Arabella was halfway through Elevenses when Harry slid into the seat across from her.

  The clock on the wall read 11:14.

  Harry scratched the back of his head, put on his patented Potter boyish grin #4, and tried to smooth over his tardiness.

  “Ah, terribly sorry, dear. I’d blame my watch for running slow, but we both know that’d be a load of tosh.”

  Arabella cracked a weak smile as she lowered her teacup to the saucer with a light clink.

  Still a bit skittish.

  She made to reach for the teapot, no doubt to pour for him.

  None of that.

  He beat her to it. Grabbing the pot, he gave her a top-up before pouring a cuppa for himself.

  “Oh! Ta—er, thank you, Mr. Halloway.” She fumbled the saucer, cheeks pink. “Mum’d ‘ave my hide, you pourin’ for me like this.”

  Harry’s grin grew Cheshire, waving away the apology like a bit of smoke on the wind.

  “Pish posh, we all put our socks on one foot at a time.”

  Arabella blinked slowly.

  She tried for a smile.

  Mixed success.

  Then a hesitant little laugh slipped out of her. It was obvious she was having a hard time making sense of him. The uncertainty still held her back in a way he wished it wouldn’t.

  You’ve got your work cut out for you with this one, Potter.

  He lifted the cup to his lips and blew to cool the steaming liquid.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  The clock filled the awkward silence. Harry sipped at his steaming cup, fine with giving her some time to collect her thoughts.

  Arabella toyed with the edge of her saucer, then glanced up at him, not fully raising her head.

  “... Why me?”

  Harry blinked.

  Tilted his head.

  “Come again?”

  She pressed her lips together, eyes falling back to her tea as she pushed her fingers together.

  A shrug.

  “I just mean… why’d you reach out at all? After the protest, that is. I’m not anyone. A nobody. Just a…”

  She let it hang, unfinished.

  Harry lifted the cup to his lips, blowing at the steam.

  “Growing up, I didn’t have the easiest time of it,” he said eventually.

  “The woman next door, though. She looked out for me. Checked up if she hadn’t seen me in a spell. Saw to it I was treated right, you see.”

  He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t have to.

  “Was just her and her kneazles.” He took a sip. “She didn’t have a wand to wave my problems away, but she helped a scared little lad feel seen. Important.”

  His wandering gaze focused in, locking with hers.

  “She was a squib. Unseen, underfoot, dismissed.”

  A lump came to his throat, unbidden.

  He cleared it.

  “She was the first person to ever show me kindness.”

  A lonely boy. Unloved. Unwanted. Unseen.

  A blight upon a good, normal family. A burden.

  A freak.

  Hold it together, Harry.

  “That kindness to a lonely boy was more magical than anything I’ve seen in the 20 years since.”

  Her eyes had gone wide. Her knuckles white around her teacup.

  He cleared his throat as they sat there, the full silence sitting between them.

  “So, in your own words, I believe that ‘Squibs matter too.’”

  He held out a hand, across the table.

  She took it with a watery smile, then flinched slightly as the cold stone touched her skin.

  She blinked down at it.

  Her brow furrowed.

  “Take it. If you run into any kind of trouble, just hold it and say ‘Harry Peverell.’ I’ll see to it that you are treated right.”

  She looked at the rune-marked stone cradled in her small hand, and gave a tiny nod.

  The clock chimed.

  Harry offered a final smile, then rose.

  Opening the door, he stepped through.

  · · ·

  He stepped through, shutting the door.

  Harry observed the office-cum-museum around him, a clear sign that the title was more than just for show.

  Minister of Culture is just about right.

  Anglo-Saxon-style illuminations embroidered the thick, oxblood drapery framing the window. The polished English oak floors were softened by Savonnerie carpet. Deep blues and golds were woven into scrolling acanthus leaves and heraldic flourishes, more at home in an aristocrat’s manor hall than a ministerial office.

  Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound tomes bearing gilded titles. Histories, both magical and mundane. No doubt a carefully curated selection of first editions.

  Understated, this is not.

  Adorning the walls, framed sketches and rubbings of ancient wizarding sites hung. In fact, what looked like an original architectural rendering of Tinsworth was staring him in the face.

  He turned to meet the eye of the figure behind the domineering desk when he noted another gaze likewise staring him in the face.

  A carved basalt bust sat atop a polished pedestal, the figure’s features sharp and severe.

  "Corvus Black – First of the Name, Lord of the Arcane."

  He met the apocryphal figure’s glare head on.

  Cute.

  Let the Lesser 27 fight over Merlin, the Blacks create their own myths.

  At last, he met the final pair of eyes in the room.

  Cygnus Black sat across from him, flanked by towering columns from his in-tray and out-tray. Harry nodded and stepped further into the space.

  “Minister Black, thank you for taking the time.”

  The man stood to greet him, coming around the desk and extending his hand. Judging by his daily-wear, he was a source of gainful employment for a full platoon of tailors.

  I reckon even his socks are bespoke.

  Despite knowing two of his daughters quite well, Harry hadn’t been sure what to expect.

  He had only a single head.

  No devil’s horns.

  No fangs or tail.

  So Sirius’ memory of the man was obviously a bit off.

  “Not at all, not at all! I was quite pleased when I was made aware of the purpose of your visit, Lord Peverell!”

  Surprisingly affable, despite the over-starched moustache.

  If anything, the man’s clear enthusiasm for history and openness reminded Harry of a posh Arthur Weasley.

  After the expected song and dance, the meeting properly started.

  Cygnus began to flip through the folder Harry had handed him, appreciative grunts punctuating his perusal of the report.

  “A fully intact Roman fort, undisturbed for nearly 2 millennia,” Cygnus murmured, eyes devouring page after page. “A remarkable find! How did you discover the site?

  Harry gestured toward one of the bookshelves, housing a well-worn volume of Tacitus’ Agricola.

  “Tacitus didn’t include all of his father-in-law’s correspondence in the final work. The unreleased notes contained a few likely sites. From there, it was all cross-referencing and fieldwork.”

  Cygnus hummed along, nodding his head.

  “This is sound work. The ward breaking is particularly impressive. The full report should be published, I say.”

  Harry smiled in response. “That’s my intention. Gringotts have already finished its artefact assessment. Reg Killoway has signed on as a co-author. All it needs is formal Ministry support to move forward.”

  Cygnus eyed him for a few beats.

  Harry could almost hear the cogs turning in the man’s head.

  Quid pro quo, or accrue goodwill, what’ll it be?

  A beat or two later, a smile came to the man’s face. “But, of course. You’ll have my office’s full support.”

  Harry inclined his head in acknowledgement. Took a bit of theatre and formality, but play-acting was part of the game.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Not his strong point, but he got by.

  Now to make like a snitch and get the hell out of here.

  Mission accomplished, Harry started to angle for a clean exit. Unfortunately, he’d apparently caught Cygnus’ interest.

  The man was holding on like a dog to a bone.

  Smile painted on, Harry upped his game.

  Shifted in his seat.

  Checked his watch.

  Glanced to the door.

  All the old standbys were failing him.

  Cygnus was a ruthless opponent.

  Time to call in the artillery.

  Don’t blame me, old boy. You’ve pushed me to this.

  He leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees, and unleashed hell.

  “Well… mustn’t keep you.”

  Cygnus mirrored Harry’s rise, a wide smile on his face.

  “Before you go, I have an oddity or two you may be interested in.”

  Sirius was right. He’s the devil.

  Cygnus brought a small lockbox around and set it on the desk. He ran his wand along it in a curving pattern, with occasional pulses.

  It popped open, revealing a selection of what were obviously his personal holdings. Withdrawing a narrow, wooden box, he placed it between them.

  “You’ve a mind for historical preservation. I wonder if you might indulge me. What do you make of this?”

  Is this a pop quiz?

  He didn’t reach out immediately, instead letting his gaze analyze the box itself. Running his wand over it, a light diagnostic pulse pinged over the surface before making contact.

  Cygnus sat back, silent for once, eyes glued to the procedure.

  “Thirteenth-century. Possibly earlier.” Harry noted, brushing his fingers over the lid. “Strong preservation charms, but no protection or containment.”

  Cygnus nodded along.

  Harry unlatched the box and lifted the lid. Within, a full set of onyx chess pieces rested in a bed of red velvet. He reached in and plucked up a knight. Cold to the touch.

  Closing his eyes, he felt the quiet hum of passive enchantments tied to the stone.

  “These aren’t simple pieces,” he murmured. “Not just set to move and play. I’d say they were created with instruction in mind. To teach strategy.”

  Cygnus smiled. “Just so. They’ve been in my family’s possession for generations.”

  His gaze softened as he looked down at the small army at rest. “They instructed my father before me, myself, even my own children. I was told they came from an old Black home in Somerset, stuck behind a mess of wards to this day. As a matter of fact––”

  Harry called on his Occlumency, barely suppressing the irritation trying to seize control of his face.

  So that’s why I could never take a game off of Andi. Let alone Narcissa.

  Their voices echoed in his head in perfect, mocking harmony.

  “Oh, Harry, is the horsey the one that moves in an L shape?”

  His shield cracked. Nearly shattered, before he managed to pull himself back from the brink.

  Those smug little…

  Cygnus had, of course, continued to jabber on, clearly unaware that Harry had lost the plot and was only just rejoining the conversation.

  “... rather interesting for a man of your gifts, wouldn’t you say? I wouldn’t mind letting you have a look.”

  A beat went by.

  Wait… What was the question?

  Cygnus’ smile didn’t falter, as he continued to wait for Harry’s response.

  What did Narcissa say to do when my mind drifts like this, again?

  “Ah. Yes… Quite interesting.”

  Cygnus’ grin was unsettling. Almost like…

  “Why, that would be lovely! Any insight into what has caused the wards to intertwine, or how we might sort it, would be most appreciated.”

  … Bollocks.

  It happened again.

  Harry had confused ‘smile and nod’ with ‘nod and agree.’ And, as usual, it had bitten him in the ass.

  He slumped.

  Self-reproach was a bitter pill.

  His goal accomplished, Cygnus finally let Harry off the hook.

  As he fled the Black Devil he’d been warned of, he swore he heard infernal laughter echoing down the halls of the Ministry.

  Forgive me, Sirius. I should never have doubted you!

  “You will apologize, Sirius, or so help me I’ll—”

  The unbearable keening of her vile aunt pierced the ears of all and sundry. Narcissa resisted the urge to massage her temples.

  One necessarily learned to tolerate the intolerable with relations like Walburga, or one did not survive.

  Still, she could have waited until the aperitif was served.

  A glass of sherry appeared at her elbow. Bless that crotchety elf.

  She took the first of what undoubtedly be many sips.

  Arcturus cut the overstuffed fwooper off before Narcissa’s sanity could be further tested.

  “—If a ‘Professor’ falls for a simple schoolyard prank, she has no business teaching Defence.” He snorted, setting down the goblet that had no doubt masked a pained grimace. “I swear, Dumbledore’s been scraping the very bottom of the barrel to fill that position.”

  He was, tragically, quite correct.

  Perhaps the Wizengamot should consider sentencing competent dark wizards to fill the role. A public service and a death sentence, all tied up with a bow.

  Sirius perked up at the unexpected show of support. He spun on his seat, turning to her older sister, seeking a willing audience.

  She always did humour him most.

  “Right?! Andi, you should have seen Professor Thyme’s face at the closing feast!” He babbled away, vibrating in his retelling. “One sip, and POOF! She sprouted an even thicker moustache and two huge tusks!”

  Andromeda gave the expected chuckle, hidden behind her hand.

  Pleased, the boy leaned back, howling in laughter. Like a hound.

  Undignified, if amusing in his own way.

  How they’ll make a lord of that boy, I haven’t the faintest.

  All the adults shared an indulgent smile. Except for Walburga, of course. Orion’s smile likewise vanished a moment later, his wife’s well-placed elbow erasing all amusement.

  Narcissa’s eye threatened to twitch, but the mutiny was quashed.

  I suppose they all humour him. ‘Boys will be boys’ at its finest. Mother would faint if any of us had ever been so unsightly.

  Beside him, Regulus was diligently rearranging the food on his plate, sprouts nudged hither, potatoes yon.

  “After all you and Jamie put her through,” he muttered, “there’s no way she’ll be back next year.”

  He did his best to maintain the constipated look Walburga insisted was properly aristocratic. The slight tug at his lips betrayed him until he caught sight of his mother.

  Then it died.

  Her mother noticed as well, leaning in and drawing a grudging smile back to his face.

  Sweet, earnest Reggie. He was so much like her, perhaps the best of them all.

  She smothered a frown.

  Narcissa feared he would be crushed under the weight of his heifer of a mother.

  Walburga sighed. “A Black is above such… pedestrian spectacle!”

  The shame her eldest brought to their noble house nearly had her clutching the pearls that strained to clasp around her fourth chin.

  Sirius’ grin only widened. “The spectacle is half the fun!”

  “More so than scrubbing cauldrons for the Mudbloods, I’m sure,” Orion said, the hen having successfully pecked the mannequin into speech.

  Andromeda's knuckles turned white on the stem of her glass. It looked as though she'd had one of the Headmaster's Lemon Sherbets.

  Not good.

  Worse, her little Gryffindor cousin looked ready defend the nobility of the Muggleborns.

  Before he could walk straight into his mother’s transparent trap, Narcissa chose to intercede.

  “Speaking of scrubbing cauldrons,” Narcissa said lightly, the picture of innocence. “Slughorn mentioned Sirius comes by his talent for the task honestly. I admit, I was ever so confused who he could’ve been referencing.”

  Across the table, Melania and Arcturus exchanged small smiles.

  Sirius’ eyes widened, while Walburga choked.

  Her father backed her, enlightening the table. “Haha. I suppose Horace would remember Walburga. I daresay half her fourth year was spent learning to properly scrub a cauldron clean. Though, I don’t remember her being particularly gifted in the art.”

  Walburga’s jaw clenched, silenced for the time being.

  Narcissa took a sip of wine to mask her toothy smile.

  Dinner was served, and conversation flitted from school, to summer plans, to family routines. The lighter side of the Black family was on full display.

  Narcissa retreated into her own thoughts, offering Kreacher a quiet thanks as her glass was topped up.

  Freshly graduated, she felt adrift.

  Life felt like a ship, ruddered by hands not her own.

  Her mother had been in talks with several respectable families, hawking her like a fine piece at one of her father’s charity auctions. The Malfoys had been keenest in staking a claim on her. Thank Merlin, her father seemed to be brushing them off, despite the no doubt obscene bride price they were dangling.

  She glanced at him, leaning in to share some venomous quip with mother. The two of them smiling in shared enjoyment.

  She allowed a small smile to touch her lips.

  A marriage like theirs would not be entirely disagreeable. Her father, at least, treated his wife as a partner; a rarity among men of his stature.

  Still, realistically, she was destined to the life of a lady.

  To be seen, not heard.

  A symbol of her husband’s prestige.

  Unable to pursue her own ambitions or desires. Instead, supporting his reputation and vision.

  She stifled a sigh.

  She’d grown quite practiced at it.

  It wasn’t until the plates had been cleared and the digestif and desserts were served that her father, as if in passing, remarked, “Young Lord Peverell stopped by the office this morning.”

  Arcturus silverware clinked softly as he set it aside. “Oh? His reinstatement was just yesterday. The boy put on quite the show. Dumbledore and Charlus were rather strongly affected.”

  “No doubt, Charlus was pleased to welcome some distant family back. Though I could only guess at Albus’ interest,” Melania noted, as though the relation were common knowledge.

  It was not.

  Sirius couldn’t contain himself. “This bloke’s related to James? Maybe he won’t be as much of a tosser as the rest of them.”

  That was a bridge too far, and not nearly as amusing to the adults.

  “Ouch!” He rubbed his backside, the recent recipient of a Stinging Hex.

  She hadn’t caught who’d done it, then she noticed her mother taking a sip, certain the corner of her mouth was lifted more than was usual.

  Discipline delivered, her father carried the conversation forward. “I can’t speak to that, but his skills as an Arcanist appear to be second to none. The curse breaking techniques he referenced are more advanced than any other I’ve seen.

  That drew her full attention. A young Lord with better things to do than strut about like a peacock was, sadly, the exception that proved the rule.

  She set down her glass and gave the discussion her undivided attention. Her own woes would be there to worry over later.

  Orion spoke up unprompted for the first time in recent memory. “A scholar, then. Did his work hold up?”

  “Exceedingly well,” her father replied, swirling his port. “So much so that I managed to, ah, convince him to have a look at the Somerset estate’s wards. Maybe someone can finally untangle that mess”

  Her father could, indeed, be rather convincing in his own way. If your focus slipped, he was liable to take full advantage.

  Sirius, his stinging rear already behind him, nearly jumped to his feet. “WAIT! He’s a curse-breaker?” His were practically shining. “Like, the real thing? With booby-traps, tombs, treasure; the whole lot?”

  Little Reggie leaned forward, clearly torn between his excitement and the expected restraint.

  Her father chuckled. “Only if you consider centuries-old wards, crumbling ruins, and long-lost goblin-wrought artefacts to be the lot.”

  “That’s bloody brilliant!” the boy turned toward Regulus.

  “Language, bo—”

  Walburga tried to correct her son, but that whole side of the table was pulled into Sirius’ unstoppable pace. Andromeda’s giggling encouraging all manner of foolishness, even from Reggie.

  Narcissa was unable to hold back a quirk of her lips.

  She really is incorrigible.

  On the other side of the table, she caught a snippet of her parents’ conversation.

  “So you say he is unattached?”

  “So far as I’ve been able to uncover, yes.”

  Ah, another potential bidder to my auction. Still, if father approves, he can’t be half as insufferable as Lucius.

  For once, she let her imagination run away with this Lord Peverell.

  “Ah-choo!”

  Harry rubbed his nose. A few papers fluttered into the air.

  A waggle of his fingers sent them drifting back into place.

  On his desk, a teetering stack of real estate listings threatened to collapse.

  He’d stopped by an agent earlier that day, grabbing a copy of every uninhabited property across the isles.

  He knew there were dozens of manors, houses, and even the odd castle or two that would be revealed between now and his own time.

  The problem was, he couldn’t quite remember where.

  Thus: the stack.

  Hours had passed. The full moon now hung high outside, shining through the grimy window.

  He’d found a few promising entries, set aside for future viewing.

  Hosting banquets from the Leaky Cauldron just wouldn’t do. Tom would have kittens.

  His eyes had grown dry and bloodshot from the strain, but he rubbed them and soldiered on.

  WHEEEE-OOO!

  Harry jolted, nearly knocking over his chair.

  His pocket was blaring.

  “Bloody bollocks!”

  He fumbled out the offending stone. It was hot against his skin.

  He looked at it for a beat, brow furrowed.

  Then it hit him.

  Arabella.

  “Bloody bollocks!”