Raised By Wolfstar: Slytherin Harry Potter And The Deathly Hallows

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Harry woke early the next morning, wrapped in a sleeping bag on the drawing room floor. A sliver of sky was visible between the heavy curtains. It was the cool, clear blue of watered ink, somewhere between night and dawn, and everything was quiet except for Tracey, Allison, and Theodore’s slow, deep breathing. Allison had slept beside him, and her hand was stretched out towards him, just barely not touching his arm. Had she tried to comfort him while he slept?

Harry glanced over at the dark shapes they made on the floor beside him. They all looked so peaceful despite the attack they all experienced just hours before.

He looked up at the shadowy ceiling, the cobwebbed chandelier. Less than twenty—four hours ago, he had been standing in the sunlight at the entrance to the marquee, waiting to show in wedding guests. It seemed a lifetime away. What was going to happen now? He lay on the floor and he thought of the Horcruxes, of the daunting complex mission Dumbledore had left him…Dumbledore…

The grief that had possessed him since Dumbledore’s death felt different now. The accusations he had heard from Muriel at the wedding seemed to have nested in his brain like diseased things, infecting his memories of the wizard he had idolized. Could Dumbledore have let such things happen? Had he been like Dudley, content to watch neglect and abuse as long as it did not affect him? Could he have turned his back on a sister who was being imprisoned and hidden?

Harry thought of Godric’s Hollow, of graves Dumbledore had never mentioned there; he thought of mysterious objects left without explanation in Dumbledore’s will, and resentment swelled in the darkness. Why hadn’t Dumbledore told him? Why hadn’t he explained? Had Dumbledore actually cared about Harry at all? Or had Harry been nothing more than a tool to be polished and honed, but not trusted, never confided in?

Harry could not stand lying there with nothing but bitter thoughts for company. Desperate for something to do, for distraction, he slipped out of his sleeping bag, picked up his wand, and crept out of the room. On the landing he could smell the being stage of a brewing polyjuice potion emanating its way upstairs. Harry whispered, ‘Lumos,’ and started to climb upwards by wandlight.

On the second landing was the bedroom in which he, Theodore, and Ron had slept last time they had been here; he glanced into it. The wardrobe doors stood open and the bedclothes had been ripped back. Harry remembered the overturned troll leg downstairs. Somebody had searched the house since the Order had left. Had it been Mundungus, who had pilfered plenty from this house both before and after Sirius died, or perhaps Snape? Harry’s gaze wandered to the portrait that sometimes contained Phineas Nigellus Black, Sirius’s great-great-grandfather, but it was empty, showing nothing but a stretch of muddy backdrop. Phineas Nigellus was evidently spending the night in the headmaster’s study at Hogwarts.

Harry continued up the stairs until he reached the topmost landing where there were only two doors. The one facing him bore a nameplate reading Sirius. Harry had never entered his godfather’s bedroom before. He pushed open the door, holding his wand high to cast light as widely as possible. The room was spacious and must once have been handsome. There was a large bed with a carved wooden headboard, a tall window obscured by long velvet curtains and a chandelier thickly coated in dust with candle scrubs still resting in its sockets, solid wax banging in frostlike drips. A fine film of dust covered the pictures on the walls and the bed’s headboard; a spiders web stretched between the chandelier and the top of the large wooden wardrobe, and as Harry moved deeper into the room, he head a scurrying of disturbed mice.

The teenage Sirius had plastered the walls with so many posters and pictures that little of the walls silvery-gray silk was visible. Harry could only assume that Sirius’s parents had been unable to remove the Permanent Sticking Charm that kept them on the wall because he was sure they would not have appreciated their eldest son’s taste in decoration. Sirius seemed to have gone out of his way to annoy his parents. There were several large Gryffindor banners, faded scarlet and hold just to underline his difference from all the rest of the Slytherin family. There were many pictures of Muggle motorcycles, and also several posters of bikini-clad Muggle girls, which Harry assumed must have solely been to peeve off his parents. Harry could tell that they were Muggles because they remained quite stationary within their pictures, faded smiles and glazed eyes frozen on the paper. This was in contrast the only Wizarding photograph on the walls which was a picture of four Hogwarts students standing arm in arm, laughing at the camera.

With a leap of pleasure, Harry recognized his biological father, his untidy black hair stuck up at the back like Harry’s, and he too wore glasses. Beside him was Sirius, carelessly handsome, his slightly arrogant face so much younger and happier than Harry had seen it in the last couple years of his life. To Sirius’s right stood Pettigrew, more than a head shorter, plump and watery-eyed, flushed with pleasure at his inclusion in this coolest of gangs, with the much-admired rebels that James and Sirius had been. On James’s left was Remus, even then a little shabby-looking, but he had the same air of delighted surprise at finding himself liked and included or was it simply because Harry knew how it had been, that he saw these things in the picture? He tried to take it from the wall; it was his now, after all, Sirius had left him everything, but it would not budge. Sirius had taken no chances in preventing his parents from redecorating his room.

Harry looked around at the floor. The sky outside was growing brighter: A shaft of light revealed bits of paper, books, and small objects scattered over the carpet. Evidently Sirius’s bedroom had been searched too, although its contents seemed to have been judged mostly, if not entirely, worthless. A few of the books had been shaken roughly enough to part company with the covers and sundry pages littered the floor.

Harry bent down, picked up a few of the pieces of paper, and examined them. He recognized one as a part of an old edition of A History of Magic, by Barhilda Bagshot, and another as belonging to a motorcycle maintenance manual. The third was handwritten and crumpled. He smoothed it out.

“Dear Padfoot,

Thank you, thank you, for Harry’s birthday present! It was his favorite by far. One year old and already zooming along on a toy broomstick, he looked so pleased with himself. I’m enclosing a picture so you can see. You know it only rises about two feet off the ground but he nearly killed the cat and he smashed a horrible vase Petunia sent me for Christmas (no complaints there). Of course James thought it was so funny, says he’s going to be a great Quidditch player, but we’ve had to pack away all the ornaments and make sure we don’t take our eyes off him when he gets going.

We had a very quiet birthday tea, just us and old Bathilda who has always been sweet to us and who dotes on Harry. We were so sorry you couldn’t come, but the Order’s got to come first, and Harry’s not old enough to know it’s his birthday anyway! James is getting a bit frustrated shut up here, he tries not to show it but I can tell—also Dumbledore’s still got his Invisibility Cloak, so no chance of little excursions. If you could visit, it would cheer him up so much.

Wormy was here last weekend. I thought he seemed down, but that was probably the next about the McKinnons; I cried all evening when I heard.

Bathilda drops in most days, she’s a fascinating old thing with the most amazing stories about Dumbledore. I’m not sure he’d be pleased if he knew! I don’t know how much to believe, actually because it seems incredible that Dumbledore-“

Harry’s extremities seemed to have gone numb. He stood quite still, holding the miraculous paper in his nerveless fingers while inside him a kind of quiet eruptions sent joy and grief thundering its equal measure through his veins. Lurching to the bed, he sat down.

He read the letter again, but could not take in any more meaning than he had done the first time, and was reduced to staring at the handwriting itself. She had made her “g”s the same way he did. He searched through the letter for every one of them, and each felt like a friendly little wave glimpsed from behind a veil. The letter was an incredible treasure, proof that Lily Potter had lived, really lived, that her warm hand had once moved across this parchment, tracing ink into these letters, these words, words about him, Harry, her son. Impatiently brushing away the wetness in his eyes, he reread the letter, this time concentrating on the meaning. It was like listening to a half-remembered voice.

They had a cat…perhaps it had perished, like his parents at Godric’s Hollow…or else fled when there was nobody left to feed it…Sirius had bought him his first broomstick, he never remembered Sirius telling him that…His parents had known Bathilda Bagshot; had Dumbledore introduced them? Dumbledore’s still got his Invisibility Cloak…there was something funny there…Harry paused, pondering his mother’s words. Why had Dumbledore taken James’s Invisibility Cloak? Harry distinctly remembered his headmaster telling him years before, ‘I don’t need a cloak to become invisible’ Perhaps some less gifted Order member had needed its assistance, and Dumbledore had acted as a carrier?

Harry passed on…Wormy was here…Pettigrew, the traitor, had seemed “down” had he? Was he aware that he was seeing James and Lily alive for the last time? And finally Bathilda again, who told incredible stories about?Dumbledore. It seems incredible that Dumbledore—

That Dumbledore what? But there were any number of things that would seem incredible about Dumbledore; that he had once received bottom marks in a Transfiguration test, for instance or had taken up goat charming like Aberforth…

Harry got to his feet and scanned the floor: Perhaps the rest of the letter was here somewhere. He seized papers, treating them in his eagerness, with as little consideration as the original searcher, he pulled open drawers, shook out books, stood on a chair to run his hand over the top of the wardrobe, and crawled under the bed and armchair.

At last, lying facedown on the floor, he spotted what looked like a torn piece of paper under the chest of drawers. When he pulled it out, it proved to be most of the photograph that Lily had described in her letter. A black-haired baby was zooming in and out of the picture on a tiny broom, roaring with laughter, and a pair of legs that must have belonged to James was chasing after him. Harry tucked the photograph into his pocket with Lily’s letter and continued to look for the second sheet. Remus and Sirius had tried to show Harry every picture that had belonged to his birth parents and every item they had owned, but this letter must have been lost in a book or something ever since Sirius received it, and now Harry felt desperate to have it.

After another quarter of an hour, however he was forced to conclude that the rest of his mother’s letter was gone. Had it simply been lost in the sixteen years that had elapsed since it had been written, or had it been taken by whoever had searched the room? Harry read the first sheet again, this time looking for clues as to what might have made the second sheet valuable. His toy broomstick could hardly be considered interesting to the Death Eaters…The only potentially useful thing he could see her was possible information on Dumbledore. It seems incredible that Dumbledore—what?

‘Harry? Beau? Where are you?’

‘I’m here, jaanu!’ he called, ‘What’s happened?’

There was a clatter of footsteps outside the door, and Allison came inside.

‘Sorry, when we woke up we weren’t sure where you were,’ she explained. She turned and shouted over her shoulder, ‘It’s alright guys, I found him!’

Theodore’s annoyed voice echoed distantly from several floors below.

‘Great! Never do that again Harry!’

‘What did I do?’ Harry asked Allison, not fully understanding the other’s concern.

‘Oh, we were a little silly I guess, we just didn’t know where you had gone so the worry set into our heads that Snape snuck in through the night and took you. I guess our nerves as still on edge,’ She gazed around the ransacked room. ‘What have you been up to?’

‘Look what I’ve just found’

He held out his mother’s letter. Allison took it out and read it while Harry watched her. When she reached the end of the page she looked up at him.

‘Harry, this is...’

‘And there’s this too.’

He handed her the torn photograph, and Allison smiled at the baby zooming in and out of sight on the toy broom.

‘You were very cute…still are.’

‘Thanks. I’ve been looking for the rest of the letter,’ Harry said, ‘but I can’t find it.’

Allison took out her wand and pointed it to the center of the room, and while holding the letter her other hand she said, ‘Accio Lily Potter’s letter,’ but only the letter in her hand moved closer.

‘Sorry Harry, I guess some has taken it,’ she then looked around the room. ‘Speaking of which, did you do all this, or did you find it like this?’

‘Someone had searched before me,’ said Harry.

That’s what I thought. Tracey and I were looking into the rooms and they’re all like this. What do you think the searcher was after?’

‘Information on the Order, if it was Snape’

‘But Snape betrayed the Order long after this place was abandoned, he’d know the information here would be more out of date than his own information from being a member up until June.’

‘Well then,’ said Harry, keen to discuss his theory, ‘what about information on Dumbledore? The second page of the letter, for instance. You know this Bathilda my mum mentions, you know who she is?’

‘Who?’

‘Bathilda Bagshot, the author of A History of Magic.’

‘Oh, I never really payed attention to that book,’ replied Allison. ‘I guess that means your parents were friends with her. I wonder if her stories were more interesting than her book?’

‘Not were, is. She’s still alive,’ said Harry, ‘and she lives in Godric’s Hollow. Ron’s Auntie Muriel was talking about her at the wedding. She knew Dumbledore’s family too. Be pretty interesting to talk to, wouldn’t she?’

‘Harry…’

There was a little too much understanding in the smile Allison gave him for Harry’s liking. He took back the letter and the photograph and tucked them inside the pouch around his neck, so as not to have to look at her and give himself away.

‘Maybe afterwards you can go talk to her in Godric’s Hollow, but for now we have to focus on the Horcruxes.’

Harry did not answer, and she rushed on, ‘Harry, if you choose to go to Godric’s Hollow I will support you and go with you, but with Voldemort seemingly on the hunt for you now, I really believe that’d be somewhere he’d set a trap or have Death Eaters waiting. I don’t know if a quick trip to talk to Bathilda about your parents and visiting their grave is the safest choice.’

‘It’s not just that,’ Harry said, still avoiding looking at her, ‘Muriel said stuff about Dumbledore at the wedding. I want to know the truth…’

He told Allison everything that Muriel had told him. When he had finished, Allison said, ‘I see, that must have been very troubling for you, Harry—‘

‘I’m not troubled,’ he lied, ‘I’d just like to know whether or not it’s true or—‘

‘Harry, you yourself described Muriel are a rude old woman and the Weasley siblings call her a gossip so I wouldn’t trust her word, and your mother described Bathilda as already ancient nearly twenty years ago so I wouldn’t put much worth into her words either. You shouldn’t take their word for who Dumbledore was, you knew him yourself.’

‘I thought I did,’ he muttered.

‘Look, think about it this way, you and I both know everything Rita writes on her own is a complete lie, so everything you know from that book you should just think of the opposite and that’s more likely to be the truth,’ Allison let out a sigh. ‘Look, just don’t let Rita and others ruin your memories of Dumbledore.’

He looked away, trying not to betray the resentment he felt. There it was again: Choose what to believe. He wanted the truth. Why was everybody so determined that he should not get it? How could Allison not understand?

‘We should go down stairs, Tracey is “cooking” breakfast,’ said Allison. ‘Yeah, we realized when we got up that all of us grew up with either servants or our parents just never taught us to cook. The best I can do it peel a potato. We should still show our support.’

He agreed, but grudgingly, and followed her out onto the landing and past the second door that led off it. There were deep scratch marks in the paintwork below a small sign that he had not noticed in the dark. He passed at the top of the stairs to read it. It was a porapous little sign, neatly lettered by hand the sort of thing that Percy Weasley might have stuck on his bedroom door.

“Do Not Enter

Without the Express Permission of

Regulus Arcturus Black”

Excitement trickled through Harry, but he was not immediately sure why. He read the sign again. Allison was already a flight of stairs below him.

‘Allison,’ he said, and he was surprised that his voice was so calm. ‘Come back up here.’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘R.A.B. I think I’ve found him.’

There was a gasp, and then Allison ran back up the stairs. ‘Where? Was it in letter?’

Harry shook his head, pointing at Regulus’s sign. She read it, then clutched Harry’s arm so tightly that he winced.

‘Who is, who is he to Sirius?’ she whispered excitedly.

‘He was Sirius’ brother, he was also Death Eater,’ said Harry. ‘Sirius told me about him, he joined up when he was really young and then got cold feet and tried to leave—so they killed him.’

‘That makes sense,’ said Allison. ‘Being a Death Eater would have granted him access to Voldemort, then from being in close proximity to Voldemort he probably would have seen how truly horrible he is and become determined to stop him.’

She released Harry, leaned over the banister, and screamed, ‘Theo! Trace! Drop everything and get up here! Harry found it!’

Tracey and Theodore appeared, panting, a minute later, their wands ready in their hands. Theodore was also holding what appeared to be a brand new copy of Moste Potente Potions.

‘What did he find?’ asked Tracey, out of breath.

She frowned at the sign on Regulus’s door, in which Allison was silently pointing.

‘Sirius’ younger brother’s room, I don’t get it,’ said Theodore, when Allison pointed more directly at the sign he started reading. ‘Regulus Arcturus Black…Regulus…R.A.B.! The locket—could it be in—?’

‘Let’s find out,’ said Harry. He fiddled with the handle and pushed the door: It was locked.

Tracey pointed her wand at the handle and said, ‘Alohamora.’ There was a click, and the door swung open.

They moved over the threshold together, gazing around. Regulus’s bedroom was slightly smaller than Sirius’s, though it had the same sense of former grandeur. Whereas Sirius had sought to advertise his diffidence from the rest of the family, Regulus had striven to emphasize the opposite. The Slytherin colors of emerald and silver were everywhere, draping the bed, the walls, and the windows. The Black family crest was painstakingly painted over the bed, along with its motto, Toujours Pur. Beneath this was a collection of yellow newspaper cuttings, all stuck together to make a ragged collage. Tracey crossed the room to examine them.

‘They all cover things Voldemort did,’ she said with a bit of disgust. ‘Sirius’ brother must have been a big fan before he ever even became a Death Eater…’

A little puff of dust rose from the bedcovers as she sat down to read the clippings. Harry, meanwhile, had noticed another photograph: a Hogwarts Quidditch team was smiling and waving out of the frame. He moved closer and saw the familiar snakes emblazoned on their chests: the Slytherin team uniforms were the same as him and Allison wore today. Regulus was instantly recognizable as the boy sitting in the middle of the front row: He had the same dark hair and slightly haughty look of his brother, though he was smaller, slighter, and rather less handsome than Sirius had been.

‘He played Seeker,’ said Harry.

‘Sorry?’ said Tracey vaguely; she was still immersed in Voldemort’s press clippings.

‘He had my position on the team, he’s sitting in the middle of the front row, that’s where the Seeker…Never mind,’ said Harry, realizing that only Allison was vaguely listening.

Theodore was on his hands and knees, searching under the wardrobe. Allison was going through wardrobes and bookshelves. Harry looked around the room for likely hiding places and approached the desk. Yet again, somebody had searched before them. The drawers’ contents had been turned over recently, the dust disturbed, but there was nothing of value there: old quills, out-of-date textbooks that bore evidence of being roughly handled, a recently smashed ink bottle, its sticky residue covering the contents of the drawer.

‘What are you all doing?’ said Tracey, looking up from reading the papers. She drew her wand. ‘Accio Slytherin’s Locket!’

Nothing happened. Tracey put her wand away again. Theodore, who now had decades of dusk on his clothes and in his hair, looked disappointed.

‘Well this is too bad, I really thought for just a moment that we would find a Horcrux on our very first night, but I guess it’s not in Grimmauld Place.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Tracey. ‘In Ancient Studies the Professor and the textbook mentioned that some objects enchanted with old dark magic are resistant to summoning and/locating charms. Neither specifically said if the ancient dark objects were Horcruxes or not, but the lack of specifics makes me believe that it they were. So the locket may be here, we’ll just have to find it the old fashioned way.’