lomonaaeren

Chapter Seven.

Title: Ancient and Noble Houses (8/?)
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairings: Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione, past Harry/Ginny
Warnings: Angst, violence
Rating: R
Summary: Harry finds out that being the heir to the Black fortune—at least once he’s of age and residing in Grimmauld Place full-time—is a lot different than just inheriting some vaults and property. He’s changing in ways he doesn’t understand, both body and mind. Even with Draco Malfoy to help him, the chance that Harry can resist becoming the perfect Black heir, with all that implies, seems slim.
Author’s Notes: This story came from wondering exactly what the house part of “The Ancient and Noble House of Black” might mean. This fic will have short chapters, and update every Friday and Saturday.

Chapter One.

Thank you again for all the reviews!

Chapter Eight—The Twists of a Mind

Harry could tell he was hurting Malfoy. The way Malfoy was convulsing would have told him that, if nothing else did, and Malfoy’s hands were splayed out and wide, uselessly groping at the stone. And Harry was battering his way through random thoughts and barriers that tried to snap uselessly into place. Malfoy screamed as they fell, although Harry didn’t know for sure if the scream was aloud or only in his mind.

But that didn’t matter. Malfoy had no business coming up to him and declaring that Harry looked like a Black heir. How would he know that, why would he think that, unless he had something to do with Harry’s transformation in the first place?

So Harry broke in through his Occlumency barriers, which were flimsy things after all when you were willing to use force on them the way Snape had always been willing with Harry, and ended up in the interior of Malfoy’s mind.

It was a strange, bubbling, misty place, that stretched in several different directions, each so wide that Harry was tempted to pause and gape. But he hadn’t come here to learn about Malfoy’s childhood or what Quidditch team he favored. Harry pictured the Black house and set it up in Malfoy’s mind like a beacon, a concept that would draw all the memories he had relating to it to him.

And memories came racing up. Harry eagerly clutched them.

Portraits of Blacks Harry didn’t know, arranged on what looked like miles of marble walls in Malfoy Manor. A visit when he was very young and an old woman leered and crooned at him. A glimpse of Bellatrix standing in a fireplace and laughing about Kreacher. A Pensieve memory of Grimmauld Place that his mother had once allowed him to visit, and the way Draco had shivered even when he came out of it.

All of it was cold, all of it was dark, and all of it was enough to make Harry narrow his eyes and want to rip someone’s throat out. The Malfoys, the Blacks, all the pure-blood families who had grown up with this kind of shit and knew about it, why hadn’t they been the ones to inherit the house instead?

But Harry knew exactly why it was, and his heart squeezed as he remembered Sirius. No matter how much Harry might hate what Sirius had given him to live with, he could never hate his godfather.

Which meant he would have to put up with it, and try to get rid of the house some other way.

There was a gasp that might have been physical or mental, and someone pushed Harry hard enough to send him sprawling to the floor. He rolled over gracelessly and stared up at Malfoy, who stared back down at him, panting. His hands were formed into hard fists, with a small trickle of blood leaking from one where Harry had used the Pinning Spell, and he looked at Harry as though he was the one who had grown up in this crazy, dark world. Harry made a show of standing up and brushing off the dust and soot that had accumulated on his clothes.

“You read my mind,” Malfoy said, and his words dripped such pain that Harry had to blink. Had it hurt that much? Sure, it had hurt when Snape pushed into his mind, but it had been the kind of agony Harry could live with, something that hurt a lot less than what Voldemort and the Dursleys had done to him.

When he looked at Malfoy, though, the git was grey, practically slumping against the wall of the corridor, his mouth open as he panted. Harry sighed and rolled his eyes. He supposed that because he wasn’t as skilled in Legilimency as Snape was, he could hurt someone more when he pushed into their minds.

“Sorry,” he said, knowing he didn’t sound sorry, and also that he didn’t particularly care. “I had to know.”

“Had to know what?” Malfoy stood up and shook his head. “I wasn’t in contact with you this summer. I never threatened you. What made you think I was plotting against you?”

“Shadows in the Black house,” Harry said. “Ones that scared me. And strange behavior from my house-elf. I thought you might be causing it because you wanted your inheritance back.”

Malfoy laughed, high and sharp and eerie. “What makes you think I want that place? The way it sculpts its heirs once they’re of age is nothing I’m interested in.”

Harry took a single step forwards. He didn’t know why he should put such importance on the words, why he wasn’t rolling his eyes and walking away, except that Kreacher had spoken of heirs, too, and Harry had to wonder what he meant. “What do you mean, sculpts its heirs?”

Malfoy blinked. “You mean, someone let you inherit an Ancient House and didn’t explain anything to you?”

“I can hear the capitals in your voice, but it doesn’t explain anything to me,” Harry said, folding his arms and letting his stare rest on Malfoy in a way that said it should start to, and soon.

Malfoy stood there with his arms folded. A fine tremor was making its way through his body. Harry could almost hear his thoughts. Just walk away and say nothing, and it would serve Harry right.

Harry grimaced and moved in with his hand out. “Look, I didn’t—I really didn’t know, okay? I didn’t know that I’d shred your mind if I went in like that. I’m sorry. I am,” he added, when Malfoy glared at him. “But I’m getting these surges of rage and hatred lately, and I don’t know why.”

*

That would be the house.

But Draco, tempted as he was because of his headache and the raw inside of his mind to just fling those words at Potter and walk away, held himself back. He didn’t really want Potter’s ire following him, not after what he had shown himself capable of just now.

Besides, if Draco was right about the old Black place’s influence on Potter, it would just grow from here. He must have lived there long enough to start the process of transformation.

“The Ancient Houses are the buildings that are the seats of each bloodline,” Draco began reluctantly. He had to lean against the wall to support his trembling legs, but he did his best to lift his head and strike a cool pose, so Potter wouldn’t think he could take advantage. “They’re infused with old magic. My ancestors—well, all the pure-blood families of centuries ago, really—didn’t like to take the chance that their children would go to Hogwarts and start being influenced by people outside their families to change their ancient traditions. So, when they came of age and were living in the house, the Ancient House would start working on them.”

Potter was staring at him. “You mean—you’ve been through this, too?”

Draco sneered at him. “Malfoy Manor’s rites of initiation are nothing like the ones the Blacks thought were suitable.” Granted, his mother had hinted around what Grimmauld Place might do more than she had outright explained it to Draco, but Draco knew how to infer things. “My home helped me learn to control my emotions, to draw strength from it when the Dark Lord was living there, and dream sometimes of my ancestors and things they did.”

“History lessons in your sleep,” Potter muttered, and shook his head. “I think I might prefer threatening shadows.”

“And would you prefer coming to hate Muggles?” Draco snapped. “Being crazy, the way that so many of the old Blacks were? You mentioned shadows. I don’t know anything about them, but my mother did tell me once that every Black heir, when he’s lived in the house long enough for it to work on him, has to make a kill. The kill has to be a living creature, brought down by his own spells. Not always a Muggle, but it is sometimes. Did you have to do that, Potter?”

Potter froze in front of him, so still that Draco thought he would strike out again. His eyes blazed.

“And the Blacks were also conscious of appearance,” Draco added. “That’s one reason so many cousins married cousins, so that even when a child wasn’t in the direct line, they could look like a Black. Looked into a mirror lately? Your eyes are the same color, but you’re taller, your skin’s changed, your hair’s changed, you walk differently, and probably other things that I didn’t notice. That’s the reason I was staring at you on the train.”

Potter’s hands, clasped in front of him, shook. He stilled them with what seemed an effort of will and said, “Shut up, Malfoy.”

“I’m telling you the truth,” Draco said, holding his hand up in a gesture his mother had taught him, though he doubted Potter would know it. “It’s not pleasant, but it’s also not something you can go without learning. The house is probably hungry. It had no heirs in the last generation, my mother told me. Her cousin Sirius ran away before he came of age, and he didn’t live there again, so the house’s influence faded. His younger brother Regulus didn’t live long enough in the house after he was of age, either. I think he joined the Death Eaters, and after that he lived in other places, safehouses, or went on raids. So the house wants someone to sculpt, mold, play with, eat. That about what’s been happening to you, Potter?”

“Shut up, Malfoy.”

Draco tried to open his mouth again, and found his voice gone. His hand flew to his throat, and he winced as he touched his lips, his tongue. They would still move, but all sound was gone. It was as though Potter had cast a wandless, nonverbal Silencio.

Potter’s eyes widened. For a second, he stood there, staring and panting. Then he bolted down the hall towards the stairs that led up to Gryffindor Tower.

Draco cleared his throat, pleased to find some sound returning. He didn’t take his eyes off the space Potter had occupied before he fled, though.

Someone really should help him before he gets himself into hotter water than he can handle.

But it doesn’t have to be me.