Chapter XIV

Harry woke with a start. His heart pounded heavily in his chest and ears. He scrambled out of the sofa, knocking over several things that shattered as they hit the floor. He had fallen asleep while waiting for the time to give Hermione her next dose of potion.

The room spun for a moment as he steadied himself, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The clock on the mantel showed it was just past three in the morning. He had dozed off for barely an hour, but it felt like days. Grimmauld Place was silent except for the faint creak of the old house settling and the distant tick of that clock, mocking him with its relentless march.

Hermione lay on the bed across the room, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Her skin was still pale, almost translucent under the dim light of the single candle he had left burning. Harry rubbed his eyes and crossed to her side, picking up the vial of potion from the bedside table. The healer Mr. Weasley had brought the night before, a Hungarian gypsy woman named Zsuzsanna with sharp eyes and a thick accent, had been clear in her instructions. Hermione was in shock, her body weakened from the drain, but physically she would recover. The potions-a strange tar-like liquid that smelled like liqour-were to restore her strength, one dose every four hours, mixed with a paste to apply to her chest and forehead for the lingering magical residue.

As for her soul, Zsuzsanna had shaken her head. "It is intact, me thinks. But souls are deep waters. We cannot know for sure until she wakes. Keep her warm, keep her close. And watch for signs of fracture, dreams that spill into reality."

He uncorked the vial now, the bitter scent filling the air, and gently lifted Hermione's head to help her swallow. She stirred faintly but did not wake, her lips parting just enough for the liquid to trickle down. He applied the paste next, his fingers careful on her skin, tracing the runes Zsuzsanna had shown him. It felt intimate, too intimate, and he pushed the thought away.

The healer had been insistent: no magic for this part, all by hand, to let the paste bond with her essence naturally. Harry dipped his fingers into the thick, herbal mixture, its warmth surprising against his skin. He started with her forehead, drawing the first rune, a swirling pattern meant to anchor her mind. Her skin was soft and smooth beneath his touch, yielding like silk under light pressure. The candlelight played across her face, casting gentle shadows that danced with each breath she took.

For her chest, he hesitated. Zsuzsanna's instructions echoed in his mind: the runes must cover the heart centre, but modesty mattered. He carefully adjusted the blanket, exposing just enough of her upper chest while keeping her breasts covered with the fabric's edge, tucked securely. His hands trembled slightly as he began, trying not to touch anywhere unnecessary.

Zsuzsanna's hands had been quick, and utterly unembarrassed. She had flicked her wand once, and the lush robe Hermione had worn for the ritual had dissolved into threads, re-weaving itself into a simple charcoal skirt that had draped to the ankles. Another flick and her upper body had been bare for the span of three heartbeats, just long enough for Zsuzsanna to have rubbed the fresh paste across her chest, tracing the anchoring rune.

Harry and Mr. Weasley had both found sudden, intense interest in the ceiling mouldings. A spider had chosen that exact moment to lower itself on a silken thread from the chandelier, Mr. Weasley had tracked its progress like it had been the most fascinating creature in Britain.

Zsuzsanna had muttered something in Romani too low to catch, then had conjured a loose linen bandeau, soft and breathable, wrapped snugly just across the lower ribs and tied at the back, leaving the upper chest, sternum bare, so the paste could breathe and the runes could settle directly against skin.

"Done," she had announced, wiping her hands on her apron. "No more skin. You can look, only medicine now."

Hermione had looked small and swaddled, the green paste glowing faintly on her skin.

The paste spread evenly, his fingers gliding over the smooth expanse above her collarbone. He wrote the runes small, compact, squeezing the symbols into a tighter space so, he wouldn't have to venture lower, closer to the covered curves. Each stroke was deliberate, the light from the candle highlighting the faint sheen on her skin, making it glow softly as the paste absorbed.

He wiped the runes away after a few minutes, again by hand, using a soft cloth dampened with water from a basin. No spells, no shortcuts; the residue came off in gentle circles, leaving her skin clean and faintly scented with herbs. Her breathing remained steady, unaware, but Harry felt the weight of the moment, the vulnerability in caring for her this way.

Mr. Weasley had taken Ron back to the Burrow after the ritual's collapse. Ron had woken briefly, groggy and unrepentant, muttering about loss and betrayal before Mr. Weasley had silenced him with a spell and apparated away. "He needs time, Harry." Mr. Weasley had said, his voice heavy. "And so do you all. I'll handle him." That had been the last of it. Ron was gone, perhaps for good, and the house felt emptier for it, though Harry could not summon regret. Not yet.

Anger simmered in him as he sat back, watching Hermione's face. Anger at Ron for what he had done, pulling her essence away like a thief in the night, feeding on her light as if it were his to take. Blame twisted in his gut, sharp and unrelenting. If he had been stronger during the ritual, if he had seen the signs earlier, perhaps none of this would have happened. Upset clawed at him, a deep, aching sorrow for the fracture in their trio, for the girl lying so still before him. Confusion clouded everything, why had Ron snapped so completely, why had the bond turned against them. And beneath it all, something warmer, more dangerous, a half-formed love that had been growing in the shadows of their friendship, now blooming in the quiet hours of her vulnerability.

He couldn't deny it any more, not to himself. The fierce protectiveness that surged through him at the thought of losing her. It wasn't just friendship, not any more. But what did that mean now, with her like this, with Ron gone, with the world outside pressing in on them.

Harry stood, needing to move to shake off the heaviness. He paced the room, his footsteps muffled on the worn carpet. He changed clothes, just for the sake of it. He wore his black robes, they comfortable and stylish. Somehow it felt wrong to prance around the house, in his t-shirt while his friend, laid beneath blankets.

The Black family tapestry hung on the far wall, its intricate threads weaving names and connections in faded gold and black. He stopped before it, staring at the names, Sirius, Regulus, Bellatrix, Narcissa. And there, at the edge, his own name embroidered in, Harry James Potter-Black, a title he had inherited but never fully claimed, now solidified by whatever magic that was aware of it. The weight of it felt heavier now, in this silent house.

A sudden shriek pierced the quiet, Mrs. Block's portrait in the hall awakening to some imagined intrusion. "Filth! Scum! How dare you defile this noble house!"

Harry's temper flared. "Shut up!" he bellowed, but she only screeched louder.

"Blood traitors! Mudblood lovers! Get out!"

He did not run. He did not stride. He walked, slowly, deliberately, each footfall a pronouncement. The floorboards beneath him did not creak; they groaned, as if the house itself recognized the shift in its master. Dust motes froze mid-air, suspended in the slanted light of the hallway, and the temperature dropped several degrees in his wake.

Anger stirred inside him, not the hot, reckless fury of youth, but something colder, older, forged in the crucible of betrayal and tempered by the weight of a name he had never asked to carry. It was the anger of a man who had buried too many, forgiven too much, and now stood at the edge of a line he had sworn never to cross.

The house seemed to shake beneath his feet, not with violence, but with resonance. Each step solidified something deep, arcane, within him, and therein, taking hold. The walls breathed with him.

Each breath was a testament, as hammer falling on a nail in the coffin of what had been, an axe severing ties with what was, and is no more. The air thickened as he passed, heavy with the scent of old magic and older grudges. A crow croaked outside, once, sharp and final, its cry echoing through the cracked window like a judge's gavel. The grandfather clock in the hall struck the quarter-hour, but the chimes came slow, distorted, as if time itself hesitated to mark this moment.

The light shimmered as he passed, not from any spell, but from the pressure of his presence. The gas lamps flickered, their flames bowing low. The very shadows recoiled, slinking back into corners as if burned by the intensity of his gaze. They did not flee; they retreated, respectful, wary, acknowledging a power that had finally decided to be used.

He stood before her portrait.

Walburga Black stared down at him, her painted eyes wide with the perpetual sneer of the eternally offended. Her mouth was open mid-shriek, frozen in the act of cursing the world that had dared to change without her permission. The canvas trembled slightly, as if sensing the storm gathering in the man below.

Harry did not speak. He did not need to. He stared, unblinkingly, and in that silence, the house held its breath. The anger was no longer a feeling; it was a force, a mantle, a crown of thorns he had finally accepted. The boy who had once flinched from this woman's screams was gone. In his place stood Lord Potter-Black, and the portrait knew it.

The curtains behind him stirred though there was no wind. Somewhere deep in the foundations, Kreacher paused in his polishing, ears pricked. The crow outside fell silent. Even the dust settled, as if the very air had decided to wait.

Harry drew his wand, not in threat, but in declaration. The holly and phoenix feather caught the light, gleaming like a blade drawn for the first time in a long time.

The portrait's eyes widened further, the paint cracking faintly at the corners as the magic in the frame strained against the inevitability of what was coming.

"You!" She screamed with a wavering pointed finger.

"Me!" Harry replied flatly.

"Filth of Potters and Mudbloods! Scorn on the house-"

"Enough!" Harry shouted loudly over her cry, raising a hand to silence her. When he spoke again, his voice was low, steady, and utterly devoid of mercy.

"I am Lord Potter-Black." he declared, his voice steady and commanding. "This is my house, and I demand silence. Forever."

The portrait froze, her eyes widening in shock. Then, with a final, choked gasp, she fell silent, her painted mouth moving soundlessly before stilling completely. Harry stared, surprised at the power in his words. The ancient magic of the house had recognized him, obeyed him. He felt a surge of authority, a reminder that he was no longer just Harry Potter, the boy who lived. He was the head of an ancient line, with all the privileges and burdens that came with it.

Returning to the room, he reinforced the wards on the house, weaving spells specifically against Ron. "Protego contra Ronald Weasley." he intoned, layering barriers that would alert him to any approach, repel any entry. It felt like a betrayal, but necessary. Ron had crossed a line, and until Hermione woke, until they understood what had happened, he couldn't risk it.

---

Time passed in a blur of potions and pastes, sleepless nights and fitful dozes. Days bled into one another, marked only by the changing light filtering through the heavy curtains. Harry rarely left her side, eating sparse meals Kreacher brought, reading old books from the Black library to pass the hours. He spoke to her sometimes, soft words about their past adventures, about Hogwarts, about anything to fill the silence. "Remember that time in third year, when you punched Malfoy? I thought Ron was going to propose right there."

Harry had Phineas's portrait relocated from the drawing room to a shadowed alcove beside the grandfather clock on the first-floor landing. The old headmaster now had a clear line of sight down the hall and the living room, where Hermione was laid on sofa, Zsuzsanna had insisted on putting her in the living room. "Rooms are for brides." she had muttered.

Phineas watched in silence, painted eyes tracking Harry's comings and goings: the measured steps at potion time, the soft cloth wiping away runes, the way Harry's shoulders bowed when exhaustion finally won. They exchanged no more than a nod or a curt "Still breathing" across the distance. Words felt heavy, unnecessary; everything that mattered was suspended in the hush between heartbeats and clock chimes.

After the third dawn, Harry summoned Kreacher.

"Put him back in the basement," he said, voice flat. "Where he belongs."

He had blamed Phineas, irrationally, and viciously for never insisting on real safeguards. Shattering a handful of geodes had been a child's game, never enough to disrupt a soul-ritual. From the alcove he had watched Harry limp through the days. Every chime of the grandfather clock had struck like a hammer on iron, forging him anew in darkness.

Kreacher bowed low, muttering about "proper places for proper Blacks," and levitated the frame down the narrow stairs. The portrait did not protest; Phineas merely raised an eyebrow as the gloom swallowed him again.

Harry shut the basement door with a soft click. Some ghosts were better kept below.

A letter arrived from Ginny on the third day, delivered by a Hogwarts owl. Harry unsealed it with trembling fingers.

Dear Harry,

Dad told me about the duel. I'm so sorry about Hermione. And Ron... I don't know what to say. Dad says he's at the Burrow, but he's not himself. Angry, withdrawn. Mum's beside herself. What spells were you practising that had such an impact when performed incorrectly?

I want to come see you, and Hermione too, but McGonagall won't let me leave school, even for this. But if you need me, say the word, and I'll find a way. Floo, broom, whatever it takes.

How is she? How are you? Please write back. I miss you.

Love,

Ginny

Harry stared at the parchment. "So that's what Mr. Weasley told them", he thought. A mix of warmth and guilt washing over him. Ginny, always fierce, always ready to fight for those she loved. But seeing her now, with Hermione like this, with his feelings so tangled. He couldn't. Not yet.

He wrote back quickly, assuring her he was managing, that Hermione was stable, that he'd let her know if anything changed. He didn't mention his growing confusion, the way his heart ached differently now.

On the fifth day, Hermione stirred more than usual during the potion administration. Her eyelids fluttered, a soft moan escaping her lips. Harry's heart leaped. "Hermione? Can you hear me?"

But she settled again, slipping back into stillness. False hope, but hope nonetheless.

He resumed his vigil, staring at the tapestry again, tracing the lines of lineage. Bellatrix's name burned off, Sirius's too. What would his own legacy be? Saviour, lord, or just a man broken by loss?

The days stretched. Zsuzsanna returned once, checking Hermione's progress. "She heals." the woman said, her accent thick. "But the soul mends slow. Give her time."

Zsuzsanna knelt beside the bed with the creak of old knees and older bones, her colourful skirts pooling like spilled wine on the worn rug. The room smelled of crushed sage and the sharp bite of caraway from the paste still drying on Hermione's skin.

She bent low, pressing one ear to the girl's chest, just above the heart. The rise and fall was shallow but even; the heartbeat fluttered like a trapped moth. Zsuzsanna's dark eyes narrowed, listening for the rhythm beneath the skin, the echo of soul against flesh.

Her fingers, calloused from years of grinding roots and twisting charms, moved to Hermione's wrist. Pulse steady, thread-thin but unbroken. Then to the forehead, palm flat, feeling for the fever that sometimes followed soul-drain. Cool. Too cool.

With a gentleness that belied the muttered curse, she brushed a lock of bushy hair behind Hermione's ear "...šukar kurva..." tucking it as a mother might. The motion was automatic, centuries of healing women in caravans and cottages. The words slipped out, low and venomous, barely louder than the crackle of the hearth.

Zsuzsanna straightened, wiping her hands on the apron tied tight over her hips. Her gaze flicked to Harry, standing rigid by the footboard, knuckles white around his wand.

"So she can hear you," she said in her thick, rolling English, each consonant clipped like a knife through bread. "She needs listen. Talk, boy. Not pretty words. Truth. The soul clings to voice it knows."

She pointed a finger at Hermione's temple, then at Harry's mouth. "Speak of the night you thought you would die, and she held the pieces together. Speak until the words pull her back."

A pause. The fire popped. Outside, the crow answered once.

"Or," Zsuzsanna added, softer now, almost kind, "speak of the boy who is angry enough to burn the world but stays to wipe paste from her skin. That voice she will follow."

Harry nodded, exhaustion etching lines on his face. He was half in love, he admitted to himself in the quiet hours. The ritual had changed something, opened doors he hadn't known existed. Flashes of it came to him unbidden: her presence inside him, gliding besides him, falling next to him, the storm of memories. He wondered what she had seen, what she would remember.

---

Harry descended the creaking basement stairs for the first time in many nights, the chill of the stone walls seeping into his bones despite the warming charm he muttered under his breath. The single torch flickered in its bracket, casting elongated shadows that danced like mocking spectres across the dusty shelves of forgotten potions and cursed heirlooms. Phineas Nigellus Black's portrait hung at the far end. The old headmaster was awake this time, his painted eyes gleaming with that perpetual mix of disdain and curiosity, as if the living world were a mildly amusing play performed for his eternal entertainment.

Phineas straightened in his frame, adjusting the high collar of his Slytherin robes with a flourish. "I see that you have stopped resisting your title."

Harry leaned against a nearby crate, arms crossed, his exhaustion etched in the lines around his eyes. "I see no point any more. The goblins have made that clear enough with their endless parchments and vaults."

"You carry yourself like a Lord, and you've even stopped wearing muggle attire indoors, I applaud that." He paused. "The weight suits you, even if you wear it like an ill-fitted cloak."

"Save it, it's just a robe..."

Phineas's lips curled into a sly smile. "And how do you feel about this newfound nobility, boy? Does it stir the blood of ancient lines in your veins?"

"I don't." Harry replied flatly, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. He pushed off the crate and paced a few steps, the floorboards groaning under his weight. "Feel anything about it, I mean. It's just another burden."

Phineas tilted his head, studying Harry with the intensity of a hawk eyeing prey. "How is the girl, then?"

"Barely alive." Harry said, the words alone making his heart sink. He stopped pacing, staring at the portrait but seeing Hermione's pale face instead. "She's breathing, but it's shallow. Zsuzsanna says her body's fighting, but her soul... It's like she's caught in limbo."

Phineas's expression shifted, a rare flicker of something almost like concern crossing his features before it settled back into aristocratic detachment. "You are reluctant to touch her. I saw it from my frame, the way you hesitate with the paste, the potions. Your hands hover as if she's made of fragile glass."

Harry's cheeks burned, a mix of embarrassment and defensiveness. He glanced up at the portrait sharply. "Mock all you want. I'm being careful. Respectful."

"It is noble of you." Phineas conceded with a nod. "I would hate the name of Black sullied on a common ruffian with no dignity or decency. Touching a witch in her vulnerability without cause... unbecoming of our line."

Harry exhaled slowly, running a hand through his dishevelled hair. "I hope she recovers. I can't take this any longer. She's hanging between worlds, like you said. That gypsy woman, Zsuzsanna, she's the only one helping, but I don't trust her fully. She looks at Hermione like she's... dirty, tainted by the ritual's backlash. I almost cursed her the other day when she muttered something under her breath. It sounded vulgar."

Phineas's eyes narrowed, his painted beard bristling as if ruffled by an unseen wind. "Never trust gypsies! People of no land or heritage are beneath us, wandering folk, nomads and exiles with their caravans and curses, no roots in proper wizarding society."

"I don't care that she's a gypsy. She could be French for all I care, or Martian. As long as her remedy helps Hermione, that's what matters. Her pastes are working, the colour's coming back to Hermione's cheeks, bit by bit."

Phineas waved a dismissive hand, the gesture fluid despite the canvas constraints. "She will recover. I'm sure of it. Blacks do not associate with failures, and you've tethered yourself to her fate now."

"And if she doesn't?" Harry's fists clenched at his sides, the anger bubbling up like a potion on the verge of overflow.

"Then Merlin help the Weasleys." Phineas replied coolly, his voice laced with dark amusement. "The red-haired brood will feel the wrath of a Potter-Black scorned."

Harry resumed pacing, his boots thudding against the stone. "I want to go to the Burrow. Right now. Storm in and drag Ron out by his ears."

"It is unwise." Phineas cautioned, leaning forward in his frame as if to impart a grave secret. "Charging into that warren of sentimentality? You'll only escalate the mess. Mr. Weasley has the boy in check, if he is true to his word!"

"I'm going to find Ron and kill him." Harry growled, his wand twitching in his holster as visions flashed through his mind.

Phineas chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that echoed unnaturally. "I don't think your girlfriend would appreciate that. The Weasley chit."

"She won't appreciate this either." Harry shot back, gesturing vaguely upward toward the living room. "Any of it. Hermione half-dead, Ron a traitor, me... Whatever I am now."

Phineas's gaze sharpened. "How much has Weasley senior told them? The family, I mean."

"He told them we were practising duelling." Harry said, slumping against the wall again. "That the backlash was from a miscast spell."

"Silly but a wise lie." Phineas said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Covers the soul magic stench without inviting questions. And what of the girl?

"Which one?"

"You're losing track already, Lord Potter-Black."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You call all of them 'girl.'

"The Weasley girl."

"She wrote. She's worried, said she wants to ditch school to come and visit us."

"And you consoled her? I presume..."

Harry nodded. "Told her all is fine, that Hermione's recovering quickly and there is nothing to worry about..."

Phineas repeated his earlier question, his tone probing deeper this time. "How do you feel? Truly, now that the title is yours and the chaos swirls."

"I don't know." Harry confessed, sliding down the wall to sit on the cold floor, knees drawn up. "I feel... wrong. Angry, at Ron, at myself for not seeing it coming. Upset, like the world's cracked again and I can't glue it back. Conflicted. I feel something for Hermione... but I don't know what it is. It's not like what I feel for Ginny. With Ginny, it's easy, it's laughter and jokes and Quidditch, and... a future. With Hermione... it's deeper, like she's part of me now. The ritual did that, didn't it?"

"The bond has worked very well." Phineas said, nodding sagely. "Granger is a capable witch. The trinity charm doesn't lie; it amplifies what's already there, forges links that time can't easily sever."

"What does that mean, exactly?" Harry pressed, leaning forward, his green eyes intense even in the dim light.

"You will have to decide what it means." Phineas replied cryptically at first, then elaborated with a sigh. "You have a strong bond with her now, Potter-Black. For her, it is even stronger, she delved into your core, saw the scars. She is vulnerable in ways you cannot imagine, her essence still raw from the drain. Don't let her get too close if you don't want her permanence in your life... don't play with her heart or her magic. She will be your end if you mishandle it. But don't push her away entirely; she will be destroyed, shattered like fragile crystal. Keep her close, and as I said before, be a friend. True, and unwavering."

Harry absorbed the words, his mind racing through memories, the way Hermione's hand felt in his during the ritual, the echoes of her curiosity in his thoughts since. "Am I the type of person to play with people? To toy with feelings like that?"

Phineas considered him for a long moment, his painted eyes unblinking. "Maybe not intentionally, but youth is foolish, and power tempts. It is better to say things bluntly than regret not having been clear later. Intentions mean little when hearts are involved."

"You care for her." Harry observed quietly, surprise colouring his voice. "Why? She's not a Black, not pureblood."

Phineas's expression softened imperceptibly, a rare crack in the facade. "She was good company. Sharp wit, unyielding logic. Reminds me of witches from my era who bent the world to their will without bowing to fools. And... she fights for you, boy. That earns respect, even from a portrait."

The conversation hung there for a beat. Then, abruptly, Harry drew his wand, the holly and phoenix feather gleaming in the torchlight. He levelled it at the portrait, his voice steady but laced with authority. "Te vinculis solvo"

A soft glow emanated from the canvas, the magical chains binding Phineas to that single frame unravelling like smoke. The portrait shimmered, Phineas's form gaining a subtle mobility, he could now traverse the network of Black family portraits if he chose, though still confined to frames.

He didn't know where he got that spell from. He just thought it, and it came to him.

"I release you from your bind to this frame." Harry continued, lowering his wand but keeping his gaze firm. "But know that if your tongue betrays me, or her, Ginny, anyone I care for, you shall never return. I'll seal you in oblivion myself."

"You are beginning to learn the true nature of magic. The words serve you as you bend them to your will. Phineas flexed his arms experimentally, a grin spreading across his face, genuine this time, with a hint of admiration. "Benevolent of you, Lord Potter-Black. Freedom after a year of basement exile.

"Don't mention it." Harry grinned as he holstered his wand, a small smile breaking through his fatigue.

"It's time for me to tell you how you became a Black." Phineas continued eagerly, his voice taking on the cadence of a storyteller. "You have surely seen your name etched into the tapestry upstairs, woven in with the blood threads. And I heard you silence my great-great-great-granddaughter-in-law-Walburga's screeching portrait. It is time for you to know the truth of your inheritance."

"Will you believe me if I said I don't care?" Harry interrupted, though curiosity flickered in his eyes despite himself.

"I do care." Phineas countered smoothly, "but I will tell you anyway. The Black line demands it."

"Very well." Harry sighed, settling back against the wall. "If I must suffer it, then proceed."

"Your father and my great-grandson-Sirius-made a blood pact, right after he married your mother. A binding of brotherhood, common among purebloods."

Harry's brow furrowed. "How do you know this? Were you spying even then?"

"I saw the cut on his hand when he came to take some of his rubbish from this house." Phineas explained, gesturing animatedly. "James Potter, swaggering in with that Marauder grin, palm bandaged but fresh.

"And he just... told you?"

"No, he didn't need to. The pattern of the scar was intricate, runes intertwined, a pact sigil only the old families recognize. It could only be one thing: a blood adoption rite, weaving fates."

"That doesn't make me a Black." Harry protested, though his voice held doubt now. "Blood pacts between friends don't rewrite family trees."

"I am not sure of the details." Phineas admitted, "but as far as this house and the ancient rites of Black are concerned, through that blood pact, you became Black enough. The magic recognizes intent, spillover from the union. Sirius intended you as his heir in all but name; the pact amplified it, especially after his disownmeant left gaps, which I believe where filled by him adopting you as your rightful godfather. There might be other contributing factors, which I won't attempt to guess..."

"If you are suggesting that my mother..." Harry fired up, horror creeping in.

"I am not." Phineas cut in firmly, raising a hand.

"Then what?" Harry demanded, facing him, tension coiling in his shoulders.

"I don't know, and I don't do guesswork." Phineas said with a shrug. "It is possible that you were conceived on the same day that the pact was made, timing aligning magically. It is possible that the pact was a repeated affair among those two mischief-makers, renewed in pranks and loyalty. What is certain is that you are, by all means of magic and right, a Black. Though it would not have meant anything, vaults, title, house, if Narcissa Malfoy hadn't submitted to you, acknowledging the shift."

Harry groaned, rubbing his temples. "I wish she hadn't. I have goblins to deal with now as well, endless meetings, audits, pureblood nonsense. I could live without all that."

Phineas's laughter echoed. "Nothing is so necessary for men as the company of intelligent women. Keep Granger close, she will be your shield and your sword. Show her care and affection, and she can be wielded at will, guiding your decisions, fending off foes, in the chaos that comes."

"That is not who I am." Harry retorted, his voice sharp with conviction. "I don't wield people. Not friends, not... her."

Phineas's eyes gleamed with challenge. "No, that is who you need to be. Lord Potter-Black survives not on heroism alone, but on alliances forged in trust and tempered in fire. Deny it, and the world will wield you instead."

"The world will always be against me..."

"Then break it!" Phineas said bluntly, as if it was the only possible solution.

Harry stood there, the weight of the words settling like the house's ancient dust. He nodded once, a silent acknowledgement, then turned to ascend the stairs. The conversation lingered in his mind as he returned to Hermione's side, Phineas's warnings, histories, and blunt truths weaving into the tapestry of his conflicted heart.

---

Mr. Weasley apparated in the kitchen just after noon. Harry had been dozing upright in the armchair beside Hermione, one hand still resting lightly on her wrist to feel the steady pulse. The sudden noise jerked him awake; wand half-raised before he registered the familiar silhouette stepping through.

Mr. Weasley emerged, brushing snow from his robes. His face was drawn, the lines around his eyes deeper than Harry remembered, and the usual twinkle was absent.

"Harry, my boy." his voice cracked on the second word. He cleared his throat, straightened his glasses, and managed a tired smile. "Thought I'd pop round. Molly's beside herself. Wouldn't let me leave without checking on both of you."

Harry stood, joints protesting the hours spent immobile. "Mr Weasley. Good to see you. Hermione's... the same. Breathing easier, I think. Come in, sit."

Mr. Weasley glanced toward the bed as he crossed the threshold. Hermione lay pale against the pillows, hair fanned across the linen like dark silk, the faint herbal scent of Zsuzsanna's paste still lingering. His shoulders sagged.

"She looks so small," he murmured. "Like Ginny when she was in the Chamber. Merlin, Harry, what a mess."

Harry dragged the second chair across the rug, its legs scraping softly. He gestured for Mr. Weasley to sit. Kreacher materialized beside them, two chipped mugs balanced on a silver tray that had once belonged to Orion Black. Steam curled from the dark brew; Mr. Weasley took his with both hands, cradling it like a fragile thing.

"I did everything in my power to stop Molly coming over," Mr. Weasley said, voice low, as though the walls themselves might carry the words to the burrow.

"Couldn't have been easy."

"It wasn't." Mr. Weasley's thumbs traced the rim of the mug. "In the end I had to give her a sliver of the truth, or she'd have Apparated straight through the wards."

Harry's head snapped up. "You did?"

Mr. Weasley met his eyes, steady but weary. "I told her the three of you were meditating together. Trying to tighten the bond after... everything. Said you'd brewed a calming draught to quiet your minds, and something went wrong. Ron latched on too hard. Hermione's in shock." He exhaled. "Close enough to the truth that she believed me."

Harry's fingers tightened around his own mug. The tea sloshed, scalding his knuckles. "She buy it?"

"For now." Mr. Weasley's mouth twisted. "She's furious with Ron, terrified for Hermione, and blaming herself for not taking care of you two. But she's not packing a bag to storm Grimmauld Place. Told her you are ashamed and she should let you handle it. That's the best I could manage."

"How's Ron?" Harry asked, though the name tasted bitter.

Mr. Weasley exhaled through his nose, long and slow. "Locked himself in his room. Won't come out, won't speak. Eats what Molly leaves on a tray outside the door, but that's it. She's tried every charm in the book, Cheering Charms, Calming Draughts, even threatened to blast the door off its hinges. Nothing. He just... stares at the wall."

Harry's fingers tightened around his mug. "He nearly killed her."

"I know." Mr. Weasley's voice was quiet and pained. "He knows, too. That's the worst part. He's drowning in it. Keeps muttering 'I didn't mean to take so much' when he thinks no one's listening outside the door. Molly heard him through the keyhole. That's really why I had to tell her something believable. It broke her heart all over again."

Harry swallowed hard. "I'm sorry..."

"Not your fault my boy... We knew what we were doing..."

Harry stared into his tea, the surface rippling with his unsteady breath. "I should've seen it. I pushed for the ritual. Thought it would help."

Mr. Weasley reached over, resting a hand on Harry's forearm. "You were trying to understand yourself, lad. Ron made his choice. We all did." He paused, then gentler: "How is Hermione, really? The healer's came for a check didn't she?"

Harry recounted the past days in clipped sentences: the potions every four hours, the paste runes, the slow return of colour to her cheeks, the way her fingers had twitched yesterday when he read aloud from "Hogwarts: A History". He left out the midnight confessions whispered to her unconscious form, the way his thumb sometimes traced the inside of her wrist just to feel her pulse.

Mr. Weasley's gaze drifted back to Hermione. "She looks peaceful, at least. Molly sent this." He reached into his robe pocket and produced a small knitted square, Gryffindor scarlet and gold, tiny badgers embroidered along the border. "Said to tuck it under the pillow. 'For luck and love,' she told me. Nearly started crying again when she handed it over."

Harry took the square gently, the wool soft and warm from Mr. Weasley's pocket. He slipped it beneath Hermione's pillow, fingers brushing her hair. "Tell Molly... tell her thank you. And that I'm taking care of her."

"I will." Mr. Weasley drained his tea, set the mug aside. "Harry... when Ron's ready to talk, will you listen? Not forgive, just listen? For Molly's sake?"

Harry's jaw worked. "No, I'm affraid I won't be able to control myself!"

"Harry..."

"If Hermione wakes and says it's okay. Only then."

Mr. Weasley nodded, accepting the boundary. "Fair enough." He stood, joints popping. "I should get back before Molly sends a Howler."

Harry rose too. "Give her my love. And Ginny, she's been writing."

"She worries," Mr. Weasley said simply. "We all do." He stepped into the kitchen. "Keep us posted, Harry. Any change, good or bad, owl at once."

He apparated with a loud crack, leaving Harry in silence once more.

Harry returned to her side, sinking into the chair. He took her hand again, thumb tracing the faint blue veins on the back of it.

"Come back soon." he whispered.

---

The seventh night fell heavy and moonless.

Harry had dozed off in the armchair again, neck stiff, one hand still resting on the edge of the sofa. The candle had burned low, wax pooled like frozen tears on the saucer. He woke to the sound of a single, ragged inhale, sharp enough to cut the silence in half.

Hermione's eyes flew open.

They were huge in her pale face, pupils blown wide, reflecting the dying flame like twin black mirrors. For a heartbeat she stared at the ceiling overhead as though she had never seen it before, as though the whole world had been remade while she slept.

Harry was on his knees beside the bed before he was fully awake. "Hermione." His voice cracked on her name. "It's me. It's Harry. You're safe. You're home."

Her head turned slowly, painfully, toward the sound. Recognition came in slow degrees: first the eyes softening, then the mouth trembling, then the single tear that slipped from the corner of her eye and tracked into her hair.

"Harry," she whispered, the word scraped raw, as if her throat had forgotten how to shape it.

He was already moving. One arm slid carefully behind her shoulders, the other cradling the back of her head as he eased her upright against the pillows. Her body felt frighteningly light, as though the week had hollowed her out.

"Kreacher! Water!"

The crack was immediate, sharp as a whip. The old elf appeared at the foot of the bed, eyes wide and shining wet in the candlelight, a silver tray trembling in his gnarled hands. Upon it sat a crystal jug beaded with condensation and a single glass.

"Mistress Hermione wakes..." Kreacher's voice broke; he actually bowed so low his nose brushed the blanket. "Kreacher knew she would come back to us. Kreacher never doubted..."

Harry took the tray with one hand, the other still supporting her. "Write to Mr Weasley at once. Tell him she's awake and lucid, but tell him to stay at the Burrow for now. She's not ready for visitors. No one is to come until I say."

Kreacher straightened, tears openly coursing down his wrinkled cheeks. "Yes, Master Harry. At once." Another crack, and he was gone.

Harry poured.

"Slowly," he murmured.

Hermione's hands came up, shaking, and closed over his on the glass. She drank greedily at first, then choked, coughed and tried again. Water spilled over her chin and down her neck, soaking the collar of the nightshirt, but she didn't care. She gulped until the glass was empty, then let her head fall back against the pillow with a shuddering exhale. With the back of her wrist she wiped her mouth.

Her eyes found his again, clearer now, sharp with returning awareness and the first prickle of fear.

"What... happened?" The words cost her; each one seemed to scrape her throat raw. Her voice was barely more than a rasp.

He swallowed the truth for now; it was too sharp to give her all at once. "Something went wrong with the ritual. You've been unconscious for seven days."

"Seven..." Her eyes searched his face, frantic. "Ron?"

Harry's grip tightened involuntarily. "Mr Weasley took him back to the Burrow the same night. He's not coming here again. Not ever, if I have anything to say about it."

The name alone was enough. Memory slammed into her like a hex to the chest. She flinched, breath hitching. "He fed on me," she said, voice small and cracked open. "I felt it, Harry. Like someone had hooked claws into my ribs and was pulling everything out through them. My magic, my thoughts, everything..."

A shudder ran through her whole body. Harry climbed onto the sofa without thinking, gathering her against him. She came willingly, folding into him, face pressed to his shoulder. The first sob was silent; the second tore loose, raw and ugly and unstoppable.

He held her through all of it, one hand stroking her back in slow, helpless circles, the other cradling her head. The tears soaked through his shirt in seconds, hot and endless.

When the storm finally quieted to shivers, she spoke against his collarbone, voice muffled and trembling.

"I saw you," she said. "All of you. The cupboard under the stairs. The way you learned to make yourself small so they wouldn't notice you. Cedric on the graveyard ground. Sirius falling, falling, falling. Dumbledore on the tower. Every death you carry like stones in your pockets."

She pulled back just far enough to look at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, the raw fire in her gaze, replaced by a wavering gloom in her eyes.

"And deeper still... the little boy with the too-big clothes who used to talk to snakes because they were the only ones who answered. Tom was there, Harry. Young and handsome and already hollow. You locked him away in a room made of your own pain so he couldn't hurt anyone else. You were only eleven."

Harry's throat closed. He hadn't known she'd seen that far into his memories, and Riddle? He never knew his soul had latched itself unto him until last year, at least, not consciously.

"I nearly broke you open," she whispered, fresh tears spilling. "I kept reaching, and reaching, and the guardian... he was so afraid for you. He begged me to stop."

"No." The word came out fierce. He cupped her face in both hands, forcing her to meet his eyes. He didn't even care who the guardian was. "Listen to me. You didn't break me. You saved me. I remember it, Hermione. I remember the moment your hand found mine in the dark, and you pulled. You pulled me out of... me! I felt it. I remember it."

Her breath caught in her throat again.

They stayed like that for a long while, talking in fragments, piecing the night together like shattered glass. She told him about the storm of sound, the shards of memory that had cut her as she fell. He told her about the week of paste and potions and terror, about waking every time her breathing changed.

At some point Kreacher brought broth. Dawn crept in through the gap in the curtains, pale and watery, painting soft gold across the rug. Hermione's voice grew steadier, though exhaustion dragged at every word.

"I'm still angry," she admitted quietly, fingers twisted in his shirt. "At Ron. At myself for not seeing it sooner. But mostly... I'm relieved. I saw the worst parts of you, Harry, and none of them made me lo- care about you less. If anything..."

She stopped, cheeks flushing.

Harry's heart sank. He brushed his thumb across her cheek, catching the last tear. "Then you haven't seen enough..." he joked, he didn't even know why he said that.

"I saw everything..." She simply leaned forward and rested her forehead against his chest.

Outside the window, the first bird of morning began to sing.

---

Later, once the colour had returned to her cheeks and her voice had steadied enough to argue, Hermione insisted on a proper shower. She pushed herself upright on the sofa, gripping the bedpost with white-knuckled determination, and declared that she could not bear another moment of feeling like a patient coated in herbs and helplessness.

Harry protested at first, but the set of her jaw had reminded him of how stubborn she was. He relented, offering his arm as a crutch while she shuffled the short distance to the bathroom on legs that trembled with every step. The tiles were cold beneath her bare feet; she leaned heavily against him, breath coming in shallow puffs that fogged the mirror.

"Call if you need me," he said, easing her onto the wooden stool Kreacher had placed beneath the showerhead. He closed the door behind him with a soft click, then stood just outside, worried that she might collapse, or faint.

Minutes passed in the steady drum of water against porcelain. He began to relax, imagining the grime of the ritual fading away, when a dull thud reverberated through the door. His hand was on the knob before the sound had finished echoing.

He burst in, wand already raised, and cast a hurried Blurring Charm that turned the air into frosted glass. Through the haze he saw her silhouette crumple, limbs folding like a marionette with its strings cut. Water was still pouring from the showerhead, drumming against her back as she lay motionless on the wet tiles.

"Hermione!"

He shut off the tap with a twist that nearly wrenched the handle free, then dropped to his knees beside her. Her pulse fluttered beneath his fingers like a trapped bird. He shook her, but she didn't stir.

Panic clawed at his throat. He wrapped her in the largest towel he could summon, thick and warmed by a quick charm, and lifted her carefully, cradling her against his chest as though she weighed nothing. Water dripped from her hair onto his robes and on the floor, he didn't care.

Overexertion, he told himself as he carried her back to the living room. Or a relapse, her soul, perhaps still too fragile to bear the strain of ordinary life. He laid her on the sofa again, and threw more firewood into the hearth.

He dried her with careful flicks of his wand, and applied a new layer of Zsuzsanna's paste across the faint green lines that still marked her sternum. The runes had glowed softly under his fingertips, reassuring in their steady pulse.

She stirred within minutes, eyes fluttering open to find him hovering, face pale with worry. "Sorry," she whispered, voice hoarse from the steam and the fall. "I'm so embarrassed..."

"Rest," he urged, tucking the quilt around her with hands that still trembled. "I didn't see anything... sleep... I'm here. I'm not going anywhere..."

---

As dawn broke, an owl arrived, tapping at the window. Harry retrieved the letter, its seal unfamiliar, from a foreign bank.

--- Dear Lord Potter-Black,

We have learned of your difficulties with Gringotts and the transfer of your vaults. Our institution, the Slavic Wizarding Vaults, specializes in discreet, international asset management. We are interested in taking your case, offering competitive terms and full confidentiality. Please respond at your earliest convenience to arrange a meeting.

With deepest respect, Darya Igorevna Petrova: Executive Director at Private Magical Assets Division

On behalf of: His Excellency Baron Severin Aleksandrovich Stieglitz

Court Banker Emeritus to the Imperial Household Chairman of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Stieglitz Banking Consortium ---

Harry set the letter down, a spark of hope amid the chaos. Perhaps a way forward, away from the tangles of the past.