Rating: R for language, imagery, emotional angst, fantasy violence/combat, and adult themes.
Title: Harry Potter and the Black Society
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters, settings, and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling as published by, including and not limited, to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The use of these characters and settings is for entertainment purposes only; no infringement is intended or should be inferred. Additionally, locations in and around the United Kingdom are used as a basis for "historical reality" or in a purely fictitious manner.
The characters of Melora Lilasmorte, Petr Auct, Edmund Paisot, in addition to other original characters / members / creatures of Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, the Ministry of Magic, and the Muggle world, as presented in the story published herein, are the creation of M.L. Stone under the Portkey author name of carondelet. This story was authored by M.L. Stone and posted at Portkey under the author name of carondelet. Any reproduction without the express written consent of the author is strictly prohibited.
Spoiler Alert: This means you. This fic contains spoilers to Books 1-5. If you haven't read any of the books or have at least seen the films...erm... Also, if you've not yet read at least Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, please back out now -- there will be spoilers to that book, as well as Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Further, if you should have an H/Hr aversion, please know that this fic is H/Hr. It will be mostly fluff, when there is any, but it is H/Hr, even though you may not initially think so. Ahem. Now that you have been sufficiently warned...
Summary: (It may or may not be considered AU; it does use elements that J.K. Rowling has only given cursory attention to in the novels.)
The Second Wizard War has since begun. After each new conflict, the barriers placed between the Wizarding world and the Muggle world yield just a little more. Forsaken pacts are made fresh and new allies are revealed as the war finally tears not only into the Muggle world, but into the sanctuary of Hogwarts itself. Harry Potter soon realizes that his wish for a life close to ordinary will take him as far away from normal as is magically or humanly possible...
Pairings: Harry/Hermione
Author's Notes: This is my first piece of Harry Potter fan fiction. I must warn you, gentle reader that this is a long form piece; meaning, it has been planned and time lined to be novel-length. Therefore it will feel at times that events are moving slowly. Also, though alluded to in the early chapters, the /Hr ship does not set sail until nearly the end. There are plenty of MacGuffins, red herrings, whatever you would like to call them, sprinkled throughout as well, so if you aren't one to put up with all of that, sadly, this fic mightn't be for you...
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HARRY POTTER AND THE BLACK SOCIETY
[] CHAPTER ONE: CIRCUMRADIANT DAWN
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Dreary. It was dreary. And grey. And foul. And terrible. And all of the things that he hated, loathed, and despised. He was trapped at Number Four, Privet Drive, had been trapped there for the entirety of the summer, and there was nothing to be done about it save wait for September.
He turned over, moving from his stomach to his back, and stared at the dismal ceiling from his dismal bed in his dismal hand-me-down room wearing his dismal hand-me-down clothes. He sighed loudly, not caring if they heard, and closed his eyes. He heard the sympathetic murmur from his owl, Hedwig, the sole bright spot in the house. Her sympathy was of little consolation, however; he wasn't certain of how much more of it he could take, how much more of the odious Dursleys he could take. He ran a hand through his hair and eased off his eyeglasses with the same motion. Turning, he dropped his glasses off onto the bedside table to his right, and found himself facing the photo of his parents.
His dead parents.
No, dearly departed.
No, murdered.
He stared at the image, being close enough so that he didn't have to squint to be able to see them clearly without his glasses. Stared at the smiling faces of his father and mother. His father, who, as everyone who'd known James Potter told his son, he looked exactly like; his mother, who, as everyone who'd known Lily Evans Potter told her son, he had the eyes of. He stared at them, entranced for what surely must have been the millionth time. They were so happy in the photo. Dancing and whirling, giddy, smiling, as the autumn leaves showered them. The photo was in black and white, but he knew that it was autumn. He knew it was a brisk and clear day. He knew that his mother had suggested that they go out for a walk in a near-by park, someplace in Godric's Hollow, and that his father had assented. He knew that his father had impishly challenged her to a race, and that she daringly took him up on the challenge, and that James and Lily ran, giggling, through the streets, holding hands. He knew that the wind had blown the cap from his mother's head and that his father had gallantly chased it down. He knew that his father then ran his fingers through his mother's fiery red hair, removing the trespassing leaves that had entangled themselves in the fine strands. He knew that they had taken the photo on a whim, just as they had ventured into the autumn afternoon on a whim, and that James had twirled Lily in his arms in an impromptu waltz...
It amazed him, yet again, that such a happy image, such a happy thought, could cause him such pain.
He turned away from the photo to again stare at the ceiling. Dull white over raised plaster, designed in random, swirling, designs. But it wasn't entirely random; after a few years of staring at that ceiling, he knew that the swirls had a pattern. The swirls were made with intent, idle or otherwise, but made with intent nonetheless. He knew the design of the damn ceiling by heart.
"I have got to get out of here," he growled softly. Hedwig quietly hooted in agreement.
He flopped over on the bed, not caring if they heard, and buried his face in the pillow and tried very hard not to cry.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
...and the actions I have hated...
It was some time later that he awoke, eyes burning, throat raw. There was a slight ringing in his ears, some strange melody. He wrote it off as a lingering dream. He was still fully dressed, lying atop his still made bed. Damn it to hell, he'd cried himself to sleep. Again. And woke up on Privet Drive. Again. Damn it.
He shifted in the bed and looked at his wristwatch. It was only half-ten. Bloody hell. It wasn't even decently late, like, oh, three in the morning. It was half-ten in the evening.
He groaned, and again buried his face in the pillow.
That's when he noticed it.
Talking.
Someone was talking.
The realization gave him a moment's pause. The voices were clearly not that of his Uncle Vernon or his cousin Dudley. Both were brutish, uncouth, boorish creatures, incapable of any speech that did not consist of shouting or snarling. The voices were gentle, the conversation hushed. It most definitely did not involve his uncle or his cousin.
He could swear that once voice was that of his aunt. The other...was female. It was a low voice, and very soft, but he knew it was female.
Who on earth was his Aunt Petunia speaking to at half-ten in the evening? It was well past her bedtime. Uncle Vernon always lumbered to bed at half-nine, and Aunt Petunia had always dutifully advanced him, ascending the stairs to prepare their bed at quarter-past.
It occurred to him that it might be someone from the Order. A female member...Tonks, perhaps? It didn't matter -- someone, anyone, he would sorely welcome anybody who wasn't a Dursley, maybe even Voldemort himself. He scrambled to his knees, and started to crawl on the bed toward the door, but then stopped. When Uncle Vernon plodded to bed, he always stopped to bolt the door. He always stopped to bolt the door to his room. From the outside. He always locked him in.
"Fat, miserable bastard," he hissed under his breath. If it were Tonks or someone else from the Order, she would surely stop by to see him. He thought wildly for a moment. If Tonks thought he was asleep, she might not want to bother him, so he had to sound awake, he had to let it be known that he was up and not asleep, so that way she would feel that it was fine to drop by his room to say hello, something, anything, come on, please, someone, see me, talk to me, acknowledge me.
He flung himself off the bed, grabbing his glasses and pulling them on in the process, making sure his feet stepped on every creaky floorboard as he walked to his desk. He dragged the chair out, scraping the legs against the wood floor as he did so, and then sat in it soundly. Then he pulled the chair underneath the table, again dragging the legs. There. That should do it. Dudley certainly did not study, so there would be no reason to think that the noise came from the desk of that awful toad.
Unless Aunt Petunia said so.
He found himself desperately wishing against this with all of his might.
Please don't say it's Dudley. Please don't say it's Dudley.
Please don't say it's Dudley. Please don't say it's
Dudley...
Pleasedon'tsayit'sDudleypleasedon'tsayit'sDudleypleasedon'tsayit'sDudleypleasedon'tsayit'sDudleypleasedon'tsayit'sDudley...
PLEASE...Pleasedon'tsayit'sDudleypleasedon'tsayit'sDudleypleasedon'tsayit'sDudleypleasedon'tsayit'sDudley
pleasedon'tsayit'sDudleypleasedon'tsayit'sDudleypleasedon'tsayit's...
He heard the front door quietly close and heard it latch. He heard the lock turn and the chain being drawn to a close.
No. Please... God...come back...don't leave me here...alone...
He stood up roughly, causing the chair to rock back and forth, and stared down into the front garden. He watched a dark figure walk down the front path toward Privet Drive. He couldn't tell if it was Tonks. The figure was mostly definitely a woman...she could be Tonks. He raised a hand to knock against the glass of his bedroom window.
A gentle rapping from his bedroom door shocked him out of action. He turned and stared at the door, dumbfounded. Who would be knocking at his door? The Dursleys never knocked. They simply barged in whenever they felt like it. There it was again. Soft. Gentle. Respectful? Never. His mind was playing tricks on him.
He turned to look down to the street and saw that the visitor had disappeared. "Damn," he cursed softly.
The soft knock came again, this time followed by, "Harry?"
He froze at the desk, body half way turned toward the door, one hand on the back of the chair. He somehow found his voice. "Y-y-yes?"
"May I come in, Harry?"
Was his Aunt Petunia was asking his permission to come in? He swallowed hard and stammered, "Y-y-yes."
It was dead quiet in the house save for the occasional rumbling from Uncle Vernon, whose snores sometimes rattled the windows. He could just hear Dudley as well, sleeping with his mouth open, sucking in the air in the same manner as he would suck down chocolate milk through a straw. And now, he could just hear the tumblers in the locks withdraw, and hear metal on metal, as the locks on the outside of his bedroom door were undone.
The door slowly opened, and Aunt Petunia stepped into the room, blinking against the light from the lamp on his bedside table. It wasn't very bright in his room, but it was black in the hallway. He was of the impression that she had spent the conversation downstairs in the dark. "Good evening, Harry," she said quietly. She carried Uncle Vernon's set of keys, Harry's Locks Keys, in one hand. She held it tentatively, as if it harmed her to touch it.
He gulped again. "Good evening, Aunt Petunia." He was not only surprised that one, Aunt Petunia had actually asked for permission to come into his room, but two, that Aunt Petunia was in the room at all (she usually did not venture anywhere near the room save to demand that he do the laundry or cook the breakfast or mow the lawn or some such), and three, that Aunt Petunia looked as though she had been crying, and... What was it, oh yes, four, that she had gotten hold of his uncle's set of keys in order to get into his bedroom.
And five, that, when she finally looked at him, it was with sadness and a degree of...fondness in her eyes.
Bloody hell. I must be going mad, Harry thought to himself.
Aunt Petunia closed the door behind her and gestured to his bed. "May I...?"
"Um, yeah. Sure. I mean, yes." Watching Aunt Petunia gingerly sit on the edge of his bed gave Harry the sudden urge to sit down himself. He turned the chair round to face her and sat, with his back rigid and hands clenched at his sides, and waited.
She seemed unsure of herself. For the first time in his seventeen years, he saw Aunt Petunia at a complete loss. He soon realized that she was staring at the photo of his parents on the side table. The photo of them dancing and laughing on an autumn afternoon.
"They were quite a striking couple, weren't they?" she murmured.
Harry boggled. What did she say?
She coughed and faced him. "I'm sorry to...disturb you, Harry. I heard...I heard you studying and as you were awake..." She shook her head and lowered her gaze. He saw her take a tissue and dab at the sides of her eyes. His eyes widened in return.
"Aunt Petunia," he said at length. "What happened? Who-" and here he nearly lost his nerve "-who came here tonight?"
She sniffled, dabbed at her nose with the tissue, and then said, haltingly, "A friend of yours, Harry."
At this he leaned forward in the chair, excitement overriding all else. "A friend? Who was it? Please tell me."
"She...didn't tell me her name, just that she was a friend of yours. From a group." Aunt Petunia stopped and shook her head vehemently. "Oh, Harry, I am so sorry."
"What?" He didn't mean for it to come out so sharply, but it did.
"For everything. I am sorry. So sorry. I know that...this is not...this is not what your parents would have wanted for you. I know that Lily...you are so like them, you know. Beyond looking like your father, and even acting like him on occasion, you are so much like her as well. And I do miss her. I didn't understand it, I was jealous of it, her being a witch, of her being magical, but I miss her. She was my sister and I...I was so loathsome, Harry, to her, to your father, to you. I am so sorry for that. I know that you will be starting your last year at Hogwarts soon and after that you will be gone, away from us." All of this tumbled from her lips rapidly, spilling from her in a torrent of words and sobs. Harry could only gape at her, stunned at the sudden change in his aunt. She gasped and then reached over to take him by the shoulders firmly. "You should run, Harry, run as far and as quickly away from us as you possibly can, don't come back here after you've graduated, go and live your life the way you wish it and forget about us and the terrible things we've done to you. Please. I implore you." The last statement came in the form of a whisper.
Harry blinked. Her blue eyes (they were blue? He never noticed they were blue) were brimming with tears and she looked...she was looking...why did she look like she cared about him?
"Aunt Petunia," he began thickly, "I don't understand."
She drew in a loud, shuddering sigh, and collapsed back down onto the bed. She had risen, half-standing, to take a hold of him. Her hands fell into her lap and she looked intently down at them, turning the tissue over and over between her fingers. "There have been so many lies," she finally said. She had spoken so softly that Harry wasn't sure that he had heard her. "So many lies over the years. I lied about James and Lily." Harry felt something seize in his throat at that. "I lied about hating them being together. I lied when I said I opposed their wedding. I lied when I said I wasn't happy that Lily was pregnant with you. I lied when I said I wasn't upset at their deaths. I lied when I said they deserved what they got. I lied when I said I never wanted you."
Harry slumped back into the chair, his head reeling. It was...too much. When she had first said that she had lied about James and Lily, his parents, Harry felt his throat tighten and his stomach churn. The revelation of the nature of her lies both comforted and surprised him. At least she hadn't lied in the way his worst imaginings were leaning. But, in a way, it was almost worse than that. The agony, the mind-numbing monotony of the abusive and tedious life he led at the Dursleys, repressing him all summer long, it was wiped clean away by his aunt's sudden repentance...what in the hell happened down there?
Harry had further stunned himself by saying it aloud.
His aunt didn't even chastise him on his use of language. "I was reminded, Harry," she whispered, "of all the lies that I have told. Of all of the actions that I have hated."
That sounded familiar. Why did it sound familiar?
"I was reminded to look at you. To see you. For the person you are, not what you are. I was reminded that you are not just a...wizard, but that you are just Harry." His aunt's face twisted again as she fought against the tears. "You are a good boy, Harry," she told him. Her voice broke as she said it and he found that his heart felt like it would break at that. She had reached for his hands and she clasped them in her own. Harry looked wide-eyed from her to his hands and back again. "You are such a good boy. And I never told you. Lily could never forgive me, or James. You are sweet. Despite everything we've done. The horrible things we've done. You are kind. You've never taken, you've only given. You are smart. Heavens, but you are intelligent, I see it every day. And you are generous. You've never once begrudged Dudley for all of the things I spoiled him with. I have spoiled him terribly and have given you nothing."
For some reason, Harry felt the need to come to his aunt's defence. "No, Aunt Petunia, that's not true. You and...Uncle Vernon...you gave me a home.
You...protected me. This is the only place where I am safe, outside of school."
She shook her head sadly. "You're only safe here because I am your mother's sister. The wards that our shared bloodline has placed over this house...I might not be a witch but my sister...my sister was a witch and I know certain things and have been told of many others. You are only safe here because we are blood relations. And safe like that...it's not enough...never could be...you should be safe in so many other ways."
Harry was blinking rapidly now. He still did not understand what had happened or what he was witness to, but the brutality of it was driving him to tears.
"Aunt Petunia..."
"I am so sorry." She shuddered and released his hands. "I am ever so sorry, Harry..."
"Aunt Petunia..."
"Oh, Lily, James, please forgive me."
Harry felt his eyes sting and saw his vision blur. Oh no, you didn't. You didn't just ask...
"I'm sorry." With that, Petunia Evans Dursley buried her face in her hands and sobbed. Harry, being the good boy that he was, being as kind hearted as he was, moved from the chair to the bed. He awkwardly sat next to his weeping aunt. She was still his aunt. Still his blood. Still his mother's sister. She was all that he had left of her. He reached out, unsure of what exactly to do, and softly touched his aunt on the shoulder. She nearly jumped; then, she fell against him, hugging him, crying, stroking his hair, murmuring things like, "You are such a good boy. They would be so proud. You are so handsome, like James. You are so kind, like Lily. You are such a good boy. You deserve love, Harry, and happiness. Oh, Harry, my good boy, I do love you."
It was then that Harry broke into tears of his own and hugged his aunt with all of his strength. "I-I love you too, Aunt Petunia..." he choked, overcome with emotion.
For the first time in his life, Harry was held by a family member, and was held with compassion, not loathing. For the first time in his life, Harry felt love in the Dursley house. For the first time in his seventeen years, Harry felt that he was aware of what it was like to be held by his mother.
∞