Part the Twelfth—
“Death, so called, is a thing that makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.”
—Lord Byron
Harry stood nervously with a bunch of seven fifth years. He didn’t know any of them. They all looked at him, a few pointing, but he had gotten used to this. He was the Boy Who Lived, after all. He was also the husband of Octavian Prince.
“Right,” Snape said from the head of the little room they had gathered in. “You all wish to be Healers. This is not an easy task. I expect Outstandings in Potions, although I am no longer your professor in that field. Do I make myself clear?”
There was a bunch of rustling and a few nods.
Snape eyed everyone individually. “Prince,” he said suddenly. “I understand that your Potions work has rather improved.”
“Er-yes. Sir.” Harry gulped.
Snapes black eyes assessed him. “Good. We wouldn’t want to disappoint Mr. Prince, now would we?”
Harry’s throat went dry. That was the last thing he wanted to do.
Fortunately, Snape didn’t seem to need an answer. Instead, he just motioned to the fireplace. “Healer Marchbanks will meet you on the other side,” he intoned. “Call out for her office. I expect good reports on all of you.” His eyes wandered to Harry again. “Every. Single. One.”
He then swept out of the room and everyone looked at each other. Finally, a boy in Gryffindor robes took some powder out of the jar and called out “Healer Marchbanks’ Office!” The flames turned green and he walked into them. A moment later he was gone.
Harry was one of the last to go through. He stumbled out and found himself in a cramped office. There was a desk with pictures of a smiling toddler waving at the camera. She had brown hair and hazel eyes.
“Ah, is that all of you?” a squat little witch asked from the door. “No? We’ll wait just a second, then.” She was holding a clipboard and a quill and after about a minute, everyone seemed to have come through.
Next there was a role call. She paused on Harry’s name and looked up into the crowd, obviously trying to find him. “Our sixth year,” she murmured to herself. “Yes.”
She checked off his name.
Everyone was assigned to a resident healer. Harry was assigned to a Healer James Slope. He was an older wizard, a bit hunched forward and spindly, and he carried around a small stack of files with him. He was dressed all in blue robes, which seemed to designate his speciality, which was accidental magic gone wrong, from what Harry could tell.
“There we are,” Healer Slope said as he came and saw a young girl. Her face was covered in flowers. “Now, tell me exactly what happened.”
Her father was holding her hand and crying. “I left my wand on the kitchen counter,” he explained. “She’s always loved the garden. I think she must have heard one of her mother’s spells and tried it. I’m really not sure what happened. One second she was in the living room, playing with her toy broom, and the next she was outside and screaming!”
“Is it painful?” Healer Slope asked the girl. He gently touched one of the petals and the girl flinched. “Ah, transfiguration. Very dangerous on a human.”
“But you can fix it, can’t you?” the father asked. “It’s just—if my wife sees—she’s threatened to divorce me if I can’t properly take care of Jennifer. Says I’m a good for nothing Muggleborn—“
“Yes,” Healer Slope put in. “It’s curable.”
Harry leaned forward to get a better look. Jennifer’s face seemed to be covered with an odd form of daisy that had pink petals. He’d never seen the species before in his life. He wondered if it were just part of the girl’s imagination or an actual magical species of flower.
“Do you have a picture of her?” Healer Slope asked kindly and the father nodded.
With shaking hands he took out his wallet and showed a picture of a rather plain girl. “It’s about six months old, but she pretty much looks like that. Her hair is obviously a bit shorter.”
“Yes,” Healer Slope muttered and then he waved his wand in a complicated pattern.
At first nothing happened. Then, slowly, the flowers began to shrivel up and wither. The stems turned brown and then slowly inched their way back into her skin until her face was completely flawless.
“Now, my dear, does this hurt?” He brushed his fingers against her cheek and she flinched back. Healer Slope turned to the father. “What time does your wife get home?”
“Half past six.”
“We’ll keep her for observation, then, for an hour or two,” Healer Slope decided. “I’ll send in a MediWitch with a salve that should help. If you need me, just ask a MediWizard or –Witch. I should be on the ward.”
“Thank you, thank you,” the man gushed.
Harry just looked at him. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but if your wife is so much of a blood purist, you should get a divorce.”
Both the father and Healer looked at him askance.
He just continued on, however. “I don’t know much about wizarding law, but you may be able to regain custody of your daughter if you’re the sole caretaker. You’d have to get a job, of course, to support her, but then there’d be no more threats of divorce.”
“Clearly you’ve never been married, young man.”
Harry lifted up his hand to show off his betrothal ring. “Octavian and I haven’t been married long, but we make it work. No threats.”
Hopefully it would last. He knew that as they grew up they could grow apart. He’d read enough about marriages in the past month to realize that that often happened in young marriages—and he and Octavian were rather young, no matter how often he defended their marriage to others.
He was afraid. He could admit it, if only to himself.
Healer Slope pulled him aside as soon as they left the room. “It is not our place,” he said sternly but kindly, “to pass judgment on anything but our patient’s health. Is that understood?”
Harry looked up at him and nodded. “I was only trying to help.”
“I understand that, young man, but we are here to heal. The only time we intervene is when a child is being abused or neglected, and then we go to the proper authorities and let them handle it. Understood?”
“Yes, Healer Slope.”
The rest of the day Harry followed Healer Slope around until they finally went down to a dusty old corridor in the basement of the hospital.
“I don’t always show this to students,” Healer Slope admitted. “But I have a feeling about you. There is another branch of magical medicine that, though quite different from Healing, is nonetheless vital. I read in your file that you were thinking of becoming an Auror and this might merge your two interests.”
He went down the corridor and turned right. Then they were standing in front of a large window. Harry looked around the room and saw large metal doors, the size of large squares, to the side and two wizards in scrubs moving about.
Then he saw it. There, on the cold slab of a table, was a body.
Harry sucked in his breath. “What—?” he asked, and Healer Slope smiled.
“These are Corpsiers, Mr. Prince. They examine dead bodies to discover the cause of their death, whether it was accidental or intentional. They use complex spells and potions on bodies to determine this.” He nodded toward the window. “See how the body is not even cut open? Everything can be determined while leaving the body intact.”
Harry looked at the body. It was a middle-aged man with graying hair and a mustache.
“What happened to him?” Harry asked, his interest piqued.
“I don’t know,” Healer Slope answered honestly. “Would you like to watch? I can come back for you in half an hour.”
Harry nodded enthusiastically. He didn’t even realize when the Healer was gone. Instead he watched avidly as the Corpsiers performed spells above the body and sparks would go off or colored streams of smoke would hover above the man’s corpse. As he watched, the two wizards scribbled down notes and one even turned to look at him.
Finally, he came out and greeted Harry. “I’m Corpsier Johnson,” he introduced himself. “I’d shake your hand, but they must be completely clean for some of the spells we perform, you understand.”
“Oh,” Harry murmured. “Of course.—What’s the cause of death?”
“He ingested Aconite,” Corpsier Johnson admitted. “We now hand over our findings to the Aurors. It’s their job to determine whether or not it was suicide or murder.”
“That’s horrible,” Harry stated, chewing his lip. “And you can tell all that without even touching the body? I’ve seen Muggle television programs where you have to cut open the body and take out organs.”
“No, we’re more advanced than that,” the Corpsier admitted. “We can leave the body completely intact for burial. Are you a Muggle-born?”
Harry shook his head. “My mum was, though.”
“Ah. Well, we’re rather a disfavored profession. Wizards hold death as sacred and we tamper with it, however minutely. Muggle-borns aren’t allowed into the profession as they are seen as not having enough respect for the old ways.”
The old ways. Harry was getting sick of them, but he would continue on for Octavian’s sake. He would have been wearing his black clothes if they hadn’t been instructed to wear their Hogwarts robes.
“Would you like me to send you a copy of our findings?” Corpsier Johnson asked kindly.
“Would you?” Harry asked. “I’d like that. Are there books I can get about this?”
“A few,” he answered. “Owl mail Flourish and Blotts. They’ll be able to tell you.—Your name?”
“Harry Prince,” was the response, and the Corpsier raised his eyebrows.
“I’m not certain Lord Prince will allow you such a profession,” Corpsier Johnson admitted. “However, I’ll send you the findings. Every young wizard is allowed to dream.”
Harry couldn’t agree more.
Of course, Octavian was furious with him. “I sent you to learn about healing, not dead corpses,” he fumed quietly. “St. Mungo’s will receive a letter of protest, of that you can be sure.”
“But it’s interesting, Octavian,” Harry insisted. “You should have seen it. All those spells. They could tell how a person died.”
“They disrupt the dead,” Octavian fired back. He was so angry he had dropped Prospera on the ground. He had been holding and petting her but now he was too agitated. “Death is sacred to us.”
“Why?” Harry asked, confused. “I don’t understand!”
Octavian sighed. “A wizard dies when his magic fails him. To perform magic on him when he is dead is to insult his memory.”
Harry set his jaw. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.—I didn’t like the healing. At all. I’d rather find cause of death.”
“Then become an Unspeakable!” Octavian shouted. “You can’t become a Corpsier. It simply isn’t done.”
“I’m the Chosen One! I can do anything.”
They stared at each other. Then Octavian pointed to the door. “Out!” he demanded.
“You don’t mean that,” Harry said in shock. “You can’t mean that.”
“You’re not one of the gods, Henri Jacques. You’re mortal. You have to abide by society’s rules. You’re a Prince now—you knew what that meant almost as soon as you met me. You’re the godson of Lord Black, for the old gods’ sakes! What are you thinking?”
“I’m willing,” Harry said through clenched teeth, “to give up becoming an Auror for you. Why can’t you meet me half way?”
“This is not halfway! Instead of endangering your life you want to endanger your soul! I will reside in death with you just like I live my life with you. I won’t have the old gods casting you out!” Octavian breathed heavily and pinched his nose. “Please, Henri Jacques.”
Harry deflated. “I would never want to risk our—existence—in the afterlife together.” Still, the sight of that magic was overwhelming. “We’ll just have to find a different profession.” He sat down heavily on the bed.
“All right, Henri Jacques,” Octavian agreed, coming to sit next to him. “This would be so much easier if you were a witch. Then you could hang off my arm and give society parties.”
“Regrets?” Harry asked ruefully.
“No,” Octavian said after a pause. “No regrets.”
The two sat in silence, which somehow became a wide void between them, the lullaby hauntingly singing to them and wishing a better present.
Flo had sent them herbs. They were illegal, of course, but there were always ways to get around such things, especially if one had money. She said all they needed to do was add them to Octavian’s nightly honey milk and the baby would come a month later. Everyone would then assume that it was a pre-wedding night pregnancy.
Octavian at first had been opposed to the idea. He didn’t know if it could hurt the baby. So, Flo sent them literature on the herbs from an old text in the Black library. That had convinced him.
Octavian would do anything to prove that this wasn’t the Dark Lord’s child, especially to the Dark Lord.
He did a tarot spread. Something about the locket was bothering him. He sucked in his breath. It was a literal reading, but he knew he had to be right. “Henri Jacques,” he said, coming out of his study. “The locket. It’s at Grimmauld Place.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“Yes. It’s under the Moon—where it’s black. Black House. Grimmauld Place.” He grimaced. “Ask that horrible house elf of yours. He’ll know.”
“I’ll write Sirius,” Harry promised. “Instantly.” He ran off to his study. “I have a lesson with Dumbledore this evening. I’ll try to be back before you’re asleep.”
Octavian knew there would only be the same silence between them. “What are you doing at these lessons of yours?”
“Oh, looking for the horcruxes,” Harry replied plainly. “We think we’ve found the chalice. It’s Hufflepuff’s cup and probably is being kept by Bellatrix Lestrange. My theory is that it’s in Gringotts. Though how we get in there is anyone’s guess.”
Octavian shrugged. “I doubt my asking her will help,” he sighed. “She likes Draco better anyway. She’s also in love with the Dark Lord and, well, I’ve encroached on her territory. She has to suspect something.”
“Hopefully not. The fewer people who suspect, the fewer people who can guess anything about Lavinia Rose.”
“Lucius has to at least suspect. Bastard.” Anger coursed through Octavian. He still couldn’t believe that his own father would turn a blind eye to what the Dark Lord was doing. When they were up on the roof top that night, he had pointedly looked away when the Dark Lord held him close and whispered things in his ear.
Octavian was, therefore, surprised, when a nondescript Hufflepuff had come and found him in his quarters, inviting him to Harry’s lesson.
When he got there, Dumbledore was holding a letter, his black shriveled hand looking oddly out of place. His stomach sinking, Octavian recognized the handwriting. It belonged to the Dark Lord.
Harry looked at the letter in confusion.
“Dearest one,” Dumbledore read, not getting up from his desk, “I need to know how much of a problem Minister Scrimgeour will prove to be. Know that I keep the secret of your parentage close to my heart. Yours, Lord Voldemort.” He threw the letter aside. “I had no idea you were the Dark Lord’s ‘dearest one.’”
Harry looked over at Octavian. “He’s blackmailing Octavian,” Harry stated in assurance. “He was—reminding Octavian of something and the bit about his parents must be a threat.”
Yes, he was reminding Octavian of that afternoon. That disgusting afternoon in French Canada.
“And what did he want you to do, Mr. Prince?” Dumbledore stood from his desk and came in front of it. “Hmm?”
“He—he wants me to read for him,” Octavian admitted.
“Yes, the cards. It seems you’re indispensible to him, but he feels he must keep you in line. Come, what is so horrible that he can really demand so much of you even while you are safe at Hogwarts?” The old man looked puzzled and Octavian could only shift uncomfortably.
“Octavian and I have no secrets,” Harry stated firmly, stepping in. Octavian looked at him, for the first time in weeks, with thankfulness in his gaze.
“Are you sure about that? Dearest one? Secret of your parentage? Tell me, Mr. Prince, what do you know of these things?” He looked directly at Harry.
It was now Harry who shifted uncomfortably. “I—“
“Don’t say another word,” Octavian said angrily. “It’s blackmail, pure and simple. How dare you pry into my private affairs!”
“They’re not private when they involve Voldemort, Mr. Prince,” Dumbledore now said to Octavian. “If there’s any weakness he can exploit, I need to know about it.”
“No,” Octavian disagreed. “You want to know about it. Those are two different things.” He turned and marched out of the room. Calling out over his shoulder, he cried, “Henri Jacques, I’m retiring for the night!”
He was still awake when Harry crawled into bed beside him. The feel of silk on silk was decadent and Octavian moaned and turned when Harry’s hand slid up his torso, exposing his skin to the warm air trapped under his blankets. It was the first time that they’d touched in weeks, and it felt so right.
“Are you going to write to him?” Harry asked, kissing his upturned lips.
“I must,” Octavian answered. “It’s blackmail, isn’t it? If I don’t, then he’ll tell. Imagine what it will do to Lavinia’s life.”
Harry brushed away his long hair from his face, clearly not quite understanding. Octavian looked anywhere but at him. “I think you know exactly what that’s like,” he murmured. He leaned down to kiss Octavian’s cheek, but Octavian shifted forward, clutching a pillow to him.
“Hey,” Harry murmured, coming up behind him, hand on Octavian’s shoulder. “Don’t run from me, especially after all this Corpsier nonsense. Let me talk.”
“Then talk,” Octavian said harshly, trying not to cry.
“I think,” Harry whispered, brushing Octavian’s hair behind his ear, “that you have your mother’s hair and your father’s eyes.”
“Yes. We know this.”
“I also think that your facial features look like a cross between Lucius and Draco Malfoy. I had an extended run-in with Lord Malfoy my second year.” Octavian could feel him shiver. “It’s not a face you easily forget.”
“What are you saying?” Octavian asked, sobbing.
“As far as I know Lucius Malfoy is an only child, so I am guessing that he is your father and your mother is a Prince. Lord Malfoy is obviously married and I know enough about pureblood culture to know that illegitimate children have almost as few rights as house elves, so your parents—Lord and Lady Prince—kindly took you in.”
Octavian laughed hollowly. “Who is my mother then?”
“I don’t know the Prince family tree,” Harry answered lightly, his fingers still stroking Octavian’s hair. “I know there’s Snape, who listens to you, which I still think is kind of funny—then there’s your brother Octavian Romulus and your sister—“ His voice hitched.
Octavian flipped over onto his back and looked desperately into Harry’s eyes. “Henri Jacques.”
“It was Lucrece, wasn’t it? She’s more than fifteen years older than you are and married to some Italian nobleman. She didn’t leave England because her brother and fiancé’s deaths were too painful—she left because she had you—“
“Don’t you dare,” Octavian began, “she gave me a better life. I was not abandoned.”
Harry looked down at him, eyes wide, his hand coming up to stroke Octavian’s hair. “No, I’d never think that,” he promised, leaning down and kissing Octavian gently, as if he were made of glass. Pulling away, he whispered, “The Malfoys know.”
Octavian nodded. “Lucius found me at the Department of Mysteries. He was there with the other Death Eaters.” He sighed. “By the old gods, I wish I had never gone there.”
Harry continued to stroke his hair. “I wish that, too,” he breathed. “I don’t regret our marriage, and I don’t regret having a child with you, but I do hate everything’s that been done to you, Octavian. Do you remember how simple it seemed when we were running out to that clearing and kissing under the firefly light?”
“We can still kiss under the firefly light,” Octavian grinned. “I did bring jars of them in, after all.”
The room was plunged in darkness apart from the fire and the jars of fireflies, a myriad of pinks, blues, greens, and golds.
Harry kissed him hard for good measure. “True.”
“You’re not—angry? That I did not tell you?” Octavian looked at him anxiously.
“You are the son of Troy and Dionysia Prince,” he tweaked his nose. “You’re exactly the wizard I thought you were. Will you tell me the story, though? Of Lucrece and Lucius?”
Octavian brought a hand up to the back of Harry’s head and guided it until Harry’s head was resting just above his heart. Octavian’s quick fingers played with the half-curls of Harry’s messy hair. “Would you like to hear what Lucrece remembers or what supposedly officially happened?”
“What Lucrece knows,” Harry decided. “Then you can tell me how reality differs.”
“Very well,” Octavian hummed. Harry’s hand had come up to hold tightly onto him and Octavian felt anchored into the present. “It was the night that your parents died. There were celebrations across England and Lucrece wanted to celebrate. I don’t think she knew her fiancé was a Death Eater. Anyway, the Princes were neutral. She was young and sixteen and wanted to sneak out of Hogwarts. On the streets of London she mingled with a crowd of wizards where a handsome man began dancing with another witch, and soon the two of them became partners. Lucrece apparently told Mother that he was the most handsome wizard she had ever seen. They became partners in the dance but they did not switch out like they were supposed to. Lucrece went home with him and made love to him and then returned to Hogwarts. They never exchanged names. Lucrece didn’t know until another two months had passed that she was pregnant.”
Harry hummed. “What actually did happen?”
“While they were dancing, Lucius claims he was put under the Imperius Curse and he raped Lucrece. He then obliviated her so she wouldn’t remember and made love to her to give her a happy memory. From what I can tell, he was deeply attracted to her.”
“When did you learn the truth?”
“Half an hour after I met you. We went to Ollivander’s and he—well—he called me the son of Lucrece Prince and Lucius Malfoy. My parents didn’t know my birth father’s name until that point. There was quite the fight via floo over it. They thought my father was Lucrece’s fiancé—Evan Rosier, who died at the hands of Alastor Moody.” He sighed. “I remember telling my parents that it was my last day so they could yell at Lucrece later. I was in shock. I had always thought she was a mythical sister I had just never met—not the woman who had given birth to me. My cousin Andromache is more of a sister.” He laughed bitterly. “Lucrece brought an illegitimate child into this world and hid it and I’m doing the same.”
Harry lifted his head. “Lavinia Rose is not illegitimate. She is being born in marriage and will be born nine months after our wedding, a little longer if we can make it happen.”
“Everyone knows one of us is pregnant.”
“Yes,” Harry agreed. “But they can’t prove it. Only magic registered it to make our marriage legal by the laws of the land. You would only have to be a day pregnant for it to work, Octavian. We can claim being stupid and in love and using the Gnascum Potion and accidentally wishing a child into existence. It’s all I can do not to focus on our future when you make love to me, now that I’ve taken the Gnascum Potion.”
“I think of you, Henri Jacques,” Octavian admitted. “You, in that moment, being with me. How you’re my entire world. The lullaby splashing around us, in our every kiss, our every gesture.” The lullaby was playing now. It hadn’t for those few weeks they had been barely speaking.
Harry leaned up and their lips brushed.
Hesitantly, Octavian asked, “Won’t you see your parents’ murderer in the face of our child?”
“No,” Harry disagreed firmly, resting his head back over Octavian’s heart. “She’s mine. All mine. He may have taken away my parents, but I’ve taken her, and she’s mine,” he spat out a little vehemently. “I’m the one she’ll call ‘Dad!’ and the one to teach her how to ride a broom, the one to tuck her in at night, who will chase the gargoyles away. He’s a sperm donor at best. She’ll never be his legacy, because she’s our little girl.”
Octavian ran his fingers along Harry’s scalp. “Okay, Henri Jacques. Thank you.”
“You have nothing to thank me for,” Harry offered, his hand now placed protectively over Octavian’s stomach. “I don’t want you doing that reading for Voldemort.”
“Henri Jacques—I have to—“
“No, you don’t. Show him that they are just empty threats. Do you think he wants to be known as the Dark Lord who rapes the children of his followers? I also suspect he cares about you. He won’t want you to lose your lordship.”
Octavian sighed. “It’s not that simple.”
Harry looked up at him. “It is that simple. Let’s just see if he sends a retaliatory note to follow up. Maybe in a day or two you can mention to Draco that you think your mail is being watched. God, he’s my brother-in-law. Isn’t that surreal?”
“He’s not your brother-in-law. Draco and Io are dear to me. I couldn’t care less about Lacerta. However, they will never be my siblings. Draco is my mentor and perhaps one day I will mentor Io. That is, if we don’t hire private tutors. I think that’s what we’re going to have to do.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not certain I will make it to the end of term,” Octavian observed. “I’ll of course spend the first year of Lavinia’s life entirely with her, but after that I’ll get tutors to continue my education. I had hoped that you might consider leaving Hogwarts and staying with me and Lavinia and getting tutors. I know we haven’t discussed it—“ He bit his lip even though Harry wasn’t looking.
Harry traced patterns on Octavian’s chest. They seemed to be swirls that would circle in on themselves before he would start over again. After a moment, he realized that Harry was drawing along to the notes of the lullaby. “I hadn’t thought about leaving Hogwarts,” he finally admitted. “I hadn’t really thought past getting married, to be honest. No one ever tells you about what comes after. I have to stop Voldemort though.”
“Then do it from our house at Prince’s Pride,” Octavian suggested. “If you need to see that horrible wizard Dumbledore—“
Harry looked up at him sharply, but Octavian just continued.
“—then you can visit him or he can come to us. That is, that depends on the wards. I may want to set them so only family members can come through. That will include Lord and Lady Black, of course.”
“Of course,” Harry mumbled.
“They’re your family,” Octavian argued. “I know how much they mean to you.”
Harry looked up at him. “This is going to sound strange, but although Flo has welcomed me with open arms, Sirius has become distant since marrying her. At least since the child has been on the way. I know I’m being ridiculous, but I feel like I’m being replaced.”
“You’re not being replaced,” Octavian answered firmly. “I’ve seen you with Lord Black. He loves you like a son. You’re his godson. That’s a position of honor. By the old gods, we have to decide on who Lavinia’s god parents are going to be. How horrible. This is going to get messy.”
“Very,” Harry agreed. “I nominate that Slytherin you had to the wedding for godfather.”
“Jamie? I suppose apart from Draco he’s my best friend. He’s from a very minor house, so he is technically unsuitable—“
Harry snorted.
“I think we have to name Draco, there’s no getting around it.”
“I don’t want a Malfoy within ten feet of my child,” Harry growled. “I don’t care if he’s your mentor.”
“He’s my mentor—I know you don’t quite understand, but he’s essentially my blood brother. He is, in fact. Blood has to be exchanged.”
Harry cringed.
Octavian ran a hand through his hair. “He’s the son of a Lord. Granted, he’s also biologically related to me, but we’ll hopefully get the Malfoys to overlook that. Somehow.” He shrugged. “Who do you want to be godmother?”
“Luna Lovegood,” Harry answered decisively. “She’s a friend. You may remember, she went to the Department of Mysteries with us. She’s not Ginny Weasley or Hermione Granger.”
“At least she’s a pureblood,” Octavian mused. “I won’t disagree with you.”
“We’ll still have to talk about Malfoy.”
“If you say so,” Octavian said, before he let sleep claim him.
Octavian was afraid of the letter. He really was. He wasn’t going to send a letter in return, but that doesn’t mean that he wasn’t going to have it ready. But, first, he had to speak to Draco.
He made his way down to the Slytherin Dungeons the day before a Hogsmeade weekend, and sat down next to his mentor.
“Octavian!” he said happily. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“No, I’m sorry, but I have a problem.”
Draco’s eyebrows furrowed. “What kind of problem?”
“My mail is being checked,” Octavian explained. “I know I received a letter from our mutual friend and Dumbledore confronted me about it. I don’t know how safe any owl I send will be.”
Draco licked his lips. “Does he know it’s from our mutual friend?” he asked quietly.
“Unfortunately. He signed his name. Now Henri Jacques knows and it’s one large mess. I don’t know what to do, to be honest. If I send a response, it’s going to be intercepted, and Henri Jacques will be angry. He told me not to respond at all.” He poured his heart out to Draco. He was desperately afraid for Lavinia.
“I’ll write Father,” Draco assured, placing his hand on Octavian’s. “I’ll tell him of your predicament.”
“Now I’m afraid my letters to Mother and Father will be read, and they’re nothing special, but they’re private. No one but my parents needs to know how my marriage or the pregnancy is progressing. I know our healer can update them on the pregnancy, but it’s not the same. The future Miss Lavinia Prince is conceived and is deeply important to the family.”
“Lavinia?” Draco questioned.
“Lavinia Rose,” Octavian shared. “I think it’s beautiful, don’t you? It follows the tradition of the Princes—naming children after Roman and Trojan figures—and of Henri Jacques’s mother’s family, where they name their daughters after flowers. I don’t think he’s realized it’s a wizarding custom as well.”
“It’s a beautiful name,” Draco agreed. “Both Mother and Io are named for flowers.”
“I prove my point.”
Draco’s gray eyes sparkled. “I wanted to keep you informed about my courtship, Octavian. Lacerta and Io know, of course, but I haven’t seen you except in public. Everything’s been agreed. We’re going on our first Hogsmeade date tomorrow.”
“This is Astoria Greengrass, is it not?” Octavian asked. “How did you ever settle on her?”
“Before you, she was my best friend. We grew up together as children. She’s in your year, but only about a year younger than I am. I frankly can’t imagine spending the rest of my life with anyone else. I’ve never felt anything romantic toward anyone, but she will be a true companion. She’s graceful, proper, mischievous, intelligent, beautiful. You know, she’s the one who started that illegal betting ring surrounding Quidditch. It’s hilarious to watch the professors trying to figure out who’s behind it, while Astoria looks innocent and is never where they expect her to be.” He sighed, clearly a little love struck even if he would deny it.
“I’ve lost some money to her,” Octavian agreed. “I’ve learned not to bet on Gryffindor-Slytherin games no matter what the odds.”
Draco swatted him with a book. “I wish I could get you on a broom. It’s a shame your brother died playing Quidditch.”
“Yes, my parents still feel it keenly.” The mood turned somber.
That night, Octavian took out his cards. His cat Prospera had gone missing. She’d been sleeping too much before that and he’d been worried about that. She hadn’t been touching her food or her water. A one card draw, he decided.
He shuffled his deck and cut it, then turned over his card. The five of cups reversed. A cat-like elf showed itself in a coat with a sky of twinkling stars above it.
He gulped. Anxiety. False Starts. Difficulty in Letting Go.
No, it couldn’t be. He stood up hurriedly from his seat, the plush armchair teetering but then righting itself.
“Prospera!” he called, looking under every surface he could find. The study was clear as was Harry’s. He took the main bedroom. With a wave of his wand he brightened the lights. “Prospera!” He got down on his hands and his knees and checked under the bed. She wasn’t there.
Rushing over to the bookshelves, he looked in every nook and cranny and then dove beside the sofa. There she was, in a corner, skin and bones.
“Prospera,” he whispered desperately. He lifted her out carefully, and cradled her against her chest. He knew Madam Pomfrey was only a human healer, but surely she would know something. He rushed to the door, careful not to jostle his cat, passing Harry in the corridor.
“Octavian?”
“It’s Prospera!” he said, his voice showing his desperation. “She’s sick. I have to get her to Madam Pomfrey.”
Harry put his hand on Octavian’s arm. “She’ll only send you away. She did it with Ron and Scabbers—then again he was Peter Pettigrew, but we didn’t know that. She got all huffy about being above treating common animals.”
“Then what do I do?”
“Sirius,” Harry answered, pulling him along the corridor toward the portrait of Anne Boleyn.
“What can Lord Black do?” Octavian asked as Harry threw floo powder into the fire. Octavian had always wondered what that little jar was for.
“It’s Flo, actually. She was studying to be a magical vet. She might know. I’ll have to take Prospera through because neither you nor Flo can floo, what with the babies.”
“I can’t leave Prospera,” Octavian said desperately. “I’m early enough along. It shouldn’t hurt me.”
“All right,” Harry conceded and they stepped into the flames.
Harry caught him on the other end and Octavian looked up at him thankfully. Sirius was immediately there and at Harry’s hurried explanation he ushered them up to the third floor and into a large master bedroom.
“Sirius?” Flo asked. “Harry! What are you doing in here?” She reached for a dressing gown and Sirius ran forward to help her.
“Octavian’s cat Prospera is very sick. They were hoping you could do something.”
“Oh, of course,” Flo answered. She picked up her wand. “You really shouldn’t have floo’d here, Octavian.”
“It’s early enough,” Octavian murmured, placing Prospera carefully in her lap. She went about checking her gums and her eyes. “How long has she been like this?”
“She’s been tired for about a week,” Octavian answered. “Then a few days ago she stopped eating and I couldn’t find her. I finally found her tonight under the couch.”
Flo was running diagnostic spells. “Yes. She was getting ready to die.” She sighed.
“But she’s only three years old!” Octavian cried desperately. “How can she be getting ready to die?”
“She’s been poisoned,” Flo answered carefully. “I’m so sorry, Octavian, but I should put her out of her misery. We shouldn’t make her linger.”
Harry enveloped Octavian in his arms, and Octavian started to weep. “It was the Dark Lord, I know it! The bastard!”
“How could you possibly know that?”
Octavian thought back to all his interactions with the man. “He hated Prospera. He claimed that she took all the affection naturally due him. It was him. By the old gods, he poisoned my cat!”
“I need your permission, Octavian,” Flo said carefully.
Octavian, though, was weeping. Harry must have nodded because Flo whispered a spell and Octavian suddenly felt cold—he felt death. The lullaby wasn’t playing now.
Sirius must have taken the body because the next thing Octavian knew, he was being undressed and pushed into his bed. Harry came up behind him and snuggled into his warmth. Octavian just felt numb.
When he woke the next morning, he didn’t think that it was a Hogsmeade Weekend. Instead, all he could think of was how Prospera was dead.
Harry left him alone in the Three Broomsticks for half an hour. Octavian just sat there, drinking his butterbeer, when Harry appeared with a basket. “It can be our secret, so Voldemort never knows.”
“What?” Octavian asked, confused.
Harry nodded to the basket.
Octavian looked at it and noticed that something was moving under the blanket that covered the basket. He hesitantly moved it aside and saw a beautiful Siamese kitten. “Oh, Henri Jacques, he’s beautiful.”
“I know he can never replace Prospera, and I don’t want him to, but no wizard should be without the familiar bond. I don’t know what I would do without Hedwig, but I know that I would need another owl almost immediately. I thought you might be the same. What will you call him?”
“Ariel. He was the spirit that Prospero subjected in The Tempest.”
“Ariel, then,” Harry agreed. He put the blanket back on top of the basket. “Mum’s the word,” he whispered.
Octavian found himself smiling.
