lomonaaeren

Chapter Eighteen.

Title: Ancient and Noble Houses (19/?)
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 Nineteen—Voice of the Past

The voice that came out of the black jaws the smoke had formed would remain with Harry for a long time. The hisses and the snarls of it, the sheer darkness of it, and the disgust it provoked in him made him back up until he hit the door of Cushfoot’s office.

Then he remembered where he was, and that both Malfoy and the goblin were watching him, and did his best to stand straight and shake off his idiocy. So the house could talk. It was no creepier than Kreacher knowingly sending him out into the garden to kill a Kneazle, and knowing the Kneazle would claw the shit out of him if it got the chance.

It really wasn’t.

He stilled the trembling in his limbs by lobbing some insults at himself, mentally, of the kind that Dudley would have used. Do you want to act like a baby? Little baby Harry, in front of the house and Draco and the goblin who’s served your adopted family for a long time and seen a lot harder people than you?

That got him to listen, at least, and if he missed a few words, it didn’t seem to matter. The house was taking a long time to say anything worthwhile.

“I say that there is one heir, and only one. The one who lives within my walls, and walks down my corridors. The one who sleeps within my embrace. The one who owns the house-elf who serves in me. The one who slew the creature that I sent to him to test him. He cannot send the money that belongs to him elsewhere. He has not yet confronted the true test of the Black heir, or passed it. Until he does, he has no right to other Black property. I will welcome him, if he returns. I will not give him passage to other vaults.”

The jaws shuddered, and hovered above the paper for a second as if they would open and snap at him again. Harry wouldn’t have put it past them. He had to fight to keep his expression calm and his hands resting in front of him.

Then the smoke dissipated, and Cushfoot leaned forwards and slid his claws slowly along the words he had written. “It seems that another heir does object,” he said, “after all.”

“How?” It was good to let the fear transform into anger, Harry found, and the darkness of the jaws and the smoke that had formed them was nothing next to the blackness that hovered around the edges of his vision now. He took a long stride forwards and stood there staring at Cushfoot, who examined his claws and didn’t seem alarmed. “How can the house be an heir to itself? And how can all its words apply to me? I own the house-elf, but I don’t sleep there now, and I don’t live there. I’m at Hogwarts. I’m a student.”

There was a long pause, and Cushfoot looked up. “You’re not living in the house?”

“Not at the moment,” Harry said, trying for the haughty tone that he imagined some of the goblin’s Black employers would have used in the past. Then he remembered that he didn’t want to be like them, and did his best to compensate by folding his arms and glaring at Cushfoot. “I’m a student at Hogwarts. I live in Gryffindor Tower.”

“The heir of Black chose a new heir of Black who is a Gryffindor,” Cushfoot told his office, and reached out to tap the parchment he’d signed again. “The house still says that you are a Black in name only, and you have to face the final test of a Black heir before it will acknowledge your right to transfer money to the Malfoy vaults.”

Harry stared over his shoulder at Malfoy. Malfoy gave him a small nod, confirming Harry’s worst fears. If he faced that test, he would become the true Black heir—but he would also want nothing to do with giving the house up, or giving money to the Malfoys. Doing what the house wanted was what he had to avoid at all costs.

Then Harry had a thought, and turned back towards Cushfoot. “I still want to know how the house can be an heir to itself,” he said, his heart beating rapidly.

Cushfoot smiled at him, an empty smile. “It is not precisely an heir to itself, Mr. Potter.” From the way he paused on the last word, Harry thought he had almost said “Mr. Black” instead. “But it is an entity involved in the negotiations. Of course it has chosen who it wishes to belong to.”

“I was told that the process of disinheriting myself is a long one,” Harry said. He didn’t look towards Malfoy, just in case he could get in trouble for being a source of that information.

“Indeed.” Cushfoot lost the smile and inclined his head as if tucking his chin into his chest, his eyes never leaving Harry. “I would not suggest trying it.”

Harry waved his hand at him. “But what if I made another entity involved in the negotiations? It would be a bad thing if I died without an heir, right? So I should have one.”

Cushfoot drew himself up as if Harry had put a snake in front of him. Probably more than that, in fact, Harry thought. A snake wouldn’t be a threat to his precious money. “Mr. Potter. When you have children, of course, the house will—”

“But there’s already someone alive who would have inherited the house if Sirius Black hadn’t named me in his will,” Harry interrupted. “A few people, in fact. What if I make Narcissa and Draco Malfoy my heirs? What happens then?”

Cushfoot stared at him some more. Harry thought he heard a snarl in the back of his mind. He smiled. Suck it, house.

*

What? You can’t do that, Potter.

Draco stared at Potter’s back, and tried to convey the information to him by silent osmosis. But apparently Potter had never heard of that process and that he needed to remain aware of what Draco was doing at all times so that a silent Malfoy message could reach him. He just continued looking at Cushfoot, who continued looking at him.

Draco had to admit that he hadn’t thought of Potter making him a formal heir. Or his mother, either. Why would he? The process of disinheritance would have taken too long, requiring weeks and months that Potter could fall further under the house’s sway, and by the end of it, or before the end of it, Potter would have refused to go through with it. And damaging the house wasn’t something Potter would allow anyone to do, either, as long as it was controlling his brain this much.

But making someone an heir without disinheriting yourself…

Draco felt a little ashamed for not thinking of it before, actually. It was brilliant.

“Mr. Potter.” Cushfoot’s voice was low and without passion, but Draco could see the way his hands tightened on the edges of the desk, and the grooves his nails dug. “Apparently you are unaware of the way that these negotiations work. The house is an ancient partner in the agreement. You are a new partner, but you were made heir by a designated heir, so you can take part in the negotiation even though you have no blood.”

“And now I would be making someone else heir.” Potter gave Cushfoot a cutting smile that Draco knew from experience could sharpen if someone didn’t do what he wanted. “The same way Sirius did. You can’t tell me that I can’t do that. Sirius made his will naming me as the—the new Black while he was still alive. Why can’t I do the same thing now?’

Cushfoot seemed to relax as though someone had taken some of the bones from his shoulders. “If you would like to designate Mr. Malfoy or his mother as your heirs in your will, that can, of course, be done, Mr. Potter.” He nodded at Draco, who would have liked to back away. Luckily for his dignity, he was backed away as far as he could go, with his shoulders already against the wall, so he settled for staring. Cushfoot turned away as if dismissing Draco and studied Potter. “I can bring the forms, and we can take a sample of blood from your fingers. I’m sure this would be acceptable, as Mr. Malfoy and his mother have more recent Black blood than you do.”

But Potter was shaking his head, and held up his hand as though Cushfoot would have to break past it to talk to him. “I don’t want to just name them in my will. I want to name them now.” He lowered his voice when Cushfoot went back to the staring. “Surely that’s acceptable? There must have been lots of times when a Black who currently owned the house named their heir before they died, in case something happened.”

Cushfoot almost scraped the edge of his desk again, but this time held up his nails to his face and examined them instead. “Of course that has happened,” he said, and his voice was edged and jangling. It was the most upset Draco had ever heard a Gringotts goblin sound. “But you forget. You are still Black heir, and not owner.” He looked Potter in the eye once more, with the smile that said he’d found a solution to the difficulty. “You have not gone through the final test to prove that you are worthy to claim the house.”

“But you said I owned the house, and the vaults,” Potter said.

Draco blinked. He wouldn’t have expected Potter to remember legal language like that, no matter how simple. Well, maybe the simplicity and the fact that Cushfoot had said it five minutes ago combined in his mind to give him the ability.

With a rigid face, Cushfoot reached out and placed his hand on the paper. “Only two parties are named in the negotiation between you and the house,” he whispered. “You, and the house. You cannot bring new people into it.”

“Tell me why not.” Potter had the stubborn shift to his head that Draco liked to think of as his “Chosen One” pose. It meant that if he saw no trouble with what he was proposing, there was no reason for anyone to see it, either.

Cushfoot looked at him. Potter didn’t back down or back away. Cushfoot finally turned to Draco. “Perhaps you would like to explain it, Mr. Malfoy?”

“I have no idea why he can’t claim me as heir,” Draco said. “Yes, he was named heir, but he must also be owner now, and he should have someone who could claim the house if he died.” When Cushfoot didn’t say anything, Draco decided to take a gamble. “If he died without an heir, it would break the continuity of the Blacks. And then I believe the Ministry owns any property still in the vaults?”

Cushfoot studied Draco in turn, but Draco had learned enough about this particular goblin to escape being intimidated by him. He wanted the Blacks to continue to exist, that was plain, and at the moment, Potter was the only one who could guarantee that.

Cushfoot finally bowed, said, “I will go and get you the forms,” and stomped out of the room.

Draco turned to Potter, ready to share the triumph, and lost his smile at the flame he could see shining in Potter’s eyes. He raised his hands in front of him, wondering if he should have insisted on bringing his wand. It seemed that Potter was about to burst out again at the thought of sharing the Black property, even though he had been the one to suggest this particular division of it.

But instead Potter whispered, “You were brilliant,” and took a long step towards him. “Can I—can I touch you?”