"You've been quiet all evening."
Nymeria turned to find Belvina standing beside her, a glass of wine in hand. The woman had a sharp look in her eyes, and she could easily recognize a dangerous woman when she saw one.
"I'm a guest here," Nymeria said carefully. "It's not my place to speak on family matters."
"How diplomatic." Belvina said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I can't help but wonder if diplomacy is the right approach. You're a Black, whether by birth or by circumstance. That means you have a stake in these discussions."
"I'm still learning what being a Black means," Nymeria replied.
"Then let me educate you." Belvina took a sip of her wine. "Being a Black means understanding power. It means recognizing that we are among the most influential families in wizarding Britain, and with that influence comes responsibility. We set standards. We establish norms. What we do, others follow."
"That's a heavy burden," Nymeria smiled.
"It's a privilege," Belvina corrected. "One that requires certain... qualities. Strength of conviction. Clarity of purpose. The ability to make difficult decisions for the greater good."
"The greater good according to whom?" Nymeria asked with a raised eyebrow.
Belvina's eyes sharpened. "According to those with the wisdom and power to determine it. That's how leadership works. The strong guide the weak, the educated enlighten the ignorant."
"And if the weak disagree with the strong's guidance?"
"Then they're persuaded or removed," Belvina said bluntly. "Sentiment is a luxury we can't afford, not when our entire way of life is at stake."
Nymeria kept her expression neutral, but it took a lot of effort. This woman was way too flippant about people's lives, as if they were pieces on a boardgame she could remove on a whim.
"I see."
"Do you?" Belvina leaned closer, her voice dropping. "You come here from abroad, claim the Black name, receive all its benefits. But names carry obligations as well as privileges. You represent this family now, whether you like it or not. Your actions, your words, your associations, all reflect on us."
"I understand that."
"I wonder if you do." Belvina's gaze was calculating. "You're young yet, still forming your worldview. That's natural. But you've spent years abroad, among foreign wizards, exposed to who knows what kinds of influences. Different perspectives, questionable ideologies, diluted traditions."
"I've learned a great deal from my travels," Nymeria said carefully.
"Learning is one thing. Absorbing foreign notions that contradict our values is another." Belvina took another sip of wine. "The magical communities abroad are often... lax in their standards. More willing to compromise with muggle influences, more accepting of blood dilution. I hope you haven't picked up such habits."
"I was raised to respect the Black name," Nymeria said, which was technically true even if the context was entirely different.
"Were you?" Belvina's tone was skeptical. "By parents who chose to stay away from Britain, to never seek their family and heritage? Forgive me if I find that unconvincing."
Nymeria felt her temper rising but forced it down. "My parents had their reasons for staying away. That doesn't mean they abandoned their values."
She had several choice words bubbling inside her right now, but she forced them down firmly. She had to maintain a persona, no matter how revolting it felt.
"Their reasons." Belvina's lip curled slightly. "Yes, I'm sure they were very compelling. They always are when family members decide their comfort matters more than their duty."
"You don't know anything about my parents," Nymeria said, her voice hardening despite her best efforts.
"I know they kept running all around Europe," Belvina replied coolly. "I know they chose staying in exile over facing whatever scandal or difficulty kept driving them away. And I know their daughter has returned, claiming a place in this family without having proven she deserves it."
The insult was clear, and Nymeria felt Dorea's hand land on her thigh under the table in warning.
"I haven't claimed anything," Nymeria said, keeping her voice level. "I was invited here. By Lord Perseus himself."
"Because blood calls to blood," Belvina acknowledged. "But blood alone doesn't make you worthy of the Black name. That requires understanding our position, our responsibilities, our standards."
"And what standards are those, exactly?" Nymeria asked, unable to help herself.
Belvina's smile was cold. "Excellence. Power. Purity of purpose and bloodline. We are the premier magical family in Britain because we've never compromised on these principles. Every generation has maintained our position through careful cultivation of alliances, preservation of our magical heritage, and unwavering commitment to wizarding superiority."
"Wizarding superiority over muggles, you mean."
"Wizarding superiority over everyone," Belvina corrected. "The Blacks don't bow to anyone, magical or mundane. We stand at the top of wizarding society because we've earned that position through power, wealth, and pure blood. And we maintain it by ensuring each generation understands these truths."
"Some might call that arrogance."
"Some might call humility weakness," Belvina countered. "It's all a matter of perspective, girl. And the correct perspective, the one that has sustained our family for centuries, is that we are superior. Acknowledging that isn't arrogance. It's simply accepting reality."
Nymeria wanted to snap back, to tell Belvina exactly what she thought of her elitist nonsense and where that kind of thinking would eventually lead. But she couldn't. Not without blowing her cover and potentially compromising everything.
So instead, she said, "I appreciate your concern for my education, Aunt Belvina. I'll keep your words in mind."
It wasn't agreement, but it wasn't open defiance either. A careful middle ground. The best she could afford right now.
Belvina studied her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "You're cleverer than you first appeared. That's good. Cleverness is valued in this family, provided it's directed properly." She paused, then added, "You're still rough around the edges, still too influenced by whatever foreign notions you absorbed abroad. But you're young. There's time to mold you into a proper Black."
The condescension in her tone made Nymeria's teeth grind, but she forced herself to remain calm.
"I'm sure the family will be an excellent influence," she said, the words tasting like ash.
"See that you allow us to be, and that you choose the truly worthy to influence you. Not every member of this esteemed family has turned out well." Belvina's eyes were cold, and Nymeria didn't need her to specify just who she was referring to with that final remark. She eyed Pollux who still had a troubled look on his face as he conversed with Arcturus.
Her attention was brought back to the current conversation when Belvina continued, "And remember, girl, that being a Black means more than simply carrying the name. It means embodying our values, upholding our standards, and understanding your place in the hierarchy. You're at the bottom of that hierarchy currently, a foreign relation with questionable upbringing. Whether you rise or remain there depends entirely on how well you learn."
Before Nymeria could respond, she swept away, leaving her sitting there with her fists clenched and her jaw tight.
"Don't," Dorea murmured. She'd stayed by her side. "She's testing you. If you react, you lose."
"She just called me some wayward charity case," Nymeria hissed.
"She called you exactly what she thinks you are," Dorea replied quietly. "That's who she is. Getting angry won't change her mind. It'll just mark you as someone who needs to be controlled or removed."
Nymeria took a deep breath, forcing herself to relax. Dorea was right. This wasn't her time, her world. She couldn't afford to act on her natural impulses.
"How do you stand it?" she asked quietly. "Living with people like her?"
"Practice," Dorea said with a slight smile. "And the knowledge that not all Blacks are like Belvina. My father isn't. Pollux isn't. Arcturus, for all his caution, isn't. We exist in this family too, and we matter."
"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like the Belvinas of the world are winning."
"They're louder," Dorea conceded. "But that doesn't mean they're right. And it doesn't mean the rest of us have given up."
"That's a comforting thought," Nymeria said, though she wasn't entirely convinced.
The evening wore on, and Nymeria found herself watching the room's dynamics shift like pieces on a chessboard. The Krums held court near the fireplace, drawing those sympathetic to their views like moths to flame. Irma practically vibrated with enthusiasm as she spoke with Viktoria, while Orion and Aleksandar discussed something in low, intense voices.
Marius and Altair had positioned themselves strategically between the two camps. They spoke with both sides, their expressions neutral and polite, but Nymeria noticed how they watched Pollux. It wasn't overtly hostile, more like the way someone might watch a rival who'd beaten them to something they deserved.
"They're barely hiding it," Nymeria murmured to Dorea, gesturing subtly toward the two older Black sons.
"Hiding what?" Dorea asked, though her tone suggested she knew exactly what Nymeria meant.
"The resentment. Every time Pollux speaks, they look like they've bitten into something sour."
Dorea's expression remained carefully neutral, but she shifted slightly closer. "Politics and family rarely mix well."
"This seems like more than politics."
"Perhaps we should get some air," Dorea suggested, rising smoothly. "It's rather warm in here."
Nymeria followed her out onto a terrace that overlooked the manor's extensive grounds. The winter air bit at her skin, but it was a relief after the oppressive atmosphere inside. Snow covered everything in pristine white, and the moon cast silver shadows across the landscape.
"Marius is thirty," Dorea said quietly once they were alone. "Altair is twenty-eight. Both brilliant, both accomplished in their fields. Marius has negotiated trade agreements that have made the family considerably wealthier. Altair is one of the youngest curse-breakers to achieve master status."
"But?"
"But their father is the younger son." Dorea's voice was matter of fact, as if discussing the weather. "When Perseus dies, Cygnus inherits. When Cygnus dies, Pollux inherits. Marius and Altair, for all their achievements, will never be lord of the family. They'll always be secondary, supporting roles rather than the lead."
Nymeria absorbed that, pieces clicking into place. "And Pollux is what, twenty?"
"Nineteen, actually. More than a decade younger than Marius." Dorea gazed out at the snowy grounds. "Imagine being thirty years old, having spent your entire adult life proving yourself worthy, only to watch your teenage cousin be groomed for the position you'll never hold simply because his father was born first."
"That's medieval."
"That's tradition." Dorea's lips curved in a small smile. "The eldest son of the eldest son inherits. Always. It doesn't matter if younger sons or their children are more qualified, more intelligent, more capable. The bloodline flows through the firstborn."
"Seems like a good way to end up with incompetent leaders."
"Sometimes, yes. But the alternative is chaos. If inheritance could be disputed based on merit, families would tear themselves apart fighting over who deserved what. This way, at least, everyone knows where they stand from birth."
"Even if where they stand is permanently below someone less qualified?"
"Even then." Dorea turned to face her. "Don't mistake me. I don't think it's fair. But fairness has never been the priority in families like ours. Stability is. Continuity is. And those require clear, unambiguous rules of succession."
Nymeria thought about Harry and his rather straightforward relationship with his own ancestry. On contrary, most of these ancient families had their rigid hierarchies and ironclad traditions. No wonder the wizarding world was so resistant to change.
"So Marius and Altair resent Pollux for being born to the right father."
"They resent the system that makes his birth more valuable than their achievements," Dorea corrected. "Pollux is simply the most visible reminder of that system. And his politics don't help. He's too moderate, too willing to question tradition. That makes him seem even less deserving in their eyes."
"Because they think if someone's going to have the position they can't, that person should at least share their values."
"Exactly." Dorea wrapped her arms around herself against the cold. "It's complicated further by personality. Pollux is brilliant but he doesn't flaunt it. He questions things, considers multiple perspectives, and changes his mind when presented with new evidence. Those are admirable qualities in most contexts, but in someone destined to lead a family like ours? They look like weakness."
"Whereas Marius and Altair project strength and certainty."
"Always. They never doubt, never waver, never show uncertainty. They're everything a Black heir is supposed to be, except for the inconvenient detail of their bloodline."
Nymeria watched through the window as Marius laughed at something Mikhail said. Even the laugh was perfectly regulated, neither too loud nor too soft. It was the kind of social grace that came from years of practice.
"Do they support Grindelwald?"
"I don't know." Dorea's voice was troubled. "I don't think they've committed to anything yet. But they're interested, and that's dangerous enough. The Krums are offering them something valuable."
"What?"
"Recognition. Respect. A chance to prove their worth in a new order where birth matters less than ability and conviction." Dorea's expression was grim. "Grindelwald's movement attracts people like that. The talented but overlooked. The capable but constrained. He promises them a world where their skills will finally be valued."
"In exchange for their support in building that world through violence and oppression." Nymeria's voice was quiet. She surveyed the gathering with curious yet understanding eyes. There were layers to the family, the situation rather complicated.
"He doesn't frame it that way, of course. He frames it as necessary action, as the strong finally claiming their rightful place. And for people who've spent their lives being told they're less valuable than someone born fifteen minutes earlier, that message has appeal."
They stood in silence for a moment, the cold seeping through their clothes. Inside, the party continued, voices rising and falling in discussion and debate.
"This family is a mess," Nymeria finally said.
"Most families are, underneath the formal dinners and polite conversation. Ours just has higher stakes." Dorea turned back toward the door. "Come on. We've been out here long enough that people will start to notice."
They returned to the drawing room, where the conversations had fragmented into smaller groups. Perseus sat in the largest chair near the fire, looking every inch the patriarch as various family members approached him with comments or questions. He held court effortlessly, his mere presence commanding respect and attention.
Cassiopeia had cornered Arcturus near the drinks table. Nymeria couldn't hear what they were saying, but Cassiopeia's animated gestures and Arcturus's carefully neutral expression suggested they didn't manage to reach an agreement.
"She's arguing for Grindelwald's position," Dorea murmured. "She usually does. Cassiopeia has always been drawn to power, and Grindelwald represents power on a scale we haven't seen in generations."
"Does Perseus know?"
"Of course. He knows everything that happens in this family." Dorea accepted a glass of wine from a passing house elf. "Whether he approves or disapproves is harder to say. Grandfather keeps his own counsel until he's ready to make a decision."
Ivan Krum had engaged Pollux in conversation, though Pollux's body language screamed he'd rather be anywhere else. His responses were polite but clipped, his posture stiff. Ivan seemed to be enjoying himself, probably relishing the chance to needle someone who so obviously disagreed with his worldview.
"This whole evening has been a recruitment drive," Nymeria said quietly.
"Of course it has. The Krums didn't travel all this way just to wish us happy Yule." Dorea sipped her wine. "They're building networks, making connections, identifying potential supporters. Every major family in Europe is facing the same propositions right now. Grindelwald's people are very good at this."
"And what happens to families that refuse?"
"Nothing dramatic. Not yet." Dorea's expression was troubled. "But the continent would soon be becoming increasingly hostile to neutrality. Countries would be choosing sides, and those who refuse to choose would find themselves isolated. Trade agreements would suddenly become difficult to negotiate. Political alliances would shift. Social invitations would dry up. It's all very civilized on the surface now…"
"Until it isn't."
"Until it isn't," Dorea agreed. "Which is why tonight matters so much. If the Blacks align with Grindelwald, half the pure blood families in Britain would follow. We set trends, remember? What we do, others emulate."
"And what will Perseus decide?"
"I genuinely don't know." Dorea's voice was soft. "He's always been pragmatic. He'll weigh the advantages against the risks, consider the political climate, evaluate the strength of both sides. His decision will be based on what he believes serves the family best, not on moral considerations."
"That's terrifying."
"That's leadership in families like ours." Dorea finished her wine. "Morality is a luxury. Survival is the most important thing."
Across the room, Belvina was speaking with Perseus. Both wore serious expressions, their conversation intense despite the low volume. Perseus nodded occasionally, his face giving nothing away.
"She's trying to convince him now," Dorea observed. "Pressing her advantage while the Krums' arguments are still fresh in everyone's minds."
"Will it work?"
"Belvina is his daughter, and she married well into a powerful continental family. Her opinion carries weight." Dorea set down her empty glass. "But Grandfather isn't easily swayed. He'll listen to everyone, consider all angles, and make his decision in his own time."
Cygnus had joined his father and sister, creating a small cluster of the family's most influential members. Orion hovered nearby, clearly wanting to contribute but uncertain whether he'd be welcome in that particular conversation.
"The younger son problem again," Nymeria noted.
"Always." Dorea's smile was wry. "It never goes away, it just manifests in different ways across the generations."
A house elf approached Perseus and whispered something. The old lord nodded, then rose to his feet. The conversations around the room gradually died down as everyone turned to look at him.
"It grows late," Perseus announced, his voice carrying easily across the space. "And our guests have had a long journey. I think it's time we brought this evening to a close."
It was clearly a dismissal, politely phrased but clear in its meaning. The Krums rose smoothly, making their farewells with practiced grace. Aleksandar clasped hands with Perseus, both men's expressions giving nothing away.
"We thank you for your hospitality," Aleksandar said. "And for considering the matters we've discussed tonight."
"There is much to consider," Perseus replied neutrally. "We will speak again in the new year."
"We look forward to it." Belvina kissed her father's cheek, then moved through the room making her goodbyes. When she reached Nymeria, she paused.
"Think carefully about what you heard tonight," Belvina said quietly. "The world is changing, whether we wish it to or not. Those who adapt will thrive. Those who cling to outdated notions of peaceful coexistence will find themselves swept aside."
"I'll certainly think about it," Nymeria replied carefully.
"See that you do. And remember what I said earlier. Being a Black means more than the name. It means understanding which way the wind is blowing and adjusting your sails accordingly." Belvina's smile was cold. "The strong survive. The weak are forgotten. Decide which you want to be."
With that, she swept away to join her husband and children. The Krums departed in a swirl of expensive robes and polite farewells, leaving behind a room full of thoughtful, excited, and troubled faces.
Perseus surveyed his family with an unreadable expression. "We will discuss tonight's conversations at a later date. For now, I suggest we all retire and reflect on what we've heard."
Another dismissal. People began filing out, some heading upstairs to guest rooms, others preparing to use the floo network to return to their own homes.
"Come on," Dorea said, tugging Nymeria's sleeve. "Let's get back to our house before someone else decides to lecture you about family values."
"Your mum would be rather high on that list, I reckon."
Dorea merely hummed in agreement.
They found Arcturus near the entrance hall. He looked exhausted. There were lines of tension around his eyes that hadn't been there at the start of the evening.
"Ready?" he asked.
"More than ready," Nymeria replied.
They said their goodbyes to Perseus, who nodded graciously but was clearly already thinking about other matters. Then it was into the fireplace, the world spinning green, and finally stumbling out into the familiar warmth of Grimmauld Place.
Nymeria had never been so happy to be somewhere normal. Or as normal as it could be here.
-Break-
Harry stood at the window of his guest bedroom, staring out at grounds that looked exactly as he remembered them from old family photos. The morning sun caught on frost-covered hedges and ancient oak trees that had stood here for centuries. Somewhere beneath those trees, his father had played as a boy. Somewhere in these halls, his grandparents had raised the family that would eventually produce him.
The intensity of it all pressed heavily against him.
Three days. He'd been here three days, and the emotions hadn't gotten any easier to manage. If anything, they'd intensified with each passing hour, each new revelation about his family's history, each moment spent in the presence of people he'd only known as names on a family tree.
The letter from Nymeria lay on his bedside table, its contents already memorized. She'd written it the morning after that disastrous family gathering, her elegant script managing to convey both her frustration and her careful analysis of what had transpired. The Blacks were being courted by Grindelwald's supporters. Hard. And the family was splitting down predictable lines.
The scary part isn't the ones who are already convinced, she'd written. It's the ones who are considering it. Cygnus actually listening to those arguments, Arcturus staying quiet instead of opposing them outright. Even Pollux seemed shaken by some of what they said. They're framing everything as survival and freedom, Harry. Not blood purity or domination, but protection and self-determination. It's effective because it sounds reasonable if you don't know where it leads.
Harry had tried reaching out to her telepathically after reading the letter, only to find their bond stretched thin and useless across the distance. They'd tested it before, of course. Knew it had limits. But experiencing those limits now, when he wanted nothing more than to talk to her properly, made the separation feel more acute.
The bond was still there. He could sense her like a warm presence at the back of his mind, knew she was alive and safe. But actual communication? The distance was too great. They were reduced to letters and hoping they reached each other intact.
A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.
"Harry? Breakfast is ready." Charlus's voice came through the wood. "And fair warning, Grandmother is planning to interrogate you about your family history. Again."
Harry couldn't help but smile slightly. "I'll be right down."
He dressed quickly in the fine robes Lord Potter had insisted on providing and made his way downstairs. Potter Manor was bigger than he'd expected, but it was more comfortable than ostentatious. The Black family townhouse had been all dark wood and oppressive grandeur, designed to intimidate and impress. This place felt like people actually lived here, with worn spots on the carpets where generations had walked and portraits that smiled rather than screamed something foul.
The breakfast room overlooked the eastern gardens, morning light streaming through tall windows. Lord Henry Potter sat at the table reading the Prophet, while Lady Eleanor sat beside him. At the head of the table and to his right sat two people Harry had met upon his arrival with emotions he'd barely managed to contain.
Charlus's grandparents, Lord William Potter and Lady Catherine Potter, were both in their sixties and sharp as knives. William had the Potter build and features that Harry knew so well from his own mirror, while Catherine's eyes missed absolutely nothing.
"Good morning, dear," Catherine said warmly as Harry entered. "I trust you slept well?"
"Very well, thank you." Harry took his seat next to Charlus, accepting the toast and eggs.
"Excellent. I was just telling Eleanor about the time my husband decided to experiment with expansion charms on the greenhouse." Catherine's eyes twinkled with amusement. "We had roses the size of dinner plates for three months. Any guests we had at the time thought we'd been cursed."
"They were magnificent roses," William protested mildly, not looking up from his own breakfast. "The size was merely an unexpected benefit."
"The size was a disaster. They attracted garden gnomes the size of cats."
Charlus snorted into his pumpkin juice. Harry found himself relaxing slightly, the easy family banter soothing some of his emotional turbulence. This was what he'd never had. Not the grand gestures or impressive magic, just the simple comfort of family breaking fast together.
"Harry," Henry set down his paper and fixed him with an assessing look. "I've been reviewing some genealogical records as I told you. The Peverell family name is quite old, but the historical record is frustratingly sparse. The Peverells were influential during the founding era and then seemed to fade from prominence. What can you tell me about your specific branch?"
"My family has always been somewhat reclusive," he said carefully. "We've traveled extensively, rarely staying in one place for more than a generation or two. My father was particularly interested in obscure magical theory, which took him all over Europe and beyond. He wasn't much for maintaining social connections or documenting family history."
"A scholar then," Catherine said with interest. "What was his particular field of study?"
"Soul magic, primarily. The nature of souls, the mechanics of mortality, theoretical applications of sacrifice-based enchantments."
A brief silence fell over the table. Soul magic wasn't exactly polite breakfast conversation, but it was also a legitimate field of study. Dangerous and ethically complex, but legitimate.
"Fascinating," William said slowly. "That would explain the family tales, at least. The Peverells were always associated with tales of death and dying. The Deathly Hallows legends, for instance. Soul is closely connected to it."
Harry's hand tightened slightly on his fork. "My father found those stories interesting but ultimately symbolic rather than literal. He believed they represented deeper truths about magic and mortality, not actual objects."
"A reasonable interpretation," William agreed. "Though I've always wondered if there wasn't some kernel of truth buried in the legend. The Elder Wand, at least, seems to have some historical basis. There are documented accounts of an unusually powerful wand passing through various hands, each owner meeting a violent end."
"Power that must be taken by force is a curse, not a blessing," Harry said quietly. "My father taught me that."
Catherine nodded approvingly. "A wise man. So many young wizards today are obsessed with power for its own sake, never considering the cost. I'm glad to hear the Peverells maintained that particular wisdom."
The conversation drifted to safer topics as they ate. Eleanor asked about Harry's studies, expressing genuine interest when he mentioned his work in advanced transfiguration. William wanted to know his opinion on the international situation, clearly testing to see how much Harry actually understood about what was happening on the continent.
Harry answered carefully, revealing enough knowledge to seem informed without seeming unnaturally perceptive. It was a delicate balance, one he'd been walking since arriving here.
After breakfast, Charlus pulled him aside. "Fancy a walk? I need to check on the Quidditch pitch anyway, make sure the winter preservation charms are holding."
"Sure."
They bundled into warm cloaks and headed outside. The grounds were extensive, carefully maintained but not obsessively manicured. Harry could see where the formal gardens gave way to wilder spaces, areas left deliberately natural.
"Your grandmother is sharp and terrifying," Harry said once they were out of earshot of the house.
"She likes you though. Trust me, if she didn't, you'd know." Charlus grinned. "When I was twelve, I accidentally insulted one of her friends at a dinner party. She didn't say a word, just looked at me. I think I'm still apologizing."
"What did you say?"
"I may have suggested that Lady Bones's hat looked like a dead peacock." Charlus's grin widened. "In my defense, it absolutely did. But apparently that's not something you're supposed to point out."
Harry laughed despite himself. "Fair point."
They reached the Quidditch pitch, a modest affair compared to professional stadiums but clearly well loved. The goal hoops gleamed with fresh polish, and the grass beneath the snow looked properly maintained.
"There's something really freeing about being up there, away from everything else."
"I know what you mean." Charlus pulled out his wand and cast a quick diagnostic charm, nodding in satisfaction as the results shimmered in the air. "Everything's holding up fine. We can fly later if you want, once it warms up a bit."
"I'd like that."
They stood there for a moment, looking out over the grounds. Harry could see the manor in the distance, smoke rising from its chimneys in lazy spirals. It looked peaceful, permanent, like it had stood there forever and would continue standing long after they were gone.
"Can I ask you something?" Charlus's voice was careful, like he was approaching a sensitive subject. "That conversation we had back at school. About knowing what's coming. Were you serious?"
Harry turned to look at him. Charlus's expression was open, genuinely curious rather than suspicious.
"Yes," Harry said simply.
"How bad do you think it is going to get?"
"Worse than most people can imagine." Harry chose his words carefully. "And the worst part is how reasonable it will all seem at first. Grindelwald isn't some raving lunatic. He's charismatic, intelligent, and his arguments are compelling if you don't think too hard about where they lead."
"Like what happened with the Blacks."
"Exactly like what happened with the Blacks." Harry had read Nymeria's letter multiple times, each reading making his stomach twist. "They're framing everything as protection and freedom. Who doesn't want to be free? Who doesn't want to protect their family and way of life? It sounds perfectly reasonable until you realize what they're actually proposing."
Charlus was quiet for a moment. "Dorea told me some of what happened that night. Her letter arrived yesterday." He pulled out a folded piece of parchment from his pocket. "She sounded shaken. Dorea doesn't shake easily."
"Did she mention the betrothal?"
"She did." Charlus's expression was complicated, a mix of satisfaction and worry. "Grandfather accepted the offer. We're officially engaged now, pending the formal ceremony. I should be happier about it, but the circumstances of the announcement feel tainted somehow."
Harry understood exactly what he meant. Having your betrothal announced in the middle of a recruitment drive for a dark lord did tend to sour the moment.
"Do you want to marry her?" Harry asked directly.
"I do." Charlus didn't hesitate. "She's brilliant, kind when she doesn't have to be, and she doesn't take anyone's rubbish. We get along well, share similar values, and I enjoy spending time with her. That's more than most arranged marriages start with."
"Then hold onto that," Harry advised. "The rest of it, the politics and the family drama, that's just noise. What matters is how you feel about each other."
"Spoken like someone who's thought about this before."
"I have someone too," Harry admitted. "It's complicated, but when I'm with her, nothing else matters much."
"Nymeria?"
Harry nodded. "We're keeping it quiet for now. Given her family situation and mine, making it public would create complications neither of us needs."
"I won't say anything." Charlus hesitated, then asked, "Is she safe there? With everything Dorea described?"
"She can handle herself. Better than I can, honestly." Harry said with a slight smile. "But yes, I worry. That family is a powder keg waiting for a spark."
"Most of the old families are." Charlus turned back toward the manor. "Come on, it's getting cold. Let's head back before Grandmother sends a search party."
They walked back in companionable silence. Harry found himself grateful for Charlus's straightforward nature. No games, no hidden agendas, just honest friendship. It was refreshing after the careful political maneuvering that seemed to define every other interaction in this time.
The afternoon brought a different kind of revelation. William Potter found Harry in the library and gestured for him to follow.
"There's something I'd like to show you," the old lord said. "Something that should interest a Peverell, particularly one interested in magical theory."
He led Harry to a study that smelled of old books and older magic. The walls were lined with shelves containing what looked like rare manuscripts and family records. But William ignored those, instead moving to a painting of a stern looking wizard holding a staff.
"My great grandfather, Ralston Potter," William said. "He was something of an eccentric, even by our family's standards. Collected all sorts of magical artifacts and oddities. Most of them were sold off or donated to museums years ago, but a few items remained in the family. This is one of them."
He tapped his wand against the painting frame in a specific pattern. The painting swung outward like a door, revealing a hidden alcove. Inside sat a single object on a velvet cushion.
A cloak. Old, silvery, and shimmering with an otherworldly quality that made Harry's breath catch.
"The family story claims this once belonged to Ignotus Peverell himself," William said quietly. "Whether that's true or just romantic family legend, I couldn't say. But it's certainly old enough, and the enchantments on it are unlike anything I've seen elsewhere."
Harry stared at the cloak. Not his father's cloak. Not the one that had passed to him. But another one, or perhaps the same one at a different point in its journey. Time travel made his head hurt.
"It's an invisibility cloak," he said, his voice steady despite the emotions churning inside.
"Not just any invisibility cloak." William lifted it carefully, the fabric flowing like water between his fingers. "Most invisibility cloaks fade with time. The enchantments weaken, become less effective. This one shows no signs of degradation despite being centuries old. The magic is as strong now as it presumably was when it was first made."
Harry knew he should say something, but words felt inadequate. This was a piece of his heritage, his legacy, sitting in a manor that would one day belong to his family's descendants.
"I wanted you to see it," William continued, "because the family records suggest the Potters and Peverells were connected somehow, back in the early days. Nothing definitive, just hints and fragments. But if those connections existed, then this cloak should perhaps return to a Peverell hand."
"Sir, I couldn't possibly..."
"I'm not offering it to you. Not yet." William carefully folded the cloak and returned it to its alcove. "But this cloak should go to someone who understands its significance. Someone who appreciates what it represents beyond mere magical utility."
He closed the painting, the hidden alcove disappearing behind the portrait. "I wanted you to know it exists. To understand that your family's legacy isn't completely lost, even if the records are sparse. The Peverells mattered once. Perhaps they'll matter again."
Harry managed a nod, not trusting his voice. William clapped him on the shoulder in a gesture that was surprisingly paternal, then left him alone in the study.
For a long moment, Harry just stood there, staring at the painting that hid one of the Deathly Hallows. His inheritance, sitting in a house that would eventually be destroyed, waiting for a future that might never come now that he'd changed so much.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
That evening, the family gathered in the sitting room after dinner. Someone had suggested music, and Eleanor had retrieved a collection of old wizarding folk songs. She played an enchanted harp that required no touching, the strings moving under her wandwork as she conducted.
Harry found himself relaxing into the moment, watching Charlus attempt to teach his grandmother a new card game while Henry and William debated the finer points of ministerial policy. This was family. Not the dramatic tragedy he'd lived through, not the political maneuvering Nymeria was currently navigating, just people who cared about each other spending time together.
"You look thoughtful," Catherine said, settling into the chair beside him after leaving Charlus who joined his father and grandfather.
"Just appreciating the moment."
"Good. Too many young people are always rushing forward, never taking time to simply exist." She studied him with those sharp eyes. "You've had a difficult life, haven't you?"
It wasn't really a question. Harry considered lying, but something about her directness demanded honesty.
"In some ways, yes. I've lost people. Seen things I wish I hadn't. But I've also had experiences most people never get, learned lessons that made me who I am."
"And who are you, Harry Peverell?"
"Someone trying to do better," he said after a moment. "To be better. To make sure the people I care about have the chances I didn't."
Catherine nodded slowly. "That's a heavy burden for someone so young."
"Someone once told me that we don't get to choose our burdens. We only get to choose how we carry them."
"Wise advice." She reached over and patted his hand. "You're good for Charlus, you know. He's always been a thoughtful boy, but he sometimes lacks conviction. Seeing you so certain of your purpose, so committed to your principles, it's good for him. Reminds him that intelligence without courage is just clever cowardice."
"I think you're giving me too much credit."
"I think you don't give yourself enough." Catherine smiled. "Eleanor is about to play my favorite. You should hear it at least once before you leave."
The music started, a haunting melody that spoke of ancient magic and older promises. Harry listened, surrounded by family he'd never known he had, in a house that felt more like home than anywhere he'd been in years.
Later that night, Harry found himself staring up at the ceiling of a room in a house that meant more to him than anyone here could possibly understand, and he found himself genuinely grateful. Yes, the situation was complicated. Yes, the stakes were impossibly high. Yes, he was carrying secrets that would destroy things if they came out.
But he was also surrounded by family. Learning about his heritage. Building relationships with people who mattered.
For someone who'd spent most of his life alone, that was worth almost any price.
TBC.
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