"There is always the possibility that a selfish motive has influenced a just and good deed." (c) Arthur Schopenhauer
***The ritual hall was a large stone well deep beneath the house. A long spiral staircase led down to it, not particularly neatly carved directly into the rock, beginning its descent from the artefact repository. After climbing down, I found myself in a spacious cave, which, to my untrained eye, appeared to be of natural origin. Glowing moss grew in the corners, and a small stone altar stood in the centre.
The black, perfectly smooth slab exuded something ancient and dark, which made me shudder a little. It was an unpleasant feeling, to be honest. The entire altar was covered with runes, which I could barely recognise. It looked like Celtic... Although there were some Scandinavian and even Slavic runes, and I even spotted some hieroglyphs, but it was beyond my knowledge to say for sure who they belonged to.
After looking around the cave and finding nothing but moss, I cracked my knuckles with satisfaction, warming up my hands before getting started.
A family altar is the centre of a family's magical power and also a huge energy store, standing on a so-called place of power. Hogwarts, by the way, stands on one of the largest such places, a natural anomaly that feeds all the spells cast on the ancient castle, just as the altar feeds the walls of the Black house, preventing them from drying out and the runes from becoming depleted.
To perform the ritual, it was necessary to light candles made of a material that was not very pleasant to the touch (I was afraid to delve into what it was and somewhat disdainful, reasonably assuming that I would not like the answer) and, after reading a spell in some obviously dead language, sprinkle the altar with the victim's blood, mixing it with my own. But then a question arose. How to get a whole bull in here without destroying the staircase and the rather narrow passage to the ritual hall?
Thinking about this, I even regretted for a second that I hadn't decided to sacrifice Nazemnikus, even though he deserved it more than anyone else. Well, now wasn't the time; I'd deal with that whale burp later. Still, I didn't want to kill, I just couldn't bring myself to do it, although Sirius was much calmer in this regard; more than one Devourer had died at his hands during the war. And in general, he was raised in a house of dark wizards who also saw nothing terrible in murder, even though he didn't have any particular affection for these wizards. I, however, had not yet decided to cross that line.
The problem of excessive sacrifice was solved by partial transfiguration. I couldn't completely get rid of the animal's weight, the formula was too complicated and intricate for a wizard like me, but I managed to at least reduce its size. And then, after some struggle, I managed to push it through the narrow openings down below.
Finally, after some time, everything was ready. I lit the candles and led the docile animal to the altar. I felt a little disgusted, because the animal was definitely not to blame for anything. But such was its fate. I was doing what was necessary so that I could later help and protect Harry and myself.
"Dedisanguinem, uteffectum sortiatur..." The unfamiliar words cut my throat even after several rehearsals, breaking off my lips and echoing hollowly from the cave walls. It seemed as if several people were standing somewhere out there, in the shadows, beyond the reach of the thin candle light, repeating after me forgotten invocations to long-dead gods and departed powers.
About halfway through the quatrain, something in the atmosphere changed. The icy feeling of something else, which I couldn't even describe, but had felt from the moment the first candle was lit, disappeared. It wasn't out of the ordinary, according to my faded memories from my early years as a vagrant, but I still felt a little nervous.
The candles suddenly flared up, the fire leapt up, yellow flashes were pierced by veins as black as night, but I didn't feel any heat from them. Magic, pure and simple. Black fire. A nightmare. My hair stood on end, as if electrified, and goose bumps ran down my spine, as if someone had touched my neck with cold fingers. Suppressing the urge to scream and run away in shame, I finished reading the verse:
"Surgetenebris, etfiliieius!
A predatorily curved knife flashed in my hand. The animal suddenly raised its head, trying to break the spell, which was a little strange, because I thought I had secured it securely. The bull jerked once, then twice, but it was too late. One movement — and black blood flowed across the altar in the semi-darkness, hissing and disappearing from the black stone, evaporating into thin air. Now it was my turn.
I cut my palm with the blade and clenched it into a fist, immediately hissing in pain and biting my cheek from the inside. I think I overdid it. Blood gushed out, soaking the altar. The candles flickered for the last time and went out simultaneously, as if at the snap of invisible fingers, plunging the cave into absolute darkness. I felt myself weakening, but at the same time my body was filled with some kind of energy I had never felt before. It was both cold and hot, my teeth were chattering, and the contrast made me feel feverish.
At some point, the force became too much, and I felt like an overflowing vessel, the walls of which were about to crack from the increasing pressure. Another flash, and my consciousness gave way, my body collapsing like a sack onto the cold stone. The last thing I remembered was a row of white fangs near my face and hot breath blowing my hair. Then darkness engulfed me.
***
I woke up unexpectedly, feeling fresh and full of energy, with only a slight ache in my back and the back of my head, clearly from hitting the stone floor when I fell, and my joints were sore. After spending years "at the resort," my body still reacted badly to the cold. But the cave was empty, as if it had just been thoroughly cleaned, not a speck of dust or moss, not even the carcass of the bull had disappeared... It was scary and strange. Only the altar still stood in the centre.
Something had changed, but I couldn't figure out what it was, or even if it was me or the surroundings, or just the feeling of the space around me. I'd have to find everything in the library about the altar and the ritual. Doing it by guesswork, armed only with stories and pictures, was not the best idea, but I had practically no choice. The sooner I performed the ritual, the better, but afterwards I could breathe a little easier, and the time pressure would ease off again for a while.
On a positive note, I could now be congratulated on becoming the master and head of the family. Lord Black... it has a nice ring to it! Although, according to the paperwork, I will only be able to call myself that once I am recognised by the Wizengamot, and I will only have access to the accounts after that, which, of course, brings me back to the problem of my position. But it was fine, seriously, I didn't die during the ritual, and for that I am grateful.
After checking the ritual hall once more and finding no significant changes other than the disappearance of the moss, I went upstairs and summoned the house-elf, asking him to prepare... breakfast, if the wall clock was to be believed. It turned out that I had spent about half a day in that hall, either recovering or something else.
"Bring everything to my office, Kreacher," I asked the House-elf, who was looking at me loyally, clearing my throat, my voice too hoarse after the long silence. I needed to think.
"It will be done, Lord Black," the house-elf said with a happy smile that looked a little strange on his face, and disappeared with a pop of apparition.
"Lord Black... I wonder how Kreacher found out that I was already the Head? No, he knew about my plans, and he was the one who bought the bull, but still... Well, I'll figure out that mystery later. Right now, I had to think about my next steps.
Several issues needed to be resolved at once. First, he had to clear his name and become the officially recognised head of the family. Second, he had to retrieve his godson from the Dursleys. Legally... or not. Judging by his memories of the Potters, James's will named several people who could become Harry's guardians after their death. James didn't want to make this will, but Lily insisted, and in the end he gave in, although he continued to complain to Sirius. The problem was that I didn't know the exact names, as I hadn't seen the will itself. But most likely it included me, Frank or Alice Longbottom and... Dumbledore? Could the Potters have included him?
Probably yes, everyone trusted the headmaster unconditionally. And judging by Harry's situation, that was indeed the case, because Sirius was in prison, and Alice and Frank were in the Mungo ward for the terminally ill, which made them just as incapacitated, even excluding their mental state.
I was sorely lacking information. I looked through several newspaper clippings brought by Kreacher, but I understood absolutely nothing. Unfortunately, this was not the Internet; it would be at least a couple of years before its invention, and even longer before it came into widespread use. And in the newspaper, apart from the usual gossip from Skeeter, something really important was mentioned in passing, and you had to know where to look. Hmm...
If it was something that mattered in the magical world, I could try investing in well-known modern companies. But I might as well try to transform banknotes. Not very many at a time, though. After all, major interference in the lives of Muggles is investigated at the international level, where Dumbledore himself sits.
Now, thinking sensibly about my chances, it became clear that the headmaster of Hogwarts was a figure of such stature that, in comparison, I was like a mouse trying to take down an elephant. Right now, while I'm practically nowhere to be found, they're looking for me, but they're taking their time. But when I take Harry away... Dumbledore will dig the ground with his nose, but he will find me everywhere except within the walls of my house. And the life of a recluse is like voluntary imprisonment. I certainly don't want that life for my child. So I need allies, and I need my good name.
But still, if I can officially take Harry with me, Dumbledore will dig up dirt on me, but he probably won't dare to do anything more than that. Reputation, connections and so on — it just wouldn't be worth it for him. He's not that important. Harry is still bound by a magical contract with Hogwarts, which James signed, paying for his education in advance, so there's a chance he'll try to influence me through him.
But the main question was how to get the case reviewed. I'm not sure that even if I bring the rat to the Aurors, they won't just erase my memory. And Peter will quietly disappear for the next five years until they need to resurrect Voldemort... If he is involved in all this.
"Yeah..." I realised that I was just drawing circles on the paper I had taken for notes and cursed softly under my breath. Stop! I need to decide who can help me and who I can influence. The list looked something like this:
Meda. Although she left the family, choosing the Muggle-born Tonks, perhaps her sister would agree to return to the family. After all, she is a Black by blood, and that means something. Perhaps, on top of everything else, she has connections in the Auror Corps, since in the future Nymphadora was taken on as an apprentice not by just anyone, but by Mad-Eye, a former Deputy Minister of Justice. I needed those connections.
Narcissa... no, that's a dead end. I don't think she'll be happy to see her brother run away, since she didn't stand up for him before. After all, according to the newspapers, Malfoy has a lot of influence over the Minister and is also the leader of the former Death Eaters in the absence of their Master. He's the last person who would help me. And even if he did, I'd probably lose my entire family fortune before I could say "lumos." The last thing the Malfoys need is trouble with the law.
Lady Longbottom... I don't know why I remembered her. She's probably loyal to Dumbledore, although she's been cold towards him since the death of his children. No, not an option. I was friends with Frank and Alice, but that old woman always treated me with suspicion.
Muriel Prewett — I had a pretty good relationship with that old woman until the day Fabian and Gideon died. She never approved of the Order of the Phoenix and sincerely disliked Dumbledore. She's a feisty lady... She's well over eighty now, but according to the newspapers, she's still sitting on the Wizengamot. In short, if I can get her interested, she might help me.
Lupin... It's complicated. I don't know if he's loyal to his friends or if he still believes in Dumbledore. He never once visited me in prison, although he may have been unable to do so. In short, without understanding what was going on in this werewolf's head, I couldn't trust him. I needed 100% loyalty, and I simply didn't have time to figure it out.
Liquorice. I can rely on him, within reason. But apart from financial matters, he probably can't help me with anything else. Short people don't have many rights in magical Britain.
That's the end of my list of potential friends. Very few, extremely few. Black used to have many friends, but the war took the most loyal ones, and the rest fell victim to slander, as did he himself, for that matter. He doesn't even have a girlfriend. It's kind of sad. Well, this is definitely not the time to be down, there are still those I can influence somehow. And the first in line, oddly enough, is Crouch. All because I know his "little" secret, which, if used properly, could serve me well.
Crouch, of course, was no longer at the height of his political power, as he had been during the war, but the post of head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation was still a serious one. Besides, he was a quarter Black... But I had no idea how to use this secret yet. I needed proof, or Crouch Jr. himself, to use as blackmail.
Next on my list of blackmail candidates was Rita Skeeter — I remember this beauty from school, even then she had a sharp tongue, yes... Concealing a magical animorph under current laws is a serious crime. Of course, no one will put the girl in Azkaban, but she will most likely have to forget about her career and social life. I think a pocket reporter will come in handy when the time comes for me to be born.
And the cherry on top of my trio is a member of the League for the Defence Against the Dark Arts, holder of the Order of Merlin, Third Class, Gilderoy Lockhart, also known as Gilderoy Lockhart. A talented writer and an equally talented deceiver. I couldn't ignore this figure, knowing how all his "heroic" deeds were created and having proof of it... Ahem. I hadn't yet decided what to do with the writer, but compromising material couldn't hurt, and the housewives who made up his audience adored his pretty face, so I could definitely play on that.
Phew... I leaned back in the soft armchair, placing the pen next to the list of names. My head ached. Recalling long-forgotten facts from films I had seen long ago was difficult, tedious and very stressful, but my occult studies seemed to have begun and were going well. There were special courses in Auror training on the basics of mind protection, but Sirius had never paid much attention to them, preferring the duelling hall to working with his memory. I couldn't blame him, but I would have to make up for lost time, and preferably as quickly as possible; I needed every scrap of information I could get.
After a quick snack and some of the now-disgusting potions, I started writing letters to my recipients. I had to start slowly, and I thought carefully about every word of my messages, but their time would come a little later... First, I decided to visit the little tailed traitor. Fortunately, Sirius knew where The Burrow was, having been there many times with other members of the Order. It would be a good idea to pay them a visit. Just to make sure that the little bastard hadn't run away from the red-haired family. And on the way...
After giving instructions to the house elf to tidy up the house (at this rate, I'd soon have nothing to keep him busy), I apparated to the nearest place where I had previously seen a police station. And where, by a strange coincidence, Fletcher had committed one of his most heinous acts.
"Obliviate, Imperio..." Nazemnikus' eyes, only just regaining their focus after sleep, went out of focus again. "You will go and turn yourself in at the police station. There, you will voluntarily recount the events of two years ago and go to prison, where you will unquestioningly obey the wishes of anyone who addresses you. Go!
His figure, dressed in dirty rags, moved towards the police station, at first uncertainly, as if resisting internally, but then more and more naturally. At that moment, I was even a little surprised. This weak-willed nobody even tried to break the spell. Apparently, he understands what awaits a person convicted under this article in prison... But that knowledge will not help him at all. And no one will help him. Instead of the lousy wizard, a lousy Muggle disappeared around the corner. I sat in the library long enough to come up with a fitting revenge for him. It was not for nothing that the Blacks were feared in the past, oh no, now I even began to understand why.
That's it, it's over. Now I was faced with the question of how to get halfway across the country to where the redheads lived. The Burrow was located in the south-west of England in the county of Devon, near a Muggle village, quite far from London. In the guise of a dog again? I'll soon start barking out of frustration and nerves. The trains take too long and aren't very convenient. I could pay the driver... But I decided to take a different route. After an unusually long period of mental work, I decided to give in to a momentary desire.
***
"Sir! Good choice! This is one of the latest models of the year, a Harley Davidson Low Rider, just delivered and ready to ride. And compared to our competitors..."
"How much?" I interrupted the consultant, who had been singing the bike's praises for five minutes. This beauty stood right in front of me, its chrome sides gleaming defiantly. I had no idea that Harleys were imported to old England. And the bike was simply beautiful! It just needed a little extra polish, something unique. I asked the helpful guy about this as I counted out the necessary amount in pounds sterling.
"Unfortunately, we don't have anything like that," the guy replied, sounding genuinely disappointed. "Liberty Walkup charges too much for their sprayers. But we can paint something on with regular paint..."
"No, thank you.
After paying a couple of pounds for not having any documents, I got my beauty back, fully fuelled and lubricated. I didn't need a helmet, but I took one just in case, since it came with the bike, and I also bought a standard set of motorcycle gear without even looking at it. My business suit fit easily into the oversized compartment, and after a couple of minutes and another practice session in transformation, I was sitting on a stylish black bike looking like a typical rocker from the eighties.
A bandana, a leather jacket embroidered with skulls, heavy boots with high tops — even my breathing felt freer and easier now. The frosty sun was shining, which was unusual for the United Kingdom, but the weather was also very convenient, as it was not hot at all. My newly purchased Japanese cassette player was playing good old Guns N' Roses, drowning out the steady roar of the engine. Although, probably only for me was GnR good old rock; at that time, the band, founded in 1985, was just gaining popularity.During the few hours on the road, I rested as I hadn't rested in weeks since my arrival, not worrying about any magical complications, just checking the map so as not to accidentally stray into unknown territory. But all good things must come to an end. I arrived in the village of Ottery St. Catchpole in the evening.
It turned out to be a typical old English village, with neat houses and even lawns, where the Weasley house immediately stood out for its untidiness and sloppiness, rising on a hill a little away from the Muggle dwellings, on the very border of the magical territory. It was probably originally a small brick pigsty, to which new rooms had been added from time to time, both above and to the sides. The house had several floors, but looked so unstable that it seemed to be held together by a promise. Or by the snot of the youngest Weasley and the spells of his parents...
Five chimney pipes stuck out haphazardly from the red tiled roof, smoke rising from only one of them. Molly was probably busy in the kitchen, as it was almost dinner time. To the side of the porch, next to a huge rusty pot, I noticed a pile of rubber boots of different colours and sizes, only a few of which seemed to come in pairs. Next to them was a pile of rusty cauldrons — probably Arthur's collection. I couldn't think of any other explanation for this junk; it would be dangerous to use such things in potion-making.
Well-fed speckled chickens were walking around the yard, pecking at something, and in the crooked vegetable garden next to the house, I could occasionally see the red caps of garden gnomes, caught in the patches of light from the windows. They were digging something there, quite enthusiastically, and I just grimaced as I passed by, having no desire to be distracted from my main task of getting rid of the pests.
At the entrance, slightly crooked, hung an old, peeling sign that read: "The Burrow." The house was hidden only by a muggle-repelling spell, although through my glasses I could see a web of spells entangling the house itself. But as far as I could tell, these were simple household spells, and without them, the house would have already fallen apart, as I had thought when I first saw it. I wondered what was powering them. Could Arthur have kept some connection with his family? Or was he hoping that his personal spells would last forever... However, I wasn't particularly interested in that.
"Swamp," was all I could say, looking around the Weasley family estate. I never understood Arthur and Molly. With his salary as head of the department for combating the use of Muggle inventions, or whatever his profession was called, Arthur could have afforded a much better life, not to mention that both the Weasleys and the Prewetts were once quite wealthy themselves. The Prewetts, by the way, are still rich, but Molly broke off all ties with her family when she got married. According to the Marauder's memoirs, the scandal was huge, reverberating throughout Magical Britain. I understood that then... Now, not so much.
After looking around a little more and walking around the area in my invisibility cloak, just to make sure there weren't any really dangerous traps on the grounds, I headed back to my motorcycle. To my shame, I had forgotten that it was only the beginning of December. That meant the kids were still at Hogwarts, and if memory served me right, the rat was with Percy, which meant it was in the castle, under Dumbledore's wing, where I definitely couldn't get to the traitor. All I could do was wait for the holidays and then strike.
"Well, at least I got a ride," I sighed. Live and learn, die a fool, no doubt about it.
Having driven to a safe distance, I took a short walk around the village, had a quick snack, and, having fully recovered my strength after the ritual with Grounder, apparated to London with my motorbike, hoping that the electronics wouldn't short out. I had planned to drop in on someone else today.
***
The entire story has already been written at:
patreon.com/posts/reborn-as-sirius-142654970