Chapter Text
Cigarette clutched in his hand and music loud enough to wake an inferius, Harry slept on the worn threads of what used to be a splendid and intricate carpet.
Grimmauld Place had seen better days, and he had never quite found the motivation to keep the renovations going once it became clear he would be residing alone in the decrepit house, so he had left most of the furniture and decor as it was when he had inherited the house.
A fire blazed in the foyer, its embers crackling softly, sending ashes swirling in graceful patterns as they settled onto the wooden floor.
Somewhere in the house, Kreacher swept away the dust, grumbling about the sorry state of the noble House of the Blacks and his unconscious master unable to take care of himself well enough to retire in his bed rather than on the living room floor.
If only Harry saw it as his bed.
Despite having lived in the house longer than his godfather –and Merlin, if that didn’t sting– to him, everything was still Sirius’.
Sirius’ bed, rotten house, vulgar posters in his room, and Gryffindor keepsakes strewn around, his soul still alive in the cracks of the wall only if Harry let it undisturbed.
He lived as a ghost whenever his self-imposed missions brought him back to London, haunted the rooms for a few days, thanked Kreacher when the elf bullied him into eating at least a meal a day, and drank himself into oblivion before starting all over again.
To Harry, the house belonged more to the elf than himself anyway.
He was always cautious never to voice the sentiment out loud, as the last time he had dared vocalize the thought, he had to endure the small creature repeatedly smacking him in the shins every time he walked past him. And if Kreacher persisted in shadowing his master just to administer said smacks, well, Harry never protested, so he saw no cause to cease.
As the proud elf of a stately house, it was his right to help his master listen to reason.
“Master must wake up now. Master must eat,” the croaking voice of the elf was barely loud enough to rouse Harry, and with a snap, Kreacher conjured a bucket of freezing water, tipping it over him, and putting out his cigarette at the same time.
“What the fuck– Kreacher !” Harry sputtered and coughed, glaring at the grinning house elf and sighing once he noticed the soggy cigarette. “Was that really necessary? I mean, did you have to conjure ice cubes with the water? That shit hurts.”
“Kreacher is only wanting to help the Master. Kreacher has made tasty treats for the Master to eat,” he replied with a wily smile, not bothering to answer Harry’s questions.
“Ta’, Kreacher, but I’m not hungry. Maybe it escaped your notice, but I was sleeping.” Harry got up, stretching his back with a satisfying crack, dragging his feet toward his unpacked backpack to fish out a dry cigarette.
He hoped he would be able to finish this one before Kreacher deemed it a personal offence and drowned it as well.
“Master has let the nasty alcohol dim his senses and make him stupid”, the elf said with a snap of his fingers, the nicotine pack flying from the bag towards his outstretched hand. “Master is a wizard. A wizard who does not need his wand to call the nasty and stinking tubes.”
“Cigarettes, Kreacher. They’re called cigarettes. May I have them?” Harry sighed, unwilling to argue with the elf so soon after waking up, “Please?”
He quickly found himself with a lit smoke between his lips, coughing his surprise away and glaring at the elf when he had the gall to let a raspy laugh escape.
“Master will eat now. Kreacher has made treacle tart and the Weasles soup.”
“I told you before, Kreacher, I’m not hungry.”
“If Master refuses to eat, Kreacher will have to send for the mother Weasles and her brood to threaten my Master. Kreacher knows his Master has not replied to her last letters.”
Harry stopped in his tracks, turning his furious gaze slowly towards the house elf, ready to bolt if needed.
“You wouldn’t dare,” he bluffed unconvincingly.
He knew very well Kreacher had already contacted Molly or her children in the past, cackling gleefully when the former sent howler after howler, ordering him to open his floo connection so she could step in and force-feed him if necessary.
Not that he needed to eat anymore. The perks of being the Master of Death he supposed.
As if the Dursleys hadn’t drummed into him that he didn’t deserve the food in the first place, their words echoing in his mind each time he brought the cutlery to his mouth, choking him before he could even take a bite.
Resigned to let the small creature clad in a pillowcase feed him rather than facing Molly Weasley, he dragged his feet into the kitchen, sitting at the table with a moody face. An expression he didn’t keep for long after smelling the steaming bowl of stew, a smile wiping off the frown he was wearing only seconds ago.
He was glad Molly had given her family recipe to Kreacher, probably deciding he would need it when he came home from his travels. She had never been more right.
The bowl brought Harry back to the long nights of summer spent at the Burrow laughing with Ron and Ginny while their brothers chased the gnomes in the garden, Hermione grumbling about her revision but still smiling when one of the small imps flew across the field. He could still taste the dirigible plums brought by Luna, their juices flowing down his mouth and neck and the graceless levitation brought by the fruits.
Each spoonful filled him with laughs he hadn’t heard in years, each clearer than the last and harder to live without.
Maybe tomorrow he would reach out to Luna, tell her he was back and talk about the creatures he had met during his travels. Talk about her discoveries as well, organise a trip together maybe, if she was available.
Who was he kidding?
He would wake up tomorrow with a hangover and the same lingering wish: for the flames in the living room to spontaneously ignite and consume the rotting walls, fervently hoping that this time, the fire would burn him to a crisp and carry him to the afterlife out of his reach.
Alas, the multitude of lethal scars etched on his body proved he wasn’t destined to join his family. Ever.
As usual, Harry would prepare yet another bag to embark on his next adventure, always seeking out increasingly remote corners of the world to evade the hardships waiting for him in England.
Always on the run from his grief and from the ghosts of the people he loved, dead by his hands over the years and kept alive only by the guilt he carried like a cross across the globe.
Feeling his eyes grow wet from the memories brought by his supper, he finished his bowl in hastened bites before washing it by hand, the methodical movement helping him sort out his emotions, pushing them further away from his mind to be kept in a closed box he never opened.
A small hand movement in the direction of the treacle tart made it fly into the cold box, ready for the following day, if Harry managed to actually eat two days in a row.
He dragged his feet to the couch and slumped into the pillows, knowing only too well that he would spend the night tossing and turning, red eyes, giant snakes and green bolts haunting him even in the realm of his dreams, decades after the war.
***
Harry was yet again unpleasantly woken up, the metallic knocker of his front door echoing in the empty corridor, waking Walburga’s portrait and shaking the house awake with its owner.
Ever since he had accepted the Black lordship in a desperate attempt to feel closer to his godfather, he had gained a new understanding of the saying ‘a house with character’. The magic inhabiting the house made it almost sentient, responding to him and making him feel the brunt of every displeasing experience the house experienced because of him.
He had once slept in the weed-infested garden because he had the impudence to enter his house with some mud on his shoes, staining the flooring, and had been promptly thrown outside by a temperamental gust of wind.
Like a disobedient dog.
As he shivered in the cold and tried to keep away the memories of another life, another time, when Petunia had made him sleep outdoors because his report card was better than his cousin's, he had tried to bargain with his house in vain, the doors staying shut.
When the day came, it dawned on him that the house had been graceful enough to throw him outside with his wand and that he stayed a wizard, despite what his memories of his time with the Dursleys told him. He had cast a warming and cleaning charm, apologising to Grimmauld Place, the doors finally consenting to open and let him in.
After that, he had cast a scourgify before entering the London house without fault.
His head pounding from Walburga's shrill obscenities, he trudged to the door, waving his hand as he passed the enchanted canvas to draw the curtain, and sighed with relief as silence fell over the house.
‘Constant Vigilance’ engraved in his mind over the years, he moved forward slowly and pressed against the wall, his wand firmly held in his hand and ready to react if needed.
“Come on, Harry, I know you’re there. I hear the old bat shut up from outside,” Bill’s voice called out from beyond the door.
“Fuck,” he whispered. Harry could only hope he was alone.
“I’m alone,” he said, answering Harry’s unspoken question. “Mum’s at home fussing over Victoire. She caught the dragon pox. She set fire to Mum’s collection of dishcloths yesterday. It was hilarious.”
Harry could see the shadow of the older wizard behind the stained glass decorating the door, his arms crossed and his stance firm. He wouldn’t budge until he opened the door.
Resigned to let Bill in, he pressed down the handle and pointed his wand at the redhead’s chest as soon as he came into sight.
“What did Fleur say when you were attacked by Greyback?” he asked, the paranoia from the war never really far.
“She told Mum she was pretty enough for the both of us,” Bill answered with a chuckle, elbowing Harry to enter the house. “I just think she was afraid the scars would draw in crowds of adoring fans fawning over a war hero.”
Harry lowered his wand with a smile.
“Yeah? And where are those adoring fans? Honestly, seeing Fleur with you is painful. Like a troll courting a unicorn.”
Bill laughed, looking around the corridor, no doubt noticing the cobwebs invading the place a little more each time he invited himself in, “You wound me.”
“I can see that. You look positively distraught.”
“Will I ever recover from such harsh words?” he said, placing his hand dramatically on his forehead.
"Somehow, I think you will," Harry replied before asking, "Cuppa?" and leading Bill into the kitchen, casting a cleaning spell over the living room to erase the evidence of how low he had fallen, blushing as the numerous bottles in the liquor cabinet cleared themselves with a loud clink.
Bill’s upturned eyebrow showed he wasn’t ignorant of Harry’s less-than-discreet tidying up but chose to avoid commenting on the matter.
“So you said Victoire was ill? How did she catch dragonpox anyway? Isn’t that something you catch when you’re a child?”
Harry placed Bill’s mug (decorated with a badly drawn moon and a replica of his scars, an old present from Teddy) on the table and made himself a strong coffee, waiting for the redhead to answer.
"I forgot that you were lucky enough to avoid it as well. Usually, you catch it when you're young, but Victoire was lucky, or unlucky enough, to escape it when everyone else caught it,” he said, sipping his tea, “She came home this weekend grumbling about, and I quote, 'dishonest arseholes too interested in chasing her to find their brains'. Apparently, her latest beau caught it from his little sister and avoided telling her because he didn't want to cancel their date".
Harry chuckled understandingly, he could easily imagine Victoire's justifiable anger and the flurry of hexes hurled at the ignorant boyfriend's face.
“How’s he looking?” he asked, sipping his tea as well and making a face when he realised the tea was scalding hot.
“His own mother didn’t recognise him when she was finished with him. Last time I saw him, he was bald and sported a ravishing set of goat horns.”
Harry’s bark-like laugh nearly woke up Walburga’s portrait again and he had to breathe a little to calm himself enough to answer, “She went easy on him then.”
"Yes, she did. Fleur might have something to do with the fact that the poor bastard now only speaks in riddles. A handy variation of the babbling curse. Should disappear in a week or two, when Victoire’s cured."
“Serves him right.”
A companionable silence filled the kitchen while the two wizards sipped their drinks, Harry cooling his down with a wandless spell, the creaking of the house offering a background tempo to the magpies’ chatter in the garden.
The two men offered a peculiar portrait.
Bill looked at Harry, concern etched into his scarred face, looking not a day over 30 despite having celebrated his 53rd birthday a few months ago.
As for Harry, the ex-Auror still had the appearance of a 17-year-old, his hair grown to his shoulders in a bundle of knots, his body and face marked by scars he refused to get rid of. The constant aura of weariness he wore as a cape made him look closer to 19, even though he would be celebrating his 43rd birthday in a few months.
Despite their apparent age difference, both wore their past on their faces and the hardships of the war on their shoulders.
“I didn’t come here to talk about Victoire,” Bill said, interrupting the quietness. “Firstly, Mum requires you to be at the Burrow on your birthday and said you would be there, even if she had to come get you by the skin of your teeth.”
“Secondly,” Bill continued, interrupting Harry’s protests, “I received a letter in October addressed to ‘Lord of the House Black’ and couldn’t open it. I suppose the wards of the house extend to your letters as well,” he finished, fishing said letter out of his pocket and presenting it to Harry.
“That’s weird,” he answered, taking the letter in his hands before casting every detection spell he could think of, all coming empty. “I named you my steward, the wards should recognise you no matter the sender.”
“Look at the address, I think the House saw it as personal family correspondence.”
“Family? I don’t–”
He paused, finally taking in the name and the address in stunned silence.
It said ‘William ‘Billy’ Black, Forks, Washington, United States of America’.
“This has to be a joke right?” he asked, turning the letter over, “I mean unless one of the Blacks had a secret child, everyone is accounted for on the tapestry.”
“Can’t know unless you read it,” Bill answered in a sing-song voice.
Harry opened the letter deftly, keeping the envelope on the side under a stasis charm, an old habit of his days as an auror when he needed to document every detail of the evidence.
‘Dear Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black,
As a descendant of Ephraim Black, I require your aid regarding a troublesome situation between a creature we know as ‘the Cold Ones’ and a human. The human, Isabella Swan has been rejected by her immortal companion and seems unresponsive to our best attempts to help her return to a normal life.
I know the legends surrounding my distant family and the powers your kind wields. If there is anything to be done to help her, please answer. I fear for her life.
William Black'
Harry had to admit, the letter was clear to the point and intriguing enough to make him want to pack his bags without even finishing his cup of tea.
“Well. Looks like I’m needed in Forks, Washington,” he said, leaning back in his chair, visibly taken aback.
“Seems that way,” the older wizard answered after reading the letter, putting it down in the bubble charm keeping the envelope in stasis. “Need some backup?”
"Nope," he said, with a sharp popping sound. "I should be back in a couple of months. Immortals are right up my street. I'll be doing some local research," he held up a hand to cut off what Bill was about to say, "and yes, I'll be at the Burrow for my birthday. Don't think I've forgotten last year's Howler, I was watching a Chimera when it opened. Do you have any idea how much damage those fuckers can do?"
“I seem to remember you drunkenly telling us about it at least one, two or twenty times, yes.”
“Yes. Well,” he huffed, “it hurt like a bitch.”
“My messages having been delivered, I will be on my way,” Bill said, getting up and placing delicately his mug in the sink.
Before leaving the kitchen, he rested his hand on Harry’s shoulder, catching him off-guard with his warmth. “We try not to crowd you, but you know we’re always here for you, right?” he said softly, his other hand gently stroking Harry’s unkempt hair. “We miss you. And Teddy does too. He’s too respectful of your grief to ask for more, but he misses you.”
Harry felt his throat tighten and tears filled his eyes. He knew only too well his shortcomings where his godson was concerned.
“I know, Bill. I– thanks. I’ll keep it in mind and go see Teddy before I leave,” he sighed before adding, “Again.”
“That’s all I’m asking,” he replied, pressing Harry’s shoulder once last time, “I’ll see you soon and if you have any trouble with these ‘Cold Ones’, I’m only a patronus away.”
Harry didn’t answer, and Bill didn’t wait for one. He left, throwing his friend and brother a last worried look and closed the door loudly, his keys locking the door with a final sound.
As soon as he heard the door close, Harry closed his eyes, letting his tears fall freely, his shoulders shaking while he wept. Head in hands, he berated himself about all those times he had run away to faraway countries rather than staying with Andromeda to raise Teddy. All the times he had chosen to flee instead of being the godfather Remus had hoped he would be.
He'd suffered because of Sirius's unreasonable actions, realising as he grew older that if his godfather had put his vengeance aside instead of running after Pettigrew, he could have had it all. He would never have suffered at the hands of the Dursleys, their influence still burning brightly after decades away from Privet Drive, and he would have grown up properly, healthy and happy. An orphan still, but with a family, friends, and happy memories, raised in the magical world and far less ignorant of his role in the coming war. With a magical education, he would’ve been more prepared as well, a true soldier maybe instead of a sacrificial lamb with a lot of dumb luck.
Harry still remembered when he had vowed to Remus he would be the best godfather that could ever be to Teddy, when he had promised he wouldn’t regret his choice.
Once again, he had managed to spoil everything he touched.
Sometimes he wondered what Remus thought of him.
Was he watching from beyond the grave, looking at his actions with thinly veiled disappointment, wondering if he should have asked someone else to be his son's godfather? Ron would’ve been a better choice. Did he and Tonks shake their heads as they watched their only child dare not ask his godfather to spend time with him because Harry was too busy mourning the dead, drowning in his grief to spend time with the living, and running away from everything that had fallen on his shoulders since the end of the war?
Fuck, it hurt.
Harry had put Sirius on a very high pedestal for years, cursing anyone who dared speak ill of him or criticise his actions, only to fall even further when he realised that his godfather had also been human. Prone to making mistakes, perhaps even more so than other humans, distressed, first by grief, then by his years in Azkaban, where exposure to dementors was not recommended for one's mental health.
He had been content to watch his godfather shine from afar, basking in the cold light of that star, hoping that one day they could burn brightly together, hoping that somehow Harry could replace the fact that when Sirius looked at him, he saw James instead of his son.
Bill’s words had hurt as did the crushing realisation of his misdoings. But he refused to wound Teddy any longer.
This unknown man could wait. His priority went to his godson and if Teddy needed his presence, then he would be there for him without having the young man beg for it.
It had taken him years to let go of the pain of Sirius’ actions, he wouldn’t let Teddy live through the same pain.
He sent a patronus to his godson after a quick pick-me-up from his liquor cabinet and flooed to his flat as soon as the young boy answered, his wolf patronus still pacing alongside Harry as he tripped and fell on the multicoloured carpet.
All in all, it ended up being a great evening.
Teddy had greeted him with a bone-crushing hug and lively discussion as if Harry hadn’t just spent months abroad without seeing him and barely a postcard sent his way. In moments like this, Harry realised how lucky he was to have him and how mature Teddy was at 25 compared to him when he was his age.
Amidst the exchange of gifts he had brought back from his travels, and Teddy's paintings under wraps he had asked him to open when he was alone, Harry apologised profusely to his godson, atoning for his misdeeds and forgetfulness.
Harry had felt his heart bleed when Teddy had started crying on his shoulder, the metamorphagus’ hair turning a deep shade of blue as his tears soaked his godfather’s worn jumper.
When his weeping had subdued, he had opened up about his pain each time Harry set off to new adventures, how alone he felt despite understanding how important it was to his godfather and his wish to see him more frequently. Teddy had quickly forgiven him after he had apologised again and again, ending the discussion after it became clear that Harry would soon follow him in his blubbering if they went on.
Their conversation acted as a needed reminder of how sensitive and secretive Teddy could be with his emotions and how careless Harry had been of his feelings.
Teddy, of course, had asked about the letter, having heard about it through the Weasley grapevine and being too curious for his own good. Harry had read the correspondence to him, happy to have his opinion since Teddy was technically the only one with Black blood still alive, which was why Harry had made him his heir as soon as he had taken the Lord's mantle.
What Harry hadn't expected was his godson jumping up and down and squealing with joy at the prospect of having new family members to meet and asking him all kinds of details Harry didn’t have about the prospective new members of their family. He had almost pushed his godfather out the door, ordering him to pack right now and leave by the earliest portkey to the United States, their previous conversation all but forgotten in the light of the news.
He really didn't deserve Teddy. His godson was so much like his mother and father, a Hufflepuff to the bone and the kindest soul he had ever met. His worries, sadness and loneliness seemed to be erased by the prospect of meeting new family members and adding them to their broken tree.
“Come on, Harry! Be honest. You want to go don't you?” he had whined when his godfather had alluded to staying here to see him more often.
“What I want is to take care of you and stay because you need me” Harry assured. “That's what I want.”
“Ooookay… but! Hear this: I reeeaally want to meet them. If they already know about the ‘power of our kind’, it means they're not subjected to the statute of secrecy. Can you imagine inviting new people to the dinners at the Burrow?” he negotiated, an impish and falsely innocent smile on his lips.
Harry couldn't help but smile.
“You know I would never say no to new family Teddy-Bug. But you're my priority and..and..Merlin, we just talked about that.”
“Please, Harry, for me?” he asked with a pout, before going on, “The only thing I really need you to be there for is my art show. But that's only in a few weeks and I'm not even close to ready,” he sighed. “In all seriousness, you should go. I'm not going to leave the studio until I'm finished and if I really need someone to take care of me, I can always pop by grandma's,” he said, “Or Molly's,” he added.
“Fine. Fine! I’ll go. I can't say no anyway, can I?”
“Nope!” Teddy answered, throwing his arms around his shoulders and burrowing his face in his neck, reminding Harry of the hugs he gave him when he was smaller.
He had surrendered. Cowed by the least innocent smile he had ever seen.
Sometimes, he wondered if his godson had been a hatstall as well because he was far too Slytherin for Harry’s tastes. That or he spent too much time with his ‘cousin Draco’. The pompous git.
They had spent the rest of the evening talking about Teddy's upcoming art show and Harry's preparations for what Teddy had dubbed as his ‘family fun adventure’.
When Teddy had been lulled to sleep by the movie they were watching –another Hobbit marathon they wouldn't finish– Harry had occupied himself with some cooking.
Casting a wordless muffliato on the kitchen area, he set to fill his night with cooking enough food for an army, hoping it would last Teddy at least a week, allowing him to concentrate on his paintings and projects.
And if he took the opportunity to renew the old wards of the flat as well…well, he considered ‘constant vigilance’ a lesson he'd never regretted, even if its instructor hadn't lived long enough to reap the benefits of his teachings. It mattered little to him if he appeared paranoid. At least he was sure his godson was well protected.
Harry had left in the morning feeling a little less like an arsehole for leaving Teddy once again and happy at the prospect of meeting new family members to introduce him to.
He had mulled over his decision a few times, contemplating returning to Teddy's flat to tell him he was staying anyway, ready to support him in any way possible. But Harry also knew he tended to overwhelm people easily, lurking in the background, waiting for them to need him, and Teddy was stressed enough as it was.
He couldn't go back on his decision.
Not only had Teddy assured him he wasn’t angry with him for leaving again so soon, happy to learn of other Black descendants, but by now, the human girl could be dead.
Or something else entirely.
He couldn’t brush off that easily someone whom the magic of the House considered as a blood relation and his conversation with his godson had been a harsh, but necessary, wake-up call on his duties. He wouldn’t ignore them any longer. He had run long enough.
He was going to sort this out, bid farewell to the inhabitant of Forks and their problems, and go home to face his –numerous– issues.
Ron would say it was his ‘saving people problem’ that motivated him to act now. Hermione would say it was a mix of a hero complex and a martyr upbringing, leaving him with a heightened sense of duty to those who could be part of the Black family.
The truth was, it didn’t matter what they would’ve said. They weren’t there to say it anymore.
Putting down Teddy’s still-wrapped painting next to his bag to take with him, he started packing, dutifully ignoring Kreacher’s less-than-discreet tutting of disapproval as the elf followed him around the house.