Lost Boy 03

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Lost Boy

Part the Third

Harry was now fifteen so he could safely take the Heritage Potion that his Aunt Euphemia had brewed for him.  It was winter holidays and the wind swept briskly across the Devonshire meadows, but they were all wrapped up safely in Potter Abbey.

James still slept comatose on his bed, infected by plague.  His body aged and grew, but his mind would still be that of a thirteen-year-old boy if he ever woke up.

A large piece of parchment was dipped in a purple potion and laid out on an old oak table.  A golden bowl was taken out and put on a side table. 

“Now, Hartwig,” Aunt Euphemia told him.  “I need to cut your arm to fill the bowl.  We have blood replenishing potions.”

He nodded carefully.  “If that’s how it works.”

“This is ancient blood magic,” Uncle Fleamont told him, his belly having become more pronounced in the past few years.  “You’ll be fine, boy.”

Aunt Euphemia made the cut just above the crook of his elbow with an athame and Harry held his arm out over the bowl until it was nearly full.  He took several blood replenishing potions until his arm was healed up.  He then dipped his holly wand into the blood and then rolled it out over the parchment until it was covered.  It wasn’t, by any hint of the imagination, even.  In some places it was thicker than others, but it was as good as it was going to get.

“There now,” Aunt Euphemia soothed, as she tapped the parchment with her wand, muttering, “Revelo hereditum!”

The blood began to coalesce.  At the bottom of the parchment, the scribbled name of ‘Hartwig James Potter’ appeared, with a line above it, branching off to the left to reveal the name ‘James Fleamont Potter.’

“Well,” Fleamont commented, “it seems you are our grandson, just as we suspected.”

To the left, the name of a witch was forming.  ‘Stephagenia Lilliana Black.’  She was the daughter of ‘Alphard Phineas Black’ and an ‘Elnora Stephanora Prewett.’  Harry wondered how they were related to Regulus.

“There’s your ‘Lily,’” Fleamont grunted.  “She’s certainly a pureblood—and a Black.  That explains one or two things.”  Yes, it certainly did.  It explained where Harry’s metamorphmagical abilities came from if his mother was a Black.

It also meant that Lily Evans wasn’t his mother.

Above James Potter’s names, ‘Fleamont Iacamus Potter’ and ‘Euphemia Elizabetha Flint’ flowed.  Up from Euphemia came a line of wizards back up through six generations.  What was surprising is that Fleamont proved to at least to be at least a fourth generation wizard, his ancestor ‘Elphias Potter’ was listed as a pureblood squib. 

“My, my,” he chattered.  “Perhaps I can even get into The Wicked Stepmother!” 

Aunt Euphemia came up to Harry and kissed his cheek.  He was so tall at the age of fifteen that she could barely reach his forehead.  “There, dear, you’re our grandson.  It seems your letter took you back to a time when you would be safe.”

“Is there a Stephagenia Black at Hogwarts?” Fleamont asked.

“No,” Harry answered honestly.  He was just so grateful that his mother wasn’t Evans.  It was so strange that she fancied him, he was getting a little bit of a complex.  He was also glad he was a pureblood.  This would make it easier in Slytherin.

“A membership to The Wicked Stepmother,” Fleamont was now saying, “and a vined ring.”

Harry looked up.  Both Regulus and Maia had vined rings.  Barty and Apricot had them as well.  “Do you think?” he asked.

“Certainly,” Euphemia determined, her own vined ring catching the light.  “You’re a proper young gentleman of society.  Six generations.  You should have it in place by the time you visit Lady Maia at Riddle House.”  She exchanged a look with Fleamont.  “If rumors are to be believed…”

“I’ve never been approached,” Harry told her quickly.

“For which we are grateful,” Fleamont puffed.  “That doesn’t change the fact that we shouldn’t present you as a young man of society.”  He nodded his head firmly. 

Harry wrote to Maia that evening.  He thought she should be the first to know.  The Dark Lord should be the first to know, and she would tell him.  Harry apologized that she hadn’t been present, but told her that Aunt Euphemia wanted to keep it private.

He would write to Regulus in the morning. 

He thought of James, lying on his bed, his face drawn and grey, and wondered if he would wake up in time to father Harry.  It was becoming less and less likely.  Something horrible had happened in this timeline and Harry had been brought backward to rectify it.  He sincerely hoped he wasn’t meant to marry Stephegenia in his father’s place.  He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to do that.  He wasn’t sure he could marry any witch.  It just didn’t seem right. 

The next day, he dressed in his best day robes and Euphemia escorted him to The Wicked Stepmother.  It was halfway down Knockturn Alley, which was nearly as deserted as Diagon Alley.  The establishment’s sign was hanging off of a single chain, swinging in the wind and creaking.  Harry thought it was a poor showing, but he allowed Euphemia to escort him in.

The inside was definitely different from the street.  High ceilings caused Harry’s gaze to soar upward.  The flooring was made of gleaming oak boards and a maître d’ was waiting behind a podium, taking them in.

“Madam Potter!” he greeted.  “It’s been well over a decade.”

“Too long,” she agreed.  “I am here with my nephew, Hartwig.  We have conducted a hereditary potion on him, and he is six generations.”

“Six generations?  And a Potter?”  The little wizard looked at him over the podium.  “Come forward, young man, come forward!”

Harry stepped forward and Euphemia produced the hereditary parchment.  The maître d’ looked it over and his eyebrows rose in disbelief.  “Very curious, very curious. Well,” he rolled it up and gave it back to Euphemia.  “If you would step this way, Mr. Potter.”

Harry followed the wizard to the corner of the room where a wooden cone was resting, facing upward at a perpendicular angle. 

“If you would just insert your wand.”

Harry looked over at Euphemia, and she indicated he should do just that.

Putting his wand in the cone, Harry waited for something to happen, but they all just stood and waited.  Then, after a good three minutes, the cone groaned and came to life.  Turning slowly counterclockwise, the cone began to spin achingly slowly, slowly picking up speed until it croaked and turned clockwise, a little faster this time. 

“A tricky customer,” the maître d’ joked, but Harry didn’t find it funny. 

The cone groaned to a stop and then started pushing out a tickertape from the bottom.  Harry took back his wand and waited. 

“Into the silvers,” the maître d’ informed them.  “Certainly six generations.”

Euphemia seemed to let out a breath Harry hadn’t realized she’d been holding.  “Very well done, Hartwig.”

“I shall make this up immediately.  I’m certain your next stop is The Pumpkin Carriage.”

“You guessed quite correctly,” Euphemia told him, following the maître d’ over to the podium where he began weaving spells into a blank card he took from a drawer.  “I’d also like to set up an account for Hartwig.”

“The usual Hogwarts allowance?”

“I think we can do a little better than that,” Euphemia told him, glancing at Harry.  “He is the Potter heir, after all.”

“Yes,” the maître d’ agreed carefully.  His eyes never left Harry although his hands were busy with his spell weaving.  He tapped the card, it turned a vibrant silver, and he handed it over to Harry.

Harry looked down and saw his name written out in white, barely readable against the silver, and the words The Wicked Stepmother written in blue, directly beneath and upside down.

“This is your membership card to pureblood society,” Euphemia told him.  “Come on, Hartwig.  Let’s get your vined ring.”

Harry had never considered getting a vined ring.  For years he had assumed that Lily Evans was his mother, so he had thought he was a halfblood.  Now that he was a sixth generation, he was a little confused.  Still, he knew how important this was to Euphemia and Fleamont.

He didn’t want anything complicated.  He was presented with gold and platinum and jewels, but he finally whispered to Euphemia that he just wanted a vine.  In the end, he got a vined ring made of simple white gold that started at the bottom of his left middle finger, twisted up to his knuckle, broke into two vines, then twisted up to the base of his nail with no other ornamentation.  It was the second least expensive ring in the shop.  The poor shop assistant was beside herself.

Two days later Harry was flooing into Riddle House.  It required a blood password.  He’d never known a floo to be so guarded. 

“What happened to the gardens?” Regulus asked, looking out the window.

“I tore up all the lilies in solidarity with Hartwig,” Maia informed them.

Harry looked over at her in shock.  “Really?”

“Yes,” Maia answered primly.  “She caused such a fuss.  Uncle Marvolo was a bit upset.”  She sniffed.  “He’ll see reason.”

Regulus made a motion behind Maia.  Harry completely agreed.  Neither of them wanted to upset the Dark Lord, even if it was just a lily patch. 

“Anyway,” Maia continued cheerfully.  “Are we ready to Muggle bait?  I see we’re all dressed appropriately.”

They were all wearing Muggle clothes with cloaks to keep them warm.  Maia’s was a bright shade of fuchsia which was rather noticeable to the eye.

“Is there a village?” Regulus asked as they went out the front door and out into the cold.  “There often are with these great houses.”

“Yes,” Maia agreed.  “Little Hangleton.  Quaint little place.  There’s a pub we can go to.”

Harry was a little nervous.  He had never been Muggle baiting before.  He was too afraid to ask if Maia and Regulus had ever done it. 

Their cloaks gathered stares as they walked through the village, but when they got to the pub, they took up a booth and ordered lemonades. 

“That one,” Maia suggested, pointing under the table at a Muggle at the bar.  He was sipping at a pint and seemed a bit ill put together.  “A tickling hex?”

“No, let’s befuddle him,” Regulus suggested.  “Maybe he’ll fumble his drink.”

Maia pointed her wand at him and murmured the hex.  The Muggle blinked and looked around himself, clearly confused. 

“Not fun,” Regulus complained.  He looked over at two lovebirds and caught the woman with a stinging hex right where the man had put his hand.  She started and then slapped the man.  Regulus and Maia sniggered. 

Harry had to admit it was slightly funny.

“You try,” Regulus ribbed Harry.

Harry looked at the woman, who looked red in the face, and cast a tickling hex at her and she began to giggle.  “H-Henry!” she gasped.  “Wh-what are you doing?”

“Doing, Marge?  I’m not even touching you!”

When the place was in a raucous mood and even Harry was laughing a bit, they went out the back and found a wizard in a blue cloak waiting for them, casually flicking his wand.  “Have fun, Lady Maia?”

“Lucius!”

“The Dark Lord wishes to see you.”

The wizard came into the light, and Harry’s breath caught.  He was absolutely stunning.  With platinum blond hair cut in the Roman fashion and silver eyes, the wizard was dressed in impeccable robes.

“Up to the manor,” he urged, “along with your school friends.”

He took Harry and Regulus in and his gaze stuck on Harry for a long moment before he herded them up toward the house.

“Before the Aurors get here, thank you.”

Regulus and Harry shared a worried look, but Maia seemed completely unaffected.  They trudged up back through Little Hangleton, but they did hear apparition pops when they were almost up to the house, Lucius hurrying them forward a little more quickly. 

They were allowed to kick the snow off their boots and take off their cloaks before they were brought before the Dark Lord. 

Harry wasn’t entirely certain what to expect, but he wasn’t expecting a man with pale skin, Maia’s ocean blue eyes, a thick head of auburn hair, and no nose.  “Ah, the inestimable Mr.’s Black and Potter.  I hear, Mr. Potter, that you’ve discovered you’re sixth generation.  Congratulations.  Who is your mother?”

“Stephagenia Black,” he answered carefully, so enthralled by the noseless Dark Lord that he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“Stephagenia,” the Dark Lord mused, his voice high.  “I do not believe I know of Miss Black.  Lucius?”  He looked behind Harry.  “Is she a relation of your fiancée?”

“She must be, Dark Lord.”

“Hmm.”  He looked over at Harry.  “You look like a Prewett.”

“My maternal grandmother is a Prewett.”

“That must be it.  At least you’re in Slytherin.—Now.  Muggle baiting in the village.  I applaud you all, but you were a little obvious.”

“We would be obvious anywhere, Uncle Marvolo,” Maia answered him as if they were having a conversation about the Yorkshire weather.  Perhaps they were. 

“You were obvious in the village below Headquarters, niece.”

“I could ask my parents if we can do it in London, sir,” Regulus volunteered.  “I’m sure Mum won’t mind.”

The Dark Lord took him in.  “Ah, yes, the Black boy.  That is a definite thought.  I’ll write to Walburga.  We certainly don’t want to get in the Potters’ way.  They haven’t declared.—Now, what is this I’ve heard about a Mudblood?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably.

“Sorry,” Maia mouthed in his direction.

“Don’t save your friend,” the Dark Lord told his niece.  “I had to hear it from Augustus Rookwood who heard it from his boy.  An example had to be made in Slytherin.”

They all looked at each other, none of them really wanting to speak.

Finally, it was Regulus who gave into pressure.  “The Head Girl—who’s a Mudblood—was bothering Hartwig.”

“How did a Death Eater get punished?”

Harry sighed.  “Severus Snape is Evans’s oldest friend.  I told him to fix the problem and he made it worse.  She started rumors that we were going.”

“And she’s a Mudblood,” the Dark Lord concluded.  “They do get the strangest ideas.  It’s been fixed?”

“I told her I would never go with her because of her blood status.  She got the picture.”  He shifted slightly.

The Dark Lord’s dark blue eyes looked into his dark green ones.  “It’s more than that, I see, but I won’t pry.  The lady was unsuitable on several levels, not just her blood status.”  He looked pensive.  “—Well, she is nothing but a Mudblood.  It does not matter.”  He flicked his hand.  It seemed they were dismissed.

Harry hesitated, but Maia reached out and grabbed his wrist, pulling him out of the room.  He passed by Lucius whose eyes were following him.  He looked up and caught Lucius’s silver gaze and noticed it was the exact silver of his Wicked Stepmother card.

“Well, at least Madam Black will let us go to London,” Maia opined when they congregated in her room for the rest of the afternoon.  “Let me see your vined ring.”  She took Harry’s hand and inspected it.  “That’s not very ornate.”

“I didn’t want anything ornate.”

“No diamonds?  No gold leaf?”

“Hartwig’s not like that,” Regulus reminded her.  “He still can’t believe his good fortune at living at Potter Abbey even though it’s been years.”

“But you want to put up a good showing for your wife,” Maia complained, clearly forgetting his preferences.  “Don’t you?”

“Who says I’m going to have a wife?”  Harry sat on the bed and stared up at the bed’s canopy.

“Of course you’re going to have a wife,” Maia told him, seemingly for form although they’d already had this conversation.  “You need to carry on the Potter name.”

Harry grimaced.  The last thing he wanted was a wife. 

Regulus seemed to catch his expression.  “You get to choose your wife.  As long as she’s of good standing—”

Harry must not have been able to hide his expression quickly enough.

“Hartwig!”

Harry looked up at him.  “You do like witches, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” Harry agreed carefully.  “Witches are great.”

“You don’t, do you?” Maia asked, leaning in and looking into his eyes, having her revelation a second time for Regulus’s benefit.  He could see the amusement in her eyes.  “You don’t care for witches at all.  That’s what was so bad about Evans.  She wasn’t just a Mudblood, but she was a witch.”  He had also believed her to mistakenly be his mother, but her being a witch hadn’t helped.  “It’s why you wouldn’t even consider Millie Flint.”

“Euphemia’s inventing a potion,” he reminded her, giving her a look.

“What was that?”  This was Regulus now.

“I said,” he took a deep breath, “that Aunt Euphemia is inventing a potion.”

Maia’s eyes blew wide.  “That would mean—”

“Wizards—” Regulus agreed.

The two stared at each other before they turned back to Harry.

“Hartwig!”

Harry just shrugged.

Regulus threw a pillow at his head.

At the end of the pillow fight, Maia was lying with her head on Regulus’s stomach.  “As a purely intellectual exercise,” she began, “if you had your choice of wizards at Hogwarts, who would you choose?  There must be someone.  I won’t believe otherwise.”  She clearly was enjoying asking him the same questions over again. 

Harry didn’t like having the same conversation a second time.  “Hogwarts?” Harry asked, blowing bubbles from the end of his wand.  “I wouldn’t say Hogwarts, per se.”  There had been that Hufflepuff, but that had been more about convenience.

“Okay,” Maia agreed, “we’ll include wizards in Witch Weekly.”

“I don’t know if he’s in Witch Weekly,” Harry admitted, his mind turning to Lucius and how wonderfully tall he was.  “I don’t even know his name exactly.  I remember he used to play Quidditch back when we were first years.”

“What position?” Regulus asked, interested.

“Keeper,” Harry answered.

“Oh,” Regulus agreed.  Then, “oh.”  He lifted up his head, careful not to dislodge Maia and blinked.  “You realize he’s right downstairs.”

“Is he?” Maia asked.  “Who’s right downstairs?”

“Never mind,” Regulus put her off.  “He’s engaged to Narcissa.”

“Which one is she?” Harry asked, screwing up his eyes in thought.

“No!” Maia breathed, sitting up and accidentally elbowing Regulus in the ribs.  “Not Lucius Malfoy.”

“Malfoy, is that his name?” Harry asked.  “Sacred Twenty-Eight.  Great, he’s out of my league.”

“Your mother’s Sacred Twenty-Eight,” Regulus pointed out, “but that’s neither here nor there.  Narcissa is a proper society lady.  She’s Uncle Cygnus’s youngest daughter.  Blonde.  Everyone says she’s lovely.”

“I’m not remotely proper,” Harry sighed, “and not remotely blond.”  He could be blond, Harry thought, but that would be giving the game away.  He could always pretend to dye his hair, but he didn’t want to seem desperate. 

“You’re not remotely a witch,” Maia also told him, not unkindly.  “We can’t forget that.”

Harry sighed.  “I’m also a schoolboy.  O.W.L. year.”

“We’ll have to get him to floo you home,” Maia thought out loud.  “Maybe you can sprain your ankle.”

“We could actually sprain his ankle.”  Regulus pointed his wand at Harry’s foot.  He didn’t even ask when he hexed Harry’s ankle.

“Fuck that hurt!”

“You’re welcome.”  Regulus was grinning.

“Locksly!” Maia called and got her house elf to fetch him ice. 

His ankle was raised and Maia helpfully called Lucius to come and help Harry to the floo when it was time for them to go home.  Harry felt a little stupid, limping to the floo and holding onto Lucius.  He did notice the spicy scent of Lucius’s aftershave.  He also noticed that his chin only came up to Lucius’s shoulders.

“What happened?” Euphemia asked when Lucius carried him through the floo.

“A hex gone awry,” Harry lied.  “You can thank Regulus.”

“That boy,” she chided.  “He’s too busy looking at Maia Gaunt to notice where he’s pointing his own spell.”

“Er—no one’s supposed to know that,” Harry told her.

“Hartwig,” Euphemia told him.  “That’s the worst kept secret in Slytherin House.  Your Uncle Fleamont even knows.”  She turned to Lucius.  “Well, thank you, young man.  If you can carry him to the potions lab, I can fix him right up.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to carry me,” Harry assured Lucius.  He was now being carried bridal style and his face had gone all red. 

“Nonsense,” Lucius assured him as he followed where Euphemia was leading.  “I’d like to carry you.”

Harry looked at him oddly, but said nothing to response.  He tightened his arms slightly around Lucius’s neck and breathed in his scent.  When they got to the potions lab, Lucius looked into his dark green eyes and carefully set Harry down.  He even brushed Harry’s long hair behind his ear. 

“There, Hartwig.  You’ll soon be set to rights.”

“A stray hex,” Euphemia was saying to herself.  “That silly boy.”

“Thank you, Lucius,” Harry told him sincerely, sad to let him go.  “I’m sorry to be such a bother.”

“I think Lady Maia meant for you to be a bother.  That witch never does anything by halves,” he complimented, his silver eyes staring into Harry’s.  “The only question is why?”

“You’ll have to ask Maia,” Harry told him boldly.

“I’m asking you.”

“I’m as silent as a ghostless grave,” Harry asserted.

“Hmm.”  He looked down at Harry’s hands and tapped his vined ring.  “This was a happy surprise.”

“A happy surprise for all of us,” Euphemia agreed.  “Our Hartwig has hidden depths.  His mother is Sacred Twenty-Eight!”

“I was afraid she was a Muggleborn,” Harry admitted carefully.

“A Potter would never sully his blood like that,” Lucius assured him.  “Where would you get such a notion?”  His silver eyes searched his.  He must have seen something because his gaze softened.  “It must have been difficult being a Lost Boy.”

“We were lucky to have found him,” Euphemia asserted, fussing over Harry so that Lucius had to step back. 

“I’ll leave you here,” Lucius told him, a promise of something more in his voice.

“Goodbye,” Harry murmured and Lucius’s eyes flashed silver.

When the door shut behind him, Euphemia hummed.  “He’s a fine young man.”

“He’s engaged.”

“Engaged is not married.”

“You would not have him be unfaithful.”

“I would have him be sure.”  She gave him a look with her hazel eyes.  “I saw how gentle he was with you.  He didn’t need to pick you up like that.”

“No,” Harry agreed.  “No, I don’t suppose he did.”

“As I said, he’s a fine young man.  You will tell me if you see him again.”  She looked at him hard. 

Her face was more lined than when Harry had first met her.  She was well into her hundred and seventies now, and Harry was getting worried for her health, along with Fleamont’s.  There was only so long a wizard and a witch could live.  They weren’t as spry as they were five years ago. 

“Of course, Aunt Euphemia.”

She patted his face.  “Thank you, Hartwig.”

His ankle healed quickly, and he wrote to Regulus to tell him that Lucius had personally escorted him to the potions lab.  He also dashed off a note to Maia as he knew she would want to know.

He spent the rest of his evening reading and went to bed well past midnight when the Abbey was quiet.

Just as he was drifting off to sleep, he heard a tap at his window.  At first he ignored it, but there continued to be a tapping.

His bleary mind wondered if it was an owl, and he crawled out of his bed, picking up his wand and blowing a light onto the end of it.  He walked up to the window, noticing only darkness, and opened it, peering out at the moon.

An owl didn’t fly in.

Instead, a gloved hand gripped the windowsill and the face of Lucius Malfoy appeared.

Harry stared.

“Lucius?” he whispered although they were alone.  “What are you doing here?”

“Hartwig,” he greeted.  “May I come in?”

Harry stuck his head out of the window and saw that Lucius was hovering on a Cleansweep.  There was definitely a bit of a wind in the Devon night. 

“Y-yes,” he agreed, stepping away from the window. 

Lucius elegantly rolled into the room and placed his broom against the wall.  Closing the window, he turned to Harry and took him in.  “You look adorably sleepy,” he complimented—if it was a compliment. 

“Sorry?”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Lucius assured him, before he leaned in and kissed Harry full on the mouth.