather had seen it as a chance to bring the more traditional factions under his grip, and for the most part, the deal had worked.

Until the Dark Lord happened.

The House of Black, once a prosperous family with over forty members spread across different manors in Europe, laid a disheveled wreck, with a single remaining member of the main line. Sirius himself. Narcissa had married into the Malfoys as per her contract, while Andromeda had been thrown out of the family. Bellatrix, on the other hand, was a bit of a special case. But that was neither here nor there.

With Sirius in Azkaban and Draco showing vestiges of the Black Family Magic, the House of Malfoy would have, in time, consumed the House of Black and taken its place.

But now?

Regardless of Lucius's wishes, the older arrangement was back in effect. House Malfoy might hold the reins for now, but House Black would have the final say in matters of any alliances that Malfoy held by extension to the Black name.

Calling a meeting like this could only mean one of two things.

Smirking, Sirius crossed one leg over the other, his chin held high as he stared down the two Malfoys.

"You wish for freedom from the Black primacy." He paused. "No, that's not it. That's merely the worst-case scenario, since the removal of vassalage comes with pesky side clauses like the return of dowry among others."

Lucius scowled openly in response. His right hand reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a single golden galleon, before offering it in Narcissa's direction. With a coquettish smile, she deftly swiped it and slipped it into her gown.

Sirius just rolled his eyes. Children.

"The best-case scenario is for Draco to become the next Lord of Black. And for that to happen, I'd not only have to step down, but also actively walk away from my House. Swear an Unbreakable Vow to never take up the mantle of Lord Black in my lifetime," he openly laughed. "It's a ridiculous idea. Even considering my affiliations with the Potters and Dumbledore and my sour relationship with my family after being sorted into Gryffindor, giving up the Black mantle means losing the Black fortune. Something that is mine by right and blood."

Lucius and Narcissa remained silent as he paused again, his mind furiously churning. "But you know that, don't you? Just like how you know I hold my godson's safety in the highest regard. This meeting is to convince me to give up the Black Lordship I'm set to acquire in return for whatever help you can provide to get my godson out of trouble."

He turned slightly towards Narcissa. "Isn't that right, Cissy?"

"There is also the matter of me losing access to the Black fortune with your ascension, Sirius, which would cut down my annual donation to the Ministry Ball. But that is neither here nor there," she dryly waved off.

Typical Narcissa.

"But despite the ludicrousness of the situation, you arranged this meeting under Rights of Hospitality because you feel you have an offer I can't refuse." Sirius crossed his arms. "So why don't you cut the crap and get right to the heart of the matter?"

Lucius smiled.

A wolf would have been jealous.

"I couldn't have said it better myself."

The corridor felt like a burial ground. It was as if the very air spoke of a person's dying breath. Soft hissing noises and old-fashioned gas lamps sputtering to life on the walls welcomed Harry in, casting a flickering, insubstantial light over the peeling wallpaper and threadbare carpet of a large, gloomy room. A cobwebby chandelier glimmered overhead and age-blackened portraits hung crooked on the walls. He even thought he heard something scuttling across the baseboard.

Alright… what next?

Pulling out his wand, he raised it upward as his other hand held the door's edge firmly, ready to pull it back shut at the slightest noise.

"LUMOS SOLEM!"

Doxies were creatures of wyldfae origin that thrived in cold and dark environments, which was why old and dilapidated houses were the perfect targets for infestation. So when a blinding white orb of light exploded out of the other end of the wand and shot towards the center of the room, the doxy swarm screamed.

The sound that ensued wasn't the volume of an air horn. Or a marching band. Or the Hogwarts Express train horn. It was far beyond anything he'd ever heard in his life. And it all happened inside the relatively small, enclosed acoustically reflective area— the room he was currently standing in.

Every single piece of glass in the room shattered. The window panes burst open, allowing the afternoon sunbeams to flood into the room. For Harry, it didn't feel so much like sound as it did being thrown into an enormous vat of jelly as he felt himself suffocate, the pressure prickly against his skin and painful in his ears. His balance had long since vanished, and he'd doubled over in acute pain. His heart was in his throat and his shoulders— no, his entire body —was shaking as if he'd been doused in ice-cold water. And before he realized it, there was a large mass of inky blackness, composed of thousands of doxies— reptilian, winged and fanged, their dark, hungry, feral eyes staring at the intruder.

The only defense between them and Harry was a mass of glowing sunlight.

A defense that was slowly shrinking.

But the damage was done.

Cursing under his breath, Harry grabbed at the doorknob, forgetting his fallen wand. With a vicious pull, the rickety, wooden door began to close with a loud creak. Just another second, and the room would be shut once more, keeping the doxies away and—

Thud!

The door stopped.

And Harry froze.

Semi-translucent hands, going through his chest and pressing against the door, palms open, kept it from fully closing.

What the fu—

An icy fear began to spread across Harry's chest. Against his better judgment, he slowly turned around. Levitating in the air, mere inches from his face, was the spectral shade of a woman. She wore a proper high-necked shirt and a long, dark skirt. Other than the fact that he could see right through her, she seemed solid. Like she was real. Her face was pretty in a strained, bony sort of way, and her hands were still going through him, pressed against the door.

Large, bulging eyes met Harry's own.

In the silence of the moment, Harry could hear his wand slowly rolling across the darkness of the room.

Away from him.

The glowing ball of light finally whimpered and died.

The spectral shade continued to stare at him, before throwing her head back and screaming. It came out as a deafening, bestial roar that rattled the walls as her voice— loud, strong, grating like a rusted sword dragged over stone —boomed.

"FILTH! SCUM! HOW DARE YOU BEFOUL THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS?"

The doxies attacked.

Sirius lightly tapped his finger against the oaken table.

Lucius and Narcissa were still softly whispering to one another, with the occasional hand gesture and sly glances towards him. It was surreal, seeing two people he'd despised for most of his life behaving like a real-life couple. In a way, it was almost like seeing—

James. Lily.

He rubbed his temples, taking a deep breath to calm himself. It was so easy to forget Death Eaters were still human too. Barely, but still.

"I hope you're ready to reach an agreement," Narcissa suddenly spoke up, startling him. "It'd be a shame if all of this," she swept her hand over the table, "was for nothing."

Sirius tipped his head. "I've collected my thoughts. I merely thought it was bad manners to speak at the table first."

Narcissa smiled. "Aunt Walburga would be proud."

"Please," he scoffed. "She'd sooner choke on her own blood than be proud of something I ever did." Quickly casting a tempus charm, he looked towards Lucius, meeting the man's pale eyes. It was an unsettling stare, but he and Lucius had already taken a measure of each other. There was something to be said about people sitting on opposite sides of the fence, knowing one another better than people who claimed to be his friends and family.

And he knew it well.

Lucius was a predator.

That was fine. So was he.

Sirius savored a bite of the homemade biscuit, soft moans of enjoyment escaping him as he chewed and swallowed. His old hag of a mother would have screamed herself hoarse for his open defiance of dining table etiquette. And judging by the slight frown skirting the edges of Narcissa's lips, she wasn't a fan either.

"Black," Lucius finally spoke up. "All this theater is aggravating, even for myself. Are you ready to hear our proposal?"

"Sure," Sirius shrugged, taking another bite of his savory treat.

Lucius clasped his hands together, elbows resting on the table. "This event," he placed a finger at the paper, "has Cornelius written all over it. The damage that your godson has unintentionally dealt to his voting bloc has him lashing out like a rabid animal. That Amelia Bones has publicly offered her support and sympathy to Potter hasn't helped matters any."

He paused for a moment.

"Also, a large portion of Cornelius's election funding comes from the Black Vaults. With you at the helm, Cornelius feels threatened and is trying to rile up the situation in his favor. If I, his chief advisor, retain the Black Vaults, it is possible he might be… convinced to see things differently."

"And why must I do that when I can just, you know, throw my money around and replace you as the Minister's advisor?"

"Because," it was Narcissa that answered, "you may be the new Head of House Black, and maybe you'll be the Lord during the next official session. But you have nothing else to offer. The alliances that House Malfoy built over the years are ours, not House Black's."

"The Black Primacy speaks otherwise," Sirius challenged.

"Then feel free to test it out," Lucius interjected. "Walk away and wait patiently until you become Lord. Take control of the Black Primacy. Throw my House out of the Alliance, take away the dowry. It won't help your godson. It would be entertaining to see how much of the Black-Malfoy Alliance will stand with you, and how many break away to reforge their alliances with me."

Lucius's eyes became icy chips as his voice went down to a whisper. "Try me, Black. I'm willing."

Sirius folded his arms and grumbled.

Being a seeker had its merits.

Acting on raw instinct, Harry threw himself down, his hands covering his head as he pressed his face against the floor, hoping to not get hit by debris and stay conscious. If he'd had his wand, he'd have tried to raise a shield. But without it, there was only so much he could do.

That was the thing about explosions. They were loud, with no real way to convey the sheer violence of the act. It didn't even register as a sound. Rather, he felt a terrible power thrumming in the air, just as the doxy swarm slammed into the wooden floor with a hammer blow of disorienting pressure, sending stone and wood scattering in all directions.

His hearing was the first casualty, a constant high-pitched tone ringing in his ears like those TV broadcasts back in the Dursley home. Harry tried to move, but his muscles protested against his instructions. His senses were in complete disarray— it was hard to tell which way was up versus down. He knew how to stand and where to go, but actually doing it became a tall task.

This wasn't the first time he'd encountered a ghost or pixie-like creature before. But nothing about the wraith or doxies truly felt normal. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't really describe the situation.

Danger.

Yes, that was an apt description for it. He was in danger.

So, faced with perilous circumstances, Harry did the only thing he could do.

He stood up and rushed towards the staircase.

After all, a moving target was much more difficult to hit.

With clumsy fingers and a sizzling pain in his back— wooden shrapnel, no doubt —Harry raced down the staircase, stumbling as he missed a few steps in his haste. His right hand twitched as he made a grabbing motion for his wand, but empty air greeted him. His wand wasn't with him.

And no twig, magical or not, could have survived an explosion like that.

The doxies screamed as they zoomed after him, a resonant sound of talons grinding rang in his ears. Doxies were meat-eaters, he faintly remembered reading, though they were only content with dead and decomposing flesh. Lockhart's book, however, went on to explain that doxies loved to hang their prey until it began to rot and stink to high heaven.

Then, they'd blissfully feast upon it.

In other words, if he wasn't dead when they found him, they would make him dead. Painfully.

"BLLOOOODD TRAITOR!" he heard the sinister wraith bellow from behind him, her high-pitched voice sounding like nails against a blackboard. As if the doxies weren't enough. "YOU DARE BESMIRCH THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS?"

Malice slithered up his spine like a spiteful serpent. Harry could sense the wraith's hostility, and it was no mundane feeling. Not the mindless anger of a fellow student, or Snape's perpetually mercurial contempt. Hell, even Voldemort and his indignation at being bested by a child felt pale in comparison to this. It was something entirely different. An old, accursed poison that could almost make you choke blood by sheer exposure to its unrestrained vileness.

Now, this thing wanted to destroy him. To hurt him, to break him down, and enjoy watching him beg all the while. Nothing he said, nothing he did, would ever change that. He, Harry Potter, was something to be eradicated in an amusing fashion.

The wraith had no fear in its being. It had no mercy to spare.

And it was coming for him.

Harry picked up his pace even more. Running was a skill that had always served him rather well. Both in escaping Dudley and his motley crew, and also in taking shelter behind gravestones and tombs as dark wizards lobbed dangerous curses at his back. Now that he thought about it, running had saved his hide in almost every life-threatening situation. Today was just one more to add to that tally. Hopefully.

He rounded the far corner of the corridor, only to slip on the draping curtains along the wall.

"Damn it!" he cursed, scrambling back up. But the momentary lapse was enough for the doxy swarm to come within striking distance. Picking up a fallen walking stick, Harry whirled it around and slammed it into several pairs of doxies, dropping them for good. He ducked two more kamikaze-style attacks from the barrage of doxies before swerving around and shooting off in a different direction.

In a way, running through the Black household was almost like playing Quidditch. Only, he was on his legs instead of a broom, and instead of catching the snitch, he was trying to dodge angry bludgers. Thousands of them.

"Maybe, if I, get through this," he panted, "I'll try my hand at—"

He ducked, hurling the first thing he could grab at a nearby doxy's face.

"—Chaser!"

It was dead before it hit the floor.

Harry looked forward, but a mini-swarm of doxy was waiting between himself and the other side of the corridor. As they rushed forward, Harry planted the heel of his boot against the first doxy that decided to get clever and swoop down towards him. He was no lightweight, and the kick burst through the creature's nose and through the rest of its body until it was nothing more than a mass of blood and tissue. He laughed gleefully, adrenaline rushing through him as—

Something frosty and ethereal clenched around his neck like a noose. It felt soft as silk, but somehow sturdy as iron shackles. Before he knew it, he was being pulled backward. Harry tried grabbing at the spectral hand clenched around his neck, his legs twisting and stamping as he tried to break her hold.

But the bundle of angry feminine wrath didn't budge.

Instead, it flung him through a nearby door, into a room filled with antiquated furniture. He landed against a nearby table, his back hitting its wooden edge before he painfully slid down to the floor.

His ribs ached.

Badly.

Somewhere between registering the feeling of wet blood oozing down his back and his brain rebooting, everything suddenly snapped into focus. There was a wraith in this house, not unlike the ones at Hogwarts. It was a woman, a staunch purist, and extremely angry.

And she'd just tried to feed him to doxies, who wanted to eat him alive.

One of those winged fiends pivoted in mid-air and flew towards him. Harry tried to jerk away from it, his rash movements still clumsy and predictable, and felt a flare of agony in his left cheek.

Screaming, he reacted on blind, animalistic instinct as he swatted his hands madly in whatever direction he could. Sometimes, his palm hit a thick, sturdy hide. Other times, he felt it slash against sharp talons. The pain flooded through him like firewhiskey, decreasing his inhibitions and making his vision clearer.

Fuck Voldemort and his Death Eaters. These stupid household pests were going to be what did him in.

The fifteenth talon dug into his neck, causing him to thrash out in agony. For the first time in what felt like a long time, even though he knew it wasn't, Harry felt utterly helpless. Stunned, even, at his inability to counter such a regular foe.

At least Voldemort was a powerful, feared wizard. At least the basilisk was seventy feet long and could fell any creature with little more than a gaze. And in his plethora of life-threatening adventures, he'd always had his wand. And if not that, a sword.

Now? He was all alone.

It was like St. Gregory's Primary School all over again. Surrounded by Dudley and Polkiss and the rest of his little gang. Angry, bruised, beaten. Day in, day out, with no way out. It was jarring, the helplessness reminding him of his most vulnerable moments. And now, like his bullies once surrounded him, were countless poisonous pests.

Several dozen of the nightly creatures rose into the air before him, scuttering and grinding their talons mid-air. They flew up in a V-formation, and Harry got the impression that he wasn't going to last much longer. He needed some way to hide, something like—

The Cloak!

The cloak was still there in his room, spread out over the sofa. He eyed the door on the other side of the swarm, mentally calculating where in the house he currently was and the fastest way to get to his room. If he managed to make it past the swarm and through the next corridor, it was a quick flight of stairs before he could get the cloak. But with all these doxies in front of him, how could he possibly—

"Aarghh!" Harry yelped, flinging away one that had bit his neck, drawing blood. Whimpering in agony, he lurched forward as the effects of doxy venom began to cloud his senses. He needed to escape, and for that, he needed help.

Getting his wand was out of the question. Even if it somehow survived the explosion, there was no telling where it had gone. No, his best chance was to hide.

If he wanted to survive, he needed his cloak.

"YOU WON'T ESCAPE SO EASILY!"

"Watch me!" Harry coughed, trying to push himself back up, only to miserably fail.

"ALL BLOOD-TRAITORS AND FILTH MUST BE PURGED!"

"A bigoted ghost!" he scoffed, wincing all the while. "And here I thought I'd seen it all." He tried pushing himself up again, feeling jolts of pain flare through his spine. Between the doxy bite and the thrashing he received, it was a miracle he could still move.

But this time, he was successful. Despite the random spastic twitches and the shaking in his knees, both feet were underneath him as he stood upright.

Almost mirroring his motions, the doxies rose up in three different swarms, surrounding him from three sides, with the wraith guarding the way towards the door. He was completely boxed in, and the only way out of this mess was forward, through the angry horde of poisonous creatures.

"To be fair," Harry wryly smiled, "I've been through worse."

The wraith raised a skeletal hand, and a wave of terrible force struck him head-on, powerful enough to send him tumbling down onto his arse. But Harry, despite the overwhelming power, held his ground. As soon as it petered out, he mustered every last bit of energy he had and sprinted towards the doxy swarm.

He ignored the slashes he could feel littering his skin. He didn't let the multiple injections of poison into his system deter him from moving forward. And when the wraith stood between his quickly moving form and the door, Harry continued running straight through her, wrenching open the doorknob and hightailing it down the hallway.

He did it! He was out of that mess! Just a bit further until— just a little— just—

Harry felt his eyelids droop against his will. Back when he was bit by the basilisk, the venom was corrosive and painful, but this was different. It was slower, insidious, preferring to be more subtle as it debilitated all his motor functions.

Straining his neck, Harry turned around and looked behind him. The swarm tumbled out of the door like an angry horde of bees, seemingly scattering in all directions before they collectively locked onto him and shot towards him. And in the center of it all was that pale, ghostly wraith, with a malicious smile on her face.

"NO ONE WILL SAVE YOU! YOU ARE ALONE AND HELPLESS!"

And now she's done it, Harry offhandedly wondered. Every time someone had uttered those words, something always entered the equation and helped him survive. Despite his lack of experience, despite his wounds, despite the overwhelming odds, he always pulled through.

Harry's legs wobbled, but he continued to put one foot in front of the other, even as he staggered side to side as he continued. The swarm was gaining on him, only a few seconds from consuming him utterly, but he was a Gryffindor. He wouldn't quit till the very last moment.

If only I… had a wand…

In all his misadventures, he'd always had his trusty companion with him. Luck or not, it was always somehow his ticket out of the messes he'd gotten himself into. But not now. And without his wand, he didn't have any way to use his magic except—

Except— except— except—

An old memory hit him like a sledgehammer as it resurfaced.

It was something he'd done a long while ago. When he was surrounded by Dudley and his gang back in primary school. Having the shit scared out of him by Vernon had made him forget all about it, but now that he remembered, he knew what he'd done, and exactly how he'd done it.

And if he could do it in the past, he could do it now.

Just like the Patronus charm.

"You're right," Harry murmured, spitting out more blood as his trembling form turned around. The mere act of moving hurt, as his whole body felt like one giant bruise. But even so, his bloody grin didn't falter. "You've got me all alone. There's no one around that can help me."

Shiny, beetle-like wings began to beat more rapidly.

"Here's where you're wrong. I'm not some powerless child you can scare."

His fists clenched as he fought to keep himself awake.

"I'm a wizard."

His eyes met the wraith's own. Bright emerald met dull, lifeless grey.

"I've burned a sycophant to death with my bare hands. I killed a seventy-foot basilisk with a sword. I've scared off hundreds of dementors, outflew dragons, and survived Voldemort. I'm not going to let some has-been ghost kill me."

His lips twisted.

"This is the Black House. The House of my godfather. My house. And you… you don't belong here."

The wraith let out a vengeful warcry as it lunged towards him, the swarm right on its tail. Not that he could feel it. Not that he cared. Instead, Harry allowed a familiar blackness to ensnare him like a cocoon. He could feel vague impressions of skeletal hands grabbing at him and teeth going through skin, but he was already away, pressed in all directions as he felt squeezed through an impossibly narrow orifice—

CRACK!

Harry collapsed to his knees, confused and disoriented. A moment later, a robust feeling of victory overtook him as he spied a large, silvery cloak spread across the couch just in front of him. He didn't know how, but he'd pulled it off. Apparition.

He was back in his room.

In the distance, he could still make out a rumbling that felt like it was drawing closer and closer to his location— the wraith was still roaming the house looking for him. Shakily, he got to his feet and staggered forward.

Closer.

The buzz of rapid wing beats and talons scraping against one another was louder now. Enough to start drowning out the confidence in his mind. But he wouldn't quit just yet. Not when the cloak was within arm's reach

Just a bit more.

The door slammed open but it was too late for the vengeful wraith or its pet army of doxies. Even though his legs stopped working, even though his arms no longer moved, even though he had nothing in working order save for his mind, Harry still took perverse pleasure at the indignation on the wraith's face as his lips twitched into a stiff facsimile of a smile.

"I win," he mouthed, as his body tipped over. With the last vestiges of his strength, Harry pulled on the edges of the cloak with his fingers, letting it gently fall over him as he fell to the floor. He could slowly feel his body shutting down. Maybe he'd die. Maybe he wouldn't.

But one thing was for certain.

The doxies could no longer get to him.

Because Harry Potter had vanished.