Part the Thirteenth—
I am all the daughters of my father’s house, and all the brothers too.
—Twelfth Night, Act II, scene iv
Sheets tangled around their legs as Harry kissed Octavian passionately. “I love you so much,” he vowed, terrified of what he might have lost if she—if Romilda had succeeded.
“Je sais, Henri Jacques,” Octavian whispered in the dark, arching his back until his bare chest pressed into Harry’s. His small hands ghosted over the planes of Harry’s face lovingly, and Harry moaned as his erection pressed against Octavian’s thigh.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, kissing Octavian again before beginning to pull away.
“Arrête,” Octavian commanded, hooking a leg across Harry’s clothed upper thighs, pushing him closer.
Harry groaned at the sensation and plundered Octavian’s mouth again, tasting both honey and milk and sighing in pleasure. His hands ran down Octavian’s side until they hooked into Octavian’s waistband.
“Oui,” Octavian gasped. “Like zat.”
Cautiously, Harry dipped his hands beneath Octavian’s pajama pants and tentatively cupped Octavian’s backside with his bare hands. “Is that all right?” he breathed, his mouth releasing Octavian’s as he began to kiss a trail down Octavian’s neck, making his young fiancé squirm beneath him.
“Oui, oui, très bien,” he mewed making Harry smile in the dim glow of the firefly jars that Octavian had collected for their small haven. “You’re mine,” he whispered, arching himself closer to Harry and inhaling sharply at the pleasure.
“Yours,” Harry agreed, reveling in the sensation of flesh against flesh. “Only ever yours. I swear upon my magic.” He reached over to their bedside table and grasped the two platinum bands that waited there. He slipped one onto Octavian’s finger next to the betrothal band and sealed his vow with a kiss. “Mine,” he growled, his hand sliding smoothly lower until he felt the back of Octavian’s thigh against his rough hand.
“Yours,” Octavian murmured, “forever. I swear upon my magic.” He took the second ring and Harry guided his shaking hand until it was placed on his own finger.
“Love you,” he breathed before sighing in relief when Octavian reached up again and kissed him, marrying them until death should part them.
No one and nothing—not even an illegal dose of Amortentia—would ever separate them.
When Harry woke up slowly the next morning, he was surprised that his arms were empty. “Octavian?” he murmured before his eyes shot open and he looked around desperately for his husband of only a few hours.
“I am ‘ere, mon Henri Jacques,” Octavian murmured from beside him before leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss against Harry’s still swollen lips. He was sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed with a tarot deck laid out in front of him.
“I didn’t know you liked Divination,” Harry said, surprised.
“Professeur Trelawney and Firenze both say I ‘ave ze sight,” he admitted quietly as he shuffled his slightly worn looking deck. “I ‘ave not ever made une prophétie, I don’t think I shall, but I am not unskilled wiz ze cards and ozzer means of seeing possible futures.”
Harry smiled softly at him, pushing away thoughts of a card reading he overheard Trelawney talking about. Something about the knight of swords, but he really couldn’t recollect. “What are you trying to predict?”
Octavian smiled softly to himself. “Nos enfants, Henri Jacques. Notre famille.”
Harry sat up and pulled Octavian to his chest before peering over his shoulder. He knew Octavian was still frightened over what had almost happened, Harry was terrified himself. He knew he never would have eaten the cakes, especially after Hermione’s warning, but the fact that the threat had been so close and that Octavian might have lost everything ate away at him.
Octavian needed to look to the future, he believed, to see the product of their love, and even if he personally thought that Divination was a silly form of magic, he would support Octavian in it if he so wished.
“What do you see?”
Octavian turned his head and smiled cheekily at him. “I will do a reading with trois cartes,” he stated before turning the first over.
Harry peered closer. “The magician,” he said quietly.
“Oui. Le magicien.”
“Don’t you mean la sorcière?” Harry teased. “She looks, er, female.”
“Zat is ze artiste’s interpretation.”
“Of course. What does it mean?”
Octavian looked at him confused. “I thought you took Divination.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Trelawney liked to predict my death every week. I didn’t take it seriously and didn’t pass my O.W.L.”
Octavian looked at him piercingly. “You know I will teach nos enfants ze art when zey are small, non? It is tradition if a parent ‘as talent in it.”
Harry squeezed him closer to himself. “Of course. I would expect nothing less.”
He nodded sagely in acceptance. “It is infinite possibilities, a new beginning, magic. It represents our bonding last night, I think.”
“Excellent,” Harry said, slightly surprised. “What’s next?”
Octavian took a moment and turned over the second card. He blushed scarlet.
“The lovers,” Harry murmured. He kissed Octavian’s neck softly. “Don’t worry, mon chéri, I will never rush you.”
“Merci, Henri Jacques,” he whispered in response before tearing his eyes away from the happy pair, fairies fluttering about them.
“Your deck is beautiful,” Harry complimented.
“It was un cadeau d’anniversaire from mon papa,” he said softly. “I think ‘e must ‘ave ordered it in advance as ‘e was already in Azkaban when it arrived.” His hand hovered over the deck and he quickly turned over the last card and gasped happily.
Harry stared down at the picture of a young girl holding a single staff.
“The ace of wands,” Octavian breathed happily. “Creative beginnings, a new way of life, conception—peut-être une fille.”
“A daughter?” Harry asked, bewildered and completely happy.
“Oui, une petite fille.” Octavian quickly packed the cards away and dove under the bed, Harry laughing at his quick grace and energy. He came out again with a large paperback that looked almost new. He handed it to Harry, who quickly opened it and saw the inscription. “To my youngest son, may your child one day give you the happiness you have given me. Yule 1994.” He flipped to the title page and saw that it was a dictionary of Roman names. “Do you already have one picked out?”
Octavian nodded shyly. “Ever since I got le livre, oui.” He took the book back and flipped until he found a page about a third of the way through. “Maman and I were given names for Roman figures. So was ze ‘alf-blood cousin, yes? Even Great-Aunt Eileen was named for Hèlene of Troy, zough she ‘ad another cousin with zat name so zey used a variant.”
“Helen of Troy was Greek, right?” Harry asked confused.
Octavian huffed. “She was of Troy, Trojan. Ze Trojan Aeneas was ze founder of Lavinium, which later became ze Roman nation.”
“Er, right.” He had never been one for history. “So, what’s the name?”
“Zere are deux.”
Harry laughed. “All right.” He took the book and looked at where Octavian was pointing. The first was Lavinia, the wife of Aeneas. As he read through the description, he paled slightly. “She’s famous for blushing.”
“Oui.”
“And she was probably in love with this Turnus bloke but had to marry Aeneas after he killed Turnus.”
“Oui.”
Harry swallowed. “I don’t think I’d want such a thing to happen to our daughter,” he stated quietly.
“D’Accord. Zere is another name.” He took the book back and flipped through it until he neared the end.
“Romola,” Harry tried the name out and smiled slightly. It was the feminine form of Romulus, who founded Rome, although he apparently killed his brother Remus, which Harry found a bit off-putting, but if Lupin didn’t mind being named after someone who was murdered, then he would overlook it. “I like it.”
“Romola Black,” Octavian said with a nod of his head. “Papa will be pleased when I tell ‘im. May I tell ‘im?”
“Of course,” Harry whispered, bending over and kissing Octavian softly. “You can tell him anything you want.”
News of Romilda’s illegal use of Amortentia had spread through the school like wildfire over night. Harry later found out from Astoria, who had heard from Daphne, that Professor Flitwick had been furious and had immediately called Slughorn and Snape for verification of the potion before immediately calling the Aurors as Dumbledore was once again away.
McGonagall, as acting Headmistress, had no choice but to remove two hundred points from her own house before expelling her. Gryffindor was now trailing behind the three other houses for points and had little hope of winning the House Cup.
The scandal was splashed all over the front pages of that morning’s Daily Prophet. Fortunately, it said that the origin of the love potion was unknown, so at least Weasley Wizard Wheezes wouldn’t be fined.
By the end of the day, everyone knew that Octavian and Harry were now officially married as Harry escorted his new husband to every class to inform each professor that Octavian should now be addressed only as Mr. Black.
Snape’s eyes had gleamed nastily at him before he murmured something crude beneath his breath. Clearly he wasn’t happy that Octavian and been legitimized.
Flitwick, on the other hand, had been so happy that he fell off his pile of books that he stood on before running up to Octavian and embracing him in happiness, and then turned tear-filled eyes and a wide smile to Harry.
Harry spent his free period drafting an official announcement to the Associated Wizarding Press on the marriage with the help of Daphne and several books on pureblood correspondence. He also jotted down a quick note to Mrs. Malfoy, informing her personally of the marriage and apologizing that he and Octavian would not be able to join her for tea as the next Hogsmeade Weekend had been canceled, but that they would see her soon at the actual prison.
Harry stood at the edge of the bed, dressed only in his pajama bottoms and a Weird Sisters t-shirt, staring down at the sight before him. Octavian had taken to openly reading his tarot cards in bed and appeared to have fallen asleep during one of his many readings.
He recognized the spread as being the Celtic Cross that Trelawney had tried to teach him and which he never caught on.
He hesitated. Harry knew he shouldn’t touch Octavian’s deck, but he had little choice unless he wanted to wake his young husband, but Octavian looked too peaceful in his robe and slippers, curled up among the yellow pillows. Sighing, he took out a pair of gloves from his trunk and slowly began to put the cards away.
The center card was an upside down four of wands, but it was covered partially by the Devil, making Harry gulp loudly. When he saw Death sitting above them he quickly shook his head and gathered them all up quickly and put them to the side. The reversed six of cups was on top of the tiny pile.
“Who were you reading for, Octavian?” he whispered as he climbed into bed, taking his husband into his arms. “Who worries you so?”
Harry had hoped he would never find himself in Azkaban. He, Octavian, and Draco Malfoy had set off by Floo to the Ministry of Magic and found themselves in the center of a small group of worried looking witches and wizards.
Narcissa Malfoy soon entered and greeted her son warmly.
“Octavian,” Harry asked, pulling him aside to give the Malfoys some privacy. “The reading you did last night—” he asked hesitantly.
“Oui. Thank you for putting away my cards. Did you touch zem?”
He shook his head. “No, I put on gloves.”
Octavian sighed in relief. “Merci, Henri Jacques. I would trust you, naturellement, but ze cards—”
“—cannot be touched by another, I know.” Harry smiled down at him affectionately. “I did manage to learn something in Divination. I am not completely hopeless.”
“Of course you are not!” Octavian exclaimed playfully. “Otherwise you would still be un célibataire.”
Harry looked at him confused.
“Pardonne-moi, it is—je ne sais pas le mot en Anglais.”
“You’re simply going to have to teach me French then,” Harry countered, linking his arm around Octavian’s waist.
“Perhaps I might help, Mr. Black,” Narcissa Malfoy said as she approached them, offering Harry her hand, which he quickly took. “Which word can you not translate?”
She looked expectantly between the two with a soft smile on her face, although her blue eyes were haunted.
“Un célibataire,” Octavian responded quietly, his head lowered slightly.
“A bachelor,” she supplied.
Harry laughed, turning to Octavian. “So you only married me because I was not hopeless,” he teased, trying to lighten the mood.
“C’est la vie,” Octavian whispered back, leaning into Harry’s warmth while still managing to look entirely sophisticated in his gold and white brocade robes.
“I wish to offer my personal congratulations on your marriage,” Narcissa said after a slight pause. “As a Black myself, I would like to welcome you, Mr. Black, into our family, although it is a bit depleted.”
Octavian looked up at her, surprise shining out of his black eyes. “Merci, Madame.”
“Tante,” she said softly. “Octavian,” she whispered, “I was told exactly what happened that night. I know that if not for—” She paused, clearly searching for words before straightening her back and staring down Nymphadora Tonks who was looking at her with distaste in her features. “May I speak frankly?”
Octavian nodded and Harry tightened his grip slightly, showing Octavian that he was there.
“If not for your mother’s decision I would have known you since you were a small child. I had hoped that you would be a good childhood friend to Draco, being so closely related. I wished for it and I would have never treated you differently, although I was unable to acknowledge you before now. I know my husband would concur when I say that you will always have a place with the Malfoys, no matter what happens in the coming years.”
Harry bent his head in slight confusion, wondering exactly how closely Narcissa Malfoy was related to Octavian’s father. He knew the Black family tree was extensive and so many names had been burnt off of it, that it was almost impossible to completely reconstruct. Maybe that was why Daphne had insisted he marry Octavian as a Black and not a Potter?
“Merci, tante,” Octavian said, eyes now shining.
She smiled. “I’m afraid my half-blood niece is staring at us as if we are all traitors,” she said, changing the subject.
Harry laughed, turning. “I’m afraid she might be angry at me, Mrs. Malfoy.” He looked at Tonks curiously. “She’s never had brown hair before.”
Draco had been speaking with Roger Davies who was strangely among the group, but he walked up to them, hearing Harry’s last comment. “Why would she be angry at you, Potter?”
“I might be reclaiming a Black property,” he admitted, not wanting to give away too much.
“As you should,” Narcissa stated clearly. “Your grandmother was a Black and you are a pureblood—and married now. It only makes sense.” Her voice carried and Tonks stiffened before she decided to come over to the group.
“Wotcher, Harry,” she said, faking a smile and completely ignoring her blood relatives. “Have you seen Remus recently?”
Harry looked at her, startled at the question.
“Remus?” Octavian asked.
“Professor Lupin,” Harry supplied and Octavian nodded. He was happy when he saw that Draco was quietly leading Octavian away, not wanting him to hear whatever would come out of the Auror’s mouth. He turned toward Tonks. “Not since Christmas.”
She squeaked slightly in the back of her throat. “Christmas?”
“Yes, he had Christmas dinner at the Weasleys’. I assumed you would have seen him since then.”
She shook her head, her brown hair looking rather dull. “No, he seems to be avoiding me.”
Harry looked at her confused. “Er, all right. I really don’t know.”
“He doesn’t write?” she pressed and Harry raised his eyebrows.
“No.”
She looked at him searchingly before taking a deep breath. “Does Dumbledore know you’re here?”
“Most likely.”
“And he let you come?”
“He doesn’t have a place to let or not let me do anything,” he snapped, getting weary of all the second-guessing of his former friends. “What is it with everyone? I’m not your property just because everyone thinks I’m ‘the Chosen One.’”
“Harry—”
“Don’t. I’m here to support my husband and I should be at his side.”
“He is not your husband,” she seethed.
“Not you, too,” he groaned to himself, glancing over at Octavian and the Malfoys. Narcissa was looking at them out of the corner of her eye with curiosity. “He is my husband and completely legitimate.”
“He’s talking with the Malfoys!”
“And you’re related to them,” Harry shot back, his voice getting louder. “Stop being such a hypocrite.”
“They’re Death Eaters.”
“So is my father-in-law, and I’m not complaining.” He breathed in harshly. “Why is everyone so prejudiced? They hate you because you’re not pure enough and you hate Octavian because his father wasn’t married to his mother. It’s absolutely ridiculous. I think you’re worse, to be honest.”
“How can you possibly say that?”
“Easily. He’s my husband and he’s more important to me than anything, including the war.” He sighed. “It’s no more his fault than it is Remus’s for being a werewolf—or Granger’s that her parents married after she was a year old.”
“Y-You cannot be serious.”
“I’ve never been more serious. Ask her what date her parents were married if you don’t believe me.”
“But she—she wrote—”
“She’s being hypocritical, yes.” He turned back toward the Malfoys and Octavian and compared Octavian with Narcissa’s features, but saw little resemblance between the two of them, except for the fact that they both had fair hair, which wasn’t much of a similarity at all. “Why do you care about when I last saw Remus anyway?” Harry asked, turning back to her only to see her blush slightly.
He stared at her and then his eyes widened. “Oh,” he mouthed. “Right.” He cleared his throat.
“It’s not safe, Harry,” Tonks quietly begged, tilting her had toward Octavian again.
“My life is never safe, Tonks, I thought you knew that,” he responded in return before walking back to his husband.
Azkaban was just as dark and gloomy has Harry had imagined, though he was thankful that there were human guards rather than Dementors. He still remembered Octavian’s reaction vividly to the horrible creatures, and he knew he probably would have begged his husband not to come here if the prison were still guarded by the wraith-like creatures.
“I’ll take him in,” Narcissa promised Harry, who was not allowed to enter the row of cells, as he was not going to actually visit a prisoner. He wanted to give Octavian all the privacy he wanted and had painstakingly drafted a letter over the past week to Octavian’s father. “It’s on my way to my brother-in-law’s cell.”
“Aren’t you going to see your husband?” Harry asked, confused.
She nodded. “I will simply see Rodolphus first.”
Harry sat, waiting, in a small room while the other visitors went to various cells under guard. The room was small and dank, but Harry’s mind focused entirely on Octavian and what his father might be saying.
He wished Sirius were still alive so he could introduce Octavian to him, but he knew that given everyone else’s reactions, Sirius’s might be just as strong. His father might have felt the same way, but his mum—he hoped his mum would have seen Octavian for what he was and loved him all the same.
Harry had brought the half-blood Prince’s potion book with him and had finally managed to dispose of it properly, throwing it into the harsh waves of the North Sea as they traveled to the small island that housed Azkaban in a boat. It had been charmed to withstand the elements, but the copy of Advanced Potion-Making hadn’t been able to withstand the waves near the Orkney Islands and had quickly sunk beneath the water.
He smiled to himself, knowing that he had been able to do two things for Octavian on that day.
Octavian stood outside of the dirty cell in horror, Narcissa squeezing his shoulder affectionately. “Go to him,” she whispered. “You’ll have a full half hour.”
He nodded quietly as the guard harshly beat a stick against the metal bars, but the cell’s occupant didn’t move. Instead he sat, staring at the far wall in contemplation. His hair had grown down to his chin and was no longer the brilliant blond it had once been, but looked a sickly version of the color, filled with grime and dirt.
“Up you get,” the guard said cruelly. “You have a visitor.”
The caged man sighed. “I do not wish to speak to an Auror at present. If you would be so kind as to give my apologies.” He waved a thin but still aristocratic-looking hand in the air, accentuating his point, and the guard sneered at him.
“Well, if that’s what you want, what with this brat coming all the way from Hogwarts, I reckon.”
The wizard’s head snapped up at the words and his pale eyes locked with Octavian’s.
“Papa,” Octavian greeted and quickly rushed into the cell as soon as the guard had opened the door partially.
“Half an hour per visit,” the guard warned but Octavian and his father didn’t hear him as Octavian had thrown himself in his father’s arms.
“Papa, Papa,” Octavian whispered happily as he felt the strength and warmth that was his father. “Je t’aime.” He pulled away and smiled up at the wizard, his face covered in silent tears.
“Octavian Nür,” the man responded in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”
“M-My husband petitioned the Ministry. It was un cadeau de Yule. Is it not a nice cadeau, Papa?”
“Oui, un présent vraiment merveilleux. But you say you have a husband, my Octavian?”
Octavian blushed. “Oui, Papa. ‘Ee is good and ‘e is kind and ‘e loves me very much.” He hesitated before pulling out Harry’s letter. “Please don’t be angry, but I love ‘im so much, and I know I am young, but ‘e was able to legitimate me, and I swear I love ‘im. I wouldn’t marry for less.”
His father sighed and took the letter, placing it aside for later. “You are happy?”
“Very.”
“Then I am content.” He ran his hands through Octavian’s waves and smiled slightly. “You’ve grown since I’ve last seen you, I think,” he murmured. “What is your name now, petit?”
“Octavian Nür Black.”
“Black?”
Octavian nodded. “Yes, I married ze Lord Black.”
A look of horror passed over his father’s face. “You married Draco Black Malfoy?”
Octavian’s black eyes widened and he shook his head. “Non, non.”
“Oh, thank the gods,” the wizard murmured. “I was worried for a moment.”
“I am not zat much of a Black,” he laughed quietly before settling back in his father’s arms.
“If Draco isn’t the Lord Black, then who is? I was certain he was next in line.”
“So was I, but ‘e was not.” He hesitated. “‘Arry Potter is ze Lord Black, Papa.”
The man breathed in deeply and his fist clenched reflexively at the sound of the name. “You married Harry Potter?”
“Oui. ‘Ee is a pureblood now, ‘e was adopted by ‘is godfather.”
“Sirius was a blood traitor.”
“Je sais, but Henri Jacques is not. ‘Ee studied courtship rituals and etiquette just so ‘e could be with me. ‘Ee’s adopted our customs and ‘e—well, ‘e does not mind la magie grise.”
“Are you certain, Octavian?”
He nodded. “‘Ee ‘as split from ze Weasleys and does not speak to zat Granger Muggle-born anymore. ‘Ee defends me and loves me for ‘oo I am.”
“A true romance then,” the Death Eater mused.
“Oui, Papa, we are in love. We ‘ave even chosen ze name for our first child.”
“Oh?” he cocked his head. “And what will the next Potter be called?”
“Romola Black,” he stated proudly.
His father laughed deeply in his chest. “I never thought I’d see the day when Harry Potter would turn into a pureblood Lord.”
“Non, Papa, neither did I.” He relaxed into his father’s arms and breathed in his scent, feeling almost as safe and cherished as he did within Harry’s nightly embrace.
French to English Translations.
Je sais, Henri Jacques. I know, Henri Jacques.
Arrête. Stop.
Oui, oui, très bien. Yes, yes, very good.
Une prophétie. A prophecy.
Nos enfants, Henri Jacques. Notre famille. Our children, Henri Jacques. Our family.
Trois cartes. Three cards.
Oui. Le magicien. Yes. The Magician.
La sorcière. The sorceress.
Artiste. Artist.
Nos enfants. Our children.
Mon chéri. My darling.
Un cadeau d’anniversaire. A birthday present.
Peut-être une fille. Perhaps a daughter.
Oui, une petite fille. Yes, a little girl.
Le livre, oui. The book, yes.
Deux. Two.
D’Accord. Alright.
Naturellement. Naturally.
Un célibataire. A bachelor.
Pardonne-moi. Excuse me.
Je ne sais pas le mot en Anglais. I do not know the word in English.
C’est la vie. Such is life.
Merci, Madame. Thank you, Madame.
Tante. Aunt.
Un cadeau de Yule. A Yule present.
Oui, un présent vraiment merveilleux. Yes, a very marvelous present.
Petit. Little one.
Je sais. I know.
La magie grise. Gray magic.
Excentryke's Musings 