Walburga, leaving the house in Kreacher's care, went urgently to a place known in fairly narrow circles and personally acquired a female house-elf—supervising Harry Potter was already promising to be no simple matter, as with any small child, especially once they progressed from walking to running. The more she observed this larva of a future Head, moreover, the more she marvelled. The house continued to recognise the half-blood child, despite the return of the true heir by right—Regulus! This had been shocking at first, and later gave rise to certain thoughts. Walburga felt as though a murky veil had been lifted from her mind—her thoughts and feelings were vivid, sharp, and… different.
She noticed that Kreacher had aged sharply and was clearly struggling to manage everything—keeping an eye on the child and an awakening house was no small task, and there was still the feeding of the mistress, the master, and their bedridden guest. Yes, something had changed. Changed profoundly. Much of what she had been taught had fallen away like the outer layers of an onion, and she sometimes felt like that same peeled onion—stripped bare. Without the ancestral contempt for Muggle blood, for those who served her, she was at sea, but the events of the past mad days could not have left her entirely unchanged.
She spent an entire day at the patients' sides—naturally, most of her attention went to her son, but when Snape finally opened his eyes and began to speak…
They both, it seemed, got a great deal off their chests. They enjoyed it—though naturally neither of them had the slightest intention of admitting as much. And that evening, toward midnight, a thoroughly pleased Hagrid arrived and got to work on his life-giving porridge: cooked it and fed it to everyone, including a resistant Kreacher. The porridge proved, once again, to be genuinely medicinal—by morning, Regulus had fully come to himself.
They had a great deal to tell him. He, as it turned out, had a great deal to tell them, and half the day disappeared into conversation as though it had never existed—until the new house-elf was brushed firmly aside and Harry appeared, burning to demonstrate his recently acquired vocabulary.
"Uncle!" he patted Regulus's hand, drawing from him an exhausted but genuine smile. The young man had only recently endured a thorough dressing-down regarding proper forms of address to house-elves—and the coalition ranged against him had been of a character that made silence the wiser policy. The sight of Lady Black, the halfblood Prince, and the half-giant Hagrid united on a single front was, frankly, impressive. It also emerged that his mother and Hagrid had been at school at the same time—he had been only a couple of years below her.
Reg also said a good many things to his beloved mother that he would never in his life have dared to say before, and this time it was she who fell silent. She tore her handkerchief and snapped her fan—but stayed silent, aided, to her own inner astonishment, by the respectful glances of the half-giant and the halfblood Potions master. Though when the "little nephew" toddled over, poked her with a finger, and called her gran, she could not hold back a rather incoherent sound.
The house-elf nearly died of fright on the spot, but seized Harry's hand.
"My lady! The Senior Lady Black, little master! La-dy, you can surely—"
"Lady?" he repeated with perfect clarity, and Walburga was preparing to nod graciously and smile, as she once had when her own children were this age— "Gran!" the little boy seized her hand with complete shamelessness. "Granny!"
And when the house-elf attempted to lead him away, she was simply pushed aside—not hard, not painfully, but firmly enough to leave her unable to move for a moment.
"Was that the house, or the child?" Severus asked.
"Rather early for a boy," Walburga managed, already being towed by Harry toward the inner garden—small and green and warm despite the calendar's insistence, right into November.
"Is there no one watching him—where he's supposed to be?" asked Regulus, now versed in nearly all the relevant problems, acquainted with at least one possible future, and in complete agreement that it must not be allowed to come to pass.
Andrei's expression darkened. He had just remembered that a Mrs Figg and her cats were supposed to be installed somewhere nearby—if they hadn't been already. And how many days would it take her to notice that the child across the street was entirely alone?
"We need to find a substitute," he said. "I don't see another way."
"A substitute what?"
This required an impromptu lecture on certain practices in Muggle maternity wards. The wizards were appalled—Walburga most of all, when she returned with a well-exercised Harry. Though when she attempted to object, Hagrid asked in what way her own rejection of a child was preferable—only in that the child in question was older?
"In that he is fully capable, of sound mind, and has betrayed the interests of this family—"
"As to capability, and particularly sound mind, I have my doubts."
"What do you mean? He couldn't have been influenced by charms or artefacts—he had protection—"
"Are you certain he wore it without ever taking it off?"
"Who better than you to know, Mother, that a talented wizard can bypass any protection? You personally studied alongside one such wizard," said Regulus, his voice still weak but his sarcasm perfectly intact.
"We're getting off the subject," Snape interrupted. "What do we do about the child and the Dursleys?"
"Taking a baby straight from the maternity ward isn't an option—he needs to be at least a year old, preferably older."
"It would be easier if the child weren't a wizard."
"What about the scar? You'd cut into a living child?" Walburga said, startled.
"Sedate him, apply a numbing charm—the boy won't feel a thing."
"And it'll heal…"
"That's no longer our problem."
"Who goes to the maternity ward?"
"Severus, obviously."
"Why me, specifically?" he protested.
"Because you clearly have a way with children," Andrei said, nodding toward Harry, who was grunting with effort on his third attempt to climb onto the Potions master's bony knees. "And besides—how exactly do you picture me on the streets of, say, London?"
"Quite easily, actually," Snape said, turning to Walburga. "Does the lady have any Polyjuice in reserve? And I'll brew fresh."
"Get back on your feet first, then we'll talk," she muttered, but confirmed that supplies existed.
"My lady, you are an absolute treasure," Hagrid said sincerely.
"Hm," she said, looking faintly displeased.
"Where do we look and what do we do?" Snape moved them back to business. "I think we've been putting this off long enough."
***
"So—who are we going as?" Hagrid asked, once they had made their way down to the laboratory, where Snape's eyes immediately went in six directions at once and he let out a dreamy sigh.
"As the family potioneer of the Blacks," Walburga said, seizing the moment, "you will have unlimited access to this room when all this is over. Provided you survive, naturally."
"Sorry?" said Severus, who had evidently retreated so thoroughly into his rosy—or whatever colour they were—daydreams that he hadn't caught a word.
"My colleague thanks the lady of the house for her outstanding positive motivation," Hagrid translated—and received another of Walburga's peculiar looks. Had he actually almost frightened her?
"I trust you'll manage," she said, turning on her heel and walking out.
***
"How dare you, Augusta!" Walburga Black raised her wand at the respectable elderly lady.
The lady raised her palm and warned her, in a voice that wouldn't have disgraced Hagrid himself, to spare her nerves, her potion, and Snape's efforts—who currently looked exactly like Regulus.
"You are not going anywhere wearing my son's face!" she announced, putting her wand away and regarding Hagrid-as-Madam-Longbottom with distinct hostility.
"Actually, that's not a bad idea," he said unexpectedly. "We could be elderly lady twins. Even more convincing."
Snape pulled a face—using Regulus's features to do it.
"Where did you get her hair?" Walburga's eyes flashed. "Ah—so that's who helped this retired Auror catch the Lestranges and… my niece."
"On the other hand, they'll be released in a couple of years," Andrei muttered. "The alternative was life."
"Is that so."
"Please," said Snape—but on her son's face, which made it impossible for the lady not to respond with a gracious nod. "I'll use another dose of Polyjuice, we'll go as two ladies, Merlin help us all, but we need to get Harry a replacement quickly. You can settle the rest among yourselves afterward at your leisure."
"Then we'll need to get Sirius out," Hagrid-Augusta sighed.
"Oh—" Walburga pressed her fingers to her temples. "I cannot look at you. Go. Just go."
***
The appearance of two elderly ladies wishing to adopt a one-year-old child caused no particular stir at the solicitor's office—not a common scenario, but well within the range of ordinary. The "documents" presented were in perfect order: en route, Hagrid had steered his partner-in-crime into the relevant office, where the Potions master had examined the existing papers and Transfigured excellent copies—duplicating them for two identical ladies and changing one name was straightforward enough. After an elegant indication of the potential commission involved, the young female solicitor was bustling about with impressive efficiency, and within two hours the ladies were studying the photographs laid before them.
"That one seems right," Snape said, pointing to a dark-haired, grey-eyed boy. "Are the parents known?"
"The mother died in childbirth. Father unknown."
"What was she? The mother?"
"An ordinary shop assistant. A grocery."
"Could you look into her medical history?"
"I quite understand your concern, Lady Brown. But workers in that sector undergo annual professional health examinations."
"Well then, things are looking better than we thought," Andrei decided to take matters into his own hands. "Now, where did you say the little one is? You know, before we finalise everything, we'd very much like to see him in person. This is a serious undertaking, as I'm sure you appreciate."
A discreet Confundus or two from the sleeve—entirely out of the Muggles' sight—a quiet Imperius from the pink umbrella—what a charming little eccentricity that lady had!—and a dark-haired boy with translucent grey eyes that shifted colour with the light was installed at Grimmauld Place. As it turned out, Jim Carter—his real name—was several months older than Harry but shorter, and most importantly, he was not a wizard.
The operation of producing the scar was conducted by Lady Black herself.
Meanwhile, Snape and Hagrid were composing a letter to the Dursleys and working out how to manage visits to the "nephew"—Andrei felt a certain responsibility for the child, and Snape, oddly enough, was not entirely comfortable about it either.
***
Late that evening on Privet Drive, Little Whinging, two men who might have been taken for twins—back in their own faces now—walked quickly toward number four with a sleeping child in their arms, wrapped in a thick fur blanket. This time Snape had used Regulus's hair, and Lady Black had raised no objection. Tucked into the blanket was an envelope containing a letter, some money, and a note to the effect that the child, when he came of age, would inherit a considerable sum—and might, of course, choose to share it. If he wished.
"We're not waiting around. I ring the bell, you cast the Notice-Me-Not."
"No—Notice-Me-Not first—"
"Fine, go ahead."
The bell. Silence. Hurried footsteps.
"Oh, good Lord. Vernon!"
"What is it? Good Lord. What on earth do we do?"
"What if he's also—you know—like them?"
"Put him in a home?"
"My sister's son? Vernon— Oh, I don't want to either, but doesn't it seem somehow—"
"And if anyone were to find out— Right. Hmm. They've wrapped him up well, I'll give them that. And what's all this here?"
Hagrid and Snape stood outside a while longer—until the Polyjuice was nearly spent—and once they were entirely satisfied that no one had any intention of putting the child back outside, they made their way back to Grimmauld Place.
"Do you think he'll be better off there than in a home?"
"I do. We've left them a decent enough incentive."
"And where exactly are we going to find that money when he grows up?"
"In ten years?" Hagrid, back in his own form now, smiled. "By then, magical Britain will owe us far more than that."
"You plan to tell them so yourself? Bring them the glad tidings?"
"Hardly. Just certain parties."
"And how do you envision that?"
"Well—the Blacks are already in our debt. Once we're done there, we move on. Suggestions?"
"The Malfoys?"
"Perfect."