"We need to talk."

Sirius looked up from the glass of expensive firewhiskey he was enjoying with Emma, and Harry immediately winced. The ideal symmetry of his face was stretched tight with tension. His eyes, which were normally grey with a stormy tinge, were now a reflective silver, and his cheeks were sunken and haggard with worry. It almost made Harry feel like running away and letting his godfather live a burden-free life, seeing as how he was the cause of the man's stress.

"What's new?" Sirius asked. "Is something troubling you?"

Yes. Seeing you like this.

Harry walked up to the duo and sat on the couch. "I had a talk with Hermione earlier, and," he glanced towards Emma, "I think I should come clean about a few things."

"Is this about House Peverell?" Emma asked. "Which I know nothing about," she quickly, and unconvincingly, added.

He shook his head. "It's about my magic, and the incident with the doxies and the wraith."

"Ah." Emma sat up straight. "That, I did know about."

All of a sudden, Harry felt like the shadows around the room darkened a shade. It may have been instinct, or perhaps a trick of the light, but he knew the Lar took the security of the House and the people in it seriously.

"I think," Harry hesitated, "Kreacher should also be here for this."

At that, Sirius also sat up straight, his gaze boring into Harry's own to try and decipher what he wanted to talk about so badly. "Kreacher! Your presence is required."

"I am here Lord Black," said Kreacher, now standing beside Sirius's sofa as if he'd been there this entire time. "And I can see that the Demon has decided to spill the truth of its existence."

"What did you say?" Sirius grabbed his wand, looking shocked and angry at the elf's choice of words. "You are forbidden from addressing my heir with that kind of derogatory—"

"No, it's alright," Harry interrupted. "With the Greengrass visit tomorrow, I just want to clear the air before things get, well, even more complicated tomorrow."

His godfather pushed himself off of the couch and moved towards him, grabbing him gently by the shoulders. "What's wrong?"

"When the doxies and the wraith attacked me," Harry gulped, "I was—"

"I checked for it, Harry. There was no wraith."

"There was," Harry replied, his eyes brimming with unspoken finality. "You couldn't find it because I destroyed it."

"Wraiths can't be destroyed," Sirius began, but Harry gave him a look that demanded he shut up. Exasperated, Sirius turned to Kreacher. "Help me explain this to him."

Kreacher remained silent.

"Kreacher?" Sirius looked at him in surprise. "Are you telling me you knew about this?"

The house-elf bowed low. "I did, Master."

"And you did nothing to save him?!"

"It went against the Charter, Lord Black."

"Harry is my godson," Sirius began hotly. "I don't see how some wraith could possibly be more important than—"

"It was Walburga Black!" Harry yelled, no longer willing to keep this going on. "Your mother cursed this house by committing suicide and stayed to haunt this place, purging all the muggleborns and half-breeds who entered."

"My… mother?" Sirius gaped.

"If it was a curse, it would only manifest when triggered," Emma reasoned. "Even before you were Lord, you were the Heir of House Black. It wouldn't activate in your presence, since the person might be your guest. But in your absence…" she trailed.

Kreacher gave a curt nod. "The boy is not blood, Master. Wraith or not, Mistress Walburga is."

Sirius clenched his fists, suppressing the urge to grab the elf by his neck and strangle him to death. But he knew better. As the Lar's extension, Kreacher was programmed to behave in certain ways. Elves could be made to think, act, and even feel by the command of their masters, regardless of personal beliefs.

Kreacher was no different.

"Kreacher. Do you find any desire to harm Harry any longer?"

Kreacher blinked his eyes very rapidly, as if arguing with itself. "The Potter boy is a Demon, Master. It would be safest for the House to get rid of his poisonous presence. And yet," he paused, "Harry Potter is also a Heir Apparent of the House. Perhaps Master can relocate Harry Potter's belongings to another of the Black properties. I strongly suggest the chateau in Shropshire. The Black Mausoleum nearby should serve as an adequately enjoyable stay for someone of that thing's nature."

And that, Harry decided, said everything that needed to be said about Kreacher's opinion of him. Not only was he a danger to the House, but the batty elf also thought he'd be happiest when living next to a graveyard.

Just like a demon.

Sirius choked on his own spit.

"That's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about," Harry finished lamely.

"Harry," Sirius glared at him, "get that idiocy out of your head right now, or I swear I will hex you six ways to Sunday. You are my godson. My son. So what if you aren't blood, or if there's something odd about your magic? Family. Sticks. Together."

"But I'm not—"

"You are," Sirius softly replied. "To me."

"Sirius," Harry stressed, "you don't understand. It's not just my magic that's acting out. When I faced that wraith, I turned into something else. A demon. I— I ate your mother!"

His godfather stared at him for several horribly discomforting seconds. "I see. That explains a few things."

Harry stared at his godfather like he'd grown another head. "Err… wot?"

Sirius sighed and shook his head. "I suppose in the light of things, I need to come clean as well."

"Let me guess," he replied sarcastically, annoyance flooding into him, "it has something to do with House Peverell?"

His godfather gave him a brief nod. "I apologize, Harry. Had I known something like that was possible, I would've cleared the air between us. At least now, I finally see why you were declared worthy of the Peverell bloodline."

"Because he is a Demon," Kreacher growled.

"Oh shut it," Sirius scoffed. "I'm descended from the Black practitioners, servants of Hedetet, am I not, Lar?"

That brought Kreacher to a pause.

"Harry here is a descendant of an equally old line of chaoticians. Practitioners of Magia del Caos, as Grand Aunt Cassie would say."

"Chaos magic," Emma translated, looking at Harry with growing interest.

"What's that?" Harry asked.

"Most hermetic magic and occult systems arose from a need for order. To make sense. Form. Construct. Give shape and meaning. Purpose. But Chaos Magic is an instinctual desire to strip away all these extraneous elements, returning the universe to pure, primordial chaos. The natural state of the universe."

"Entropy," Emma muttered. At Harry's confused look, she described it further. "The concept of unmaking. In the end, the earth stops moving and the sun and stars die out, returning the universe into infinite darkness." She glanced at Sirius. "Isn't that right?"

His godfather nodded.

Harry's mind raced. In the light of what he now knew, things began to make a weird amount of sense. Destroying the Dark Lord back then as a baby, burning Quirrell to ash, killing the basilisks and the dementors, then the graveyard, and finally the wraith—

"Are you telling me," he asked in a shaky voice, "that the only thing I can do is destroy?"

The irony was not lost on him. He was the Boy-Who-Lived, heralded as the vanquisher of the Dark Lord as a baby. And now, it turned out that was because destruction was the only thing he was capable of. But that couldn't be right, could it? He'd performed countless spells over the years, and not all of them had anything to do with destruction. Did they?

But the ones you know best are the most destructive, a dark corner of his soul whispered.

His Patronus Charm could kill dementors.

His mere touch charred a possessed man to death.

His freezing spell completely unmade—

"Not destroy, per se," Sirius clarified. "It really is more along the lines of unmaking. It breaks bonds, nullifies enchantments, and forces order to disintegrate into chaos. Much like how the old Black practitioners worshipped Hedetet, the Peverells worshipped Apophis, the primordial beast of the Void…" he trailed off, cupping his chin. "Come to think of it, Apophis is described as a giant serpent, and you—"

Harry suddenly felt very small. "And I can speak Parseltongue," he croaked.

"It's possible your Parseltongue ability is from your Peverell side," Sirius hypothesized. "Of course, James showed no signs of it. But then again, he wasn't able to claim that part of his heritage anyways. And as for this demon thing you're worried about, it's probably just a manifestation of your Family Magic."

"But it's dangerous—"

"So is a hex, curse, or spell," Sirius waved off. "Magic is what you make of it, Harry. Embrace it, don't fear it."

Easy for you to say, Harry thought, frowning. But then, he thought about it some more. According to Sirius, he'd used chaos magic in dire circumstances, almost like how kids used accidental magic. But then, had something happened at the graveyard to cause the chaos magic to overflow? Was that why his magic was all wonky?

"I think Sirius raises some valid points," Emma replied in a strictly no-nonsense tone. The affable woman had been replaced by a professional healer considering the health of her patient. "Transfiguration is all about order, so it's only natural that Harry finds it difficult. It also explains why you are so good with ice-based spells and terrible with flame spells."

"Hang on," Sirius interrupted. "Fire is the most destructive element. If anything, he should be better with it."

"You'd think so, but no," Emma shook her head. "When it comes to entropy, muggles have a better understanding. It's not so much things falling apart as it is dispersing energy back into the environment. A fire increases the energy in a medium, which is the opposite of what chaos magic is good at. In fact, the universe even promotes order to ensure better chaos."

Not for the first time, Harry wished he had Hermione's ability to absorb knowledge like a sponge. Promoting order to ensure more chaos? This was way above his pay grade.

He closed his eyes and exhaled.

Acquiring information was better than not knowing, but he'd never been one for the theoretical aspects of magic. He was more of a kinesthetic learner— how casting a spell felt to him, how much energy it drained, the mindset needed to cast better. And right now, there was only one thing that could get him a more concrete answer than anything Sirius or Emma were talking about.

His wand shot into his palm.

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

The creature that burst of his wand seemed more like a hodgepodge of different creature parts than one singular entity. It definitely had the four limbs of the stag, while its upper portions constantly disintegrated and reformed into a myriad of shapes. The phantasmal creature was almost the same size as Prongs, but felt utterly alien. It could still protect, he imagined, but only by crudely and ruthlessly putting down everything that came between itself and its charge.

Protection by destruction.

It was a weird dichotomy, but one that resonated well with his existence. Harry could feel an odd thrum in the air around him, along with soft, breezy whispers—

…WEakSOuLsTasTElOveLY…

Harry blinked. Had he imagined that? Patronuses killed dementors. They didn't morph into freakish dementor-stag hybrids, did they?

He frowned suspiciously at the intensely bright silvery creature that glided across the floor, as if looking around for things to fight or—

Or destroy. Unmake.

At this point, he wasn't sure there was a difference.

"This is my… magic?" he mumbled darkly. What was it Sirius had used to describe it? A chaotician. Was he a chaotician? Could this be the solution to his growing list of insecurities?

He gazed at the chimeric creature before him.

Only time would tell.

Fleur had to admit, working for Harry Potter was nothing at all like she'd imagined.

When she had first gotten the job, she was more than a bit worried that he would try to humiliate her for her icy demeanor back at Hogwarts during the tournament. Then there was the possibility of him misconstruing her intentions after she kissed him on the cheek after the Second Task. So many mixed signals. So many things could go wrong.

But instead, she now found herself in the employment of someone who would be more than happy to leave her alone to do her job. Not only did he lack the pompous attitude she had come to expect from British wizards— not to mention their propensity to boast about bloodlines and fortunes —but he was also worried that his public reputation may have a negative effect on hers.

It baffled the mind.

Either Harry Potter was completely sincere— in which case she did not understand him at all —or he was someone capable of using others' misfortune and helplessness to better himself while also cladding his actions in an unassailable moral armor. In which case, Fleur presumed, she could at least admire his skill in manipulating others.

Regardless, it was a stark contrast to the little boy she had observed back in Hogwarts, looking both scared and defiant as the headmasters and judges bickered about the illegality of his participation as if he weren't even there.

And this was all without considering the enigmatic Sirius Black, who constantly stood in the shadows to protect Harry Potter from any possible harm. The little meeting she had with Lord Black had been both illuminating and distinctly uncomfortable at the same time.

…

"This is all… surreal," Fleur replied, flummoxed. "Are you quite certain that is 'ow bloodline curses work?"

Sirius Black folded his arms across his chest and relaxed, his gaze never leaving her face. "Curses, enchantments, enthrallments… Those are my family's specialties."

The onyx ring on his finger shone exuberantly, as if punctuating his statement.

Fleur suppressed a shiver.

"And on that note, we should clear the air between us over another issue pertaining to my heir and your employer."

Fleur swallowed. "And what might that be?"

Sirius Black stared at her with an unreadable expression. "I will be candid, Miss Delacour. As much as I want Harry to live his own life, I'd rather not have him commit the same mistakes I did. So when Gringotts assigned someone like you—"

"Someone like me?" she sharply bit out.

"Please," Sirius replied, his tone utterly calm and composed. "It was not my intention to insult you."

"One could 'ardly tell," Fleur replied with disdain.

"Perhaps if you allowed me to finish," the elder Black went on, unfazed. "Please," he requested, though it was anything but. "Sit."

Silently, Fleur sat back down.

"I made a study of you, Miss Delacour. Your mother Apolline is well known in certain circles, and enjoys a great deal of power. Yet you have studied at Beauxbatons on full scholarships, offering tutelage to other students to pay your bills. Independence above all else. I admire that in a person."

"When did this conversation become about my life choices?" Fleur asked, resentment flooding into her veins. The Allure rose, but she ruthlessly suppressed it down. She was not like Maman. She wasn't.

"You acquired 10 NEWTs, eight of them Outstandings and two Exceeds Expectations. One could even call you a model student. You applied for a Mastery in Wardcrafting and received offer letters from Gringotts, from all three of its branches that offered the course— Sweden, Marseilles and London. In fact, the one at Marseilles offered you a rather nice package compared to the others."

Merde! She really hoped this wasn't going where she thought it was.

"You chose Gringotts London."

Fleur gulped, but defiantly raised her chin nonetheless. "And what of it?"

"Nothing," Sirius Black replied, his expression one of absolute nonchalance. "It's just surprising, that's all. Your animosity for Britain is rather well-known. You made no secret of it during your time at Hogwarts."

"If this is some conspiracy theory about the French trying to weedle its way into British—"

Lord Black laughed heartily. "Do not take me to be a fool, Miss Delacour," he replied. "I wasn't born yesterday. I did some digging on you, and found some interesting results. Harry Potter saved your sister's life back during the Second Task, a job that was yours to do, even at the risk of dying in the process. And he risked his life again on the night of the Third Task, when he saved your life from certain death."

Fleur paled.

Sirius Black edged closer across the table. "Tell me, Miss Delacour. Just when were you planning on informing my heir that you are acting under a Life Debt?"

…

And that was it. The crux of the matter.

A Life Debt.

A promise. An oath to serve the person who saved her from death. An oath to stand by her saviour's side forever, knowing their lives couldn't be disentangled.

That was what she owed to Harry Potter. One for saving her own life from certain death, and the other, for saving the life of the one thing she cared for more than anything in the world. Had something happened to Gabrielle, Fleur would have lost everything. The light of her life would have been extinguished.

Harry Potter had kept that misfortune at bay.

And Magic, in its own twisted ways, had construed both actions as ironclad debts that Fleur Delacour owed Harry Potter. With both events happening in such close proximity to each other, and Harry Potter running into a potentially dangerous situation right after, Magic had compelled Fleur to take action. To leave the opportunity of living in a two-bedroom flat she had booked for herself in Marseilles. To leave the better job offer she had been getting there. Instead, she forced herself to return to Britain, amidst these cochons, and live a life she hated more than anything else.

All because of her desire to aid Harry Potter.

Magic works in myriad ways, her grandmother used to say. She did not know where Harry Potter lived, and she could not bring herself to find his location via Owl-post. The idea of offering herself before her debtor to satisfy the debt was so utterly repulsive that Fleur had instead chosen to suppress it, just like her Allure, and try to adjust herself in her new life in Britain.

And then Fate had thrown her in Harry's path.

In the form of a financial adjustment procedure at Gringotts.

But nothing, nothing could have ever prepared her for that meeting with Sirius Black.

…

"And what does that information mean to you, Mister Black?" Fleur demanded, trying her best to ignore the icy fear blooming in the pit of her stomach.

"More than what you could imagine. But do you know the consequences of leaving a Life-debt unacknowledged?"

Fleur did. She had done some snooping around in Knockturn Alley and found a battered copy of an old book on the subject written by, ironically enough, Harold 'Harry' Potter in 1802.

"Life debts are acts of deep magic involving emotion, fate, and soul. The longer a debt goes unacknowledged, the stronger its manifestation becomes," Sirius Black explained. "It is theorized that if left long enough, a life debt can take over the victim's subconscious and influence their most basic instincts."

Fleur clenched her jaw.

"Your expression tells me you knew all that, and yet—"

Fleur decided she had enough. She lifted her head and glared at the man who was torturing her with the truth. "What does it matter to you, Mister Black? In the event of that happening, I will lose myself and become a carnal whore in service to your heir. A perverted sexuel who would follow your heir around like a bitch in heat. Is that what you insist on reminding me of? I already know that."

"Then why haven't you?" the man asked.

Her fingers were now drawing blood. Her Allure was raging high. Just a little more and she'd give in to her instincts. She'd become the predator and feed upon this man that was making her feel—

Taking deep breaths, she forcibly calmed herself down. Clearly, Sirius Black had an agenda behind all this. She did not think he was the type to prod at wounds for his own amusements. The only question was… what did he want?

"Why does this matter to you, Mister Black?"

"Because you and I are in the same boat. Like you, I too owe a life debt to Harry. And trust me, I don't plan on following my godson around like a bitch in heat."

Fleur blinked. This— she had not expected.

Lord Black sighed. It was as if he'd suddenly aged ten years. "Sometime before the end of his third year, when I met Harry for the first time and assured him that I was innocent—" his voice croaked, "dementors came after me. They nearly sucked my soul out."

"Merde!" Fleur cursed.

"Harry saved me," Sirius Black replied, his tone now warmer. "He cast a patronus and drove away the dementors, killing several of them in the process."

"C'est impossible," Fleur retorted. "Patronuses do not kill."

The man barked out a laugh. "Tell that to Harry."

Fleur had nothing to say to that.

"I have acknowledged the debt. I have given him my Name. A Family. A Home to call his own. And most importantly, as his godfather, I have sworn to protect him till my death. It is what binds me to him. You may think sex is the only way to satisfy the debt, but that's because you believe it's the only thing you have to offer. I suggest you figure out how else you can repay him before…"

"Before it is too late," Fleur whispered.

Sirius Black grimly smiled.

The Greengrass Estate was deep in the countryside, at least an hour away from the nearest sign of human civilization. It was surrounded by a forest of enormous oak, ash, and birch trees. Given how big the whole place was, Harry was pretty sure it could supply all of the wood Ollivander needed for his wand-making business.

He and Sirius apparated right outside the Estate's outer gate and found, much to his surprise, half a dozen men standing guard, clad in full tactical gear and body armor. All of them also had submachine guns in hand, the kind he'd only seen in movies back in the Dursley household and certainly never expected to see guarding a wizarding mansion.

One of the guards approached them carefully with his spine rigid, shoulders squared, and ready to pull the trigger at the slightest hint of hostility. "Can I help you, sirs?" he asked in a no-nonsense tone, not even bothering to give them a friendly smile. Clearly these people weren't kidding around.

Sirius had made Artemis Greengrass to sound like a Death Eater who used the idea of neutrality to save his own hide. But would a Death Eater hire muggles as security? Tactical gear, modern rifles, experienced shooters— just what the hell was going on?

Sirius didn't seem intimidated in the slightest. "I believe we are expected."

"Please state your names."

"Sirius Black and Harry Potter."

That seemed to do the trick. "Please wait," the man offered, while another soldier placed in his hands what seemed like a bowl of… water?

"Dip a finger into the bowl."

Sirius looked affronted. "This is—"

"Mister Black," the guard cut him off, "we are merely following protocols. The liquid in the bowl is a custom-made variant of the Thief's Downfall used in Gringotts. We just need to confirm you are who you say you are."

These people may be muggles, but they were clearly knowledgeable of the ways of the wizarding world. Perhaps they were squibs?

Deciding there was no point in wasting time, Harry dipped a finger into the bowl, followed by Sirius. As he felt a flicker of magic wash over him, the guard's expressions shifted from controlled tension to halfway relaxed.

Gently taking the bowl away, the guards stepped aside and pressed a button somewhere, and Harry felt a large number of things suddenly shift around him.

"So many lethal wards," Sirius snorted as they stepped through the entrance into a wide path that led to the mansion in the center of the estate. "Greengrass must be rather paranoid if he makes his guests go through all of this."

Personally, Harry thought that was the pot calling the kettle black. Sure, Grimmauld Place didn't exactly have a sprawling estate around it, but it had a homicidal, House-possessed elf for protection, not to mention the interspersed wards layered around the mansion like a protective web.

"Are we going to have to walk all the way?" Harry asked, realizing they had just stepped into anti-apparition and anti-portkey warded territory.

"Of course not," the guard replied, as a Volkswagen Caddy pulled out from the other side of the gate and stood before them. The guard sat next to the driver, his rifle in hand, while he and Sirius calmly sat inside the vehicle. With a soft growl, the vehicle began its journey into the estate, towards the main mansion.

Charming.

As the car drove through groves of oak and banyan, Harry kept feeling the subtle webs of magic drawn all around the place. Whatever it was his chaos magic did, it had certainly expanded his ability to sense magic around him.

Probably to help him destroy them, he thought with a scowl.

After a few minutes, they finally made it to the central building— Cinnamon Grove. It was a brooding chateau, built in a French-style with a blend of gothic and modern-minimalist architecture. The car came to a halt right at the front, where a female house-elf stood, clad in a neat linen toga, awaiting their arrival.

"Mister Harry Potter and his associate, be welcome to Cinnamon Grove," the elf proclaimed with a gracious bow. "I am called Fiana. Fiana is to be at your service during your stay."

"I see," Sirius declared in a haughty tone. Harry wondered if all pureblood children were given lessons on speaking like pompous arses.

"Please, follow me." The elf snapped her fingers and walked forward, allowing the large oak door to open with a soft gong. Harry and Sirius quickly followed suit.

"Nervous?" Sirius whispered.

"Just a little," Harry admitted.

"Heh, me too," his godfather replied. "Just remember what I taught you."

"Hit hard and hit fast?"

"Not that."

"Contraceptives are always handy?"

Sirius snorted. "Useful, but not that."

"Never let them see you sweat?"

His godfather grinned. "Close enough." With that, he squared his shoulders and walked ahead.

Harry took a deep breath, before following him.